Fire in the Stars

by Barbara Fradkin

  “Don’t you dare!” Chris shouted, sprinting to catch up with him. “Matthew, I will do what I can to keep you in the loop, as soon as we know details. But don’t go messing around in here. If you care about Amanda and Phil as you say you do, please don’t make it all worse.”

  Matthew stopped. In the gathering twilight, his heavy-lidded eyes searched Chris’s. “You’ll keep me in the loop? Promise?”

  Chris nodded. As he headed toward the police compound, he watched Matthew detour toward Casey’s house and he wondered what the journalist’s next move would be. And how much trouble he, Chris, would be in for it.

  After a quick, hot shower to wash the blood, dirt, and fatigue away, Chris bundled up against the evening chill and headed up the slope to the command post. He walked out of the velvet dusk into a brightly lit world of computer screens, radios, and phones, all alive with the rapid-fire exchange of data. The Emergency Response Team had arrived — specially trained tactical officers mainly from the eastern part of the province who’d left their regular duties to conduct the search.

  Their leader, Corporal Vu, stood beside Noseworthy studying the large, gridded map on the wall. She had four inches on him, but his lithe, wiry body radiated energy and his muscles rippled like a racehorse in the starting gate. As Noseworthy traced a long, bony finger along the highway toward St. Anthony, she seemed to sense Chris’s presence without even shifting her gaze from the map.

  “You’re off duty until 0600 hours, Corporal.”

  “Someone needs to notify his wife, ma’am, before it’s all over the news and Twitter.”

  Noseworthy turned from the map reluctantly. “Grand Falls-Windsor detachment has gone out to the house. The officer will call here with his report shortly.”

  Chris hovered just inside the doorway. He had no real excuse to linger, but was dying to know how Sheri would take the news and how much information she would share with the police, who were, after all, Jason Maloney’s colleagues. Worse, perhaps it was Jason himself who had made the visit!

  He strolled across the room to pour himself a coffee and to sneak a look at the map, which was divided into standard search quadrants and dotted with coloured pins. Noseworthy and Vu continued to argue logistics and assignments for the morning search, including helicopter coverage, roadblocks, and vehicle searches, as well as ERT search teams on the ground. It was a mammoth task. The air search was their best chance; the heat-sensing equipment could detect the presence and shape of live beings even through dense tree cover, down to the arms and legs, and could even pick up the residual heat of recent footprints. But the area to be covered was huge, and the weather and wind patterns unpredictable. Similarly, looking for a small boat bobbing on the endless seas would be like sifting through grains of sand.

  Furthermore, having negotiated just a small section of the near impenetrable tuckamore to find Phil’s body, Chris knew the ground search would be even more of a challenge.

  On the boat trip back to Conche from Phil’s body, Chris had argued again for the use of the local civilian ground SAR team, which was based in Roddickton and could be in place before nightfall. We need as many eyes on this as possible, he’d said. The nights are getting cold and Amanda has few supplies. The ground SAR team is experienced in wilderness searches and familiar with the local terrain.

  Noseworthy had refused. There’s a multiple killer on the loose and a firearm unaccounted for, she said. Civilians are not to be put at risk. We don’t need a hundred people crawling all over the bush; we need professionals and an effective plan.

  Chris had fumed in silence. Effective plan, my ass, he’d thought. More like a by-the-book, “if we fail, we followed the most modern search protocols” plan. It would look good in a report, but it might not find Amanda and Tyler. Although the ERT team was a crack unit, at full strength it was only twelve officers, and Vu had been able to round up only ten, the other two being off on training. None of the ten were local. None knew the terrain. Even the most effective plan had to cover at least five hundred square kilometres of ocean and forest.

  Studying the map now, Chris saw that the search perimeter was even larger than he’d expected, stretching all the way from the shores of Canada Bay on the south to Grandois on the north and extending ten kilometres out to sea. Before he stopped to consider the wisdom of it, he blurted his thoughts aloud.

  “Why is the perimeter so far out? There’s no way she’d travel that far.”

  Vu had been consulting his second in command, and he swivelled around slowly, letting the silence lengthen as he sized Chris up. Apparently unimpressed, he signalled the other man to follow and he stalked out of the trailer.

  Noseworthy kept her face dispassionate as she watched the door slam in their wake, but Chris sensed it was an effort. Just what we need, Chris thought. A pissing match at the top. Noseworthy’s jaw was set as she turned to answer him. “Missing three days at a conservative ten kilometres a day, that’s ERT’s outer limit.”

  “But no one can cover ten kilometres a day in that terrain, and even if she could, she wouldn’t. She’d be looking for a place to be found. The coast, or a road out.”

  “Vu thinks if she’s running from the killer, she might be trying to get as far away as fast as she can. And she’d stay out of sight.” Noseworthy paused. “I’m told this is a resourceful, savvy woman. We know from her history that she travelled four hundred kilometres through hostile territory to safety in Nigeria, much of it on foot under the cover of darkness.”

  Chris stared at her in surprise. “I’m former ERT myself,” Noseworthy said. “First rule of search and rescue — know your subject. So I spoke to the journalist.” She softened. “We know what we’re doing, Corporal. We’ll find her.”

  Chris drew in his breath and ventured farther out on his limb. “Maybe the civilian ground SAR coordinator could provide —”

  Noseworthy’s softness vanished. “For the last time, out of the question. This is a police operation.”

  On her hip, her satellite phone rang. She shot Chris a last warning glare. “Don’t push your luck,” she said, turning her back to answer. She spoke little, but jotted notes and when she signed off, she turned back to Chris.

  “Grand Falls-Windsor has informed the wife.”

  “How did she take it?”

  “Do you know her?”

  “No, ma’am. Just of her, through her husband.”

  Noseworthy glanced at her notes. “She’s holding up well, considering. She told the constable she has been concerned about her husband’s mental health and had recently received a goodbye letter from him. She assumed it was suicide.”

  “Did she mention the reason for his …” Chris searched for a neutral phrase, “troubles?”

  “PTSD. Nigeria.”

  Chris nodded. So Jason Maloney’s name hadn’t been mentioned. “Did the constable tell her how he actually did die? Shot in the back? Definitely not suicide?”

  “No, but he had to ask her about potential enemies and reasons why anyone might want him dead.”

  “And did she give him any?”

  Noseworthy’s eyes narrowed. “Why the intense interest, Tymko? I can tell you’re an interfering son of a bitch, but is it just your nature, or do you know something?”

  Chris felt a flush creeping up his neck. “He’s a friend. Amanda and I have been tracking him and he’s been acting more and more like a man on a mission.”

  “Well, I can’t give you any more details. You’ll have to talk to Sergeant Amis. The murder investigation is his responsibility.” Noseworthy’s lip curled and in that hint of distaste, Chris realized she didn’t like Amis any more than he did.

  “By the way,” Noseworthy tossed off almost as an afterthought, “the wife really wants to talk to you. Maybe she’ll tell you something she wouldn’t tell the local officer. But you better clear that with Amis first if you want to keep your ba
lls attached.”

  The sight of the little outport basking in the sunset gave Tyler hope. A smile lit his pinched face and he hobbled forward eagerly. Amanda propped him up as they both scrambled down the slope. They passed from the forest to open tundra, where there was no protection or place to take cover should their pursuers spot them, but Amanda barely gave it a thought. Civilization, and help, beckoned.

  Beyond the houses lay a small, sheltered inlet in the cradle of jagged grey cliffs. As they drew closer, Amanda scoured the village for signs of life— laundry on the line, boats at the wharf, or smoke from the chimney.

  Nothing.

  Doubt began to creep in, and by the time they reached the first of the shacks, Amanda knew the place was deserted. Long ago.

  Flecks of red still clung to the wood, but the clapboard was gap-toothed and weather-worn, the windows boarded and the doors broken in. The wharves sagged into the water, half ripped from their moorings.

  Nonetheless she ran from house to house in the gathering gloom, looking for any remnants of habitation. A can of beans, a jar of pickled beets, a moth-eaten blanket. The houses smelled of fish and rot. Her boots echoed in the empty rooms, and the ocean wind whistled through the broken slats. The houses looked like decaying museums to a dead era, abandoned in the midst of daily life. Kitchens, tables, daybeds, rocking chairs, and dishes — all simply relinquished to nature.

  She had left Tyler resting on the stoop of the first house, and she returned to find that he’d crawled inside to get out of the wind. His skin was blue and his teeth chattered. “There’s no one here, is there?” he said.

  She sat beside him and put her arm around him. “Must be one of those outport fishing villages that was relocated in the 1950s. But at least we have shelter, and I saw quite a few useful things. If we pick the best house, we can move a couple of chairs and beds into it.”

  He hung his head. “There’s no food, either, is there.”

  “No, but there’s still an hour or so of light. Once I get you settled, I’ll see if I can catch some fish.”

  “I’m so cold.” He was soaking wet, as was she, and she knew that unless he got into dry, warm clothes, he might not be able to go on in the morning. She had spotted an intact stove and a stack of firewood in the next house.

  “Come on, tiger,” she said cheerily. “Let’s go next door and light a fire.”

  “But they’ll smell the smoke! They’ll know we’re here.”

  “No they won’t. Even if they can smell smoke, it will be too dark to see us. They’ll just think people live here.”

  He gazed around in exasperated disbelief. “Here?”

  “Why not? At first glance, it looks like a village. If they’re on the run, they’ll beat a hasty retreat.” She spoke with more bravado than she felt, but she knew it was a risk she had to take. If Tyler didn’t get warm, it wouldn’t matter how many hordes of terrorists were on their tail.

  It took a long time to coax a decent fire out of the old black stove and rotting wood. The fire smoked and hissed so much that she was afraid there was a nest in the chimney, but finally roaring orange flames filled the box and heat began to spread into the corners of the draughty little house. She hung all their clothes except their underwear from a beam above the stove, dragged some mouse-chewed bedding from the house next door, shook it off, and settled Tyler in front of the fire.

  He fell asleep almost immediately, leaving her free to collect her thoughts. She stepped outside, shivering in her long-johns, and inhaled the fresh, salty air. In the last light of day, she scanned the hills behind, alert to any sign of movement. Hoping against all reason to see a flash of red bounding toward her.

  Now, in this brief interlude of peace, her eyes filled with tears. Her decision to flee with Tyler had been instantaneous. There had never been any other option. Yet the image of Kaylee lying injured on the forest floor haunted her. As before, she had failed to protect someone she cared about. Her beloved, loyal dog. She made a silent vow that when this was all over, she would come back to find her and bring her home, dead or alive. But the time for regret would have to wait. Banishing her guilt to that already crowded corner of her mind, Amanda headed down to the waterfront.

  She stepped into the gloom of the first stage cautiously, afraid the rotting floorboards would splinter and dump her into the sea below. As her eyes adjusted, she could make out a dusty array of fishing rods and nets hanging from the wall and larger piles of netting coiled on the floor.

  Hallelujah! She hopped over the gaps in the floor to rummage through the equipment. Within ten minutes she was standing on the end of the wharf with a tin pail, a fishing rod, and a silver lure, casting out into the gentle waves. She knew nothing about ocean fishing, but her summers spent at her aunt’s lakeside cottage in the Laurentians proved some help in assembling the rod and tackle. Whether there was anything to catch was another story.

  In no time she had three decent-sized fish in her pail and had thrown back a couple that were too ugly and prickly to handle. Next she foraged on the heath behind the house in the semi-darkness for a supply of partridgeberries. Her mouth was watering by the time she noticed the little boat upturned in the long grass by the shore. She hurried over and inspected it for holes. It looked miraculously intact. She tugged, pried, and finally managed to flip it over. The seats were partially rotted away, but the hull looked sturdy. Her pulse quickened with hope. Could they use this to get out onto the open sea, where they might be spotted by searchers? Was it big enough to handle the waves?

  She dragged the boat down into the water and watched with dismay as water began to seep through the seams of its floorboards. She tied it to the wharf and left it rocking in the gentle swell while she returned to the stage in search of a bailer. Hunting through the rusty cans lined up on the shelf, she came across a large can of whitewash that had never been opened. It sloshed when she shook it.

  Better and better! She was so excited by the possibilities that she forgot the fish, Tyler, and her clothes drying inside, until a plaintive call stopped her short. She grabbed the fish pail and rushed back inside to find the fire almost dead and Tyler, partially clothed, wrestling with a fresh log. A couple of candles from the kitchen bathed the room in a golden glow.

  He peered into the pail eagerly. “Connors!”

  “Are they edible? I threw back these incredibly ugly things full of fins.”

  He grinned. “Yeah, sculpins. But these will be yummy!”

  True to his promise, the fish was succulent and moist with its berry sauce. As they wolfed it down, she told him of her discoveries.

  “In the morning, we’ll use the whitewash to paint help on the slope behind here, big enough to be seen from the air. And if the boat doesn’t sink, we’ll take it out of the cove into the open ocean so we can be seen by fishermen and people searching.”

  “When?”

  “As soon as it’s light, so we can catch the early fishing boats.”

  That night she lay awake impatiently waiting for dawn, listening to the gentle rush of the waves and the rhythmic knocking of loose boards on the wharf. Soon it would be over! Soon she would be immersed in a hot, soapy tub, soaking every trace of dirt and pain from her body. Soon Tyler would be safe in the arms of his mother.

  But by the time the first grey smudge of dawn lightened the sky and she went down to inspect the boat half-submerged in the shallows, dense cloud had blown in and a vicious wind had whipped the waters of the cove into an angry chop. She knew, with a sinking heart, that air surveillance would be treacherous. Even worse, the moment she and Tyler ventured out of the protected bay, their little boat would be smashed against the jagged cliffs.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  His truck clock read 6:55. Chris Tymko had been at his post for less than an hour, but he’d worked himself into a state. Sergeant Amis had rejected outright his request to speak to Sheri Cousins, leaving him a
wash in speculation about what she wanted to tell him. Had she just suffered a belated attack of guilt that she needed to unload, or had she learned something important? He suspected she would never talk to the local police about the details of her personal life, particularly those involving Jason Maloney, but she might have been encouraged to open up to Chris himself. Who knows what insights he could have gleaned?

  All stymied by Sergeant Poker-Ass.

  Noseworthy was no better. ERT and the dog manager for the K9 unit had restricted all access to the search zone, leaving only highway surveillance and vehicle searches on the perimeter to the regular officers. Noseworthy had assigned Chris to man a roadblock in the middle of fucking nowhere, at the juncture of the main highway 432 and the gravel road to the seaside villages of Croque and Grandois. He was supposed to search every vehicle coming out and redirect every vehicle turning in. The whole area between the highway and the coast had been sealed off and the villagers evacuated as a precaution. Many had left grumbling, but others seemed to regard it as an adventure. So far he had stopped three moose hunters from turning into the area as well as one already coming out with a bloody carcass in the bed of his truck. Chris had checked long enough to verify that it was in fact a moose.

  It was a job any rookie with a cruiser and a badge could do, but he’d had to fight for even that. You’re too personally involved, Noseworthy had said. Too nosy and demanding is more likely, Chris thought as he sat in his truck with his police radio tuned to the chatter, clinging to the bits of information that leaked through.

  It was a windy morning with dark clouds racing low across the sky. Rain threatened. Chris peered down the gravel road uneasily. Were the silhouettes of the distant mountains more blurred? The scraggly outlines of the spruce more smudged? Had the rain started on the coast? When the forecast had warned of the possibility of rain, even fog, the whole search team had cursed. Fog would cancel the air search entirely, and make the ground search a hundred times harder.