Fire in the Stars

by Barbara Fradkin

  But Sheri wouldn’t stand for half-truths. She grabbed him and shook him. “What? Fuck, Matthew! Don’t leave me in the dark. I’m sick of being left in the dark! Phil did that for months! Was he involved in something that got him killed?”

  He shrugged. “Can you think of anything? Do you know any reason someone would want to kill him?”

  “This is Newfoundland! No one kills anybody in Newfoundland. Jesus fuck!” She clutched her head and spun in a circle as if trying to shake off the idea.

  “Has he been doing anything that might …? I mean, mixing in anything that might get him in trouble?”

  “You mean like drugs?” She lifted her shoulders in disbelief. “I don’t know what he’s been up to the past year. He could have joined a cult of hermits for all I know. He was seriously disillusioned with his fellow man.”

  Noticing that villagers were watching them curiously from their yards and shop stoops, Matthew placed his hand in the small of Sheri’s back to guide her along the road out of earshot. “There’s been some excitement in this area about a possible boatload of foreign nationals who crashed their boat and disappeared into the woods. And another whose body was found at sea. I can’t get any confirmation, but the police may be operating on two theories. Either they were smugglers, maybe forced to ditch at sea —”

  “Smugglers of what?”

  “Well, most likely drugs destined for the U.S. market. Guns are another common item, but most of those come the other way, up from the states to cities in Quebec, Ontario, and B.C. Smuggling a bunch of guns into northern Newfoundland doesn’t seem very likely.”

  She scoffed. “Smuggling anything into northern Newfoundland doesn’t seem very likely. What’s the other theory?”

  “People smuggling.”

  This time she didn’t scoff. She grew very quiet as she stopped to search his face. “Phil wouldn’t care about drugs. He wouldn’t like the guns, but I can’t see him sticking his oar in. He’d just report it and carry on. But people smuggling …”

  “He’d want to help.”

  She raised her hands in a helpless gesture. “The mood he’s in, I don’t honestly know. But old habits die hard. We saw a lot of poverty and oppression in the countries we worked in, and people trapped in countries they had no way of escaping. We saw them falling prey to the promise of a good job and better prospects somewhere else. Paying an international employment agency their life savings to get a job in a factory in Phnom Penh or a cotton farm in Vietnam or the oil fields of Nigeria, only to discover they were paid almost nothing, locked in by debt, and sold to another company across the border. Or worse. Slavery, in plain English. Human trafficking — both the sex trade and the forced labour trade — is a big problem in all those impoverished, little countries that broke off from the Soviet Union too. It infuriated Phil — well, it infuriated all of us — but it’s rampant in the poor parts of the world. Look at all those desperate migrants drowning in the Mediterranean. That was tying Phil in knots!”

  “What about the Middle East?”

  She shot him a look. “You know something.”

  He shrugged. “Chris Tymko has some suspicions. Africans or Asians would stick out like sore thumbs on a Canadian fishing boat, but some lighter-skinned Arabs or Afghans might not.”

  “I’ve read the same headlines you have, Chris. Four million Syrian refugees alone. People are desperate to escape war and chaos, and they’re paying smugglers thousands of dollars to sail on rickety boats to Greece. But most of them are seeking asylum in Europe.” She paused. Her haggard blue eyes searched his with growing fear. “It’s a long way from Greece to the North Atlantic, but wherever there is desperate need, there’s shameless exploitation. If Phil encountered it here, in this sheltered little pocket of Canada … yeah, he’d go ballistic.”

  Chris drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and watched the approaching rain uneasily as he waited for the comm coordinator at Incident Command to run the plate number. A couple of pickups tried to turn off the highway onto the gravel road, but veered back when they spotted him.

  “Vehicle is registered to a company, Acadia Seafood, based in New Brunswick,” the coordinator said.

  “Who are the listed drivers?”

  “It’s part of a fleet, sir. Employees probably sign it out.”

  “Can you dig a little deeper? Find out from the company who signed it out and for what purpose?”

  The coordinator didn’t answer, and Chris could almost hear her hesitation. “Is it busy there? Any new developments?”

  “Very busy, sir. All the teams, including K9, are in place, but there have been no sightings yet.”

  “Any clues to narrow down the search area?”

  “No, but with weather conditions worsening, both from the air and on the ground, we’re in high gear, racing against time.”

  “This may mean nothing, but someone from Acadia Seafood has entered the search area, Helen. We need to know quickly who it is and what he’s up to.”

  “Probably moose-hunting, sir.”

  Chris gritted his teeth. Newfoundlanders and their goddamn moose! “We need better than probably. Radio me the minute you find anything.”

  The coordinator muttered her grudging acceptance, tacked a reluctant “sir” after it, and signed off. Chris had been waiting less than five minutes when he remembered where he’d seen the name Acadia Seafood before — in St. Anthony, at the pier of the fish plant. Acadia Seafood was the owner of the freezer trawler Phil was interested in. Phil had planned to talk to the captain about taking a tour on it, but Chris hadn’t been able to confirm that he had, because the captain was away, ostensibly down the coast looking for a mechanical part for the ship.

  Had he taken the company truck to pick up this part? If so, what was he doing in the wilds of the east shore? Not many parts for a trawler, or even smaller boats, in these small villages.

  Something felt wrong. Phil had been discussing the shrimp fishery with a bitter, foreign-sounding fisherman on the west side, and later he’d been asking the campground operator all sorts of questions about foreign trawlers and workers. At the same time, a boatload of possibly foreign illegals had gone ashore near Grandois, and the illegals had fled on foot toward the south.

  Not so far from where an unidentified employee from the seafood company had supposedly gone to pick up his moose- hunting partner.

  This time, figuring there was no need for the entire search team and the local press to listen in, Chris phoned the communications coordinator back on his satellite phone. Before he could even ask about her progress, the woman interrupted. “I have nothing to report yet, sir, and I can’t talk now. Noseworthy and Vu have us all hopping.”

  “Look, whoever this guy is, I think we should apprehend him. At least question him and verify his story. I’m prepared to do it. Is Corporal Jason Maloney there?”

  “Not yet. He radioed he was grabbing some breakfast in Roddickton.”

  “Radio him back, ASAP. Tell him I need him back here with me, and send someone to relieve me at this roadblock —”

  “Noseworthy won’t authorize that, sir.”

  Chris rolled his eyes. He flicked on his wipers to clear the rain misting his windshield, and peered down the empty road for the tenth time. Each moment, the visibility worsened and the fine rain washed away more tracks. “Can I talk to her?”

  The coordinator’s voice grew muffled as if she had turned away and covered the phone. It took her less than ten seconds to return. “Sergeant Noseworthy is tied up. I’ll have her call you back the minute she’s free.”

  “Tell her it’s urgent. Please.” Frustrated, Chris hung up and located the number of the Roddickton detachment. He was relieved when Willington himself answered the phone. “Willie, have you got an officer there who can take over the Croque Road roadblock?”

  “Are you kidding? I haven’t got anyone for a
nything! Everyone who’s awake is out on the highways.”

  “Can you run your detachment from the junction of 432 and the Croque Road? I have to check out a potentially suspicious intruder in the search area —”

  “You can’t go in there! Radio ERT.”

  “The weather is worsening fast, and ERT is stretched thin as it is. If I don’t want to lose the man altogether, I have to go ASAP.” He listened to Willington dither. “There’s a whole case of QV Premium in it for you when it’s over.”

  Silence descended on the line. Finally Willington grunted. “Make it two, you cheap bastard, and I’ll be there in twenty.”

  True to his word, Willington turned off the highway in less than twenty minutes. His flashing roof lights made eerie haloes in the mist. Chris had just filled him in and given him the description and plate number of the suspicious truck when he spotted Jason’s red truck trundling down the highway. The man had not turned on his roof cherry and his slow pace seemed almost insolent. But maybe I’m imagining it, Chris thought, because I don’t like the guy any more than he likes me.

  When Chris explained the situation, however, Jason was smart enough to recognize that he might have screwed up and to see a possible path to redemption.

  “Yeah, I can remember where I saw him,” he said, peering at the detailed forestry map Chris had unfolded across the dashboard of Jason’s truck. “Not sure exactly where it is on this map, but I’ll know it when I see it.”

  Chris snatched up the map and opened the door. “Lead the way. I’ll follow.”

  “Lights?”

  “No. If this is a bad guy, I don’t want to tip him off.”

  With a final wave to Willington, the two vehicles set off in tandem down the Croque road. Jason drove slowly, dodging potholes and pausing at each curve and rise, presumably to match the terrain to his recollections. Once he slammed on his brakes to avoid a moose that ambled across the road out of the bush ahead.

  Chris’s heart was in his throat. He had nothing in the cab with him but the 9mm service pistol Noseworthy had provided and his old hunting rifle in the trunk. He didn’t know what Jason had. Why the hell hadn’t Noseworthy called him back?

  About ten kilometres in, Jason pulled to the left side of the road and signalled to Chris to pull in behind him. Both men climbed out.

  “This is where I stopped him,” Jason said. “He was driving toward the coast.”

  Chris bent down to examine the gravel on the right side of the road. It was a faint hope, quickly dashed. Hundreds of indistinguishable treads had tracked through the dirt in the last few days, and all were blurring in the fine rain.

  Chris straightened to study the road ahead. It was unremarkable. Just a road slicing a meandering path through the ubiquitous spruce and fir on either side. Every now and then, the boughs of a slender birch glistened white through the green.

  “Did you watch him in your rear-view mirror?”

  “Yeah, I did. He continued on and disappeared around that curve up ahead.”

  “All right then, let’s go see what’s around that curve.”

  Back in their vehicles, they resumed their hunt. This time Jason kept to the middle of the road. Wise move, Chris thought. If the truck turned off the road or pulled over to the edge, there’s a chance we’ll spot the tire marks.

  Around the curve, more forest. More endless, potholed road winding toward the smudged silhouette of hills ahead. Rain streaked the windows. Chris leaned out his window to scrutinize the gravel shoulder as they drove past. Another hundred metres farther on, a thin, overgrown track led into the bush off the right side of the road. Jason stopped again and climbed out. When Chris reached his side, he was squatting at the edge of the road, peering at a pair of tire treads that were deeply carved into the wet gravel. Up ahead, the ferns, moss, and ground cover of the ATV trail had been flattened in twin parallel tracks.

  “He drove the truck in here,” Jason said. “A brave man.”

  Chris began to walk down the track, careful to stay clear of the tire marks. About a hundred feet in, the marks petered out, but when Chris scanned the dense brush on either side, a glint of metal caught his eye. He approached the overhanging boughs, pushed them aside, and stopped to stare.

  “Oh fuck,” said Jason from behind him.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Instinctively, Amanda seized Tyler and stepped in front of the boy as a shield, all the while keeping her eyes fixed on the man with the gun. He was tall, but so thin that he looked as if he’d blow away in a brisk wind. His bony arms protruded from a ragged jacket that was two sizes too short for him, but hung on his skeletal frame. His feet were protected only by socks, and even through the caked mud, she could see the bloodstains. A toque was pulled down over his ears, but tufts of dark hair stuck out beneath it and a scraggly black beard obscured much of his face. His eyes, however, were extraordinary. Deep-set and emerald green, they stared at her with something akin to terror.

  The rifle he pointed at her was almost antique. It looked like a lever-action hunting rifle that might just as easily blow up in his hands. Not that she was about to test that theory.

  Huddled together behind him were two smaller men, one draped in an old quilt and the other in a thick, moth-eaten sweater that was too big for him. The one in the quilt looked glassy-eyed and unfocused, but the other stared at her fiercely as he tried to prop his companion up. He was shorter than the leader and his features were coarser, but his shoulders betrayed his strength. All three men were sodden from the rain.

  These men are not evil, she thought, they are desperate. She had seen desperation many times in her career. “Who are you?” she asked as gently as she could through her own fear.

  Behind her, Tyler grabbed her arm. “That’s the terrorists!”

  The leader shifted his rifle toward Tyler. “No talking. Give food and the boat!” His voice was hoarse, the accent thick and guttural.

  She squeezed Tyler’s hand and shot a warning glance over her shoulder at him. “Now’s not the time,” she muttered. She held out the pail with the rest of the berries. “There’s not much, but we can pick more.”

  The leader snatched the pail, looked inside with disgust, and swung his rifle toward Kaylee. “I shoot the dog.”

  “No!” Amanda screeched, leaping to Kaylee’s side without thinking. “This dog helps us. You will not shoot her!” Holding up her hands, she forced herself to calm down and lower her voice. “I know you are hungry. I will help you catch fish.”

  The leader looked incredulous. The other two stood as expressionless as pillars, probably not understanding a word. Amanda reached into the boat for the fishing rod. The man’s gaze wavered briefly as he looked at the rod. She thought she glimpsed a spasm of pain. Of recognition.

  “I won’t hurt you,” she said. “I can tell you are hungry and lost.” Steeling herself, she took a risk. “I know you are running away from bad people.”

  The look of sorrow vanished, and the man stepped forward in alarm. “What you know?”

  “I know your friend died on the ship and you escaped in a lifeboat that broke up on the rocks. You are running away, but you don’t know where to go.”

  The man was frowning. She had spoken slowly, but she suspected that, even so, he was struggling to translate.

  “Let me help you,” she said. “We are lost too. We must find a way out of this forest and find help.”

  Behind her, Tyler muttered his outrage, but fortunately had the good sense not to object.

  “Not police! Want your boat!”

  “You’re in Canada. The police will help. We have laws to protect you if you are running away from bad people.” She cringed inwardly at her own lies, knowing the trio would more likely face detention or deportation, if not outright imprisonment for killing Phil. But one step at a time. First she had to gain the trust of the man with the gun. “I promise
to help you. But first put down the rifle and help me catch some fish.”

  “We not want kill him.”

  Startled, she took a moment to collect her thoughts and consider the wisdom of opening up this discussion. She needed them to put aside the past — the difficulties they had been through and any loathsome acts they’d been forced to commit — and see her as an ally.

  But Tyler couldn’t resist. “Who?”

  “Crazy old man. We want some food, he shooting us. Bullet hit Ghader on his arm.” He gestured to the man draped in the quilt, whose glittering eyes suggested fever.

  “So what did you do?” Amanda asked softly, unable to resist.

  “We hit …” He swung the rifle butt to imitate a blow with an axe. “Too hard. Very much blood. We have lots trouble now.”

  She could hear the quaver in his voice. “I understand,” she said. “All you wanted was a new life, not trouble. What’s your name?”

  “Mahmoud. And this Fazil.” He jerked the rifle at the third man still standing at the sick man’s side. Then he looked sharply at Tyler and his eyes flared with anger. He spat on the ground. “Not terrorist! Kurde.”

  Amanda absorbed this with surprise. “You’re a long way from home.”

  “Our home is …” He shook his head. “Everybody is bombing. America bomb, Russia bomb, all from sky. DAESH bomb from streets. My mother and father killed in their house. Burn my city, burn my business. Shut the schools, the shops. So much suffer there, you cannot live there.”

  DAESH, Amanda knew, was an Arabic term for the Islamic State, one of the many brutal players in the chaos of the Middle East. “How did you end up here?”

  “My brother and I … we go to Turkey. No papers, no visa. We pay very much money to Russian man to make papers for … going to America in a ship. But work all day with shrimp. Very cold. Shrimp, shrimp, always shrimp. I hate shrimp.”

  She wanted to ask more, but she could see Ghader about to topple over. His teeth were chattering. Only Fazil’s strength kept him upright.