‘They’ve managed to cover the whole of the south sector since yesterday.’ He pointed to a heavily annotated map of Forillon Park on his desk. ‘They’ve been down the coast from Grande-Grave to L’Anse-Aux-Amérindiens cove and up to the campground at Petit-Gaspé. In between, it’s steep and hilly, so they can’t get everywhere, but they’re making good progress. The park rangers put out a call for help to people with season passes, because they know the trails. They’re doing a good job. This morning they’ve split up into teams. There’s one covering the area south towards Land’s End, another that’s set off across the headland to Cap-Bon-Ami, and a third that’s gone up towards Petit-Gaspé and Angel’s house. People in Cap-aux-Os are searching their village too.’
Simone Lord touched a finger to the map. ‘Our Zodiacs are trawling the coast, and the park rangers and SQ officers have boats out there too. The search and rescue aircraft—’
Suddenly, a shrill voice rang out above all the others from the main office area. Simone turned in surprise, tiptoed towards the door and glanced out into the corridor.
Lefebvre took Moralès by the arm. ‘Quick, come with me.’
Leaving Simone to her own devices – she had turned her back on them, anyway – the constable crouched and ran with his head low to the far end of the corridor. Moralès followed suit. His reflexes kicking in, the detective flattened himself against the wall and dropped a hand to his holster.
Lefebvre waved at him to stop. ‘Whoa, don’t get carried away!’
‘What’s happening?’
‘Oh, it’s only Dotrice paying us a visit.’
‘Who the heck is Dotrice?’
Lefebvre motioned for Moralès to stay quiet and pulled him to the shelter of an emergency exit around the corner. ‘She’s a woman who lives in Cap-des-Rosiers.’
‘What’s she doing here?’
‘She sees things.’
‘What kind of things?’
Lefebvre kept peeking into the corridor. ‘Every time we’re working a big case, she shows up and tells us she’s seen something.’
‘And has she usually seen something?’
‘Of course, she’s a clairvoyant.’
Moralès burst out laughing. Major investigations did tend to draw a medium or two out of the woodwork. ‘How does she get into the station?’
‘Ah, Thérèse is such a free spirit. Don’t ask me how she runs the front desk.’
Moralès followed Lefebvre out through the emergency exit. ‘Where does Angel moor the Close Call II, then?’ he asked.
‘Simone said she had a mooring at the wharf in Grande-Grave. That’s down the south end of Forillon. Look…’ Lefebvre wedged a rock in the door frame, tiptoed around to the east side of the building and pointed across to the north shore of Gaspé Bay. ‘Over there. Want to see it for yourself?’
‘Yes.’
‘Take the bridge, keep going on Highway 132, and keep right at the T-junction. The wharf is about six or seven kilometres further on. It’s inside the national park. There’s a barrier on the road, but it’ll be open today. Anyway, the park rangers will let you through if you tell them you’re investigating Angel’s disappearance. Grande-Grave is a historic site. You’ll drive down from the road into the parking area. There’s a wharf there, but the boats moor up at the wooden dock just behind.
‘OK.’
‘I’ll go back inside to create a diversion. See you later!’
The box of pots and pans was still sitting shamefully on a corner of the kitchen counter. It occurred to Sébastien that cooking vessels weren’t the only things he’d been piling one on top of the other. He’d been doing the same with his tall tales. On his third sip of coffee, he walked over to the telescope in the bay window. What was he supposed to be looking for, exactly? And how was he going to explain it to the old fisherman?
He thought the Baie-des-Chaleurs was pretty, but not as spectacular as the St Lawrence. Here, he could see the coast of New Brunswick across the water, where the Acadian Peninsula began to narrow the entrance to the bay. But the St Lawrence around Rimouski seemed to open up and stretch on forever, like an ocean. He had never been all the way to the end of the Gaspé Peninsula. He had no idea what beauty awaited him there.
Sébastien looked out across the bay and saw a flock of Arctic terns circling a patch of turbulent water. There must be a shoal of fish down there, he thought. The birds were dancing in the sky, sending flashes of light with every flap of their grey-tinged wings before tucking them tight and diving like darts into the sea, smashing the surface and sending up spectacular splashes as they plunged for a split second then resurfaced with a shake of their feathers. Their catches weighing them down, they struggled to take flight again before soaring away to the south.
Sébastien’s phone vibrated. Her again. Maude. He kept the device in his hand until it stopped buzzing.
He was looking at the sea, but what was he supposed to observe? He tried to take it all in. A westerly breeze rippled the surface into a rumpled silk sheet that soon ironed itself out. He peered into the telescope again. Suddenly the sun came out and the sea was dazzling, a carpet of shimmering gold coins stretching all the way to the horizon. Sébastien squinted and took two steps back. The view was making him dizzy. He closed his eyes for a moment. The sun disappeared behind a dark cloud. The wind began to pick up, and the swell started to roll. Soon the fog drifted in to settle over the water, and the window was a mirror reflecting his ghostly image: left hand holding the coffee mug, right hand gripping the phone like a buoy that was slowly taking on water and sinking, dragging him down with it.
Sébastien turned away and put some music on. He cranked up the volume to flush himself out of this mess, hoping the rhythm of Orishas would drown the sound of his own voice in his mind. But the Cuban hip-hop did more than that and he soon felt his knees softening up and his hips swaying side to side. He tried to tell himself he wasn’t running away.
Sébastien finished his coffee. He was hungry now. Of course, he could mess around with his pots and pans, but since his father wasn’t here, he figured the culinary experiments could wait. Forcing yourself to play the game when there was no one to watch was a bit like putting on a cheery clown costume right before bedtime. He decided to go to the bistro in the village for an early lunch. After that, he’d walk down to the fisherman’s house. Doing his father a favour made him feel like less of an idiot. Less ashamed. He pulled his jacket on and was just about to head out, but stopped short of opening the door. What was he going to tell Cyrille Bernard? The phone buzzed in his hand again. He glanced at the screen. It was Maude, again. He buried the phone in his pocket, went back into the living room, peered into the telescope again and swept the dense layer of fog on the horizon. Two container ships. That was it.
Moralès drove into the parking area behind the wharf. Down the far end, a couple of kayak-rental and diving-school shacks stood nestled at the foot of a tree-lined cliff. To the southeast, a wooden wharf and dock reached out into the little cove of Grande-Grave, which opened up into Gaspé Bay. As he got out of the car, Moralès noticed a pickup truck parked facing the sea by the dock, at which he saw the Close Call II was moored. He was striding towards it when his phone rang. A quick glance at the screen told him someone at the police station in Gaspé was calling. Now wasn’t the time to take a phone call. A man was carrying things off the lobster trawler and onto the wharf. Moralès could see an oilskin jacket, a blanket, a backpack and a cool box.
There was no need for him to hurry, because the man had seen him and was waiting with an outstretched hand.