Fire in the Stars (9 page)

Two hours later, with the steaks a distant memory and a soft darkness falling, they were nearing the bottom of the bottle. Amanda's eyes were beginning to close, and she was just wondering how to politely send Sam on his way when he suddenly switched the topic back to Phil. They had covered the state of the world, climate change, fishing, tourists, and even the meaning of life in a free-wheeling, increasingly incoherent conversation.

“Now your friend there,” Sam said out of the blue, “he wasn't happy about the state of the world, either. Pretty much figured we were all going to hell on a freight train. I felt sorry for his boy, to be honest, because all he wanted was to see whales and icebergs, and Jesus, he was some excited about that polar bear. Travelled in on an ice floe, so the boy wanted to go out in a boat the very next day to look for ice floes.”

Amanda's fatigue evaporated. “Maybe that's where they went. Are there boat tours around here they could have taken?”

“Are there boats?” Sam laughed. “You been down the harbour in St. Anthony yet? Nothing but boats, darlin'. But your friend didn't want a boat tour. He was interested in fishing. Deep-sea fishing. He wanted to know what fish were out there and what the regulations were, and if there were any trawlers in port that fished way out in the ocean. There's no recreational sea fishing for a couple of weeks yet, and it's late in the season for the commercial fishery. There's only one trawler in port at the moment, so maybe he was going down to talk to the captain. Maybe he persuaded the captain to take him and the boy aboard for a day or two.”

“Is that allowed?”

The proprietor shrugged. “Who's gonna know? Lots of stuff happens out there on the high seas with no one around for miles to see. The captain calls the shots, and the crew's not going to care. They're just happy to have a job.”

Half an hour later, with some trepidation, Chris and Amanda propped the camp proprietor back on his ATV and aimed him on his way. They stood in the flickering orange light of their campfire, watching his headlights waver down the path until the trees swallowed him up. Soon even the growl of the engine was lost in the murmur of surf.

“If I thought he was going to run into anything more than a moose,” Chris said, “I'd never have let him drive off. He drank more than half that bottle of Scotch!”

She smiled. “We still have our bottle of wine.” She breathed in the musky, salt-washed air of the woods and listened to the night chorus of insects and frogs. In the distance the surf whispered. “Let's take it to the ocean,” she said.

Chris looked at the stack of dirty dishes by the fire, and then across at her. He shrugged. “We'll put another log on. No point inviting the bears along to the party, but the fire will keep them away.”

Sparks shot high into the air and the fresh wood snapped as it caught fire. Amanda turned away to fight a sudden frisson of fear. Sometimes she wondered whether she would ever enjoy the warmth and smoky scent of a fire without that shiver of fear. Without the memory of unbearable heat and orange-lit smoke boiling into the night sky.

As if to ground herself, she touched Chris's arm gently while they walked the short distance to the shore by the glow of his wavering flashlight. The black press of trees opened up to a ground cover of sage and grasses, and the hiss of the ocean grew louder. Soon she could distinguish the white tips of waves dancing on molten silver. There was no moon but the sky was clear and the white rocks glowed in the starlight. All memory and fear slid away.

“Turn off the flashlight,” she whispered. Together they stood on a tongue of scoured rock until shapes began to emerge from the darkness. Black shadows of land, pale strips of rock, a silver wisp of light across the western sky. And the ocean … dancing, undulating, like onyx glittering with stars.

Transfixed, Amanda walked to the water's edge, sat on the rock, and hugged her knees.

“He was here,” she said. “Still alive. Still asking questions. That's a good sign, isn't it?”

“Yes.”

“Do you suppose he's on a boat out there right now?”

“Maybe.”

“Looking at the same stars, marvelling at the same infinity. Phil used to say the ocean was like the prairie. Home.”

Chris eased himself down at her side and poured her a glass of wine. Together they stared out at the sea. Kaylee ranged over the rocks, entranced by smells. Amanda tilted her head to the sprinkle of stars overhead and breathed in the tangy air. Air free of smoke, sweat, and seared flesh. Free of gunpowder.

“Just think,” she said. “Every one of those tiny pinpoints of light is a huge ball of fire more powerful than our sun. For over a thousand years, sailors have guided their ships by the stars when there were no other clues or guideposts in the endless wilderness of water.” She found the Big Dipper and traced a line from its bowl to a single bright star in the northern sky. She smiled at it.

“Every Girl Guide learns to find her way by the North Star. You will never truly be lost if you can find the North Star.” She sobered as reality stole into her joy. “I hope Phil remembers that.”

She felt Chris's gaze upon her. Heard his hesitation. “Were you and Phil …?”

“No.” She thought about Phil. His laughing, carefree face, the cowlick at his temple that gave him a rakish air, the stubby fingers that could bandage a child and wield an axe with equal skill. She thought of the way he could wiggle his nose to make the children laugh, pull candies out of their ears, and duck-walk across the room.

“It's hard to make close friends on the international aid circuit. Everyone is transitory, moving in and out. You share amazing experiences while you're together, but then you're on to the next post. Friendships don't have a chance to grow deep roots.”

“Police postings are like that too. You always have to say goodbye.”

And with each goodbye, the sense of loss and solitude builds
, she thought. Had she forgotten how to love, how to imagine a future with anyone beyond the next few months? She thought of how Phil had held her on that fateful night, his heart pounding with terror and rage. She had loved him, certainly, with a love seared deep in that moment of terror. But was it more?

“Phil and I have been through a lot together, so there's a bond. But …” Her voice faded. Words were feeble vessels in which to capture the connection she and Phil shared. “But” was all she could muster.

Chris didn't touch her. He didn't even lean in. It was Kaylee who came to her side and nuzzled softly. Chris merely looked up at the stars and out to the ocean. Yet in his silence she sensed his understanding.

It was only the next morning, as she was getting ready to leave and tilting her red straw hat against the glorious sun, that he touched her arm.

“We'll find him, Amanda. He's too ornery a bugger to be snuffed out so easily.”

D
riving back into St. Anthony the next morning, Chris and Amanda encountered a traffic jam leading to the main turnoff. A small knot of union protesters was stopping cars to hand out flyers. S
AVE LOCAL JOBS
and
FAIR QUOTAS
, their signs said.

Once they had cleared the protest, Amanda and Chris wove down the narrow harbour road to the main pier. The large trawler Sam had mentioned was still there, a long, battered shark festooned with nets and cables. Amanda estimated it was nearly two hundred feet long and loomed thirty feet above the water, dwarfing the smaller local shrimp boats at either end. It looked as if it was undergoing maintenance; crew scurried over the wharf and up onto the decks, checking equipment.

The name
ACADIA SEAFOOD COMPANY
was stencilled on its hull and a Canadian flag flew above the top deck. When Amanda tuned her ear to the crew's conversations, she could hear nothing in a foreign tongue. Chris checked in with the harbourmaster and asked to be directed to the trawler's captain. While they waited, he squinted out toward the sea. “I wonder if I'll get further showing my badge, or not showing it.”

“If he's got anything to hide, even if it's got nothing to do with Phil, he'll clam up at the sight of your badge.” She grinned. “A lesson I learned on my travels.”

He pulled a sad face. “And here I am, such a nice guy. I'd even rescue a fly from a spider's web.”

Boots clomped purposefully along the concrete behind them, and they both turned to see a short, stubby man with sausage-like limbs and a barrel chest that strained the zipper of his jacket. He wore a grease-stained ball cap and mirrored sunglasses against the morning sun glancing off the bay. Behind the glasses, his face was inscrutable.

“Captain Boudrot is not here. I'm the chief mate, and I'm on a tight schedule,” he said, “so make it quick. Those fucking picketers have thrown everything off.”

He had addressed Chris, so Chris took the lead and explained that they were looking for a friend and his son, who had mixed up their rendezvous location.

“We were supposed to go out on a boat together and I understand he came to talk to your captain a couple of days ago.”

The man's expression barely changed, but Amanda sensed a curtain falling, shutting them out. He shook his head. “This is a big harbour. Lots of boats come and go. But this is a shrimp trawler, not a pleasure boat. The boat tours run from over there.” He flicked a disdainful hand toward a wharf across the bay.

“Thank you,” Chris said, without even a glance in that direction. “But we were planning some deep-sea fishing, not a boat tour. I'm told he asked about that possibility.”

“I doubt it. The captain's gone down the coast to pick up a new sonar.”

When Amanda dug out her phone to show him the photos of Tyler and Phil, he barely gave them a cursory glance. “We don't do recreational fishing, either, even if it was in season, which it's not. You charter those boats from over there too.”

“I understand that,” she said, “but did you see them at all, sir? We're really at a loss here.”

He sighed and tilted his head at the photo thoughtfully. Chris kept quiet, perhaps recognizing that her pleading approach might net better results. “No, I didn't see them. Well, maybe the kid, running down the wharf.”

“Where were they heading? Over to the boat tours?”

“Could be. I had better things to do than watch.”

The boat tour office was deserted, as was the wharf in front of it. A notice stuck to the window listed their hours as 8:30 to 9:00 a.m., when the boat tour departed, but also gave a phone number underneath for inquiries and reservations. Amanda phoned, but the woman who answered had no record of anyone named Phil Cousins having booked a tour. Just as Amanda was searching for her next question, a pickup truck pulled up outside the office, and a man climbed out. Handsome, confident, and in charge, he asked if he could help.

Amanda trotted out her usual explanation and showed him the photo. His eyes lit up. “I remember that kid. He really wanted a boat tour. We're still offering a half-day whale-watching and coastal tour every morning if the weather is good and we get enough people. But the dad was having none of it. He was going to go talk to the captain of that trawler across the harbour there. Left the kid on the wharf feeding the seagulls. A few minutes later he stormed back over here and said they were leaving. This is crap, I remember him saying. People are crap. That shut the kid up in a hurry.”

“Did you notice where they went?” Chris asked. “Or did they mention it?”

“No, just away from here. Away from people, he said. He was in some black mood, that's certain.”

Chris and Amanda walked back to their vehicles in silence. From his puckered expression, Amanda suspected he shared her worry. They now had more questions than ever.

Had the chief mate lied about the captain speaking to Phil, or had Phil in fact talked to someone else in the crew? What had put him into such a foul mood? Was he merely angry about being turned down or was there some deeper reason? After years in developing countries, Phil had learned to laugh at minor disappointments, but these days, who could predict what triggers would plunge him into despair?

And the most pressing question of all, where to now? “Away from people,” Phil had said. That was their only clue.

The protest had heated up by the time they reached the main intersection again. The Fish, Food & Allied Workers union had formed a blockade across the road and were allowing traffic through only once they'd delivered their pamphlet and speech. Amanda glanced at the pamphlet before stuffing it into her pocket. L
OCAL COMPANIES MEAN LOCAL JOBS
, the headline proclaimed, with a photo of one of the stubby little shrimp boats she'd seen at wharves all along the coast.

The three officers from the local RCMP detachment, barely recovered from last night's discovery of the body, were struggling to calm the angry nerves of union members and local residents alike, as well as tourists caught in the middle.

Chris angled his cap low and slouched in his seat as they inched by. Afterwards he shot her a sheepish grin. “I'm damned if I'm going to give up more of my time off to police that hornet's nest. Time to get out of Dodge. Which way? North toward Cape Bauld, or south toward Roddickton?”

Amanda had been in charge of studying the map that morning while Chris, who was proving a much more adept campfire cook than her, served up their delicious breakfast of fried eggs and sausage. To the south, except for a few scattered fishing villages, vast swaths of coastline lay empty and untouched, even by road.

If Phil was trying to escape the toxic company of people, he might look no further. “South,” she said.

Chris clambered down from his truck to stretch the kinks from his long legs and study the gravel side road that led to the remote coastal village of Croque. They could see the potholes on the road from here.

“How many kilometres of that?”

She snorted. “That's a fabulous road! You should see some of the roads in Africa. They take your tires out at least once a month.”

Chris patted the hood of his truck ruefully. “Sorry, baby. I promise you a nice new wheel alignment when we get back home.”

Amanda climbed down to join him, taking off her straw hat to shake her long hair loose. The sky was blue, the sun was deliciously warm, and the green hills beckoned. Perfect for an open-air ride.

“Let's leave it here and ride on the back of the Rocket! It's only twenty-five kilometres to Croque, and it might prove to be a complete waste of time and gas.”

“No helmet.”

“Live dangerously.”

“Temptress.” His eyes twinkled as he eyed her bike, but she could see the doubt and hesitation in his expression. “I just bought it,” he mumbled sheepishly. “I haven't even paid for the logo on the hood. But there's not much room on the back there.”

“Nonsense. Overseas, we rode two to a bike all the time. You should see what the locals fit on their bikes. Whole families and all their furniture! I won't even notice you.”

As her words hung in the air, she felt her face grow warm. Embarrassed, she looked away. After a brief deliberation, he moved his truck onto a gravel patch off the road, parked it in the shade, and together they wrestled her motorcycle and trailer down the ramp. After a few final tender swipes at the dust on the truck's fender, he climbed aboard behind her. It was a snug fit. She felt the warmth of his body against hers, and the grip of his thighs. Heat rose within her and she was grateful that her helmet and sunglasses hid her blushing face. As she revved the engine, Chris hung his large hands awkwardly at his sides, but at the first pothole, he instinctively clutched her waist before jerking back.

She laughed. “It's safer to hang on,” she yelled into the wind. “I promise to respect your virtue.”

His arms slid around her again as cautiously as if he were grasping a gossamer web. They bounced and jolted down the road, leaning into the rollercoaster of twists and turns. A ridge of rounded coastal mountains loomed ahead, dense with spruce and fir. The road picked a path through it, climbing and twisting. After an apparent eternity, they began to spot small fenced gardens and stacks of firewood along the roadside, sure signs that they were approaching a village. A picturesque cemetery appeared on their right, well kept and surrounded by a low picket fence. Farther on, the first modest village houses were tucked into the hills.

Amanda had read up on Croque that morning while Chris made breakfast. She knew that it had begun as a French naval station in the mid-seventeenth century to supply and protect the French fishing vessels that fished the coastal waters of western Newfoundland. Three centuries later, the government of France still maintained the small cemetery where its officers had been buried.

The village itself was small, less than two dozen houses scattered like faded children's blocks over the hills. Despite the handful of trucks and cars parked outside, some of them and the washing hung on the lines, it had an abandoned air. As they rumbled through the village, Amanda's heart sank. The hills were gentle, and the ocean, when they finally caught a glimpse of it through the buildings, was a small inland fjord barely wider than a river. A few small fishing boats were tied up to a weather-beaten wharf. There were no wild and rugged cliffs here, no roaring surf.

And no sign of Phil's truck anywhere.

She parked the bike by a sign commemorating the French station, let Kaylee out, and they all waded down through the overgrown grass to the old wharf. All that was left of the grand French presence was a group of ageing wooden stages propping each other up like a row of drunken sailors. The little fjord sparkled serenely in the sun.

“Okay, that was a waste of time,” Chris muttered, surreptitiously massaging his rear. “Hard to imagine this little place was once a bustling naval station.”

She had to admit he was right. Driving in, she had seen a community centre of sorts, but no other sign of commerce or prosperity. But she heard the sound of hammering nearby and climbed the slope to find an old man repairing the front steps of his home. Quizzically, he watched her approach, as if strangers rarely ventured to this remote little relic of history.

Kaylee raced up to him and dropped a piece of old driftwood at his feet, breaking the awkward moment. The old man laughed as he threw it for her, and she was off, a flash of red through the tall fronds of grass.

“We're looking for our friend,” Amanda said, producing her cellphone photos and repeating her story about the mix-up in meeting place. As she spoke, another old man emerged from his house and the two of them had a brief exchange. She couldn't understand a word of it, but could hear the doubt in their voices.

“Yeah, they come by,” one of them said finally, “but there's not much here. No place for them to stay, no boats for rent, neither. Only fifteen families here now, and most of them old-timers. The young ones are gone away to work. We told your friend to try Grandois just up the coast.”

Another gravel road, as it turned out, that branched off at Croque and led to the open ocean farther north. On the map, Grandois looked even smaller than Croque, so Amanda was delighted when they topped the hill by a little white church and saw a postcard-perfect fishing village spread out below them. Boats of all shapes and sizes lay on the pebble shore or bobbed against the wharf, and gaily painted houses were sprinkled in the meadow that curved around the cove. A few vehicles were parked in front of the houses, a woman was hanging out her laundry, and another played with her baby. Amanda spotted a man working on a fishing net on the wharf and headed down the hill toward him. This time Kaylee bounded gleefully after the sandpipers on the shore.

Chris repeated their story about searching for a friend. As he spoke, other men emerged from yards and houses. Soon a small crowd of men in blue jeans and windbreakers had gathered. Their faces were tanned and creviced by years on the open sea.

“Yes, we seen him,” said one. “The man with the young fella. He wanted a boat for a few days to go out to the Grey Islands, but we didn't have none to spare.”

“Well now, that's not quite right, Tom,” said another, this one older and greyer. “He didn't seem like he knew how to skipper a boat and he had no gear, so no one wanted to rent him theirs.”

“I offered to take them out in my boat,” said a third. “Show them around the islands. Still a few whales in the bay, and lots of migrating birds. Gannets, terns, puffins. But he weren't interested in that.”

“He has some temper on him, your friend,” Tom said. “The young fella was tugging on his arm saying it's okay, Dad, we can go back to St. Anthony and take that boat tour. But the dad said he had something much more exciting in mind.”