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 drained the dregs of coffee from the carafe, scowling at the sludge in his cup. “No self-respecting Newfoundlander would be out there in a dinghy. Half-brained tourists, more likely. Come up from Florida or over from Europe and think what’s a little wind and waves? They won’t last half an hour in that cold if they swamp.”
Chris scrolled through the alerts again. The one about the dinghy had come in at 7:00 a.m., barely past dawn, but to his surprise it had originated not from the detachment in St. Anthony closest to Goose Cove, but from RCMP headquarters in St. John’s. He unfolded his long body and walked over to study the map on the wall. Goose Cove was near the very northernmost tip of the Great Northern Peninsula, where it jutted into the fierce and unpredictable currents of the North Atlantic, and where the warmer currents coming up the Strait of Belle Isle collided with the frigid water coming down the coast of Labrador from the Arctic Ocean. The strait served as one pathway for the St. Lawrence River on its race to the open ocean, and even he knew that the clash of temperatures, tides, and currents could create a wild sea.
For a moment he felt a twinge of fear. Phil was not a Newfoundlander born to read the language of the sea, but he’d gone in search of wild surf and whales. Would he be fool enough to venture out in a dinghy?
“Why is HQ involved?” he asked.
Ralph was fiddling with the coffee, measuring and pouring a new pot. He shrugged. “Some border-security issue. The fisherman who called it in thought the occupants might be smugglers.”
“Smugglers? What the hell would they be smuggling off the northern tip of Newfoundland?” Chris looked outside. The rain was slamming against the windows now, rattling like buckshot on a tin roof. “How could the fisherman see anything in this, anyway?”
“Well, that’s the thing. Acted suspicious, he said. He says he went out in his boat to help but when they saw him, they took off out to sea.”
“They? How many?”
“Four or five. Way too many for the size of the boat.”
Chris felt a wash of relief. Not Phil! “That could mean anything. Maybe they had illegal fish in the boat. Or maybe they thought he was up to no good. They could have been tourists who never set foot out of the city. We used to get that up north too. People from Japan or Europe eager to see the wilderness, but with no idea how wild and empty it really is. Probably thought they could just dial 911 on their cellphones.”
“Except when help was offered, these guys headed the other way. That’s what’s got HQ in a knot. So the coastal detachments are on alert to keep their eyes and ears open. It’s gone out on the Internet, TV, and radio too, so the locals will be keeping an eye out.” Ralph poured his fresh coffee, pried
