Chris gave the little-boy grin that crinkled his eyes. “I just arrest ’em, ma’am, and pass ’em up the line. No one tells me anything.”
“The spooks will likely get their claws into them,” Matthew said. “Ten years from now, once the cases have finally wended their way through all the appeals, the captain will probably be in prison and Fazil will be deported back to wherever.”
“Or joining the captain in prison,” Chris said. “To be deported once he’s served his time. If we can’t get him for the murder of Phil, we’ve got him dead to rights on the assault on Jason Maloney. His fingerprints on the truck and his possession of Jason’s gun will nail that case shut.”
She pictured the brooding, aloof man sneaking away through the fog that evening, and tried to makes sense of it through the blur of painkillers and booze. “He could have gotten away cleanly. I wonder why he came back to us?”
“Because he needed your help getting the truck free. Then you can bet he’d have left you all stranded there. Your friend Mahmoud doesn’t have a single nice thing to say about him. Lazy even on the shrimp boat, he said.”
“Poor Mahmoud. His only crime was wanting to escape the war, and trusting some unscrupulous people smugglers who took advantage. What will happen to him?”
Chris shrugged. “I hear he’s applied for refugee status here. But he’s unlikely to get it.”
Amanda had heard that story of heartbreak many times. So many refugees had fled from war-ravaged and failed states with nothing but the clothes on their backs, without passports or proof of status. The process to qualify as a refugee through the United Nations was long and arduous, even with proper documents, but Canada had added layers of red tape and security that nearly strangled the process.
“So he’ll be deported,” she said.
Chris nodded. “I suppose he can apply for an American immigrant visa, but I don’t know their rules.”
Matthew snorted and took a deep swig of his beer before signalling for another round. He was freshly groomed and shaved, and glowed with good cheer over his prime-time appearances on national TV news. “Good luck with that, Mahmoud. The Yanks love illegals who try to gate-crash their country.”
Amanda remembered how the tall, melancholy Kurd had slogged through the bush for hours with Tyler on his back. A wave of sympathy washed over her. “If he’s willing to apply to Canada instead, I could sponsor him. That might help.”
When the next round of beers arrived, Matthew chugged his with alacrity, but Amanda merely groaned and pushed hers away. “I’ll talk to him in the morning.”
“He and Fazil are in hospital in St. Anthony,” Chris said. “As Tyler is, and you should be.”
She lifted her head to grin at his disapproval. “Dr. Iannucci here fixed me up just fine. I wanted a hot bath, a drink, and the company of my friends, not some sterile round of hospital tests. And I couldn’t leave my little hero here alone.” She leaned down to scratch Kaylee’s ears. The dog, still drowsy from her visit to the vet, managed a single tail wag. Amanda sobered. “Any word on Fazil?”
“Bullet just grazed his head. That big-game rifle had such a powerful kick it almost jerked right out of your hands. Spoiled your aim.”
“Luckily, I have no aim.” She twirled her empty wineglass. “Fazil is no prize, but the bottom line is they were six desperate, panicked fugitives caught in a nightmare they never imagined. Four of them died. What about the guys behind this? The smugglers and fraudsters who took their money and their documents, then threw them on the mercy of a trawler working weeks at sea? Six of them gave up their life’s savings. That’s tens of thousands of dollars! Not to mention the weeks of unpaid labour. Will anyone ever catch those guys? Bring them to justice?”
“Well, we have the captain —” Matthew began.
“But he’s one small cog in the wheel. He’s just a greedy little man who convinced himself that all the while he was lining his pockets, he was doing them a service too. Who’s behind all this smuggling at the point of origin? The Russian mob?”
Matthew shrugged. “Among others. Asian, African, Middle Eastern — these international criminal cartels are all connected. The smuggling rings just switched their product from drugs and weapons to people, to cash in on the lucrative new market. Then there’s the chain of intermediaries, all the little opportunists who take their bribes and do their little bit for the operation. Right now, there’s huge money to be made in the smuggling and trafficking of desperate people, but many of the players are almost untouchable. You watch. The Canadian co-owner of the trawler will deny all knowledge and blame the Finnish co-owner, who will do likewise. Acadia Seafood has already gotten out in front of this by issuing a statement this evening expressing their shock, disappointment, and utter lack of knowledge. One step removed equals plausible deniability. All bullshit.”
Amanda slumped sideways in her chair. “Too much bullshit for this fried brain, guys. I can’t take on the world, at least not tonight. I can barely tackle the stairs to my room.”
Chris caught her just before she slid to the floor. He hoisted her up and, with a firm arm around her waist, half carried her along the corridor and up the stairs to her room. She sank down onto the plush mattress with a groan of pleasure and reached to snuggle Kaylee, who had jumped up beside her. Through the descending haze, she was aware of Chris trying to unlace her boots.
“You’re a good guy, Tymko,” she mumbled. “Forget the boots and pull the blanket up. Wake me in a day or two, so I can go see Tyler.”
Amanda clung fast to the railing and hunched her shoulders as she turned her face to the ocean wind. The little whale-watching tour boat pitched and wallowed in the chop as it chugged past the rugged cliffs north of St. Anthony. The sky was blue, and the whitecaps sparkled in the sunshine, but the wind sweeping across the open Atlantic had the bite of fall.
She was grateful for these few moments of solitude. The last two days had been a whirlwind of police and media interviews, responses to well-wishers, and awkward phone conversations with her parents, who had felt they should come, but sounded relieved when she told them there was no need. As always, she was on her own. The support, compassion, and even physical embrace that she needed were beyond their repertoire. The holiday season, with its stilted but comfortable rituals of family joy, would come soon enough.
The one person she longed to see, and yet had barely spoken to, was Tyler. Sheri had been fiercely protective throughout their stay in St. Anthony, hounding the hospital staff, controlling the police interviews, and putting off all visits from the media and Amanda alike. Amanda suspected she kept her own feelings at bay by fretting about Tyler’s trauma and grief. Amanda had been limited to brief glimpses of him, mainly from a distance, hobbling around on his crutches, picking at his food, or staring out into nothingness.
By the third evening, unable to stand it any longer, Amanda had driven out from St. Anthony to nearby Burnt Cape, where Sheri had rented a little cabin getaway on the seaside. She found Tyler sitting motionless on a rock by the water, watching the sand pipers. When Kaylee trotted down to greet him, he wrapped his arms around her neck.
Amanda walked in the cabin door to find Sheri packing. “We have to talk,” she said.
Sheri busied herself with folding. “We’re going home in the morning. The doctor has cleared him, and she says it’s important for him to get back to his regular routine. School, friends, hockey as soon as his ankle is ready.”
“I agree. But I’d like to see him before he goes. He and I have some things to … kind of … work through.”
Sheri straightened and crossed her arms. “I appreciate all you did, Amanda. Finding him, taking care of him, keeping him safe. Don’t get me wrong. But I think, being with you right now … you’re a reminder of that whole awful experience.”
“It’s only been three days, Sheri!”
“I know. But he needs a rest from i
t. Maybe in a few months …”
Amanda looked out the window to gain some distance before she blurted out something ill-advised. Tyler was standing at the water’s edge, gazing out toward the open sea. Remembering? she wondered. Or wishing?
“I have an idea,” she said. “It’s getting past the season, but I bet I can persuade the tour boat operator in St. Anthony to take us out. If nothing else, it’s great publicity for him. Let’s give Tyler a fun day before you go back. No sadness, no talking, no trying not to think. Just whales and icebergs and puffins, oh my!”
Sheri had even laughed, but only now, feeling the salt wind on her face, did Amanda realize what an inspiration the boat tour had been. Tyler had spent the first hour with her up on the crow’s nest, peering through the binoculars and chattering excitedly about whales and icebergs. He had been crushed to learn there were no icebergs in September, but was soon enthralled by the antics of a flirtatious humpback whale flipping its tail almost within reach of his hand.
His eyes were watering and his cheeks were burnished red by the wind, but his smile lit his whole being. When he tired of the binoculars, he’d rushed down to the wheelhouse to help the skipper pilot the boat. Over the music of the waves, she heard him asking a thousand questions of the skipper as he tried out the controls.
She sensed movement behind her and turned to see Matthew, who had been clinging uncertainly to the edge of the boat downstairs. He came up behind to put his arm around her. “You’re a genius, you know that? This is just what the poor kid needed.”
“It’s what so many poor kids need, Matthew. A chance for fun, for escape, for adventure. A break from the daily sadness of their lives.”
He cocked his head and looked at her for a long moment. “I’m glad I came. I’ve never been on the ocean before and I was sure I’d be seasick. But it’s given me an idea.”
“It’s given me an idea too.”
He grinned. “You first.”
She rested her chin on her hands and watched the waves below. “I don’t know if I can face Africa again. Or even Cambodia. And I’m not ready for a desk job at headquarters in Ottawa or London, let alone a regular teaching job over here. But I am ready for this. If I could find a way to give young people a few hours or days of fun, an adventure to inspire them and give them hope … that would be my dream.” Embarrassed, she broke off to study him. He was a world-weary journalist as burned out as her, but his smile could swallow the Grand Canyon. “You’ve eaten the canary.”
His grin broadened further. “You’ve raised $150,000 through the Prayers for Tyler campaign.”
“You have.”
“No, girl. You have. Through your story. Your inspiration. Sheri doesn’t want that money. She says she doesn’t want the notoriety or the media circus that comes with it.”
“I can’t use that money, Matthew. People gave it with the intention of helping Tyler.”
“But —”
“Sheri may change her mind,” Amanda said. “Or we can set up a scholarship for him, maybe for others in his name if there’s enough. He’s so smart, he should be given every opportunity.”
Matthew sighed. “Okay. Fair enough. But you can raise money, girl. You’re a genuine hero. Social media is an amazing tool. If you did a fundraising tour across Canada, say, to raise money for struggling or traumatized families …”
“Like Clara Hughes’s Big Ride?” Amanda smiled at the memory of the celebrated Olympic speed skater cycling across Canada for mental health. “Raise money and awareness by some kind of tour?”
“Through which you’d finance your family-adventure trips, and the rest could go to an overseas children’s charity. For child soldiers, or for education in the refugee camps.”
She fell silent. Took a deep, steadying breath. For the first time in a long while, she felt hope. A way forward. It needed work, but it was a thrilling idea. But could she manage all the minutiae — the planning, the promotion, and the fundraising?
As if reading her mind, he grinned. “I’d be your manager and fundraiser. I’ve got the connections, and my human issues blog is already up and running. Don’t give an answer right away. Think about it; take the time to be sure. But man, this is the most exciting idea I’ve heard in a long, long time. Almost gives an old hack like me goosebumps.”
She kept the secret dream to herself, cradled and sheltered from judgment. But that night, she shared a complimentary dinner and bottle of wine with Chris at the Lightkeeper’s Restaurant on the tip of Fishing Point outside St. Anthony. The local community had thrown itself into the celebration of its heroes. Amanda had been given a haircut, massage, and manicure at a local beauty salon, as well as her pick of the latest fall fashions in a local women’s shop. Her hair, freshly washed, fell soft and loose down her back. The long black skirt and silk top felt deliciously foreign and exotic against her skin. Chris too had been outfitted by a local seamstress who had managed to fit a grey shirt and navy sports jacket perfectly to his gangly frame.
They sat at the window table of the restaurant, like strangers newly met. She didn’t know which felt more unreal, the past or the present. His long fingers rested on the table, and a boyish grin twitched at the corner of his lips. She sensed that he, like her, was searching for words.
She finally broke her gaze and settled for the mundane but safe. “You’re going back tomorrow?”
He nodded. “Reporting back to duty at Deer Lake. Sergeant Noseworthy said there may be a commendation coming down, but I’m not holding my breath. It’s enough she didn’t haul my ass before the disciplinary board. Corporal Vu is furious.”
“She’s a smart woman. She knows the RCMP needs its heroes, and that all’s well that ends well.”
“Yes,” he said. “I’m not so sure about Jason Maloney. But in the fog of the operation, his disobedience may get swept under the carpet too. He’s got one hell of a headache and a badass new scar on his forehead, but he may be going to go back to life as usual.”
Not as usual, Amanda thought. Some things will never be the same. His sense of confidence — his belief in the power and invincibility of his badge — will be gone forever. And Sheri had refused all contact with him, blaming him for setting the wheels in motion that had destroyed her husband and traumatized her son. Even though those wheels had been set in motion months before, on the arid killing fields of northern Nigeria.
The memory sobered her, and a silence settled between them. She knew it was time to say goodbye, but she found she couldn’t find the words. Not this time.
He was watching her in the candlelight, unusually solemn now, as if he felt the same. “You’ll be all right,” he said finally.
Was that a question? Was she that transparent? Unnerved by his insight, she looked out the window at the soft, black sea. A thousand stars showered the night sky.
“Remember that night we sat on the seashore and looked up at the stars?”
He grinned. “I recall we were very drunk.”
“Drunk enough to marvel at the power and meaning in those little pinpoints of light that have been guiding wanderers since the dawn of time.” She slipped a finger around his. “To answer your question, I think I will.”
Acknowledgements
The inspiration for Fire in the Stars owes much to my father, Professor Cecil Currie, who was born in Newfoundland during the early part of the twentieth century and whose tales of his childhood exploits and misadventures were the highlight of our bedtime routine when my brother, sister, and I were growing up. Through them, not only did I learn some of my earliest lessons in storytelling, but I also developed a deep affection for the rugged spirit, irreverent humour, and precarious life of those who live on The Rock.
Although my father died some time ago, I invoked his spirit often in the writing of this book. I am also indebted to my Newfoundland cousins, Lloyd and Maxime Currie and Liz Waye; Newfoundland friends, Sheila Galla
nt-Halloran, Jason Stuckless, and Tom Curran, who all cheerfully answered questions on everything from boats to fish to flowers, and fellow writer Susan Forrest and her husband Don, motorcycle aficionados. My friend and neighbour Rudy Broers volunteered an insider’s glimpse into aid work in Africa, and fellow author Don Easton provided helpful details on RCMP search procedures.
During my research trip to the Great Northern Peninsula, many Newfoundlanders provided insight and information along the way, among them shrimp fishers, Fisheries and Oceans Canada staff, Search and Rescue volunteers, fish plant workers, and others in tourism and national parks. I’d especially like to thank Bettina Lori of Norris Point, the Civilian Ground Search and Rescue coordinator for the Bonne Bay team, who volunteered a wealth of details about dog tracking and search and rescue on the peninsula. Any inaccuracies, whether intentional for the purposes of the story, or made out of ignorance, are mine alone.
A manuscript passes before many critical eyes on its way to print. As always, I’m indebted to the members of the Ladies’ Killing Circle — Joan Bosell, Mary Jane Maffini, Sue Pike, and Linda Wiken — all cherished friends who dropped everything to read the manuscript on a mere week’s notice and provided thoughtful critiques. I’d also like to thank everyone at Dundurn Press for their continued support of me and of Canadian stories in general, especially Kirk Howard, Beth Bruder, my publicist Jim Hatch, my astute and enthusiastic editor Shannon Whibbs, and the cover designer Laura Boyle.
And last but not least, a huge thank-you to booksellers and readers, whose support makes it possible for me to continue doing what I love.
Copyright © Barbara Fradkin, 2016
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purpose of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from Access Copyright.
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