As the computer came to life, the cursor blinked stubbornly in the password box. Amanda tried the usual suspects — Password, his son’s name, his wife’s name, even her own — before typing in Nigeria. Nothing. Passwords were supposed to be memorable and unique. What could be more so than Nigeria? She cast about, mystified. Typed in the name of the village, and finally Alaji, the name of the boy who had died in his arms that last night.
Bingo. An array of icons opened up before her. She clicked on his email account and watched the messages flash across the screen as they downloaded. Dozens of emails from charities and businesses, Facebook and Twitter updates, the usual clutter of banal correspondence from cyberspace. She scrolled through the trivia in search of gems. There were emails from herself, of course, and from the RCMP cop Chris Tymko, whom Jason had spoken to. None of the messages in the past two days had been answered, or even opened.
Among the emails were replies from several campgrounds and one boat tour, but these were over a week old. She spread out her map on the quilt beside her to check locations. Phil had apparently been exploring options as far away as the Avalon Peninsula to the east and the Great Northern Peninsula to the west. No bookings had been yet made, but at least as of a week ago, Phil had still been planning their camping trip.
Frustrated, she checked his Internet search history and was surprised to discover it had been cleared. She knew people who cleared their search history every hour, but they were paranoid people living in dangerous places, exploring information that could get them killed. Had Phil brought his paranoia home with him, which was entirely possible, or had he wanted to erase his trail for a reason?
She knew that cyber detectives could still find the footprints he was trying to erase, but she had no such skill. Her vision blurred with fatigue and her eyelids threatened to close. Pouring herself another glass of wine, she set aside the laptop in favour of Phil’s cellphone.
This time the password was easy to crack — the same boy, who even after a year obviously loomed larger in Phil’s thoughts than his own family. Phil had never talked about him. He had simply thrust his body aside and raced to the children who were still waiting. Cowering. Hoping. It had been a long night.
The cellphone was synced to the laptop, so she ignored the emails and went directly to the history of his phone calls. Besides the calls and texts from herself and from Sheri, three texts stood out. Two received, one sent. All dated three days ago, just before she’d stopped hearing from him.
All to or from Jason Maloney.
She read the first, which was an invitation from Jason to get together for a beer. The next was from Phil asking when and where. The third named the place, a bar that Amanda remembered passing on the way into Grand Falls. Seven o’clock in the evening, three days ago.
Funny that Jason never mentioned a word of this.
She was tempted to drop by the bar to find out whether the two had actually met and whether any of their conversation had been overheard. But the pillows and the silky duvet drew her down into them, and she found she couldn’t budge. Not a single muscle obeyed her. So she slipped naked between the cool cotton sheets and fell asleep.
Chapter Four
Tuesday dawned blustery and cold, reminding Newfoundland that summer was an elusive and fickle partner in the yearly dance of seasons. On the western coast, a deluge battered the seaside coves, but inland in Deer Lake, it was reduced to a chilly drizzle.
The kind of weather Corporal Chris Tymko hated. As a boy from the prairies, he was used to endless summer days of wide-open blue sky punctuated by fierce thunderstorms that rolled across the flat lands like a freight train. In his previous posting up north, he’d learned to cope with violent, changeable storms and long months of darkness and snow, but Newfoundland seemed on the collision course between massive celestial forces. Humid warmth from the south and gales from the Arctic swirled over the knobby outcrop of rock, dumping snow, rain, and sleet, sometimes all at once.
Roads could turn slick in an instant, hurling cars into ditches and knocking power out for miles. Chris arrived at the Deer Lake detachment early for his morning shift, hoping to use the extra minutes to check for news on Phil Cousins before the duties of the day began. Thoughts of Phil had intruded on his sleep several times during the night, and although there had been no reassuring phone call from Jason Maloney that morning, Chris hoped for some information in the routine police chatter. Not knowing Jason very well, he didn’t know whether the man would afford him the courtesy of a phone call, especially after the argument they’d had. Jason was a local Newfoundlander from Corner Brook, and he’d been known to use his connections and credibility to hog the upper hand in an investigation. But Chris figured that on his own home turf of Saskatchewan, he would act the same. Canada was a big and disparate place, full of regional suspicions and loyalties.
As he made a dash through the puddles to the station, he steeled himself for half a dozen reports of traffic accidents that would send him and his team out on the road again. Fortunately the dispatch centre was quiet, giving him time to power up his computer and finish his coffee while he perused the daily updates and alerts for news on Phil.
Nothing, nothing, nothing.
He looked up at the rivulets of rain trickling down the window, matching his bleak mood. Phil was one of the few true friends he’d made since being transferred here from Fort Simpson last spring. Not a work buddy, but a friend in spirit. Not only did they share an outsider Prairie farm-boy identity, but they also shared a love of salmon fishing and country music. And in the languid hours spent together with rod and reel, they’d discovered a deeper tie — wounds of self-doubt and loss that would take a lifetime to heal. Rarely talked about, but understood through a glance or a small, sad smile.
Chris knew that Phil’s wound was much deeper and his self-doubt threatened to overpower him some days. He also knew the danger of trying to soldier on while keeping the truth hidden. Until abruptly a line is crossed and brains are blown all over the wall of the house.
If that happened, there would be no warning, no words of goodbye or regret. The most Phil might do is to go far away where those brains would not be found by the woman who had already endured more from him than she should.
If so, why had he taken his son with him?
Chris poured himself a second cup of coffee. His hand hovered over the phone as he debated whether or not to phone Jason. The man was a straight, linear thinker who took people at face value. Phil had told him he wanted to bond with his son, so as far as Jason was concerned, that’s what he was doing. Unlike himself, Jason rarely had any self-doubts.
Even when he should.
Chris withdrew his hand as a surge of anger took hold. Jason was the last person who would admit to worrying about Phil. As Chris sipped his coffee, the outer station door opened and his colleague Ralph from the night shift swept through in a swirl of cold and rain. He shook off his mackintosh and hung it by the door before coming through to the interior. Chris looked up, relieved to be rescued from his thoughts.
“Anything going on out there?” Chris asked.
“Fender-benders. One accident on the 430 near Norris Point, but no major injuries. I sent Hollis up to handle it. Otherwise —” he grinned “— nothing on your watch so far but paperwork and highway patrol.” He nodded his head toward Chris’s computer screen. “Did you read about the poor bastards spotted in a dinghy off the coast below Goose Cove?”
“Jesus! Wouldn’t want to be caught out in that storm, especially in a dinghy. Kids? A fisherman in trouble?”
Ralph