Fire in the Stars (20 page)

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.

H
is 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 awash 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.

As he tried to judge the swirl of mist in the distance, he realized it was coming closer. A cloud with fading edges but a dense core. Not rain or fog at all, but a vehicle coming down the dusty road. Chris flicked on his roof lights and rested his hand on his pistol. The dot in the plume of dust became a pickup truck, not black but dirty red, driving at a steady, unhurried pace. As it slowed to a stop in front, Chris made out a red light affixed to its roof. He relaxed and climbed out of the cruiser.

He could see the tall, rangy RCMP officer talking on his radio, presumably reporting in. Chris knocked on his window and the man powered it down.

“Have you been searching down this way?” Chris asked.

The officer nodded. “Just calling it in. I checked the whole Croque-Grandois road, but no sign of them. No suspicious activity. You see anything?”

Chris masked his surprise. ERT had not wanted anyone inside the search zone, not even other officers. “For my records, can I see your ID?”

“Sure thing.” With an easy smile the officer unclipped his ID from his jacket. Chris stared at it in surprise.

“Jason Maloney! What the hell are you doing here?”

Jason stiffened and took a moment to find a retort. “Who the hell wants to know?”

“Sorry, I just didn't expect you. I'm Chris Tymko.” He stuck his hand through the window.

It was Jason's turn to be surprised. He seemed to hesitate, as if unsure whether to shake the hand or smack it away, before enveloping Chris's hand in a strong, warm grip. “Phil was a good man, friend to both of us, and we both want the same thing. To find his killer.”

He opened the door, climbed out, and stretched his long limbs with a groan. He wasn't as tall as Chris, but he moved with a fluid athlete's grace that Chris could only envy. No wonder Sheri had succumbed; the man radiated power.

“When did you get here?” Chris asked, his tone a little edgier than he'd intended.

“Late last night.”

“Fast driving from Grand Falls.”

Jason paused. “I was already on the peninsula looking for Phil.” He rubbed the back of his neck and stared down the highway through slitted eyes. “Look, this is a mess. I mean, the stuff between me and Sheri, me telling Phil … man, I was afraid I'd pushed him over the edge.”

“You pretty much did.”

Jason flinched. “But that's in the past. Some bastard killed him in cold blood, and that's what's important now. Finding out who did that, for Phil's sake.”

“And for Sheri's.”

“That's over. It's not going to survive this.”

Chris said nothing. Perhaps Jason believed that right now, but grieving widows turned to a comforting cop shoulder all the time. Jason seemed to read his mind.

“Believe it or not, I care about Phil. I felt like shit going behind his back, that's why I told him. And Tyler! Sweet Jesus, he's my son's best friend. A greater kid you'll never meet. You bet I want to be part of finding him and making things right.”

Chris felt like punching the man's face in, but managed an indifferent shrug. “Whatever. Did you clear your search with Incident Command?”

“Do they know? About me and Sheri?”

The urge to punch grew stronger. “I don't know, but you might want to tell them yourself. The major crimes investigator is one hell of a prick, and you can bet he'll find out.”

Jason looked grim. He poked his toe around in the gravel and Chris let him stew. Finally he nodded. “Okay. I appreciate you not spilling the beans.”

“He hasn't asked me yet. I can't guarantee I won't. Just giving you a chance to get there first.”

“I'm heading in now.” Jason opened the door of his truck, then turned back. There was a tinge of shame in his gaze. “You good out here? Nothing I should pass on? Seems pretty quiet.”

“It is pretty quiet. Just moose hunters who don't know the area is closed.”

“Yeah, I passed one of those myself back down the road,” Jason said. “I guess he got in ahead of the roadblock.”

“Coming out this way in a beat-up old Sierra with a moose in the back?”

“No, he was driving in. He had an ATV in the back.”

Chris grew alert. “No such vehicle came through. Did you stop him?”

“I told him to turn back, and he said he just had to pick up his buddy who was already in the bush with a moose. I told him to get his buddy, forget the moose, and get the hell out of the area.”

It was a common enough scenario, Chris thought. It usually took an ATV and a couple of hunters to move a seven- hundred-pound moose carcass out of the bush. “Okay, they'll probably be along soon. Did you get a licence plate?”

“Yeah, hold on.” Jason climbed back into his truck and reached for the logbook beside him. “Late-model silver F250, New Brunswick plates, ASCVE6.”

Chris fetched his own logbook and jotted it down. “I'll keep my eyes peeled.”

Jason gave a mock salute, started the truck, and revved off toward the highway in a spray of gravel, leaving Chris to the solitude of his cruiser and the police chatter. He listened for awhile. Nothing new in the search, but a misty rain was beginning to fall.

It was nearly an hour later, and the mist had long since smothered the mountaintops, when he thought of the moose hunters again. The truck had not come through. Unless the buddy was deep in the bush or they had stayed against Jason's orders to dress and haul the moose, they should have turned up by now.

As faint alarm bells began to ring, Chris reached for his radio to call in the plate.

“We'll hug the shore inland instead,” Amanda announced, pointing down the forested shore opposite the scoured barrens of the point. They were both standing on the wharf in the rain, dressed in tattered rain gear and squinting out over the drenched landscape. Tyler had woken that morning with his ankle badly swollen, and every effort to move it or put weight on it elicited a cry of pain. If they were ever going to escape, they had no choice but to take the boat.

Tyler was staring at the half-sunken boat with dismay. “In that?”

“We'll bail it out and see how bad it is.”

“But what about the searchers? No one will see us.”

She picked up the two rusty cans she had found for bailing. She didn't want to tell him the searchers might not even be looking in this weather. “First things first. Let's see if the thing will float.”

Miraculously, after fifteen minutes of bailing, the boat was bobbing high on the surface, with no water seeping through its seams. As she'd hoped, moisture had swollen and tightened the wood. She rummaged in the stage for a pair of oars and a paddle, and helped Tyler climb in. The boat rocked precariously, causing Tyler to clutch the gunwales with fear.

“Can't we just stay here until help comes?”

She shook her head. “We'd be sitting ducks, and if I remember the map correctly, I think this bay may lead inland to the village of Croque.”

“Croque. Dad and I visited there. Some grumpy old man wouldn't sell us his boat.” His face twisted at the memory. “Not much in Croque.”

“But there's a road, and the search and rescue people will be patrolling the road.”

Once she'd loaded all the supplies worth scavenging — fishing gear, a couple of cans they could use for cooking, a tarp, and a rusty old filleting knife that she planned to sharpen on a stone — she paused for one last look at the little village. She wondered again whether she should leave a message explaining where they were going, but she feared it would merely tip off their pursuers. The huge, whitewashed
HELP
sign she'd painted on the slope was bad enough. For a moment she dithered as she tried to think up a cryptic message that the searchers would understand, but their pursuers wouldn't.

A play on the word
Croque
? Or a reference to France? And then a brainwave hit.

“Just a minute,” she told Tyler as she headed back into the stage for the can of whitewash. For an added measure of misdirection, she carried it to the opposite end of the village and painted a message on the flat rocks along the shore.
What did one frog say to the other?

She was still laughing when she got into the boat. With any luck one of the police would have a brain and a sense of humour. As soon as they pushed off, the wind caught the boat, swung it broadside, and swept it out into the choppy water. Amanda's summers as a young girl at her aunt's cottage were a distant memory, but when she took the oars in her hands, the feel of the little rowboat she used to putter in came back to her in a rush.

With powerful tugs she seized control of the boat and fought the wind to get closer to shore. As they inched their way down the bay, Amanda watched the village recede into the distance. Once they rounded a rocky point out of sight of the forlorn shacks, another bay opened up before her. Forests pressed in, and more jagged points of rock. Amanda kept a respectful distance from them as she scanned the cliff tops.

“You're my eyes!” she shouted to Tyler over the angry slap of the waves. “Keep a watch for rocks ahead, and also for any sign of Croque.”

As she rowed, she kept twisting around to assess sky. A dense mist swirled over the mountains farther inland in what she assumed — hoped— was the west.
Not fog
, she prayed.
We can't afford to get caught in the fog
.

Every foot of progress was hard fought against the wind, but she couldn't stop to rest without being blown backwards again. After what felt like an eternity, her back ached, her arms shook like jelly, and the blisters on her palms from the rough oars had begun to bleed. As she rounded yet another point, she twisted around to look ahead at the new vista. More forest, more rock.

Where the fuck was Croque?

She ran the boat ashore on a small gravel beach, waking Tyler with a start. He had curled up in the bottom of the boat, dozing, and he bolted upright in alarm.

“What are we doing?”

She jumped ashore and stretched her stiff back. “I need to wrap my hands. Let's have a food break.”

She handed him a little of the fish she had cooked that morning and poured some water into a jar. While he ate, she soaked her stinging hands in the cold salt water and rinsed out some rags to wrap them. Help would have to come soon, before infection set in. Exhaustion and pain robbed her of appetite, but she wandered a little along the shore to see whether she could detect any signs of habitation. As she walked, she thought she heard a crashing sound in the forest up the steep bank. She froze to listen. Another crack. The swish of leaves.

Her whole body quivered. Rescuers? Killers? She didn't dare call out. The crashing sound came nearer. She saw a flash of movement through the trees racing toward her. In panic, she glanced back at Tyler, who sat in the boat, completely exposed to danger. She turned to run back to him just as a moving blur burst through the underbrush and leaped on her.

Red fur, squirming, wagging, and yelping with joy as a wet tongue covered her face in kisses.

She burst into tears and hugged Kaylee to her. Her heart swelled with joy. For a moment she forgot all danger and pain as she turned around.

“Tyler, look!”

Something whizzed past her head. An instant later, a rifle shot cracked the air.

“Tyler!” she screamed. Ducking low, she raced along the shore with Kaylee at her heels, limping, Amanda noticed with alarm, from a blood-encrusted wound on her hip. Another shot. Amanda scrambled faster. A third whizzed by just as she reached the boat. Shielding Tyler with her body, she tried to tug him out of the boat. He was unharmed, but wide-eyed with fear as he struggled to get up. Another shot spat the bottom of the boat. Luckily the guys weren't crack shots. Bastards!