“According to our information, she went into the wilderness voluntarily and Mr. Casey here says she’s well equipped.”
“Except most of her supplies are still in her boat,” Casey interrupted.
“But she has access to them, and her boat is in working order. Her whereabouts and safety are not a concern at the moment.” The constable flushed, as if even he could hear the cop bafflegab. He spread his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Look, we’re stretched as thin as a poor man’s soup on this one. We’ve got air surveillance, officers on all the highways, Border Enforcement at all the ports … I’m betting Miss Doucette steams back in here by this afternoon, but if she’s still not here by nightfall, maybe Incident Command will call out the ERT team to search for her.”
Chris’s mind raced. Amanda had been adamant that Phil would never hurt her, indeed would never hurt anyone. But how could anyone be sure? He marched up the hill to the command truck, where he found the newly arrived critical incident commander, Sergeant Noseworthy, setting up maps and communications equipment. Noseworthy was a tall, cadaverous woman with cropped grey hair and a tight slash of a mouth, which pulled down in disapproval when he requested permission to help in the search.
“Sergeant Amis informed me of your involvement, Corporal, and also of your personal friendship with the suspect,” she said in a deep, smoke-ravaged voice. “So you can’t help.”
“Would you authorize a civilian ground SAR operation to search for Amanda Doucette? I can coordinate that.”
The woman turned back to continue sorting cables. “That seems premature,” she said in a dismissive tone. “And I won’t put civilians in harm’s way with an armed suspect potentially loose in the area.”
Chris sensed the dead end. “Then let me at least look for her myself. I’m concerned for her welfare. I have a boat and I’d like to go up the coast to check on her situation.”
“No.”
“But the suspect is probably in St. Anthony or beyond by now. You said so yourself.”
The sergeant turned back to study him. Her blue eyes were unwavering. “The Emergency Response Team is on its way, and they’ll take charge of the search. I don’t want you in the way, Corporal.”
“I’m dressed civilian. I’ll look like a fisherman out in a skiff.” He could see her calculating. “At least I can contribute some help, ma’am, until ERT is up to speed.”
She scowled. “Strictly on your own reconnaissance. And get your ass back down here by noon.”
Chris hid his smile. “Thank you, ma’am. But can I have a radio and a sat phone so I can communicate what I find?”
“I would insist on it.”
As he fought his way up the coast, Chris kept a close eye on boat traffic, hoping to spot Amanda on her way back to port. The weather was picking up, and a fierce wind threatened to blow him onto the rocks. The sky was a swirl of blue and grey, and the ocean was an angry chop that tossed his boat around like a cork. He clutched the gunwales and the tiller with all his might, trying to steer into the waves to avoid being swamped. Despite his best efforts, spray drenched his rain suit and splashed into the bottom of the boat.
The salt stung his eyes, causing him to squint to make out the shore through the surf, which shot plumes of white spray into the air. Birds wheeled overhead, eager for fish.
After more than an hour battling the sea, he was passing a stretch of black rock when a flash of colour caught his eye. The waves curled back, gathering force for another assault, and in that brief lull, he saw the red-and-white hull of a boat. He steered toward shore cautiously, afraid that his boat would be dashed on the rocks. As he drew closer, he could make out not one but two boats lying side by side. Spotting a small sliver of inlet, he threaded his boat through it and leaped out into the shallow water to drag the vessel safely up on the sand. He was panting by the time he had wrestled it free of the undertow.
After tying his boat to a sturdy bush, he clambered along the slippery shore to inspect the two boats, one of which had a gaping hole in its splintered hull. Amanda’s boat was intact and secured to a bush on the shore. Both lay beached at the high-water mark.
He knew the others had searched her boat that morning, but he did so again in the hope they had missed a crucial clue. She had left most of her supplies back in Conche, as if she had intended this to be a brief trip; yet that had been two days ago.
Under the front seat he found a dry sack containing locator beacons, an emergency blanket, and a change of clothes. A chill ran through him. Why would she have left all this in the boat? What had happened to her?
He scanned the shore and the grey forest, hoping to find a clue to her direction. The coast was nearly impassable, for the slippery crags and gullies would challenge the nimblest mountain goat. Inland, the tuckamore wove a twisted, nearly impenetrable wall. He approached, looking for even the tiniest tear in its weave. Finally he found a small, cave-like hole into a path of soft red needles.
He crouched in the opening and cupped his hands around his mouth to call her name. The wind snatched his words and scattered them. “Useless,” he muttered, ducking into the ghostly labyrinth of spindly grey trees. As he fought his way forward, he studied the ground for signs of disturbance. He thought he detected swirls and scuffs in the needle floor, but it was some distance before he found a clear paw print in the damp sand. He examined it carefully. A coyote or fox? Was he on a fool’s errand, following the well-worn path of local animals on their way to the rich tidal pools at the ocean’s edge?
Then a very man-made flash of orange caught his eye. A moment later he was staring at the blood-stained lifejacket, his heart pounding. Horror slammed through him.
“Amanda!” he screamed. Over and over. Up ahead, a faint path twisted and wove through the dense trees. He stumbled on, thrashing, sweating, and terrified. “Please, please let her be safe,” he whispered, pausing every few minutes to catch his breath and call her name.
It was then, as he sifted the silence of the forest, that he spotted the poorly fashioned hiding place. He tore away the spruce boughs and boulders and swept the dirt from the pallid face.
Fell back on his heels, tears welling.
Chapter Nineteen
Amanda had almost given up by the time they finally caught a fish, a mid-sized brook trout that flashed silver and gold in the murky water of the pond. Even Tyler summoned the energy to cheer as he came down to join her on the water’s edge. The expression of hope on his pinched face made all the frustrations of the day worthwhile.
When she’d found him the night before, Tyler had been subsisting on berries and roots for four days. He was almost beyond reacting. Pale, chilled, and traumatized, he had dug himself into a protective lair and prepared to die. He had not spoken a word or shed a tear when she enveloped him in her arms. She had spent the evening trying to coax him back to life with a roaring fire, hot berry tea with willow bark, some boiled roots, and the last of her power bar. When darkness came, she had drawn him and Kaylee close to her in the shelter of his lair and whispered words of hope in his ear.
“Tomorrow morning we’ll catch some fish and have a real barbeque, and once we get our strength back, we’re going to find the ocean.”
He had not answered, but she felt his limp fingers tighten slightly in hers. The next morning he slept so late that she feared he was truly ill. She had time to build the fire back up to a good blaze, pick more berries and willow, and drink two mugs of hot tea before he finally opened his eyes. He stared at her a long time without speaking, but his gaze was clear. He’s not ill, she thought with a rush of relief, just exhausted. After days of grief and terror, he had finally collapsed.
He was taller, thinner, and more angular than she remembered, and his blue eyes were bruised with defeat, but the rakish cowlick over his forehead reminded her of his devil-may-care father. As they shared berries and tea, she made