Fire in the Stars (25 page)

Noseworthy stood very still. A silence had fallen over the handful of staff still in the trailer, and Vu's eyes were narrowed. Matthew paused to catch his breath.

“Now do you want to hear exactly what I know?” he said finally.

After glancing at Vu, Noseworthy nodded brusquely, grabbed her radio, and gestured toward the door. “I need a cigarette. Let's go outside.”

Outside, she leaned against the side of the trailer and lit up. Matthew took five minutes to sketch out what he'd learned from talking to neighbours, disgruntled ship crew, and skeleton staff at Acadia Seafood. The ship's crew had been told that the Finnish crew was part of the ownership agreement, but they never mingled. The Finns worked in the trawler's processing plant and had their own sleeping and eating quarters. They were kept separate in order to minimize discord over their different working conditions, the Canadian crew had been told. More likely to keep both sides in the dark, Matthew said. Then one morning, only one Finnish crew member showed up for work.”

As Noseworthy smoked, her scowl deepened. “Who told you to look into this?”

“I'm a reporter. It's what I do. I look for the story behind the shadows. I knew about the body in St. Anthony, the lifeboat spotted offshore, and the trawler stuck in port. I also knew Phil Cousins became interested in foreign workers when he met one in a pub last week. That guy had been hitchhiking down from St. Anthony. Dollars to doughnuts he was the one worker who didn't go in the lifeboat. He's probably long faded into the underground immigrant community in Toronto or Ottawa, but you might want to let the spooks know.”

“But who told you all this?”

“Around here, people notice things. They talk. They love to share in the drama.”

Noseworthy blew out a long trickle of smoke and stared him down in silence as the seconds ticked by. Matthew knew the woman didn't believe him, and he was thinking up his next lie when her radio crackled to life. The caller's voice was broken and distorted, but Matthew could hear the urgency. Noseworthy obviously did as well, for she stomped out her cigarette and snatched up her radio.

“Tymko, it's Noseworthy. Where are you?”

“I'm with the search team that found the abandoned rowboat, ma'am. The radio signal is poor, so I may lose you.”

Matthew saw Noseworthy try to interrupt, but Chris rushed on. “There's been a development, ma'am. Looks like someone shot at them. There are two bullet holes in the bottom of the boat, likely what sunk it, and we found bullets in the sand. They're badly damaged but they're big-game calibre, like Stin — Parsons. Over.”

“Any sign of the shooter? Over.”

“Negative, ma'am. We've been searching the bay and the shoreline by boat, but so far no sign of Amanda and the child, either.”

“If they weren't wearing life jackets, in that water …”

“But we did find another message, ma'am, etched into the boat. ‘Frogmarched.'”

“Oh for fuck's sake!” Noseworthy caught Matthew's eye and scowled as if she'd only just remembered he was there. She pursed her lips and seemed to come to a decision. “Well, we do have some relevant intel at this end. That truck you reported yesterday was driven by the captain of the trawler in St. Anthony, and there may be an overseas connection to illegal immigrants.” Noseworthy's nostrils flared, and Matthew suspected the admission was difficult for her. “Corporal Vu is sending in as much ERT backup as he can round up, but this damn fog is a serious impediment. Sit tight. We don't know what the captain is up to, or why he'd be hunting for Amanda and Tyler. We can't run an operation on wild guesses. A second K9 is on its way, and Vu is covering all the ATV exits, so sit tight with the ERT unit so that back-up can find you.”

“Yes, ma'am, but —”

“And Tymko? For once, obey me.”

With that, Noseworthy signed off. She flung open the door to the trailer, now fully recharged, and snapped her fingers at the comm clerk. “Get hold of Corporal Maloney. He's on the roadblock at the Croque road turnoff. Ask him for the GPS coordinates of that truck while I bring Corporal Vu up to speed.”

While the comm clerk placed the radio call, Noseworthy filled the ERT leader in and then picked up her phone. She glanced at Matthew as if debating whether to send him away, but then shook her head. “Wait, in case Corporal Vu or Major Crimes has some questions.”

Matthew tried to keep track of the two conversations. The coordinator, Helen, was trying to raise Jason, and Noseworthy was passing on to Sergeant Amis the latest information Matthew had uncovered. The discussion was brief, and when she hung up, Noseworthy made a face and began jotting notes on her computer. Matthew watched until he could stand it no longer.

“Was Sergeant Amis aware of the captain connection?”

“He is now. We'll take it from here, and I should warn you, if you publish any of this, you may jeopardize our investigation.” She drew her mouth down. “I'm sure you don't want that any more than I do.”

Matthew tipped his fedora slightly as he trotted out his favourite line of sap. “I only want to help. I have tremendous respect and admiration for Amanda and Phil.”

“Sergeant?” Helen called from across the room. “Corporal Maloney isn't answering his radio.”

“Then call back.”

“I have, ma'am. Five times.”

O
ut of respect, Amanda and Tyler sat some distance away while the two Kurds prepared and wrapped their countryman's body and laid spruce boughs over the grave. Moist fog cocooned the woods, reducing their conversation to a muffled murmur and blurring out all but their spooky silhouettes as they foraged for deadfall.

After a while, even their voices died away. In the silence, Mahmoud called out. Waited. Called again. Twigs cracked in the distance. A few moments later, Mahmoud materialized out of the fog, his shoulders drooping with fatigue and grief.

“Fazil here?”

Amanda shook her head. “Isn't he with you?”

“He looking for big stone for put on top. Go away, not come back.”

“I heard branches breaking,” Amanda said, rising to peer through the darkening cocoon. “I think it came from that direction.”

Listening to the silence, she heard nothing but her own heartbeat. Kaylee lay at her side, supremely indifferent to the brooding woods. If Fazil was out there, he was already too far away to catch her attention.

“I wonder why he didn't call out,” she said.

“I make a lot of noise, calling him.”

“Call again. In this fog, it's hard to tell direction and he may panic.”

Mahmoud cupped his hands and bellowed several times. No answer. Darkness was gathering fast. “What we do?”

“We stay here, light a fire, and hope he finds his way back. If we try to look for him, we may get even more lost and farther away. By morning the fog may have lifted.”

She and Mahmoud gathered small bits of wood for a fire and she searched the clearing for berries and roots. It was a dismal harvest but she didn't dare venture farther afield. In the clammy darkness, they hunkered down around the fire, listening to it spit and hiss and drawing comfort from its flames.

Tyler looked wan and listless as he wrapped his jacket more tightly. “I'm so hungry,” he whispered.

Amanda draped her own jacket around him and rubbed his back. “In the morning we will look for a pond or the ocean to catch some fish.”

“I don't hear any waves.”

“Then we will climb a hill.”

“God willing, Fazil will find us,” Mahmoud said. “He will see the fire.”

Amanda kept her fears to herself. It was an unforgiving landscape. They were surrounded by cliffs and bogs that could swallow you up within minutes. It was a dreadful way to die, slowly drowning in the soupy mud that sucked you down.

As if he sensed her worry, Mahmoud nodded toward the woods. “Fazil say he was in Syrian army. He train this, learn how … survive. He will find his way.”

Amanda heard the doubt in his words. In the flickering orange firelight, his features were grim and worried.

“Did you know him back in Syria?”

Mahmoud shook his head. “Ghader talk about him sometimes. He drive a tank, but in Syrian army, everything — tanks, guns, trucks — old from Russians. DAESH steal better from Iraq army. And they are killing everybody with guns, knife, even the children and soldiers …
bap
,
bap
,
bap
!” He mimicked the action of machine-gun fire and his mouth drew down in disapproval. “Fazil not fight back, he run away.”

She flinched as if the pain of memory were physical.
Sometimes not fighting back is not a choice, but an instinct
, she thought.
A reaction driven by panic and
self-preservation
, which steamrolls over conscious will
. How often she had wondered whether her own reaction on that fateful night would have been different, had the children been her own. “No one ever knows what they will do when they face danger,” Amanda said. “Soldiers see terrible things. They have to do terrible things too.”

Mahmoud shrugged. “Everybody see terrible things. Assad bomb homes, gas children, and when DAESH come, they do …” His voice faded as his English failed him. “You can't even imagine. I feel bad. I am here, my country is there, my sisters are there. I run away, too.”

“But dying on the street over there doesn't do any good, either. From here, you can try to rescue your family.” It was a rationale she'd trotted out before, for her own behaviour on that fateful night, and it rang just as hollow now.

He poked the fire angrily, sending sparks spitting into the dark. “You can't understand. You never have war here on your own land.”

A dozen retorts rose to her lips, but she stifled them. She was too worn out and worried to debate the guilt and blessings of privilege, or to tell him that she understood far more than he imagined.

Instead she laid a hand on his arm. “Let's be thankful for that and save our strength for tomorrow. Tomorrow we're going to get ourselves out of here.”

Growling woke her with a start. She bolted upright to see Kaylee standing at the edge of the clearing, staring into the woods. Her hackles were raised and a soft whine bubbled up in her throat.

Amanda took rapid inventory. The fire was out, Tyler and Mahmoud were asleep, but a pale pre-dawn light washed the sky above. The fog was retreating, clinging in tendrils to the trees, but allowing glimpses of the wooded slope beyond. The forest sparkled with dew, promising a freshly washed day.

Kaylee uttered a single, sharp bark.

“Sh-h!” Amanda lunged for her collar, but her fingers slipped uselessly through fur as the dog bolted for the trees. Instinctively Amanda shouted, but Kaylee didn't even break her stride.
She'll come back
, Amanda told herself.
Let's hope she spotted a rabbit or a squirrel that will serve as her breakfast
.

The moments crawled by without sound or sight of Kaylee. Wakened by the commotion, the others began preparations for the day. Amanda built up the fire while Mahmoud went in search of water for the berry tea that had become their staple. Dawn had brought hope.

Amanda kept a worried eye on the woods, which had come alive with the twitter of birds and the scrabble of small animals. Suddenly the woods erupted in furious barking, thrashing, and crashing.

“There's someone out there,” Tyler said as it grew louder.

Amanda stifled her own alarm. “Probably Kaylee freaked out by a moose.”

“I think it's a person.”

Amanda gripped the fish knife and scanned the woods. The barking had died as abruptly as it began, but leaves rustled and twigs snapped as the footsteps came closer. Too large and heavy to be Kaylee. She glimpsed a figure slipping through the trees, hunched low as if to hide.

“Fazil?” she called.

A flash of orange danced through the woods and for a moment Kaylee was visible through the leaves, her tail waving in delight as she barked at the figure. She was smiling as only a Toller can, proud of her prize.

“Fazil!” Mahmoud shouted something in Kurdish.

The figure glanced around, then straightened and headed toward them. Twigs and leaves clung to his clothes and hair. Amanda felt a flood of relief as she recognized their lost companion. He stepped into the clearing with a sheepish smile on his face and hurried to the warmth of the fire, ignoring Mahmoud's running tirade in Kurdish.

“What happened to you?” Amanda interjected.

Fazil reached over to ruffle Kaylee's fur. “I get lost. The dog find me. Cold night. Thank you, dog.”

“We calling you,” Mahmoud said. To Amanda's surprise, he was scowling, relief having quickly given way to accusation.

“I hear. But not know where.”

“Well, at least you're here, and the fog seems to be lifting,” Amanda said. “The search teams will be out looking again.”

“Yes!” Fazil's eyes lit. “And I find a road. Not big —”

Amanda's hopes soared. “A
road
road? With cars?”

“Not cars.” Fazil laughed. “Small, but maybe, God willing, it go …” With his English failing him, he gestured excitedly into the distance.

“Can you find it again?”

“Yes, yes! Over the hill.”

Amanda started stomping out the fire. “Drink your tea and grab your stuff. We're on our way!”

This time when Chris opened his eyes, a faint blush of lavender lightened the sky. The fog had lifted! He unfolded his chilled, stiff limbs cautiously. Judging from his restless sleep and the crick in his neck, his life jacket had proved an inadequate pillow and the tarp, although it had kept out the dampness, had been no great success as a mattress.

The Zodiac team had spent a more comfortable, albeit cramped, night in their tent, and they still seemed fast asleep. Now that dawn was near, however, Chris was anxious to get on with the search. He'd lain awake half the night wondering and worrying about Amanda's cryptic notes, and, in the blackness, the answer had come to him. He smiled with relief. Amanda was not losing her mind or becoming delirious. She was trying to send a message that only certain people would understand. The key was in the idiom. Almost any native English speaker, especially one familiar with local geography, would probably guess the word Croque from the first riddle, whereas a non-English speaker probably wouldn't. She wanted to tip off the
search-and
-rescue teams to where she was without tipping off whoever was after her.

Which meant her pursuers were not English-speaking. Maybe not the trawler captain after all, but the fugitives!

The second riddle was less clear. Maybe she just wanted him to know they were still alive and travelling on foot to Croque, but later, in his pre-dawn sleeplessness, he thought of another, more sinister significance to her choice of words. Frogmarched. What if she meant forced? Compelled to move?

As in at gunpoint?

In an instant, his excitement turned to dread. What if she and Tyler were captives, forced to follow whatever erratic, desperate path the fugitives chose. Would she hold any sway over them? Could she persuade them to continue on to Croque, and toward the ERT officers who would soon be converging there?

He threw his supplies into his boat, woke the search team to explain his plans, and shoved out into the bay. The ocean was dead calm. Mist still curled off the water into the lacy hills beyond, but the thick fog had retreated to a sullen bank out on the open sea.
Finally
, Chris thought with a silent cheer.

As he aimed his boat inland, he searched the shadowy shoreline for signs of movement. A series of long finger bays slowed his progress and as he rounded a steep, rocky point, he was finally able to connect with Incident Command. To his surprise, Noseworthy herself answered. Grudging respect rose within him. Had the woman slept at all?

Probably as much as I did
, he thought. For both of them, there would be time enough for sleep when Amanda and Tyler were safe and sound.

He explained his theory that the two were being held by the foreign fugitives. “I know it sounds farfetched, ma'am —”

“No worse than any other theory, Tymko,” Noseworthy muttered, her voice even hoarser than usual. He wondered if she'd been subsisting entirely on cigarettes and coffee. “That boatload of illegals is still on the loose, that much the security guys have condescended to tell me.”

“I'm heading down the bay toward Croque —”

“Fuck, Tymko! I told you to stay put!”

“But the ERT backup is not here yet, and Croque is Amanda's last known destination.”

“Corporal Vu has two teams already en route to Croque. ETA one hour. So we'll be prepared for the bastards if they show up. I don't want you in the way.” Papers rustled and he heard her cursing. “To keep you busy, I want you to check on Corporal Maloney's whereabouts. We need to verify if that trawler captain's truck is still there and to disable it if it is. You and Maloney are the only ones who know its location, but Maloney is not answering his radio. He's been out of touch since yesterday afternoon, and his shift replacement at the roadblock last night reported he wasn't there.”

Chris frowned in surprise. Jason was a
by-the
-book cop with a watchful eye on his career, so it wasn't like him to disregard orders. “He was there yesterday afternoon when Corporal Willington and I passed through the roadblock. In fact he was talking to someone in his truck. Willington said it looked like a woman.”

“Any description?”

“The vehicle was a white, old-model Chevy Cavalier. I didn't give it much thought.”
Except to wonder whether Jason was putting the moves on her
, Chris thought, but he kept that to himself.

“Hmmm.” Noseworthy broke off for a deep, rumbling cough. When she resumed, her voice sounded like chains dragged along the ground. “Mrs. Cousins, the victim's wife, drives a white Cavalier. She's been in and out of here every hour or so since she arrived, demanding updates on the search for her son. Do you know if she knows Maloney?”

Chris swallowed his astonishment as he cast about for a safe answer. “Well, they're both from Grand Falls, ma'am.”

“That likely explains it. She probably figured she'd get more info out of him than I'm giving her.” Noseworthy was being positively chatty, probably punch-drunk from not enough sleep and too much solitude, Chris suspected. Now she seemed to remember that he was a pain in the ass. “Anyway, Corporal, report in on Maloney one way or the other. And disable that damn truck.”

Chris signed off with a nagging sense of unease. It made sense that Sheri would try to get inside information out of Jason, but Jason's subsequent disappearance and failure to report lent an ominous implication to the meeting. What the hell was the man up to?

Twenty minutes later, when Chris turned into yet one more narrow finger bay, he finally spotted the little red stages of Croque propped along the shore. Once he got ashore, however, he was disconcerted to find not a soul in the place. The ERT reinforcements had not yet arrived, Willington had presumably gone back to Roddickton, and there was no sign of Jason or his red truck. He retrieved his own truck, and as he drove back up through the scattered houses, he reassured himself that behind the scenes, the troops would soon be closing in. Some, led by the K9 unit, would be following the trail over land from the sunken boat, while others would be combing the bush and logging roads around Croque.