Fire in the Stars (17 page)

A
s he manoeuvred his boat back into Conche Harbour the next morning, Chris scanned the village in vain for signs of Amanda. The streets were awash in official vehicles and trailers as the full force of the investigation descended on the little place. The RCMP forensics van had arrived, and the mobile incident command was parked at the top of the hill, its roof bristling with antennae and satellites. Trailers and trucks crowded Harbour Drive, and as Chris was securing his boat to the wharf, a Zodiac from the Integrated Border Enforcement Team chugged into the harbour. At the front, a civilian in typical fisherman's garb was uncoiling a rope, and in the stern, he could see two Mounties conferring. When the civilian leaped ashore to secure the boat, Chris recognized him as Casey and hurried over to intercept him.

“Any news on Phil Cousins?”

Casey hesitated, glancing over his shoulder toward the officers.

“Here, let me give you a hand.” Chris grabbed a tie rope and lowered his voice. “Did you see anything? Phil? Amanda?”

“We was up toward Croque, checking out that report you got of a boat washed up.” He paused. “We found it. Two boats, in fact. The first one was that old boat we leaves in the back harbour to go across to the cape —”

“You mean the one we thought Phil had taken over to Stink's place. That we saw swamped with water?”

“Well now, we don't know that for sure. We saw some wreckage, das all.”

“Okay, okay. What about the other boat?”

The two officers had jumped ashore and were coming their way. Casey gripped Chris's elbow to lead him up the road. “The other one was Thaddeus's boat that he lent Amanda.”

Chris sucked in a sharp breath. “Any sign of Amanda?”

“None. Not Phil, not Amanda. Now the old boat had a hole in her side, but Amanda's was fine. Motor still working and everything.”

“So she went ashore to search. Maybe she thought Phil was in the other boat.”

Casey shrugged. “You knows a woman's mind. But these fellas here —” he jerked his head toward the officers behind them, one of whom Chris recognized as Constable Bradley “— they're after looking for Stink's boat, not that leaky old runabout. Stink's boat was spotted a couple of days ago, racing up the coast toward St. Anthony. The boys had a look around, but I told them there's nudding but mountains and ponds and tuckamore in there. No roads or trails to anywhere. Nowhere for Phil to escape if he went ashore there. Anyways, they think he was using Stink's boat, which is stronger and faster.”

“What?” Chris spun around to intercept Constable Bradley as he came down the wharf. “But how did that little boat get there?”

“Well, sir …” The constable looked sheepish. “Incident Command thinks maybe Cousins towed it up there and ditched it to throw us off.”

Chris stared at him. Laughed in spite of himself. “That's ridiculous.”

“Or else the little boat drifted there by itself.”

Standing opposite, Casey rolled his eyes. “Some feat, that.”

Bradley nodded in wry agreement. “Anyway, Stink's boat was spotted on the ocean a couple of days ago, so IC thinks he's probably in St. Anthony by now, if not gone to the mainland already. Not slogging through the bush.”

Chris gave up arguing the point. “But what about Amanda Doucette? She's been missing for two days now.”

Casey snorted. “They're some mad at her, Jesus b'y.”

“Are they sending anyone back up there to look for her?”

The constable looked around as if hoping for an escape route. “We don't have the manpower, sir. Incident Command says the priority has to be apprehending the suspect, who poses a risk to the public.”

“But she could be in serious trouble!”

“According to our information, she went into the wilderness voluntarily and Mr. Casey here says she's well equipped.”

“Except most of her supplies are still in her boat,” Casey interrupted.

“But she has access to them, and her boat is in working order. Her whereabouts and safety are not a concern at the moment.” The constable flushed, as if even he could hear the cop bafflegab. He spread his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Look, we're stretched as thin as a poor man's soup on this one. We've got air surveillance, officers on all the highways, Border Enforcement at all the ports … I'm betting Miss Doucette steams back in here by this afternoon, but if she's still not here by nightfall, maybe Incident Command will call out the ERT team to search for her.”

Chris's mind raced. Amanda had been adamant that Phil would never hurt her, indeed would never hurt anyone. But how could anyone be sure? He marched up the hill to the command truck, where he found the newly arrived critical incident commander, Sergeant Noseworthy, setting up maps and communications equipment. Noseworthy was a tall, cadaverous woman with cropped grey hair and a tight slash of a mouth, which pulled down in disapproval when he requested permission to help in the search.

“Sergeant Amis informed me of your involvement, Corporal, and also of your personal friendship with the suspect,” she said in a deep, smoke-ravaged voice. “So you can't help.”

“Would you authorize a civilian ground SAR operation to search for Amanda Doucette? I can coordinate that.”

The woman turned back to continue sorting cables. “That seems premature,” she said in a dismissive tone. “And I won't put civilians in harm's way with an armed suspect potentially loose in the area.”

Chris sensed the dead end. “Then let me at least look for her myself. I'm concerned for her welfare. I have a boat and I'd like to go up the coast to check on her situation.”

“No.”

“But the suspect is probably in St. Anthony or beyond by now. You said so yourself.”

The sergeant turned back to study him. Her blue eyes were unwavering. “The Emergency Response Team is on its way, and they'll take charge of the search. I don't want you in the way, Corporal.”

“I'm dressed civilian. I'll look like a fisherman out in a skiff.” He could see her calculating. “At least I can contribute some help, ma'am, until ERT is up to speed.”

She scowled. “Strictly on your own reconnaissance. And get your ass back down here by noon.”

Chris hid his smile. “Thank you, ma'am. But can I have a radio and a sat phone so I can communicate what I find?”

“I would insist on it.”

As he fought his way up the coast, Chris kept a close eye on boat traffic, hoping to spot Amanda on her way back to port. The weather was picking up, and a fierce wind threatened to blow him onto the rocks. The sky was a swirl of blue and grey, and the ocean was an angry chop that tossed his boat around like a cork. He clutched the gunwales and the tiller with all his might, trying to steer into the waves to avoid being swamped. Despite his best efforts, spray drenched his rain suit and splashed into the bottom of the boat.

The salt stung his eyes, causing him to squint to make out the shore through the surf, which shot plumes of white spray into the air. Birds wheeled overhead, eager for fish.

After more than an hour battling the sea, he was passing a stretch of black rock when a flash of colour caught his eye. The waves curled back, gathering force for another assault, and in that brief lull, he saw the
red-and
-white hull of a boat. He steered toward shore cautiously, afraid that his boat would be dashed on the rocks. As he drew closer, he could make out not one but two boats lying side by side. Spotting a small sliver of inlet, he threaded his boat through it and leaped out into the shallow water to drag the vessel safely up on the sand. He was panting by the time he had wrestled it free of the undertow.

After tying his boat to a sturdy bush, he clambered along the slippery shore to inspect the two boats, one of which had a gaping hole in its splintered hull. Amanda's boat was intact and secured to a bush on the shore. Both lay beached at the high-water mark.

He knew the others had searched her boat that morning, but he did so again in the hope they had missed a crucial clue. She had left most of her supplies back in Conche, as if she had intended this to be a brief trip; yet that had been two days ago.

Under the front seat he found a dry sack containing locator beacons, an emergency blanket, and a change of clothes. A chill ran through him. Why would she have left all this in the boat? What had happened to her?

He scanned the shore and the grey forest, hoping to find a clue to her direction. The coast was nearly impassable, for the slippery crags and gullies would challenge the nimblest mountain goat. Inland, the tuckamore wove a twisted, nearly impenetrable wall. He approached, looking for even the tiniest tear in its weave. Finally he found a small, cave-like hole into a path of soft red needles.

He crouched in the opening and cupped his hands around his mouth to call her name. The wind snatched his words and scattered them. “Useless,” he muttered, ducking into the ghostly labyrinth of spindly grey trees. As he fought his way forward, he studied the ground for signs of disturbance. He thought he detected swirls and scuffs in the needle floor, but it was some distance before he found a clear paw print in the damp sand. He examined it carefully. A coyote or fox? Was he on a fool's errand, following the well-worn path of local animals on their way to the rich tidal pools at the ocean's edge?

Then a very man-made flash of orange caught his eye. A moment later he was staring at the blood-stained lifejacket, his heart pounding. Horror slammed through him.

“Amanda!” he screamed. Over and over. Up ahead, a faint path twisted and wove through the dense trees. He stumbled on, thrashing, sweating, and terrified. “Please, please let her be safe,” he whispered, pausing every few minutes to catch his breath and call her name.

It was then, as he sifted the silence of the forest, that he spotted the poorly fashioned hiding place. He tore away the spruce boughs and boulders and swept the dirt from the pallid face.

Fell back on his heels, tears welling.

A
manda had almost given up by the time they finally caught a fish, a mid-sized brook trout that flashed silver and gold in the murky water of the pond. Even Tyler summoned the energy to cheer as he came down to join her on the water's edge. The expression of hope on his pinched face made all the frustrations of the day worthwhile.

When she'd found him the night before, Tyler had been subsisting on berries and roots for four days. He was almost beyond reacting. Pale, chilled, and traumatized, he had dug himself into a protective lair and prepared to die. He had not spoken a word or shed a tear when she enveloped him in her arms. She had spent the evening trying to coax him back to life with a roaring fire, hot berry tea with willow bark, some boiled roots, and the last of her power bar. When darkness came, she had drawn him and Kaylee close to her in the shelter of his lair and whispered words of hope in his ear.

“Tomorrow morning we'll catch some fish and have a real barbeque, and once we get our strength back, we're going to find the ocean.”

He had not answered, but she felt his limp fingers tighten slightly in hers. The next morning he slept so late that she feared he was truly ill. She had time to build the fire back up to a good blaze, pick more berries and willow, and drink two mugs of hot tea before he finally opened his eyes. He stared at her a long time without speaking, but his gaze was clear.
He's not ill
, she thought with a rush of relief, just exhausted. After days of grief and terror, he had finally collapsed.

He was taller, thinner, and more angular than she remembered, and his blue eyes were bruised with defeat, but the rakish cowlick over his forehead reminded her of his
devil-may
-care father. As they shared berries and tea, she made no effort to ask about Phil, but instead tried to focus him on their plans for the day. He needed hope, not pain. She was met by silence and shrugs. Gone was the little boy who threw himself into each day, who asked a million questions and had an endless fascination with every jerry-rigged contraption in the village. He had not even asked her how they were going to catch a fish.

That morning for the first time, the sun was peeking through the canopy and the sky was a rich azure overhead. She knew now which direction led to the ocean, but she still had no idea of the distance. She could hear no murmur of surf or drone of motorboats. It might be a long trek through bogs and mountains. Without food, Tyler would grow too weak for the journey.

“Ever eaten bugs, Tyler?” she asked gaily as she began to pull together the filaments of a vine into a rudimentary net.

He made a face.

“In Asia they are a delicacy. Do you remember? They eat cockroaches twice the size of my thumb. I don't think there's a ready supply of cockroaches here, but crickets and grasshoppers fried up with some berries will do the trick. Butterflies and beetles too. You can use this net to catch them.”

She counted herself lucky that he didn't reject her outright. Once she'd finished the small net, she handed it to him and looked around to get her bearings. She considered scaling the tall nearby ridge to get a better view, but wasn't sure Tyler had the strength.

“Okay,” she said cheerfully. “Onward to the coast. You watch the sun. Wherever we go, whatever detours we have to make, try to keep it just to our right. And by noon, when it's almost overhead —”

“Our shadow will be pointing north,” he answered.

“Right.” She smiled. “Did your dad teach you that?”

His shoulders sagged. “Jason did. When we went camping last year.”

“Ah. If he taught you any other useful stuff, you tell me, okay? Like which of these berries are edible and which will kill us. Because I know a lot about Asia and Africa, but not as much about these woods.”

Tyler pointed to the scarlet berries she'd been eating. “Bunchberries. Jason called them the hiker's friend. And these violets are edible.” He leaned over to pluck a plant and stuffed the leaves into his mouth. Kaylee had been ranging far into the woods, but she returned now to follow along. Amanda hoped she had found some mice or squirrels to keep starvation at bay.

As they walked, Tyler collected a small cache of insects and plants while she pondered the challenge of catching something more substantial. She had just decided it was time to cook up what he had, when they struggled over a rise to see a huge pond spread out below them. Amanda felt a thrill of excitement.

“Do you think that pond has fish in it?” she asked.

“Salmon and brook trout, maybe,” he said. “Jason took us fishing once in a lake like this.”

She was already salivating as she slithered down the slope to the water's edge. A large boulder a few yards offshore provided a perfect vantage point. She took off her boots, waded out to it, and climbed up to study the brown water. She tossed a few berries onto the water and watched the water come alive with silver flashes.

“Dozens of them!” she shouted. She sent Tyler to find a straight, sturdy willow branch while she set about designing a hook. During her time in Africa, she had seen simple hooks fashioned from wood and hemp. It took her a few tries to find a sliver of wood that retained its strength when whittled to a point. Together they scoured the shore for dried reeds or fibrous stalks that could be braided into cord. All over the world, she'd seen baskets and rope woven from grasses, so she knew it could be done. As he watched her struggle with grasses that broke and unravelled, Tyler fretted.

“Why don't we make a spear?” he asked. “Like the cavemen.”

“Great idea! You're the Newfoundlander, go ahead. We'll have a race to see who catches the most fish.”

He dragged branches out of the deadfall and whittled away at a few before throwing the broken sticks away and slumping down on a log wearily. Amanda's heart ached. The old Tyler would have loved the challenge of beating her, but this Tyler gave up with barely a fight. Was it just the hunger, or had the trauma of his father's death drained all the spirit from him?

Instead, she redoubled her efforts to catch some food. The sun was well past noon by the time she assembled a passable fishing rod and threaded an earthworm onto her hook. She climbed up on the rock, praying the hook would catch and the flimsy, twisted cord would hold.

It took three snapped lines, but she finally managed to wrestle a brook trout onto the shore. It was a glory to behold, a foot and a half of glistening silver. Tyler built a fire while she gutted it. She tossed the head to Kaylee and threaded the body onto a stick over the roaring flame.

Nothing had ever tasted so fabulous. By the time Amanda had licked her fingers clean and fed a portion to Kaylee, the sun was slipping toward the ridge to the west and the shadows were growing long. Tyler was slumped against a rock by the fire, drowsy from the heat and the food.

She had hoped to hear helicopters overhead, confirming that people were searching for them, but so far there had been nothing. If they were going to be found, they had to find the coast.
I'm sorry, Tyler
, she thought,
I know you need to sleep but we have to keep going just a little farther, while we still have daylight
.

The three police officers formed a silent, respectful ring around the body, which Chris had tried to protect with his jacket. He knew the scene was hopelessly contaminated, both by himself and by whomever had buried him there, but he'd covered the body more out of compassion than out of any desire to protect the scene. Phil looked so vulnerable splayed out on his back in the woods, prey to any beasts and insects attracted to an easy feast.

Above all, Phil hated to be vulnerable.

The two other officers, Sergeant Amis and the incident commander Sergeant Noseworthy, had made very good time up from Conche, thanks to the powerful Zodiac now pulled up on the shore. It was mid afternoon, leaving several hours of daylight despite the unnatural gloom of the forest. But even in the scant couple of hours since Chris made his urgent call, the flies had multiplied and the fragile flesh around Phil's eyes had begun to bloat.

Chris turned away, pretending to study the surrounding woods, while Amis prodded the body carefully. “Rigor's gone. Been dead a couple of days at least.”

“How long before Dr. Iannucci and the crime scene team get here?” Chris asked.

“I had to ask HQ for extra personnel,” Amis replied, wrinkling up his nose as if in distaste. He eased the body onto its front and bent close to inspect the bullet hole. “They're sending a team over from St. John's that can be on the ground in the morning. They don't want the body removed until they can have a look. But meanwhile we need to develop a working hypothesis. All hell seems to be breaking loose around here.”

“I don't think he was killed here,” Chris said. While he'd been waiting on shore for the officers to arrive, he'd taken a closer look at the damaged boat that Phil and Tyler had presumably used. Waves and spray had washed some of the blood away, making it difficult to detect at a casual glance, but he had found red smears and streaks on the seats as well as a small pool on the floor at the front of the boat. He had pointed it out to the officers as he led them up the shore, but Amis was more intent on getting to the body and hadn't given it a second glance.

Now he straightened and stared at Chris through narrowed eyes.

“I think he was shot either while he was in the boat, or just climbing into it,” Chris said. “Probably back at Old Stink's place.”

“For the love of God,” Amis snapped. “The victim has a name. According to government records, Allister Parsons.”

“Parsons?” Chris said in surprise. “Like the shrimp fisherman who hauled the body out of his net?”

Noseworthy, who was peering into the dense tuckamore, gave a dismissive grunt. “Half the Northern Pen are Parsons, or related to them.”

As if Noseworthy weren't even there, Amis's eyes never left Chris.
Single-minded
guy
, thought Chris uneasily.

“You know this man, Corporal,” he said. “What's your theory?”

Chris paused to gather his thoughts. Waiting on the shore for their arrival and desperate to distract himself from worries about Amanda, he'd occupied his mind cobbling together scenarios. “Judging from the food and clothing missing from Stink — Parsons's — house, I think Phil Cousins took them —”

“Stole them.”

“Probably,” Chris said reluctantly. “He seemed hell-bent on going into the wilderness with his son.”

“Hell-bent is right,” Amis snorted. “Half crazed, according to the locals.” He was standing ramrod straight over the body, vibrating suspicion.

This time Chris sidestepped the interruption. “I think Stink — Parsons — shot him as he was escaping in his boat.”

“And then he got out of his boat with a bullet in his back, and took an axe to Parsons's head. Quite the superman.”

“There was no blood on the wharf, sir. Parsons was attacked inside his own cabin. And I believe the rifle shots came from inside the cabin, as well. I found shell casings there.”

Amis's gaze wavered. “That's what the crime scene team concluded, as well. So if Parsons and Cousins clashed, it took place in the cabin before Cousins went back to his boat. Perhaps Cousins surprised him in bed.”

“But Cousins was already wearing his life jacket when he was shot.”

“Perhaps he didn't bother to take it off!”

“Did the crime scene guys find any traces of blood on the wharf? This gunshot wound bled a lot.”

Amis shook his head. “Possibly it hadn't soaked through the life jacket yet.”

Or possibly Phil wasn't the killer
, Chris thought. By now Noseworthy had stepped away from the scene and squatted to examine the spongy loam of the forest floor carefully, using a measuring tool from her pack.

“Forensics won't be here until tomorrow, but ERT should get started here right away.” she said, still bent over the ground. “The boy Tyler is still out there. We need to rescue him ASAP. Air, ground, shore searches, and starting right here, K9.”

Amis's mouth pinched in protest, but Noseworthy cut him short. “The missing child is our priority. Moreover, I think someone else has been here. Just eyeballing it, I found two possible prints here in the mud. And a mid-sized canine.”

“Amanda!” Chris exclaimed, feeling the first stirrings of hope and relief. “I bet she found the body too! That's why she hasn't come back. She's gone off looking for Tyler.”

Noseworthy's thin lips drew down in disapproval. “Without going for help? Meaning we now have two missing civilians to search for, and no clear idea what we're dealing with here.” She unfolded her lanky body and headed back toward the shore. “Not a moment to lose, Amis.”

Chris and Amis caught up with her at the water's edge, where she was consulting her satellite GPS as she fired off orders into her radio.

Amis nodded toward the Zodiac. “I brought a tent, evidence bins, and perimeter tape —” To his credit, a ghost of a smile crept across his face. “For all the good that will do. Constable Bradley will relieve you and guard the scene until the team from St. John's arrives tomorrow.” He gazed out to sea as if he were addressing the waves. “You did a good job with the Parsons scene earlier, Corporal, and your insights into this scene so far has been duly noted, but this is too personal …”

His voice faded as Noseworthy signed off and stalked over to join them. “K9 is on their way, but possibly not until the morning, so ERT will establish a perimeter and start with a hasty search along the shore and the roads and ATV trails in the vicinity while there is still daylight. And —” She nodded toward Amis “— the medical examiner's officer in St. John's called for you with some information on the old man Parsons. They haven't conducted the post-mortem yet, but they thought you should know that the GSR on him was negative.”