Fire in the Stars (24 page)

“Help me move it!” he cried, shoving at the boat. Water sloshed as it slid sideways on the gravel, revealing, as Chris feared, two bullets partially buried in the sand beneath.

“Fuck,” he whispered as the remnants of hope drained from him.

A
manda had lost all sense of time and direction. She was so used to being hungry that she could no longer use it as a guide.
One foot in front of another
, she thought as she trudged through the woods with her head bowed and her shoulders leaning in. She hoped they were still heading west in the general direction of Croque, but in reality she had no idea. Wisps of fog had collected in the hollows and she hadn't caught a glimpse of sun in what felt like hours.

Mahmoud was carrying Tyler on his back. At first the boy had refused to go near the man or accept any help, but eventually the pain wore him down. He slept now with his head resting on Mahmoud's shoulder. The group plodded along in a straggling line that detoured, backtracked, and bunched to a stop as they clambered over fallen trees and around boulders. Amanda led the way and all she could hear was ragged breathing and twigs snapping in her wake.

At the top of a rise, she paused to check behind her and saw that Fazil and his cousin were no longer there. The two had been taking up the rear, so that they could follow at Ghader's hobbling pace. She called for a halt. Relieved, Mahmoud eased Tyler to the ground while Amanda headed back down the trail. She found Ghader collapsed in his tracks, deathly pale and unconscious. Fazil stood at his side, his head bowed. As Amanda checked the fallen man's pulse, which was thready and faint, she detected the rancid stink of infection emanating from his body. The smell filled her with dread, bringing back memories of weak and injured refugees who had collapsed during their long treks to safety.

Mahmoud came to kneel beside her. “We must leave him.”

The pain of memory knifed her. “We can't.”

“He is dying.”

Shaking her head, she laid her hand on Ghader's cold, papery forehead. “Let's give him time to rest.”

“He is dying.” Mahmoud turned to speak to Fazil in a quiet murmur, and the other man shook his head. Mahmoud turned back to Amanda, his tone flat and resigned, his green eyes bleak with sorrow. “Fazil say his cousin is not continue. Very sick for his home.”

“Homesick?”

Mahmoud nodded. “He have a wife and daughter in Kobani. He want better life in America and bring them.”

“Kobani? That's in Northern Syria, isn't it? I've read about the terrible fighting there.”

“Ghader is afraid his family gone. DAESH … take women. He has no news from them.”

Every ounce of her wanted to fight against the man's death, but she sensed the futility of it. She eased him into a more comfortable position and took off her jacket to keep him warm. She could think of nothing more than to stroke his brow, feeling helpless and bereft as the life ebbed from him.

Tyler came limping back down the path to join the mournful circle around the fallen man. Amanda looked into Tyler's eyes, stricken and huge with tears, and realized that for him it was like watching his father die all over again.

“We will leave you two to stay with him until …” she murmured as she rose to draw Tyler away, grateful for the chance to escape the death vigil and the pain of her own memories. She sat on a nearby log and held Tyler's trembling body close.

“I'm sorry, Tyler,” she murmured, pressing her lips to his tousled head. “I'm sorry you have to go through this.”

“Why don't we just leave them?”

“Because they are lost and scared too.”

“They are killers!”

She tightened her grip and rocked him. Kaylee lay at their feet quietly, as if she too sensed the sadness of the moment.

Time stretched. Fingers of fog slipped through the woods, obscuring the men huddled down the trail and muffling their soft murmurs. Amanda could hear the chanting of prayer, and her heart began to race. She felt trapped, unable to see her way out.
No one is going to find us
, she thought as she felt the hot wetness of tears upon her cheeks.
I will sit here, holding this child as Phil held Alaji all those months ago, and feel the pulse of his life slip through my fingers
.

“Why are you crying, Amanda?” Tyler whispered.

Straightening, she brushed an angry fist across her face. “I feel bad for Ghader,” she said. “He left his home and came all this way to escape the cruelty of ISIS and Assad, only to meet more cruel people here.”

When Tyler twisted his head so that he could look at her, she could see the doubt in his eyes. Twigs snapped in the underbrush, and Mahmoud's tall silhouette startled her as he loomed abruptly out of the fog. Without a word, he knelt at their side and bowed his head. Her fingers found his.

“I'm sorry about Ghader,” she said. “Did you know him in Kobani?”

“Friends. We have a business together. I am a engineer, and Ghader make machines.”

“What kind of machines?”

“Simple things. Electric, power tools. But our factory was destroyed by bomb. Syrian army think we make guns. No future for Kurds in Syria. Me, I have education, some money, cousin in Chicago, but no documents. In Turkey, can't get visa. So this …” He shrugged eloquently as he gestured to the desolate scrubland around him.

“So you paid someone to get you out.”

He nodded. “I pay many people. Turkey, Hungary, so many little countries. Walk, train, truck, then ship. All my money — ten thousand American dollars — to Russian man Fazil find on Internet. It look like good plan. We go fast, because the train leaving. No time for pack, tell friends, just run.” His lips grew taut as a darker memory descended. “But Russian man lie. He cheat. Promise passport, but not give it. Give to captain on the ship.”

“And he kept them,” Amanda said grimly. It was an old trick smugglers used to ensure control.

Mahmoud's lips quivered. “I had a good life before the war. Happy. I never do bad things. Never hold a gun. Never kill man …”

Tyler lifted his head to fix Mahmoud with a bitter glare. “What about my father?”

“I not see your father.”

“You shot him!”

“I not —”

“Stop!” It was Fazil, emerging from the fog. Amanda was startled, having never heard him speak English before. He held himself rigidly straight, like a man struggling not to feel. “No fight. We go.”

“Not in this fog,” Amanda said. “We will lose each other.”

Fazil held up a belt. “Tie together.”

“Take the time to bury your cousin,” Amanda said. “Maybe by then the fog will have lifted.”

Fazil looked about to argue, but Mahmoud spoke to him in Kurdish. As they discussed back and forth, they glanced at Tyler a few times, and Amanda felt a small chill. How much English did Fazil understand, and were they using Kurdish as a code so they could make secret plans?

Matthew Goderich hung up his phone and stared out the window in frustration. Where was the man? He'd left two voicemail messages and three texts for him, without a single reply. Even in this godforsaken part of the world, surely one of the messages should have gotten through. It was a simple message.
Call me, important info!

While he waited for Chris Tymko's reply, Matthew continued his research into the Acadia Seafood Company and its wandering trawler captain. As a journalist covering the world stage, he'd learned to be suspicious, and the pattern that was emerging rang all his alarm bells. He'd tracked them both on the Internet, placed some judicious phone calls and even managed to speak to a couple of the man's neighbours in Miramichi, New Brunswick.

The Fisheries and Oceans Canada officer up in St. Anthony was unwilling to make any comment on the trawler or its crew, but Matthew had uncovered enough to believe Chris was right. There was a bigger international picture here.

His fingers itched to file a news update on the information he'd gleaned, but he'd made a promise to Chris. Instead he updated his
Witness from the Frontline
blog on the dangers Amanda and Tyler faced from the worsening weather and fog. The social media response had been astonishing, and both the Prayers for Tyler Facebook page and Twitter hashtag #lostboy were flooded with expressions of concern and exhortations to keep them posted.

As the afternoon wore on, he watched with increasing alarm as the fog settled in. Searchers would be stumbling half-blind while the killer could slip through the cordon with ease. Perhaps the fog was also interfering with Chris's satellite phone reception. Perhaps he was inside his cruiser or a house. He might not check his phone until late that night, when the damage might already be done.

Finally he shut his laptop and left the Mayflower Inn to head over to talk to the local Roddickton RCMP. A friendly young woman behind the glass reception counter informed him that Corporal Willington was out, but could she help? No, she didn't know when he'd be back, there was a major incident in the region, and yes, all available officers were committed to that.

Matthew had never been able to rely on his sex appeal when talking to women, but he had found that the bumbling teddy bear approach sometimes worked. He tilted his fedora back to scratch his head, and furrowed his brow. “Oh, dear. I need to speak to one of the officers, Corporal Tymko,” he said. “I have urgent information for him.”

A lovely smile softened her face. “Oh, Corporal Tymko is down in Croque with Corporal Willington, in fact. But you should pass on all information to Sergeant Noseworthy down in Conche. She's the —”

“Yes, I know who she is, but I hate the thought of that long drive to the coast in the fog. Can you contact Tymko by radio and let me speak to him?”

The smile wavered. “Oh, no, sir. The radio channel has to be kept open for search information. But I can give you the sergeant's phone number.”

Dutifully Matthew wrote Noseworthy's number down, thanked the nice woman, and left the station, thinking it would be a cold day in hell before he passed Chris's precious information on to that tight-ass. Shoving the card into his jeans pocket, he headed back to his car. Fog now obscured the white mountains across the bay and blurred the outlines of shops and homes along the highway. Street and car lights lit up the canvas like an impressionist painting.

Croque. The friendly young receptionist had let that slip. Did that mean the search was narrowing to the area around the village? The Croque road was more than half an hour north of town, but at least the main highway up to the turnoff was paved and relatively flat. It would be closer to the action, and maybe he'd have more luck with the officer manning the roadblock there.

To his disappointment, however, the junction was empty and there was no sign of a roadblock. Perhaps the officer had been reassigned as the search narrowed. He sat in his car for a few minutes, absorbing the muffled silence of the woods ahead as he pondered his next move. Not only did Chris need this information, but as a reporter Matthew could not move forward on his own story if he couldn't discuss it with him. That had been the deal.

Thousands of people around the world were reading his blog, more attention than he'd ever had, even for his reports from the Boko Haram war front last year. Thousands more followed his Twitter feed and the Facebook page created to support Amanda and Tyler. Astonishingly, people were offering not just prayers, but money to help the fatherless boy cope in the months and years ahead. So far, thousands of dollars had been donated.

In the end, Tyler and Amanda were what mattered, he decided. Not his own big exposé, not even Chris's personal tussle with Noseworthy over the scope of the case, but the safety and rescue of two lost and frightened people.

Grudgingly he turned his Fiesta around and drove slowly back south toward Conche through the fog that swirled in his headlights. The command post was relatively quiet, suggesting all available officers were either in the field or catching some much-needed rest after more than twenty-four hours of searching. In the corner, surrounded by computer maps and assignment sheets, the ERT leader was hunched over his radio, presumably monitoring calls.

Noseworthy looked more exhausted than annoyed when Matthew entered the trailer. Her lean frame stooped a little lower and her skin was grey.

“We have things in hand, Goderich,” she said. “When I have something to report, I will issue a statement but at the moment the last thing I need is your cockamamie scare stories about people smuggling.”

“I have obtained some information that —”

“Do you know where our MisPers are?”

“No, but the trawler captain —”

“Then I'm not interested.”

“Hear me out! Unless you want your name in a headline about how the RCMP's secrecy and tunnel vision fucked up the search by discounting crucial information.”

Noseworthy snapped to attention and flushed fuchsia. “If you want one iota of co-operation out of the RCMP —
ever
— you won't print that.”

Matthew wanted to say “Just watch me,” but checked his childish defiance, which he knew would not advance his cause. Instead he opened up with both barrels. “The captain of the trawler is the truck driver who's disappeared in the Croque area. He said he was going for ship parts, but instead he drove inside the search area and hid the truck. The trawler is jointly owned by Canadian and Finnish companies. Finland may be a nice, innocuous country, but it serves as a transit station for human trafficking from all the little former Soviet countries to the south.”

“This isn't relevant.”

“It is, when the trawler had some supposedly Finnish crew that, according to the Newfoundland crew, didn't know a damn thing about shrimp fishing and were paid a fraction of proper union rates. And according to his neighbours in Miramichi, the captain makes way more money than any shrimp boat captain they know. I think you have a much bigger problem on your hands than a lost woman and child. You've got a bunch of illegal aliens on the loose and a captain desperate to shut them up. And God knows who killed Phil Cousins.”