Fire in the Stars (13 page)

Phil had not.

She scrambled to formulate an answer. “Honestly? I don't know. I haven't seen him since we got back. But I can't imagine … No matter how upset he was, no matter what bad memories were triggered … an axe to the head? Never.”

Silence crackled for so long she wondered whether she'd lost the connection. “Matt?”

“I was never going to reveal this,” he said, so softly she had to cover her other ear. “But last fall in Nigeria, Phil told me he killed a man.”

It was Amanda's turn to be speechless. Literally robbed of breath to force out words. “Who?” she managed eventually.

“One of the Boko Haram fighters he encountered in the desert.”

“Oh! But … but in self-defence, then.”

“No. In a rage.”

“How? Why?”

“Fog of war, Amanda? He wasn't sure. It was dark, he was trying to sneak through the grasslands, keeping to the shelter of a wadi. He smelled smoke and heard sounds of a group somewhere in the night but he didn't know whether it was a village or a fighter's camp. Creeping forward, he came upon a sentry beside a fire. He recognized him — a kid from the security force you'd hired to protect the village. Now with an AK-47, bandana, camo, the whole Boko Haram shit. Ahead, Phil could hear screams and see fires burning. In a split second, Phil was on him.”

The image was as vivid as if she were still there. The betrayal of those they'd paid to protect them. The howls, the shooting flames, the thunder of fire consuming the flimsy wood huts. The mingled cries of pain and protest and triumph. The staccato of gunfire.
Save them
, had been her only thought.
Whatever it takes
.

And yet …

Fighting back the memory, she forced herself to focus. “But the sentry would have killed him.”

“He didn't even turn around.”

“Still … how did Phil kill him? We never even had weapons.”

“An axe he found lying at the fireside. Still bloody from killing people,” he said.

As she absorbed this final shock, she spotted Bradley down below by Phil's truck, on his radio again, nodding and taking notes.

“Matt, I gotta go.”

“I'm coming there. I'm looking up flights to Deer Lake as we speak.”

“Okay, but cellphone coverage is bad here. If you can't reach me —”

“Don't do anything until I get there.”

She had no time to lose. The police search was kicking into high gear. Phil would be a fugitive once again, fleeing through unknown territory, driven by a single goal. Escape. Safety.

Would he even know where he was, and what he was fleeing? “I can't promise that, Matt.”

Amanda raced back down the hill and through town, keeping a sharp eye out for Constable Bradley, who was no longer in sight. She had left Kaylee playing ball with the children, and now the dog came bounding up in delight, panting happily from the game.

There was still no sign of Casey, Chris, and the rest of the crew from Stink's place, but Amanda knew she didn't have much time before they returned. She spotted Thaddeus, the fisherman who'd been helping Casey work on the boats earlier.

“Is there a spare boat I can rent for a few hours?”

The fisherman jerked upright, his eyes narrowing. “What for?”

“To go down the coast a bit, see if I can spot my friend. How far is Englee? Do you think Stink's boat could make it all the way?”

Thaddeus snorted. “She'd need a whole lot of prayer and luck for that trip. Twenty kilometres on open seas.”

“Then
if it's as bad as you say, my friend might be stranded just a few kilometres down the coast.”

“There's fishing boats about. All he has to do is flag one down.”

“I know, but … well, my friend might be running scared.”

“Running scared.” The fisherman scrutinized her. She could feel the doubt and disapproval in his gaze. “And what are you going to do if you find them?”

“Bring them back.”

“Could be dangerous.”

“He's my friend. He's not going to hurt me.”

“You never know what a man's capable of.”

“I know him. He's probably frightened. Desperate.”

“All the more reason. If he killed Old Stink —”

“He didn't!” She broke off to recapture calm. Above all, she needed to appear rational. “But if he did, it would have been an accident. I know him, Thaddeus. He needs help. And he's got his son with him.”

Thaddeus said nothing. Amanda looked around at the half-dozen small boats moored at wharves or pulled helter-skelter up on the shore. Most in varying stages of rust and rot. She pointed to the only one with a motor.

“What about that one?”

He shifted his gaze from her to the boat. A frown creased his brow. “Know anything about piloting a boat?”

“I've piloted plenty of them overseas. Much more decrepit than that.” It was an exaggeration, but all for a good cause. Most of the boats she'd piloted had nothing but a paddle or scull. However, she had driven a speedboat across the lakes in Quebec, so that experience would have to do.

“Ocean?”

“Big lakes.”

Thaddeus grunted. “Lakes is nudding. I'll get my boy to take you down the coast. He's just up at the garden helping my wife harvest the potatoes.”

Amanda's heart sank. She'd dug her own hole on this one, persuading Thaddeus that Phil would never hurt her. In truth, who could ever be sure? In Africa she'd seen kind, gentle neighbours rendered savage in the swirl of bloodlust. Never, ever, would she put a child into the middle of that again.

“No, I won't take him away from his chores. Helping his mother is much more important.”

Thaddeus's eyes twinkled. “He won't see it like that.”

“All the same, I won't hear of it. I have a hundred dollars hanging around just waiting for a good cause. I've got a compass, maps, and some emergency gear. All I need is a boat that won't sink and a couple of life jackets, and I'll be fine. I promise to be back before nightfall.”

He gave her a long look. A man of few words, but many reservations. A man honed to expect the worst over a lifetime of struggle and resistance. She pasted a look of determined cheer on her face.

“She can't handle the big waves,” he said.

“Then I'll stick close to shore.”

He shrugged. “Your funeral.”

A
manda made it out of Conche Harbour and around the tip of the headland out of sight of the villagers before the engine sputtered and died. The wind ripped across the open sea, and the boat pitched and wallowed in the swell. With each slapping wave, water splashed over the gunwales and tossed the boat like flotsam toward the jagged shore. Kaylee cowered under the seat in the bottom of the boat, her ears flattened and her eyes wide with reproach.

Amanda spread her legs to brace herself as she bent over the engine and struggled to prime it. Her arm ached from pulling the cord, and the rocks were metres away before the engine finally coughed and rattled to life. Gasping with relief, she fell into the seat and spun the boat away from the rocks.

To the north and south, the coast wove in and out like a ragged seam, splintering and crumbling into bays, fjords and points. Phil could be in any of the hidden inlets. She had told Thaddeus she was going south toward Englee, but now that she was out on the ocean, she wondered whether Phil would choose to go north instead, toward St. Anthony.

She forced herself to think the unthinkable. If Phil had killed Stink, he'd be in full flight, and if he were thinking at all logically, he'd be trying to get as far away as fast as he could. St. Anthony had a small airport, allowing him to get off the island within hours.

And even if he were simply seeking oblivion, the land to the north was as wild and empty as he could ever hope for. So she pointed the nose of her boat north.

As the boat fought its way along the coastline, she tried to find an ideal distance from shore — far enough that a strong wave would not throw her on the rocks but close enough that the land provided some shelter from the open sea. Close enough that she could see into the nooks and crannies of the shoreline.

Her progress was slow. She had to keep one wary eye on each approaching wave while she scoured the cliffs and dark woods and barrens that formed the ever-changing shore. Noon sun washed the land in greens, silvers, and shadowy black. Her eyes ached from squinting against the glare and the constant bucking of the boat.

This could all be a fool's errand. Phil could be anywhere by now! Even across the peninsula, as Jason Maloney claimed. Through her worry and fatigue, fury began to take hold. The man might be desperate, he might even be suicidal, but damn it, he had a son to take care of! A son who was probably bewildered and frightened by now. He had friends who were moving heaven and earth for him. And yet he couldn't spare a single, fucking word? Not even “sorry”?

The boat growled and whined as it inched up the coast. Kaylee ventured out of hiding and finally took up a sentry's post at the bow. They wasted precious time exploring every inlet and cove along the way. After three hours the sun was beginning to slip toward the western hills, and Amanda knew she was running out of time. No one knew she was heading north, and if she failed to return as promised, Chris and the villagers would be worried. There might even be frantic searches launched for her, drawing precious resources away from Tyler and Phil.

But worry drove her on. Just into this one last cove, around this one rocky point. By tomorrow the police would have descended, with their much greater manpower and equipment. If they found Phil before she did, he would get no mercy or sympathy, only the harsh,
by-the
-book judgment of Sergeant Amis. In his desperate state, who knew what he'd do?

She finally set herself a limit. Ahead in the distance she could see spumes of spray breaking over a barren point of land that jutted into the ocean. She wondered how many unsuspecting sailors had been caught unaware and had cracked up on the rocks. If Phil had come upon it in darkness or fog, he and Tyler might well be stranded there.

She slowed and approached cautiously, watching the water ahead for rocks lurking just below the surface. The boat pitched and rolled. Her hand ached from gripping the tiller and she shivered in the cold spray. As the point drew nearer, she steered the boat farther out toward the safety of the open sea. Her eyes raked the slick stones for signs of a wreck. A person standing on the shore. A distress beacon.

Nothing. Just bleak, empty rock littered with ocean junk.

She was just preparing to turn back when her eyes caught a flash of light on the shore. She spun the boat around and hardly dared to breathe as she inched closer. Her heart pounded. It could be anything. But it was something! Sunlight was dancing off metal, and, as she drew close, she could make out colours. Red and white against the grey shale of the shore.

Closer still, she made out the shape of a small boat aground on the shore. Once white but patched with rust and faded red paint. Its motor glinted black in the glare of the sun. The tide was coming in, and the boat heaved and banged against the rocks. She ran her own boat up on a nearby beach, pulled up the motor, and leaped out into the shallow water. Kaylee bounded nimbly ahead, grateful to be on solid ground. After tying her boat to a stunted shrub, Amanda scrambled over the rocks to the other boat.

It lay empty, abandoned to the whim of the surf, with no tie rope or anchor to hold it in place. She wondered whether the incoming tide had washed it in. It looked as if it had seen better days, held together by little more than rust and crusted grime. An inch of water sloshed around in the bottom and its wooden seats were cracked and warped with age. The tiny black engine was antique, and there was a jagged hole in the hull through which the seawater swirled with each wave.

Had the hull been ripped open by the surf after the boat was pulled ashore? Or had the boat hit a rock and swamped, dumping its crew into the icy sea? Alarmed, she peered up and down the coast. There was no sign of anyone. The coastal land was barren, but inland she could see a wall of tuckamore, stunted, spiky, and impenetrable. If this was Phil's boat and he had wanted to set up camp, he would not choose this frigid, wind-scoured shore. Could there be protection and shelter farther inland beyond the trees?

She glanced at her watch. She really ought to be heading back in order to avoid being caught out on the ocean after dark. She hadn't packed any gear for camping in the wilderness, and had only an emergency supply of food and water. She could make do, of course, with the berries along the shore to supplement her food, but the wise course would be to return in the morning with the equipment for a proper ground search. But any delay would put Phil farther out of reach than he already was.

She pulled out her cellphone in the slim hope that she could alert Casey and perhaps Chris Tymko to her discovery, but wasn't surprised to see no signal. She was miles from anywhere, surrounded by mountains and empty ocean.

I can spare ten minutes
, she told herself.
Time to reach the tuckamore to see whether there is any path leading inside
. She clambered up the rocks and headed through the shore grasses toward the twisted wall of trees. Kaylee had her nose to the ground and snuffled excitedly as she trotted ahead. Following her, Amanda detected some subtle signs of trampled grass and broken stems, and her hopes surged. Something large had passed this way. The gnarled spruce seemed to huddle together, entwining their canopies to shelter one another from the brutal sea, but as she drew close, she spotted a small hole in the branches.

By now Kaylee was far ahead, invisible in the underbrush. Amanda crawled through the hole into an alien world of grey trunks and twisted limbs, where the sunlight was muted and the thick mat of needles muffled all sound.

Barely twenty feet inside the forest, she caught a glimpse of orange. As vivid and out of place in the web of grey as a shout in a graveyard. In a rush of hope, she plunged forward, ignoring the sharp branches that scratched her arms and legs. The lifejackets lay at the base of a tree, discarded as a snake sheds its skin. No longer needed and a burden to the travellers. Amanda picked them up and searched them for clues. They were sodden, whether from rain, dew, or a dunk in the ocean, she couldn't tell. Both were adult male sizes, but one was a large and the other a small.

Her mind made the instant leap to Tyler and Phil. She supposed she could be wrong, but she was sure she wasn't. She checked the jackets and found a whistle, a flare, a metal canteen, a pack of waterproof matches, and a compass that was stuck on south. The compass was useless, but why had Phil left the other items? As an experienced orienteerer with emergency training, surely he would never have abandoned them.

Holding the larger jacket while she puzzled over the contradiction, she noticed the tear in its back. She pushed her finger through the hole and peered at the darker stain around it. Her breath grew short and her heart began to pound. She turned the jacket over to examine the inside, where the dark wine stain spread across the whole fabric.

She dropped the jacket in horror. She raised her head, and terror propelled her voice above the roaring of the sea.

“Phil! Phil!”

It was nearly dark by the time Chris and Corporal Willington finally finished with the murder scene. The medical examiner had done her examination, ruled the death suspicious, and ordered the body removed to St. John's for autopsy.

“There's going to be a lineup at the morgue,” Chris had remarked. Dr. Iannucci's opinion had confirmed the obvious: Stink had died from massive blunt force trauma to the head, but she had also suspected, after studying his filthy clothing and his living quarters, that he was in the early stages of dementia.

“Yes, but he was still bashed on the back of the head,” Willie had said. “Homicide, no matter what else is going on.”

“Agreed,” the doctor said. “But if Stink was charging at him with a gun, the killer may have had little choice.”

Chris forced himself to lean close to the body to sniff the man's hands, but the overpowering stench of decay and urine blocked out all other scents. “We'll ask St. John's to run a GSR test for gunshot residue.”

Dr. Iannucci nodded. As she was loading her gear back into Casey's boat for the trip back to Conche, she paused. “While you're waiting for the extraction team and the investigation team to arrive, you might want to search the house and grounds for other signs of peculiar habits. I noticed he put his dirty socks in the fridge, for example.”

Chris nodded. His grandmother had Alzheimer's, and although the family cared for her on the farm, her bizarre behaviour was often a strain. He had already conducted a thorough search of the cabin and grounds, but looking for evidence related to Old Stink's death rather than his state of mind. Now he and Willie divided the task between them and began a second search.

“Document, mark, and photograph,” said Willie, who was nominally in charge. “Let's solve this case before that fancy cop from Ontario even sets foot on the cape. You know more about Alzheimer's, so you take the cabin and shed. I'll take the grounds and wharf.”

After watching Willie head back down the path toward the bay, Chris steeled himself to re-enter Stink's home. He looked at the nearly empty shelves through new eyes. Stink had three bags of salt and four jars of pickles, but no staples like flour and sugar. The propane tank that powered his fridge was empty, but there were two full tanks in the woodshed. Inside the privy, Chris found a box of partially burned cash — about two hundred dollars — and an unopened can of baked beans with the label burned off.

This second search also failed to turn up Stink's rifle, but this time Chris found two shell casings on the floor by his mattress. There were no visible bullet holes, but Chris did wonder whether the broken window had been caused by a bullet. A forensic expert might be able to determine more conclusively, but Chris felt a flutter of relief. If Phil had come looking for Stink with the hope of procuring a boat, and Stink in his dementia had mistaken him for a threat and shot at him, Phil might have been forced to use the axe in self-defence.

Chris revised his earlier conclusion that the killer had brought the axe into the house as part of a premeditated attack. In his paranoid state, Stink might have kept the axe by his bed all along.

The rumble of a boat drew him outside and down to the shore just in time to see the Coast Guard vessel pulling in. The captain conferred with Willie briefly before unloading a stretcher and body bag onto the wharf. Within fifteen minutes, Stink was gone, on the first leg of his journey to the morgue in St. John's.

By then, darkness was descending and the chance to find further evidence was fading fast. Willie grinned at Chris with relief and nodded to the spare boat Casey had towed over for them.

“I'm ready for a shower and a pint. You, b'y?”

Chris nodded. “More than ready! It'll take more than a shower to wash the smell of that cabin out of my clothes.”

He cast off while Willie started the engine. Once they were out on the open water heading for the mouth of the bay, Willie gave him another grin and shouted over the noise of the boat. “Did you solve our murder for us?”

“No, but I have a theory. Not about who, but how.” Chris told Willie about the shell casings and the possibility of self-defence.

Willie listened with a gleam in his eye. “That's good,” he said. “Because I've got a pretty good idea of who, and your theory will be a big help to him.”

“Well, I know you're thinking of Phil, but we have no proof —”

Willie took his camera out of his backpack and braced himself against the rocking of the boat as he thumbed through photos. He leaned forward to show one to Chris. At first, Chris could barely make it out but as his brain deciphered the shape, he felt his earlier relief drain away. It was a baseball cap, with the name
EXPLOITS CATARACTS
across the front.

“If I'm not mistaken,” Willie said, “the Exploits is the river running through Grand Falls, and the Cataracts is their hockey team. Didn't you say your friend and his son were from Grand Falls?”