Fire in the Stars Read online

  She laughed. As he typed and the printer hummed, she studied the wall map. Newfoundland had essentially one highway, the Trans-Canada, running across it from Port aux Basques in the west to St. John’s in the east, with local and community roads branching off like ribs from its long, curved spine. Deer Lake not only served as the gateway to Gros Morne National Park, but also as the juncture where the main road heading north up the peninsula forked off from the Trans-Canada. The first major campgrounds in the park itself were near the town of Rocky Harbour.

  Chris saw her tracing the route with her finger. “Rocky Harbour’s the main tourist hub for the park,” he said. “That and St. Anthony’s at the northern tip. They’re full of motels and RVs and kids. Phil’s not going to find his wilderness and solitude there.”

  “No, but it might be a good place to start asking questions. I should be able to get to Rocky Harbour tonight.”

  He glanced uneasily out the rain-streaked windows. “Anything goes in this weather. It’s a twisty-turny highway, and fog and rain can make it deadly. And make sure you don’t drive after sunset. At dusk, the moose take over the roads.”

  She nodded. “The countryside where I live in West Quebec is full of deer. You have to watch out for them too.”

  “You have a hope of surviving a collision with a deer,” he said. “But a moose will win every time. Especially against your lightweight rocket out there.”

  “Rocket!” She returned his smile. “I like that. I’ve been looking for a name for her, and Rocket has much more attitude than Shadow.”

  He gave a mock salute. “Glad to be of service, ma’am. We’ve got an estimated twenty thousand moose on the northern peninsula alone, more per square kilometre than anywhere else in the world. And it’s coming into mating season, and you don’t want to catch their eye. If you by chance avoid the amorous moose, there are always the bears. The momma bears will be out foraging with their cubs, collecting food for the winter.”

  She looked down at Kaylee, who lay patiently by her chair with her head on her paws, as if human talk was an utter bore. “Oh, Kaylee, are you going to protect me from the big bad bears?”

  Kaylee thumped her feathery tail on the floor, looking anything but fierce.

  “Yeah, you might want to make a lot of noise and keep her on a short leash,” Chris said. “Dogs have a bad habit of chasing them and then rushing back with an angry bear on their tail.”

  Kaylee raised her head, alert now that her name had been mentioned. Amanda scratched her ears. “I’m not worried. If it’s not a ball or a stick, she won’t give it a second glance.”

  The printer had stopped humming, so Chris reached inside and flourished a sheaf of papers. With long, deft fingers, he rolled them up and slipped them into a plastic tube.

  “Waterproof,” he said. “You’ll be really glad I did that when you hit your first big coastal rain storm. It will just about blow the Rocket off the island.”

  She winced as she thanked him. The drive from Grand Falls had been bitter enough. She’d been caught in a few rainstorms in Quebec, and of course in monsoons in the Far East, but even the heaviest tropical deluge would not compare to the icy needles of northern Newfoundland.

  As September edged toward the fall equinox, daylight began to fade by seven thirty, so Amanda reached Gros Morne National Park just ahead of moose hour. The geography was breathtaking; the road twisted along the edge of deep bays and through soaring hills laced with jagged spruce. Roadside ditches were awash in goldenrod and fireweed.

  Beneath her, the Rocket roared as she leaned into the turns and hugged the bends. She was stiff and aching by the time she stopped at the Visitor’s Centre near the entrance to pick up a park map and information about campgrounds. Thankfully the rain had stopped, but the low, dark clouds blended sky with sea, and a wash of gilded pewter obscured the setting sun.

  The town of Rocky Harbour was the commercial hub of Gros Morne, but by mid-September it already had a windswept, semi-abandoned look, with some of the businesses winding down and cottages empty. She had transferred some photos of Phil and Tyler from his laptop to her phone, and she showed these at gas stations and restaurants, as well as I’s De B’y Boat Tours near town, but everywhere she went, she was met with the same worried stares and shakes of the head.

  Not one sighting of Phil.

  When she finally found the campground at Green Point that Phil had inquired about, the sun had already dipped below the ocean. Through a veil of dark trees, she could see the bruised lavender of twilight. There will be other sunsets, she told herself, as she nosed her bike into one of the private, grassy sites and peeled herself off the seat. She was bone-weary, and now that she had begun her odyssey, she realized just how vast the land was.

  The campground itself was tucked into the woods between the highway and the ocean. Each private site was set into a circle of trees that protected it from the ocean gales, but the grass was soggy from the rain and the spruce trees dripped on her head as she set up camp. She was the only soul stupid enough to be camping that night, and because of the honour system of self-registration, she had no way of knowing whether Phil and Tyler had passed through. The day felt like an abysmal failure.

  Thrilled to be free and undeterred by the chill wind that tore through the trees, Kaylee ranged around the camp snuffling the rich, loamy smells. Amanda watched her with envy. She was too stiff and exhausted to enjoy the rugged beauty of the camp. Every muscle screamed. Phil had promised to bring the cooking gear and supplies for their expedition, so she did not even have a simple camping stove, an oversight she would have to remedy in the morning.

  The campsite was equipped with a metal barbeque box filled with soggy ash. Grimly, she collected sticks and coaxed them into a sputtering fire to heat the tea and the can of beans she’d bought at the grocery store. Then as chilly darkness settled in, she crawled into her tent, wrapped herself and Kaylee in her sleeping bag, and tried to sleep.

  Long into the night, she listened to the wind moaning through the trees and the surf crashing against the shore below, remembering the nights in Nigeria when she had lain in her cabin beneath her mosquito netting, bathed in sweat and praying for a single breath of cool air. Listening to the whine of insects and the blend of voices and laughter from the village square.

  Kaylee’s growl woke her with a start. She flung back the sleeping bag and groped for the hatchet she’d stashed beneath her pillow. Her heart pounded. Kaylee was standing at the tent door, her growl escalating to a bark.

  “Shh-hh!” Amanda clamped her hand over her muzzle and dragged her back, desperate to quiet her. As wakefulness took full hold, she shook her head sheepishly. Don’t be ridiculous, she told herself. You’re in Newfoundland, in the middle of goddamn nowhere. There’s no marauding militia for thousands of miles. Indeed, no one at all.

  Footsteps squelched on the grass outside. She tightened her grip on the hatchet. Then incongruously, the smell of coffee tickled her nose and Kaylee’s tail began to wag. Amanda unzipped the bottom corner of her tent flap and peeked outside. Warm sunlight slanted through the campsite, sparkling like sequins on the dewy spruce. Directly in front of her was a pair of steel-toed boots attached to very long legs. She looked up.

  Chris Tymko stood in the entrance holding two mugs of coffee. His smile, initially uncertain, broadened at the sight of her.

  “I thought two pairs of eyes looking would be better than one,” he said. “I got my buddy to cover some extra shifts, and I applied for some vacation days.”

  She yanked at the tent flap, relief and warmth rushing through her. “How long?”

  “As long as it takes.”

  Chapter Six

  Norm Parsons squinted out across the water, which shimmered like fireworks in the dawn. His boat pitched in the ocean swell, its engine growling as it struggled to push through the chop. The wind lashed and the tow ropes to the net quivered taut. />
  They’d been working flat out for four days and nights, hauling the net in every three or four hours to empty it. His two sons were catching a bit of sleep, but he’d been up at the wheel since the big swells started. This was his tenth trip of the season, and he felt it in every bone in his body. Getting too old for this, he thought, ducking out of the wheelhouse to the top of the ladder.

  “Time to haul ’er in, Lizzie,” he shouted over the engine. “Get the boys up. We got a twelve-hour steam ahead of us back to port.”

  His daughter had climbed up by the winch to check the brake and tow cables, fighting with gloves so big they damn near swallowed her arms to the elbows. She was a small thing like her mother, but strong as a mink. Good thing too, because with the cutbacks in season shrimp quotas and single-trip limits this summer, he hadn’t wanted to pay a proper crew this time out. She and her two brothers were all he had.

  She swung around to look across at him. Beneath the black toque, her cheeks were peeling from the sun and her nose was red from the cold, but she wore the same stubborn scowl all the Parsonses had. Eighteen years old, already full of spit and fire.

  “It’s just dawn,” she said. “Plenty of time to steam back.”

  “Not in this blow. I wants to get ’er all unloaded and weighed and the boat cleaned before dark, Lizzie.”

  She stepped down onto the deck and peered through

  the trap door into the hold. “But we don’t have our trip limit

  yet, Dad.”

  He knew that. It was nearing the end of the season, and the ocean floor had been pretty well depleted. He blamed the huge factory freezer trawlers that were out fishing the grounds all year round, while the small local boats were trapped in the harbour by pack ice. The freezer trawlers could stay out on the grounds for weeks, while he and the other locals had to steam 250 kilometres back and forth from the shrimp area to port every few days with their haul.

  He knew in his heart it was a dying industry for the small fishing boats. A few years ago he’d made very good money in shrimp and snow crab, but on the last net haul, they had picked up only a half load of shrimp in their allotted time.

  “I’m burning more money in gas than I’ll make doing one more haul,” he replied. “And the dock monitor is expecting us by eight.”

  Lizzie still wore her stubborn face, but she banged on the wall of the cabin, where her brothers were already tossing back the blankets and pulling on their gloves and boots. Norm slowed the engine, and within minutes his sons had the winch going. The frame shuddered and the huge cable began to creak and groan. Lizzie leaned over the stern of the boat, peering into the churning wake for the first glimpse of the net. Norm felt the familiar quiver of anticipation. Even after years of trawling — first cod, and now snow crab and shrimp — that small, peculiar rush of fear and excitement had never gone away. That moment when the net came into view and he could see how big the catch was, or whether some unexpected rock or shelf had shredded his net. One time a discarded kitchen stove had ripped a hole so big that he had lost half his take.

  The beam of the net broke the surface, followed by the floats, skimming along like a string of children’s balloons. His sons ran to each side to guide the ends of the net. So far so good. Norm strained to see the cod end of the net. Plowing through the wake, fighting the tow ropes with a whoosh of foam, the net broke through the surface briefly before sinking back below. In spite of his caution, his heart leaped. Shrimp! Maybe as much as a thousand pounds!

  Lizzie leaned way out over the stern. She didn’t look afraid. That was Lizzie, too stubborn to know fear even when she should. Or maybe just too green. She’d been out in boats since near the day she was born, but the ocean had never treated her bad.

  “Look at that ball, Dad! We hit the mother lode! Finally!”

  He tried not to let himself get excited. He didn’t hold much hope that the big ball was full of shrimp. More than likely they had picked up a whole lot of bottom junk. Lizzie could wish all she liked, but he knew there were not many shrimp to be had. Whole beds were near empty now where ten years ago, when he’d first switched from fish to shrimp, the ocean floor had been teeming with the little buggers. All you had to do was dip your net and haul them up.

  No more. The smaller guys like him were lucky to pay for their boat loan, their gas, and the shrimp licence. Screwed once again by the pencil-pushers up in Ottawa, who always gave the big boys first rights. “Careful now!” he shouted back. A stiff wind was coming up, blowing clouds over the rising sun and dropping the temperature five degrees. Waves were beginning to slap the boat around. The net could spin away from her, knocking her clear off the boat into the frigid sea.

  When the ball of the net was almost clear of the water, the boys slowed the winch to check the net. Something looked odd. The boat pitched and fought through the chop, and the ball swirled. Not smooth and symmetrical, but bulging out on one side. Setting the rudder, Norm left the engine and came aft for a closer look. Strange colours peeked through the bulge in the green netting. Not the shiny pink of shrimp nor the silver sheen of fish, but rather a chequered pattern of blue and red.

  “Pull ’er in slowly, Lizzie,” he said. “Let’s see what we gots here.”

  Together they all guided the load in, bracing themselves against the pitch and toss of the boat. Soon the net was fully in view, the water, sand, and ocean muck streaming from it as it was winched up over the deck. He stopped the winches briefly to study the huge ball of wriggling pink shrimp suspended in the air. Saw the occasional flash of silver fish in the morning light. But something else too, buried in the squirm of shrimp. He peered closer. Cloth? A jacket blown overboard? A boot tossed by a careless sightseer?

  He guided the ball lower toward the deck, turning it slowly for a better look. Spotted a red-and-blue jacket, black pants, and a running shoe.

  Just as he made sense of the whole, Lizzie screamed.

  Chris and Amanda loaded her bike into the back of his truck and were working their way slowly up the northern peninsula, asking questions and showing Phil’s photo in every coastal village along the way. Chris was out of uniform and he’d learned the fine Newfoundland art of banter, but even so, people took his questions seriously. Legends of people lost at sea loomed large in village lore. By the end of the day, Amanda was even more grateful he’d come along.

  It was nearly sundown before they had their first confirmed sighting at the Seaview Motel, a plain white clapboard bungalow on the side of the highway near Black Duck Cove. Phil and Tyler had stayed there two nights earlier. The poor buggers had planned to camp on the beach, the motel keeper said, but the rain was blowing sideways and your man took pity on his boy.

  Amanda nearly jumped for joy. They were on the right track, albeit two days behind. More importantly, Phil hadn’t done anything crazy. He was working his way up the peninsula, still apparently following his plan.

  “Did they say where they were going after they checked in?” she asked.

  “Well, we didn’t stand dere in the rain chatting, but ’e did ask where they could get a bite of supper. I sent them to Nancy’s Restaurant up the road.”

  “Did he use your phone or computer?”

  “Nudding like dat, darlin’. No computer ’ere anyways. He was after a clean bed and a hot shower, das all.” The motel keeper was laying the accent on a bit thick, Amanda thought, but perhaps in the tourism trade, he figured it was part of his charm. She and Chris had found him changing the sheets in one of his motel rooms and she eyed the accommodations longingly. They were certainly basic, as he’d said, but they looked like paradise after her night in the tent. Chris flashed her a sympathetic grin as he turned to go.

  The man straightened as if a thought had just occurred to him. “I did hear somet’ing of their conversation, if you’re interested.”

  Chris swung around. “Please.”

  “They was going out to their
truck, and de boy was talking about going fishing the next day. He were jumping up and down, you know how kids are. Like they gots springs in dere feet.”

  “What did the father say?”

  “Nudding, b’y. Just got in the truck.”

  Amanda didn’t like the sound of that. “What kind of mood was he in?”

  “Mood?” The motel keeper looked incredulous. “Fifty dollars a night gets dem a bed and a bathroom, my dear, not a palm reading.”

  Chris laughed. “I thought palm reading was a Newfoundland specialty.”

  “Well, he be wet and cold, I figures. Probably hungry too. And after listening to that kid yammering all day, even the Lord himself would be cranky.” He snapped a pillow case and turned his attention back to the bed. Chris thanked him and they headed back across the patch of gravel that passed for a parking lot. The sun hung low over the ocean, a blurry orange smudge behind the gathering clouds. Chris gestured to it.

  “Looks like there might be a storm blowing in. We should probably find ourselves a campground soon.”

  She cast one longing look back at the simple little motel. “We could take a page from Phil’s book.”

  “Let’s check out Nancy’s place first. I tell you what. Will a nice, hot, sit-down meal of fish and chips do the trick?”

  She opened the truck door and shooed Kaylee over to make room. “On real chairs? With a real server, and a pint of local ale?”

  “Follow me, ma’am. I’ll even spring for a bottle of wine!”

  They found Nancy’s Restaurant a couple of kilometres farther up the road. Splashy roadside billboards advertised it as having the best fish and chips on the northern peninsula, as well as sumptuous lobster in season, but when the restaurant came into view, Amanda laughed aloud. It was a little square saltbox house in the middle of a weedy field. The sign on the front door, painted pink with an inexpert hand, urged them to please come in. A single room greeted them, filled with a half-dozen tables covered in faded, mismatched plastic cloths like the leftovers from a church rummage sale. It was the dinner hour, but all the tables were empty except for one at the back, where a woman wearing a frilly apron was flipping through a magazine. Like many of the women Amanda had seen in Newfoundland, she had a round, cherub face and a short, plump body. Her hair was orange; whether by mistake or design, Amanda wasn’t sure.