Fire in the Stars (8 page)

He gave her a quizzical look. “I was dead to the world, barely heard the truck. But the next morning, there was only him and the boy at breakfast.”

“Did you overhear any of their plans?”

“Well, your friend wasn't much for talking. Mostly sat there staring at his food and looking at the map. The boy did the talking for two.”

“What about?”

“Fishing nets, boats, birds. About a boat trip he wanted to take out to an island.”

“Do you know where?”

“No, but the father didn't seem interested. Was looking at some places more remote.”

“Where? Up at the northern tip?”

“Well now, that's a busy place what with the Viking stuff and St. Anthony being a big regional centre. But there's plenty to interest a young boy. Icebergs coming down from the Arctic, polar bears coming ashore on the floes, lots of moose, black bears, and birds. Beautiful country.”

A family entered the restaurant and the owner gave her a quick wink before veering over to tend to them. Amanda's eggs grew cold as she bent over the map of the Great Northern Peninsula, looking for inspiration. Chris was up in St. Anthony, where the shrimp boat carrying the body was docked. The vast North Atlantic opened up to the north and east of the town. The dead man could have been aboard a fishing trawler, or any other boat for that matter, and met his fate anywhere in the open sea before drifting into the shrimp boat's path.

As the motel owner said, the northern tip was dotted with settlements and tourist sites, but farther down the eastern side, the villages became separated by vast swaths of empty coastline, with a smattering of remote islands designated as ecological reserves. A third of the way down the peninsula, the road petered out all together.

As wild and untouched as it was possible to find.

“
I'm on my way up there,” Amanda texted Chris once she was packed and astride her motorcycle, ready to hit the road. “I may have a lead on Phil.”

That was a considerable exaggeration, for it was more a theory than a lead, a theory held together mostly by spit and hope. But since it took her toward a reunion with Chris, it didn't really matter. She'd flesh out the theory as she rode.

On paper, the trip to St. Anthony looked like a simple ninety-minute ride, but she had forgotten the many little fishing villages she had to check out along the way. As she took the occasional stop to shake out her muscles and give Kaylee a break, she asked the local villagers whether they had seen Phil and Tyler pass through.

Only one person remembered seeing them. Amanda was detouring through a little village with the typically quirky Newfoundland name of Nameless Cove, when she spotted a fisherman painting the trim of his old lobster boat bright red. He seemed grateful for the chance to lay down his brush.

“Yes, I remember them. The boy was after having a trip on my boat. I can do that, I said, if you don't mind sinking to the bottom. She's a few holes in her yet.”

“Did they have another man with them?”

“Not that I saw, but the truck windows were dark. I offered to take them in my brother's boat, but the father now, he were more interested in mine. How far out to sea could I take her and how many crew did she carry? She could go all the way to Labrador, I told him, and up north too, but her fishing days are over. I'm getting her ready to sell. She's too small to compete with the bigger shrimp boats, and since gas prices have gone up and the government cut back our shrimp quotas, I can't make enough to pay a loan on a
sixty-five
-footer.” He picked up his brush again. “So some millionaire from New York will probably buy her and sail her around the Caribbean Islands. Not a bad life for the old girl, that.”

“And what will you do?”

He shrugged. “Try to get hired on somewheres. Maybe a bigger boat, maybe even a trawler. Like your friend said, the bigger fish always eats the little ones. Way of the world, he said. He was some disgusted.”

She'd wished the fisherman luck and continued on up the coast, mulling over the man's words. Phil's mood did not appear to have improved since that night in the bar, but at least he seemed to be continuing his quest to give his son an ocean adventure.

It was past one o'clock by the time she cruised down the hill into St. Anthony. All the fame and hype aside, it was still a modest town of boxy wooden buildings sprinkled higgledy-piggledy Newfoundland-style along the shores of the narrow harbour. A large, modern-looking pier and fish facility dominated the eastern waterfront and even from a distance one massive ship dwarfed the others at the wharf. She found the RCMP station on the main road without difficulty and walked in to find the room crowded with men, all peering intently at a computer screen. Chris's tall, lanky form towered above the rest. His brow was furrowed in intense concentration that broke at the sight of her. An easy smile lit up his face. He introduced her to the ring of curious men — a coast guard officer, the harbourmaster, and three RCMP officers, including a major crimes investigator from Corner Brook.

“Any idea who the dead man is?” she asked.

“No, but he looks —” Chris managed before the investigator cut him off.

“The investigation is ongoing.”

Canned cop-speak
, she thought, trying to steal a peek at the computer screen. It appeared to be an ocean chart, and an official-looking logbook lay open on the desk. The investigator moved to block her view.

“Corporal Tymko,” he said, “your assistance has been invaluable, and thank you for responding to the emergency call-up. My team has the investigation well in hand now, so you may go back to your holiday.” His Adam's apple bobbed as he leered at Amanda.

Chris flushed. “Not a holiday, sir. We're looking for our missing friend.”

The investigator tipped his head in a small acknowledgement that revealed not the slightest interest or concern. “Then carry on, Corporal. We'll take it from here.”

Only once Chris was outside the door and safely out of earshot did he call the man a poker-assed idiot.

Amanda laughed. “So why all the secrecy? Or is that just the way you guys operate.”

“Yeah, we can all be poker-assed idiots when we have to be. But in this case I told them I thought the guy might be from the Middle East, so now the whole national security paranoia has kicked in. A few days ago, a boatload of unknown occupants was spotted off the coast not far south of here —”

Kaylee gave an outraged bark from the prison of her trailer, breaking Chris's mood. He headed over to say hello. “Come on, I'm starving. Let's spring this young lady from her prison and find a nice seaside patio.”

The sun was shining but a chilly wind raced down the harbour, slicing through her jacket and whipping red into her cheeks. When she cast him an incredulous look, she saw the twinkle in his eye. Within fifteen minutes, after giving Kaylee a quick walk, they had settled into the Lightkeeper's Restaurant at the tip of Fishing Point. They took a table by the window overlooking the ocean cliffs that formed the mouth of the harbour. Not quite a seaside patio, but spectacular nonetheless.

After they'd both ordered a large bowl of seafood chowder, Chris spread a map out on the table. In the soft afternoon light, he traced a finger over the coast and tapped a little village farther down the eastern shore of the peninsula. “Four or five men were spotted in a lifeboat by a local man here. They looked to be in distress, but when he went out to help, they sped away. The locals didn't recognize the boat or the men, and thought they might have been fugitives. Possibly foreign. Now we have a deceased individual picked up approximately here …” He moved his finger way out into the open sea northeast of the peninsula tip. “Prime fishing grounds, inside Canadian waters. But the dead man wasn't dressed like a fisherman, and odds are he's foreign.”

“So you're thinking there may be a connection. He fell out of the lifeboat or something?”

Chris hesitated. He studied her soberly. “The man had an anchor tied around his waist.”

Amanda's eyes widened. “They
threw
him overboard?”

“Possibly after he was already dead. We might know more after the autopsy. That is, Sergeant Poker-Ass might. I won't learn a thing. But they're thinking foreign national, possibly illegal, possibly murdered, so they're dragging in all the big guns — Coast Guard, Border Services, Fisheries and Oceans Canada. When you arrived, they were looking at all the foreign vessels passing through that section of ocean, and looking at wind and ocean currents too, to see in what direction the body and the lifeboat would have drifted.”

“And? Did they have any theories?”

“There are several foreign trawlers — Korean, American, and Russian — all supposedly fishing outside the
two-hundred
-mile limit, but that's a hell of a big area to patrol with a few overworked DFO and Coast Guard vessels. If you knew their patrol schedule, you could sneak in. Sometimes it comes down to our fishermen sounding the alert.”

“And have they?”

“We hadn't got to that report yet.”

“I'm sorry I interrupted. You might have learned more.”

He shrugged. “Poker-Ass would have kicked me out as soon as he remembered I was there.”

The waitress brought their chowder, thick and garnished with shrimp. Chris paused to take a spoonful, closing his eyes to savour the moment. Exclaiming in ecstasy, he downed three more mouthfuls before returning to the task at hand. “It's an interesting mystery, but it's going to bog down in forensic and procedural minutiae. And we have our own case to pursue.”

“Which has its own foreign connection!” she interjected, filling him in on the man Phil had met in the pub. “It may mean nothing — Phil's always talking to complete strangers about their lives — but it sure ruined his mood.”

Pausing to sip her chowder, she let her gaze drift out the window. Houses and businesses were scattered in the hills as far as she could see. Far too settled for Phil's current state.

“There's more.” She told Chris about the letter Phil had sent to Sheri. “I don't know exactly when he sent it, but at least a couple of days ago, so maybe after his argument with the foreign man in the café. I was hoping this trip with his son would gradually comfort him, but he seems more bitter than ever. Since Africa, his faith in humanity has taken quite a beating. That night might have been a tipping point. I don't know …” A vice closed on her chest. “I don't know what he's thinking. I can't believe he'd endanger his son …”

“Then let's not assume the worse.” Chris leaned in, his fingers almost touching hers as he pointed to the map. “One of the locals told me there's a beautiful private campground down here that juts right into the ocean.”

She followed his finger. “It's still pretty close to St. Anthony.”

“Look at it,” he said. “There's nothing around but wide-open spaces and ocean. It's a perfect retreat. And the nights are so cold right now only fools and hermits would stay there. I bet you a gourmet campfire dinner Phil the hermit is there.”

Seeing the mischief in his eyes, she felt the vice ease. “You cooking?”

“Foil-roasted potatoes, salad, and barbequed steaks with a Prairie boy's killer homemade BBQ sauce.”

She sat back, savouring the thought. “You're on. I might even throw in a bottle of wine.”

The camp proprietor swung around in surprise when Amanda and Chris pulled into the empty parking lot. He was a massive bear of a man with a thick red beard and arms the size of tree trunks. He was tossing fire logs onto a pile as if they were matchsticks, but he dropped the task to hurry toward them as if he hadn't had human contact in a week. He was red-faced and sweating in a toque, wool jacket, and thick gloves.

“You're a brave pair! Welcome to the Arctic Circle. We had a polar bear come by for a visit almost right where you're standing.”

Amanda blinked. Black bears were scary enough, but polar bears had a reputation for being the most aggressive of all bears. The man laughed. “Don't worry. That was in the spring, and they're only after fish and seals, not us. Although that —” He pointed to Kaylee, who was shoving her nose out the truck window eagerly “— might be a tasty treat. Sam Pilgrim's the name. What can I do for you?”

“We're looking for a nice campsite near the ocean but out of the wind, and with room for two tents,” Chris said.

“Two tents? Oh, one for the dog, you mean.” Sam laughed at his own joke. “We've got all kinds of sites. Drive around and take your pick.”

“Not too many campers?”

“We had some on the weekend and a few coming next weekend, but right now you've got the place to yourselves.”

Amanda's heart sank. “A father and son aren't here?”

The man's florid face lit up. “Yeah! Phil and his boy. Yeah, they were here, going to stay a week, but I guess the wind scared them off. We had some blow that day.”

“When was this?” Chris asked.

“Day before yesterday.”

Amanda groaned. She and Chris were still two days behind! “Did they say where they were going?”

“Didn't see them go. They left in the morning to explore St. Anthony and never came back. Well, they came back, because their gear was packed up and gone, but I was out at one of the other sites. Big surf washed it out in the windstorm.” He looked skyward, where the sun shimmered serenely in the blue sky. “But the wind's died down and it's looking pretty quiet for this evening, so pick as close to the ocean as you like, and I'll be along in a bit with some wood.”

As Chris and Amanda walked back toward his truck, he turned to her. “I win.”

“What are you talking about? He came, he saw, and he left. I win.”

He stopped so abruptly she bumped into him. She jumped back instinctively, then blushed. His eyes crinkled as he gazed down at her.

“Okay, you're right. No one wins. Besides, we've got the wine and steaks in the cooler already. We can have a campfire feast and still live to bet another day.”

The campground was beautiful. Each generous site was tucked away in a private nook surrounded by salt marshes, woodlands, and rocky points. They avoided the ones with the most spectacular ocean views and icy Arctic winds, opting instead for a sheltered clearing with a curtain of balsam fir and a bed of soft needles. Kaylee roamed in delight while they pitched their tents. Just as they were laying out cooking supplies, Kaylee's ferocious barking announced the arrival of the proprietor on his ATV, bearing a load of firewood.

“Well now,” he said, eying Amanda's minuscule pup tent. “That's far too small for the dog. He'll get claustrophobic in that.”

“Nick of time, Sam,” said Chris. “I was about to chop down one of your trees.”

“Don't you dare! They take more than a hundred years to grow to that height in this climate.”

Amanda had a brief flash of the magnificent jungles of Africa, overflowing with lush greenery beneath a canopy of trees so tall you couldn't see their tips. Here on the coast of northern Newfoundland, not a single tree looked taller than thirty feet.

Sam settled himself comfortably on a rock by the fireside and eyed Chris's steaks wistfully. To Amanda's surprise, Chris spoke before she could.

“Would you like to join us, Sam?”

He accepted with alacrity and set about lighting the fire while Chris prepared a foil packet of carrots and potatoes. Soon the aroma and sizzle of steak filled the air, and just as Amanda was rummaging in the supplies for the wine, Sam produced a bottle of Scotch.

“My contribution to the party.”