Amanda Doucette Mystery 3-Book Bundle. Barbara Fradkin
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creates a balance of sorts until a turf war erupts.”
Chris had been born in farm country and had had remote rural postings, so he had only a third-hand grasp of the urban gang culture. But power and poverty were a toxic mix in isolated communities as well. “Is that what happened?”
Matthew shrugged. “In essence. The turf being as much of that unstable, exploited part of Africa as the so-called rebels could capture. Some petty thug pumped up on half-baked jihadi rhetoric and supplied by the international arms market decides to take control of a remote corner of the country. It’s not difficult. Kidnap or behead a few villagers, issue death threats to others, bribe some underpaid officials and give a bunch of kids an AK-47, a paycheque, and a cause. And suddenly you’re the new Somebody. And don’t forget the power of YouTube in spreading the news.”
“So are there no good guys?”
Matthew bobbed his head ruefully. “Sorry, I’ve been on the ground too long. I don’t mean to characterize all reformers as venal and self-serving, and or to make light of the situation. Not the struggles the locals endure nor the dangers these jihadist groups pose. Nor indeed of the suffering of aid workers like Amanda and Phil, who are just trying to help the people. Amanda and Phil were both working on the education side — setting up classrooms, designing curriculum the kids could actually relate to — stuff we take for granted over here. Education, health, and a sustainable economy will go a long way toward combatting the power and appeal of these groups. That’s why the groups are so adamantly opposed to it.”
Chris mulled this over. It seemed impossibly complex and far away, although he’d seen similar struggles on a smaller scale in the Native communities in the north and west. At least in those communities, jihadist extremism had not taken hold.
He leaned forward. “My friend Phil seemed to be tormented that he hadn’t done more. That he hadn’t seen the danger signs ahead of time and hadn’t saved the kidnapped boys.”
Matthew’s eyes grew flat. “He couldn’t have saved them. Their own security guards, some barely more than kids themselves, betrayed them and joined the attack. Got a better offer, no doubt, or one they couldn’t refuse. But on top of that, one of the boys Phil did try to save — a kid almost the same age as his son, who had shown real promise as a student — was among those they killed, to show that no one should mess with them.”
Chris felt sick. He pictured Phil as he’d last seen him, clowning and playing with the local kids at a winter fun day. Phil had organized a three-legged snowshoe race that had everyone collapsing in the snow in laughter. What did it cost him to keep that awful memory at bay?
“What about Amanda? Your newspaper article just touched on her ordeal superficially. Something about trying to smuggle a group of girls to safety in a neighbouring village.”
“Right. At the time, they were afraid the girls were the kidnap target, not the boys, because of the Boko Haram kidnapping earlier. It turns out this time they wanted boys, to be child soldiers or suicide bombers. Not that it mattered. The girls would have been raped, sold, or killed either way. But …” Matthew broke off, pressing his lips tight as if to stifle the words.
“I know she didn’t succeed. What happened?”
Matthew shook his head. Thrust his empty beer bottle away and reached down to pick up his bags. “It’s not my story to tell. If Amanda wants you to know, she’ll tell you. Meanwhile I’ve got a car seat to squeeze into.”
Chris noticed a faint red flush creeping up Matthew’s neck. Over his years as a cop, he’d become adept at guessing the reasons for evasion, but the reporter stymied him. Matthew had been so free with his information about Phil, so why had he clammed up when it touched Amanda? Had the failure and the shame been all Amanda’s, or had Matthew been complicit in some way? Or was there a more personal reason?
“Look,” he said on impulse as Matthew hauled himself to his feet. “I’m staying at the inn here and there’s a spare bed in my room. You’re welcome to it. Beats a Ford Fiesta hands down.”
Chapter Eighteen
As he manoeuvred his boat back into Conche Harbour the next morning, Chris scanned the village in vain for signs of Amanda. The streets were awash in official vehicles and trailers as the full force of the investigation descended on the little place. The RCMP forensics van had arrived, and the mobile incident command was parked at the top of the hill, its roof bristling with antennae and satellites. Trailers and trucks crowded Harbour Drive, and as Chris was securing his boat to the wharf, a Zodiac from the Integrated Border Enforcement Team chugged into the harbour. At the front, a civilian in typical fisherman’s garb was uncoiling a rope, and in the stern, he could see two Mounties conferring. When the civilian leaped ashore to secure the boat, Chris recognized him as Casey and hurried over to intercept him.
“Any news on Phil Cousins?”
Casey hesitated, glancing over his shoulder toward the officers.
“Here, let me give you a hand.” Chris grabbed a tie rope and lowered his voice. “Did you see anything? Phil? Amanda?”
“We was up toward Croque, checking out that report you got of a boat washed up.” He paused. “We found it. Two boats, in fact. The first one was that old boat we leaves in the back harbour to go across to the cape —”
“You mean the one we thought Phil had taken over to Stink’s place. That we saw swamped with water?”
“Well now, we don’t know that for sure. We saw some wreckage, das all.”
“Okay, okay. What about the other boat?”
The two officers had jumped ashore and were coming their way. Casey gripped Chris’s elbow to lead him up the road. “The other one was Thaddeus’s boat that he lent Amanda.”
Chris sucked in a sharp breath. “Any sign of Amanda?”
“None. Not Phil, not Amanda. Now the old boat had a hole in her side, but Amanda’s was fine. Motor still working and everything.”
“So she went ashore to search. Maybe she thought Phil was in the other boat.”
Casey shrugged. “You knows a woman’s mind. But these fellas here —” he jerked his head toward the officers behind them, one of whom Chris recognized as Constable Bradley “— they’re after looking for Stink’s boat, not that leaky old runabout. Stink’s boat was spotted a couple of days ago, racing up the coast toward St. Anthony. The boys had a look around, but I told them there’s nudding but mountains and ponds and tuckamore in there. No roads or trails to anywhere. Nowhere for Phil to escape if he went ashore there. Anyways, they think he was using Stink’s boat, which is stronger and faster.”
“What?” Chris spun around to intercept Constable Bradley as he came down the wharf. “But how did that little boat get there?”
“Well, sir …” The constable looked sheepish. “Incident Command thinks maybe Cousins towed it up there and ditched it to throw us off.”
Chris stared at him. Laughed in spite of himself. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Or else the little boat drifted there by itself.”
Standing opposite, Casey rolled his eyes. “Some feat, that.”
Bradley nodded in wry agreement. “Anyway, Stink’s boat was spotted on the ocean a couple of days ago, so IC thinks he’s probably in St. Anthony by now, if not gone to the mainland already. Not slogging through the bush.”
Chris gave up arguing the point. “But what about Amanda Doucette? She’s been missing for two days now.”
Casey snorted. “They’re some mad at her, Jesus b’y.”
“Are they sending anyone back up there to look for her?”
The constable looked around as if hoping for an escape route. “We don’t have the manpower, sir. Incident Command says the priority