Fire in the Stars (27 page)

Not again!

Fazil's hand closed on the pistol and as he lifted it, a cold, deadly calm spread through her.

“No you don't! Not this time, you bastards.” Her finger began to close.

“Amanda, don't!” The shout came faintly down the tunnel of her rage. A familiar voice. Not Phil. Not Africa.

Salvation.

“
You're a fucking superwoman,” Matthew Goderich said, draped over his beer and shaking his head.

“If it weren't for Chris, I'd probably be a dead woman. Or in jail.”

“No, you wouldn't,” Chris said. “You wouldn't have killed him. It's a lot harder than most people think.”

Amanda sensed Matthew's eyes upon her, gentle and devoid of judgment, but she resolutely averted her own. “This time I would have, Matthew,” she replied. “In a heartbeat.”

Chris looked from her to Matthew and back again. He seemed to detect an inviolable secret in the silence between them, for he reached forward to touch her hand. “A heartbeat is sometimes all that stands between one outcome and another. The important thing is that you had him stopped, at least long enough for me to move in.”

The threesome was grouped at a table in a private corner of the Plymouth Dining Room. This time the manager of the Mayflower Inn had not only opened up the dining room for them, but had personally gone to the local liquor store to buy the best Shiraz and Chardonnay Roddickton had to offer to accompany their perfectly grilled steaks. And, tossing all regulations out the window, he had placed a third steak on a plate at their feet for Kaylee.

Both wine bottles now sat empty on the table along with the remains of the T-bone steaks and three half-finished bottles of QV Premium. Amanda had been cautious with her food, aware that her stomach, after days of semi-starvation, would not cope with a full plate of rich Newfoundland food. But she had tossed back the wine as if it were the water of life itself, and she was well on her way to a coma.

“The media are all over this!” Matthew crowed. “Twitter is on fire and donations to the Facebook page are through the roof. The prime minister tried to call you, for fuck's sake!”

“Oh, joy,” she muttered. She'd seen the storm of reporters and curiosity-seekers who had heralded their arrival in Roddickton and followed her from Dr. Iannucci's clinic to the RCMP detachment, hoping for a quote. With Matthew running interference, she'd managed to duck them all, but she knew the time would come, as it had last time, when she would have to face the clamour of recognition. But not tonight. Not tomorrow. She had too much else to wrap her head around first.

She rested her chin in her hand blearily. “What will happen to them?”

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 it. 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?”