raised her head to scan the dark, silent forest. “Tyler!” she shouted over and over. No answer. But the find had galvanized her. She was on the right track! Tyler had been here and was perhaps less than half a kilometre away, scared to reveal himself.
“Tyler, it’s Amanda!” she called. Then she turned to Kaylee, who was looking up at her as if awaiting instructions.
“Good girl!” she exclaimed, stroking the dog’s head and gesturing ahead in the direction the footprints were leading. “Now go find it!”
With a flash of tail, the dog wheeled about and set off, as if she were playing her favourite game. Which she was.
Kaylee tracked more quickly than Amanda could, but from time to time Amanda called her back so that she could study the soil. Tyler — if indeed it was Tyler — had not chosen the least obstructed route along the water’s edge, but had headed into deep cover instead, slogging through the slippery moss and ferns of the dense forest. Rocks and deadfall lay in ambush to twist an ankle or wrench a knee. Amanda could see bits of moss ripped loose by his fleeing feet, and the deep, sinking holes left by his running shoe.
For the first time she felt hope. Hunger and fatigue evaporated. Kaylee understood the task and showed no hesitation or confusion. Although she’d never had any formal training in tracking, Amanda had often played the game of hide and seek with her, and now that silly game, designed to entertain and tire her out, was going to pay off.
Amanda moved as fast as she could through the rugged terrain, clambering over ridges and down ravines, sometimes on all fours to steady herself. At times she stopped to call to Tyler, and in the ensuing silence heard nothing but her own heartbeat thundering in her ears.
Until a faint report cracked the air. Two. Three. Kaylee froze, head up and ears flicking. Amanda had heard enough deer hunts in the Quebec countryside to recognize a rifle shot. Distant and indistinct, but enough to chill her blood. Kaylee was staring off to the right, where a boulder-strewn ridge blocked her view. Amanda called Kaylee to heel, her heart hammering as she crouched down to see what would happen next.
The forest was serene. No shouts, no screams of pain, not even the warning chatter of squirrels and birds. Silence. Convinced it had been a gunshot, she leashed Kaylee again as they inched cautiously forward. The dog had lost her concentration. Sensing her master’s fear and probably spooked by the shot herself, she moved forward aimlessly, her ears flattened and her shoulders hunched. Amanda rubbed her back and pointed to the ground.
“It’s okay, girl. Find it. Go get it, Kaylee.”
Kaylee’s nose was up, sifting the air instead of the scent on the ground. A growl began to bubble in her throat.
“Shh-h!” Amanda clamped her hand over the dog’s muzzle. Kaylee tore free and fought against Amanda’s restraining hand, pulling her forward. Her ears swivelled forward now and her whole body quivered. She moved low to the ground and dragged Amanda through the ferns toward the roots of an upturned tree. Amanda couldn’t see behind it and had no idea what dangers lay beyond. A bear? A coyote?
A killer aiming his rifle directly at her?
Kaylee was frantic with excitement. She tugged Amanda up over the rise, past a tangle of branches and around the huge root ball. Behind it, peeking out from the protection of his shivering arms, was Tyler.
Chapter Seventeen
When Chris walked in the front door of the Mayflower Inn in Roddickton that evening, a short, toad-like man was arguing with the clerk at the desk. He had a frayed canvas travel bag slung over his shoulder, a rumpled leather jacket, and a fedora tilted back on his head. Perspiration ran down from his temples.
“What do you mean, you’re fully booked? It’s almost the middle of September!”
“Moose-hunting season, sir. It starts tomorrow. We get hunters here from all over the east coast.”
Chris had walked by an entire row of heavy-duty pickup trucks parked outside and seen one small blue Ford Fiesta squeezed in the middle. Chris guessed it belonged to Mr. Fedora with the leather jacket.
“Moose-hunting. Jesus!” Mr. Fedora wiped the sweat from his face. “Is there any other place in town?”
The clerk smiled sympathetically. “There’s Betty’s, but she’s all full up too.”
“One small bed. It can be in a broom closet for all I care. I’ve had a long flight and then a long drive up from Deer Lake. I just need a place to crash and a good stiff drink. I’m heading to Conche in the morning, so I’ll be out of the broom closet at first light.”
Chris had been about to slip past, but the mention of Conche stopped him short. He sized the man up warily, noticing what looked like a camera bag and a laptop on the floor beside him. Press? And judging from the man’s accent, not the local Newfoundland press either. Had the vultures descended already?
“Well, you won’t find a place in Conche, either,” the clerk was saying. “It’s hardly larger than a broom closet itself.”
“I’m meeting a friend there, and she has a tent.” He shrugged ruefully and shifted his heavy bag to ease his shoulder. “I’ve slept in worse places.”
Chris approached the desk. Was this man trying to cozy up to Amanda? “Excuse me, sir,” he said, thinking fast. “But the police have sealed off Conche at the moment. There’s a major search being conducted in the area.”
“I know there is. My friend is right in the middle of it. Sealed off? Why?”
“Danger to the public, sir.”
“Danger to the —” Fedora broke off, his eyes narrowing. He looked Chris up and down. “Wait a minute. You’re a cop! You really think Phil Cousins is going to go around killing innocent bystanders, even if he did kill that old guy?”
Chris hid his surprise with an effort. Reporters intercepted police bulletins all the time, but the man’s choice of words suggested a more intimate knowledge. “May I see your identification, sir?”
Mr. Fedora looked about to protest, but seemed to think better of it, as if he knew the wisdom of staying on the good side of the cops. He dumped his bag on the floor and, from a thick stack of cards, he pulled out his Canadian Association of Journalists card and his driver’s licence, both of which Chris examined closely. Matthew Goderich, from a town in New Brunswick that Chris had never heard of. Likely little more than a crossroads and a few cows.
Then the name clicked into place.
“I’m a reporter,” Goderich said, “but I’m also a friend of Amanda Doucette and Phil Cousins. We’ve shared several … adventures together.”
“I know who you are, Mr. Goderich.” Chris held out his hand. “I’m Chris Tymko, also a friend of Phil and Amanda’s.”
Goderich arched his eyebrows as he gave Chris a moist, pudgy hand. “Not a cop? My instincts aren’t usually wrong.”
Chris smiled. “They’re not wrong. But I’m here off-duty, as a friend.”
“Ah. Then we have something in common.” Goderich sighed as he bent to pick up his bags. “Can we grab a drink somewhere? If I’m going to sleep in my car, I better
