analysis, which he tried to remember now. If Stink had been struck more than once, there would be transfer blood from the axe to the walls and ceiling. Chris studied the spatter. It did indeed run in a single streak up one wall and across the ceiling, as if the killer had raised the axe over his head for a second blow. On closer examination, he found another streak near the door, where there was also a large pool of congealed blood.
Chris tried to picture the sequence. He was no expert, but it appeared that Stink had been struck at least three times as he moved toward the door. He had not been in bed, at least when the second blow had struck, but rather in the middle of the room, and the killer had been standing with the axe in the kitchen area. Stink had been nearer the door when the third blow struck. This one had felled him and he’d bled for quite awhile before getting up and escaping outside.
There were a lot of smears, but only one recognizable bloody footprint near the door. Likely Stink’s, but given the quantity of blood on the floor, maybe the killer had stepped in it.
That would be one lucky break for forensics.
Outside, there were scuffs and footprints criss-crossing the clearing, but Chris could make little sense of them. He checked the shed, which contained very little. A shovel, a winch, some cable, lots of broken old tools, a bag of seed, a few gardening tools, and pots stacked away on shelves. No rifle.
He headed back down to the shore to check the fishing stage, holding his nose as he stepped inside. In the gloom, he saw piles of rotted old netting, rusty tackle gear, several broken fishing rods, and paddles. A stack of lobster traps and crab pots, a couple of functional fishing rods, but still no Winchester.
Chris sat down on the dock to think. Sometimes the clue to a crime lay not in what was there, but what was not. The boat and gun were both gone. But also missing were blankets and clothes. Stink must have had a winter jacket, hat, and mitts, but there was no sign of them.
There was also no food. Stink could have been running out, which explained why he was so thin, but it was unlikely he had nothing, not even the usual staples like canned beans, dried capelin, or hard tack. Nor, Chris realized now, had he seen any matches. Without matches, a homesteader would be doomed.
Chris didn’t like the conclusion that he was staring at — that the killer had taken it all. Quite a lot to haul unless you have a boat to put it in. And why? It was sure to be worthless old junk, useful only if you needed those things — blankets, clothes, food — to survive. If you were on the run and had left most of your gear behind.
Don’t even think it, he told himself. Just listen for Casey’s boat.
Chapter Thirteen
After her phone call to Corporal Willington, Amanda lingered awhile inside Casey’s house studying her topographical map and trying to imagine where Phil might have gone. Conche was tucked into the protected inner nook of a gourd-shaped peninsula, with a long, thin neck connecting it to the mainland. On the other side of the thin neck was the back harbour and another, larger, cape jutting out into the ocean. Stink’s homestead was on that cape, but the map showed a few other homesteads as well, before the vast emptiness of rugged, barren wilderness to the north. Only three roads ran through the wilderness, the middle one to Conche, an upper one to the coastal settlements of Croque and Grandois, and a lower to the town of Englee farther south. Below Englee, there were no roads into the interior at all.
If Phil were on foot, rather than in a boat as the others believed, he could wander the wilderness for days without seeing or being seen by a soul.
But what if he’d taken Stink’s boat? Far out in the ocean were the two large islands that the villagers in Grandois had mentioned. They were deserted now except for birds and the occasional adventurer. Phil had expressed an interest, but to get out there, he would have to cross twenty or thirty kilometres of open ocean swells. Surely too daunting a prospect for a Prairie boy.
Galvanized, she rolled up her maps and strode back down the harbour to Casey’s wharf, where the man was readying the engine on his spare boat for Chris. Endlessly patient, fingers black with grease.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “This is turning out to be much more adventure than you were looking for.”
He still looked a little green, but he managed a shrug. “Least I can do for poor Old Stink. Did Willie say how long before he gets here?”
Willie, she guessed, was Corporal Willington. “He left about twenty minutes ago. Said he’d be an hour, tops.”
Casey nodded. “Good. Might be she needs a new motor.”
Amanda eyed the little skiff. Compared to the assortment of semi-buoyant junk heaps she’d used in developing countries, this one looked impeccable, although perhaps it dated from the First World War. She pictured Phil and Tyler all alone out on the ocean, piloting an unfamiliar boat in a cold, alien sea. Where would he go? Back up the coast toward the safety of the small coastal villages? Or down the coast into the wilderness farther south?
“What kind of boat did Old Stink have?” she asked.
Casey rolled his eyes. “He’s had dat boat going on sixty years. Sixteen-foot dory, used to row ’er until he put a fifteen-horsepower outboard on ’er.”
“Does it have a cabin on it?”
“Oh no, my dear, it’s just a dory. Like dat one.” He pointed to a boat lying on the grass, its hull gouged and its white paint scraped off. “Stink never went far out to sea with ’er. Mostly in the bay and around the head.”
“Is it seaworthy, though?”
He shrugged. “Depends. Water’s calm, you couldn’t ask for a better boat. They’ll all swamp in a good blow. But Stink’s boat, now, the motor has a mind of her own. She’ll cut out on you if you look at her wrong, especially in a headwind. Doesn’t like the waves.”
Amanda could see that the wind was picking up, rippling over the ocean and through the long shore grass. Would Phil know enough to keep the boat going? Overseas, they had both learned how to keep the most cantankerous of generators and trucks running and the most precarious of boats afloat. Phil could read river patterns and monsoon skies, but he knew nothing about the oceans, the tides, or the bruised black clouds of an incoming Atlantic storm.
Casey had been watching her, his expression softening. “Your friend likely won’t get far. If he pushes ’er over ten knots, she’ll quit on him. Mind you, if he heads south to Englee, he could go up Canada Bay to Roddickton. He could go by road from there.”
“How long would that take?”
“No more than three to four hours, even in Stink’s boat. And he’d be out of the ocean swell.”
Too many options! Amanda thought with dismay. Phil’s truck was still stranded here in the village, of course, but in his desperate state, that wouldn’t stop him. He knew how to hot-wire just about any vehicle, and most of the locals left their keys in their trucks anyway.
“Speak of the devil,” Casey said, jerking his thumb toward the road. Amanda turned to see an official RCMP vehicle from Roddickton crest the hill and began to curve down toward the centre of the village. Amanda and Casey watched as it slowed to a stop in front of the pier. Willington and a young woman piled out, along with an impossibly young-looking constable.
Willington gave Amanda a quick nod before turning to Casey. “Anything new
