“Amanda’s missing?”
Chris could hear the dismay his voice. “Well, not really missing. Just on her own cockamamie hunt.”
“For Chrissakes, Tymko! He’s a suspect. And now we’ve got a civilian bumbling around in the middle of the investigation, screwing up the search area and putting herself at risk.”
“She doesn’t think she’s at risk.” He paused. “Neither do I.”
“Which is exactly why you’re not on this case! If things get ugly, she could be right in the middle of the crossfire.”
Chris was silent a moment, clamping down his temper. “I’m not anywhere near the case. I’m at least thirty kilometres away, on my way to your town. There’s a chance Amanda went looking for Phil up your way.”
There was a pause. “Let me know if you need a hand.”
Chris relaxed. “You’ve got enough on your plate, but if you see her — she’s got her dog with her, so she’ll be easy to spot — tell her I’m on my way.”
“Why does she think he’s here in Roddickton?”
“I have no idea. She must have found out something.”
“Which she didn’t tell us.” Willington swore under his breath. “Amis and his team have already been here and are on their way out to Conche along with the incident command trailer. They’ll go ballistic when they find out. We’ve got roadblocks up now, and I’ll tell my guys to keep a sharp eye out in town here for Amanda as well as Phil Cousins. They can’t get far on foot, and there’s not many places here to hide. Who knows, maybe by tonight you and I can have this whole case wrapped up before the incident commander even gets her gear unpacked. Then I’ll treat you to the lumberjack’s platter at our world-class Lumberjacks’ Landing. Best restaurant on the eastern shore.”
Chris laughed as he hung up. Likely the only restaurant on the east shore.
Amanda had no idea how far she’d walked, nor even in what direction. The gunmetal sky obscured all hint of the sun, and the rhythmic hiss of the surf had faded into the distance. Her stomach ached from hunger and her legs shook with fatigue. She’d spent most of the day doubling back and forth in search of Tyler, fighting her way around tuckamore and bog. She had clambered over boulders, waded through alder thickets, and climbed to the top of steep hills. She had called his name until she was hoarse.
Through the thumping of her heart and the panting of her breath, her ears strained to hear even the faintest sound of human presence. A cry for help. The growl of a motorboat coming up the coast. She had expected a search party from Conche or, at the very least, Chris Tymko to come looking her. A wave of affection welled up at the thought of him. She had only known him for a week, but sensed he was one of the truly good guys. When Phil had disappeared, he had understood her fear and her need, and had jumped in to help without a moment’s hesitation. When she’d failed to return to Conche last night, surely he would have collected a posse and gone out looking.
Eventually he would come. Someone would come. Someone would find her boat, and the small boat Phil had been using, and they would begin to search from there. She wasn’t worried for her own safety. She had survived on far less. Fresh water from the small streams tumbling down the hillsides, together with the red berries that blanketed the bogs and the forest floor, were enough for now.
Tyler was all she cared about. Kaylee had not found his body or grave near Phil’s, so Amanda assumed he’d fled through the woods on an erratic path, grief-stricken and alone. God knows how long and how far he would run. He was a smart boy, often left to his own devices in the Cambodian village where she’d known him, but he was only eleven. He had just watched his father die. The father who made him laugh, taught him magic tricks, and organized village baseball games.
What would he do? Where would he run?
Kaylee had been unable to make sense of the trail. Not a trained tracking dog, she had bounded off in several directions, doubled back, and then milled at Amanda’s feet, looking up at her as if for direction.
So they had trudged together. Amanda had kept a close eye on Kaylee’s ears and nose. The dog would detect a scent or sound far earlier than Amanda and turn her ears and nose in that direction. But now, hours later, both she and the dog were flagging. Hunger and fatigue were taking their toll. Amanda had fashioned a sturdy walking stick, but, despite its support, she found herself slipping and stumbling on the uneven terrain.
Then her boot crashed through a patch of moss and she plunged knee-deep into swampy water. Thrown off balance, she fell hard against a rock. A sharp pain shot through her hip. Flailing and cursing, she dragged herself back onto solid ground, where she lay a moment to catch her breath. Kaylee, her paws black and her red coat matted with mud, whined and nuzzled close.
Amanda flexed her limbs and whispered a silent thank-you. Nothing was broken. She probed her sore hip through the slime and felt a soggy hole in her jeans. A small price to pay, she thought, until her fingers brushed something jagged and sharp. She pulled out her compass from her hip pocket. Stared at its smashed face and twisted needle.
Her breath quickened and a quiver of panic thrummed through her. It didn’t matter that the sun and stars would chart a guiding course and the ocean would always be to the east. She was back in Nigeria, scurrying through smoke-choked darkness, not knowing whether she was running south toward safety or north into the machine guns of killers.
She looked up at the sky through the lace of trees. Everywhere she looked, nothing but trees. Scraggly, twisted, almost ghostlike. High ridges pressed in on both sides, plunging the valley into near darkness, and not even the distant hiss of ocean surf was audible.
She was lost. Exhausted. Hungry. And now finally, afraid.
She struggled to sit and leaned against a tree to collect herself. She heard her therapist’s voice in her head. Don’t fight the fear, don’t run from it. You’re afraid. Ride with it, ride through it. Deep breaths. Let it float with you.
Bit by bit, her pulse slowed and her terror receded. She took a long breath and refocused on the present. In her head, she conjured up her topographical map. She knew that she was between Conche and Grandois, and that Phil’s boat was somewhere south of Windy Point, which was about midway. However, a large bay lay between Windy Point and Grandois, with the odd little French colonial village of Croque at the end of it.
She had not seen a trace of Croque on her wanderings, so she must still be south of the bay. But how far south? Had she backtracked so far that she was now far south of Windy Point? To her untrained eye, every little inlet and point on the shoreline looked like every other. Even if she could find the ocean again, she wouldn’t know which direction to head.
Crushing fatigue weighed her down. She just wanted to sleep. Surely it was foolish, even dangerous, to continue the search without a rest. She risked plunging down a ravine or getting sucked into a bog. She should find a dry patch of land, build a shelter of spruce boughs, eat a little more of her energy bar, and rest until morning.
She was just closing her eyes when a low rumble bubbled in Kaylee’s throat. Amanda’s eyes flew open. In the distance, she heard crashing in the underbrush. Twigs snapped like gunshots. She pulled Kaylee to her and raised her walking stick, wishing she had something more formidable.
“Tyler!” she called.
A grunt. More thrashing. Thundering. Thankfully receding. Soon there was nothing but the creak of the trees in the wind. Kaylee and Amanda pressed together, trembling. Adrenaline coursed through her. No, she thought as she hauled herself to her feet, I have to keep going. I have to find the goddamn ocean and figure out where my boat is. So I can go get the personnel and supplies to launch a proper search.
A frightened little boy is out there, and every moment counts.
Chapter Sixteen
The