Facts and theories tumbled through his mind, trying to connect. A boat carrying fugitives, possibly foreign, had been spotted not far south of St. Anthony, and that boat had later been found by some village boys hidden onshore even farther south. The fugitives had vanished without a trace. Neither the coast guard nor the local villagers had seen any sign of them.
“Have Border Services or the RCMP got anywhere identifying the ship that the dead man was travelling on?” he asked.
“If he went into the water where he was found — a big if, given ocean currents — then he was inside Canadian waters. And if we connect him to the men in the lifeboat —”
“I think we should. Absolutely. At least as a working hypothesis. How many boats were carrying foreign nationals?”
“Well, that’s the problem, there weren’t any foreign vessels in that area in that time frame.”
“That we know of.”
Willington gave his loud, boisterous laugh. “What? You’re suggesting there’s something we don’t know?”
“Foreign trawlers sneak in all the time, no matter what the official line is.”
“I’m shocked. But anyway, it might not be a trawler at all. The Feds are looking at smuggling operations, possibly involving foreign ships heading for the St. Lawrence. Because there’s one last piece of intel …” Willington leaned forward, wiggling his eyebrows and clearly relishing the suspense. “The dead man had a piece of paper in his pocket. Forensics is still trying to decipher it all, but it appears to be a name and phone number with a 315 area code. That’s Saint Lawrence County in upstate New York. Not much there except big empty spaces, but its main claim to fame? It borders the St. Lawrence River.”
He watched as Chris drew his own conclusions. The St. Lawrence River formed a thousand kilometres of undefended, sparsely populated border between Canada and the United States. With its many islands and hidden coves, it had a long, colourful history as a smuggling route between the two countries for everything from guns and bootleg liquor to illegal refugees, who often paid thousands of dollars to crooks and conmen in their search for a better life.
Northern Newfoundland was a long way off course, but if the boat had originated in northern Europe and had travelled through the North Sea, it’s possible it was headed across to the Strait of Belle Isle and down to the St. Lawrence.
“So the hunt is now ramped up for those fugitives from the lifeboat,” Willington was saying. “They might provide some information on the smuggling theory as well as the man’s death.”
“If they were desperate to escape detection, they might even have been involved in his death,” Chris said, his thoughts turning dark. There are a lot of desperate people on the run in the wilderness around here, he thought. I hope to hell Amanda is not smack in the middle of it all.
Amanda stood on the side of the hill, looking around her. More grey, endless trees and ravines. Even the sky was a grim, gunmetal grey. The adrenaline of earlier had long since faded from her system, leaving her shaky and more tired than ever. Where was the goddamn sun? Would it hurt to give her a little glimpse, so she’d have a clue as to her direction.
She studied the pattern of moss and lichen on the trees — another basic orienteering technique — but it seemed to be everywhere, clinging to the trunks and branches like a grey shroud. Perhaps if she were a native Newfoundlander, she would be more adept at reading the land, but her knowledge of the lush jungles of Africa and Asia were no use to her here.
She listened for sounds of surf, and thought she detected a distant whisper, but it evaporated in the wind. For good measure, she shouted Tyler’s name and cupped her ear for a response. No response. Only Kaylee, who bounded over to drop a stick at her feet.
In spite of herself, Amanda laughed. “Okay, princess, we need to get some food into our bodies, and then you’re going to put that nose of yours to something more useful than finding sticks.”
She struck out toward what looked like a clearing, pausing to pick berries and to turn over rocks and rotten logs along the way. Her years overseas had taught her not to be squeamish. Frogs, snakes, snails, and bugs were excellent sources of protein, the latter preferably deep fried to a nice crunch. In Asia they showed up on elegant restaurant menus as well as morning market stalls. Bugs would not be her first choice for breakfast, but when starvation loomed, they would do in a pinch.
The clearing turned out to be a small lake — Newfoundlanders would call it a pond, as if every body of water were measured against the enormity of the sea. She and Kaylee both drank from a small stream flowing into the pond, and Amanda ate more berries growing along the shore. She stuck to partridgeberries, which she recognized, and bright coral berries that seemed safe. But still her stomach roiled.
The dog watched her intently as she ate, and Amanda gave her a regretful smile. “Sorry, princess. I know I’ve fed you every day of your life, but this morning you’ll have to harness your wolf DNA and try to catch us something.”
Having seen refugees survive for days on the move without food, provided they had water, she knew she and Kaylee would manage. While she filled her water canteen, she took stock of her options. Tyler was her overwhelming concern. There was a terrified young boy on the loose in this wilderness, possibly injured or being hunted by the person who’d killed his father.
But she was surrounded by four or five hundred square miles of mountains, bogs, forests, and ponds. She had limited emergency supplies, no weapon, no navigational tools beyond her wits, and no idea where she was. In the twists and turns of her trek through the dense tuckamore, she could have been wandering in circles. She had heard no sounds of search helicopters or boats along the shore. If they were looking for her at all, they were nowhere near.
Common sense told her she should try to find the coast. From there, not only would she be more visible to searchers, but she might be able to find her boat and go for help. But it might take her a whole day to find the coast — twenty-four long hours in the life of a starving, frantic boy. Moreover, she didn’t know which direction led to the coast. With no compass, no sun, and no sound of surf, she could flounder in the bogs and tuckamore for days.
I need a good vantage point, she thought, peering through the trees at the surrounding hills. She headed toward the tallest one and soon found herself scrambling up the steep incline on all fours. As the trees grew shorter and sparser, the barren rock of the summit came into view ahead. I should be able to see for miles, she thought, quickening her pace eagerly. Beside her, Kaylee grew rigid. The hair on her back rose, but she made no sound.
“What is it, princess?”
Kaylee backed up, belly flat to the ground, and circled to cower behind her. Her every muscle radiated danger. Her own fear spiking, Amanda stopped to take in her surroundings. She could see nothing. She crept forward cautiously, keeping low under cover of the bushes. She peered over the boulder and froze. The rocky summit offered no shelter, and in among the sedges and dwarf berry bushes was a large black bear.
The massive, shaggy creature was on all fours, staring back at her.
Amanda ducked back behind the boulder and waited for her pulse to slow before risking another peek. The bear appeared to be alone, probably foraging for berries, but Amanda searched the shadowy undergrowth for signs of a cub. Kaylee stayed safely behind her, and Amanda offered a silent thanks to her for not racing out to bark. She tried to remember what she’d been taught about bears. First rule; never run away. The bear will chase, at speeds of up to fifty kilometres an hour. Keeping a watchful eye on the animal, she groped behind her to secure Kaylee on her leash.
Second rule; talk to it in a deep, calm voice and make yourself as big as possible. Easier said than done. She slipped her backpack off and balanced it on top of her head. Then she tried for as calm a voice as she could muster. “We won’t hurt you, Mr. Bear. We’ll just leave the hilltop to you.”
Third rule; back away slowly.
“Let’s go, princess,” she said, stepping backwards. One foot, another foot.
The