The Fisherman

by Vaughn C. Hardacker

  “How did Cheryl support herself? She had to be getting money from someplace,” Bouchard asked.

  Wilson unclenched her hands and leaned toward Bouchard. The girl was obviously more at ease talking to her. Houston remained silent and let Anne carry on the interview. Once again, Wilson blushed and stared past them. When she spoke again, her voice was soft, barely audible. “She was . . .” Sarah looked like she had just swallowed something soft and hairy. “She was selling herself.”

  “She was a prostitute?” Bouchard inquired.

  “Yes.” Wilson exhaled as if they had lifted a great burden from her.

  8

  He balanced the tray with one hand, unlocked the door, and pushed it open with his foot. He walked into the room and ignored the caustic odor of feces and stale urine. He stopped at the foot of the bed and studied the emaciated old woman, who lay immobile staring off at nothing. The large down-filled pillows on which her head rested made her look frail and childlike. He waited for her to acknowledge his presence. When she did not, and he realized she was not going to, he said, “Good morning, Mum. I got your tea and oatmeal.”

  “When am I going to meet this new girlfriend?”

  “Soon, but first I got to get you cleaned up.”

  He placed the tray on a small table and then left the room. A few minutes later, he returned carrying a washcloth, a towel, and a basin of warm water.

  He sat on the bed and used a lightly scented soap to clean his mother. Once he finished bathing her, he pulled her forward and put a fresh nightgown on her, pulling it over her bony shoulders and lifting her until it fell down, covering her lower body. He kept his head averted during the entire process—looking at her only when he had to. It would be sinful for a son to see his mother unclothed. He placed her in an old Boston rocker and then changed the linen on her bed. Once the bed was in order, he placed her in it, fluffed her pillows, and propped her against them.

  “That should make you feel better. Here’s your breakfast.” He placed the tray on her lap and stood before her. When she ignored the food for several minutes, he sighed in frustration and squatted beside the bed, picked up the spoon, and began to feed her. “Come on, Mum, you got to eat. I made the maple flavored oatmeal you like so much.”

  He held the spoon under her nose, and when her mouth opened, he slipped it in. Her loose lips smacked, oatmeal and saliva dripped from the corner of her mouth, dribbling down her chin. He skillfully caught the gruel with a paper napkin before it fell on her gown. He held the cup of tea to her mouth, waited until the slurping sound of her drinking stopped, and then dabbed her chin clean. He repeated the process until she consumed half the bowl of mush and most of the tea and refused to open her mouth for him.

  The morning meal completed, he stood back and smiled at her. “It’s going to be a wonderful day, Mum. You sit here in the warm morning sunshine. I have to get to work now, but I’ll check back in a bit.”

  _________________

  Cheryl woke up. It took several seconds for her to remember where she was, but that was about all she knew. She had no idea how long she had been under his control; the days were a blur of agony and relentless nausea. Her body’s violent and painful reaction to going cold turkey had become bearable, but she still wanted a fix. Her skin was hypersensitive, and while her pain had lessened, the feel of the bedding touching her skin irritated her. Cheryl turned her head so she could see out the window and lay quiet, trying to figure a way out of her dilemma.

  She heard him enter a room other than hers and listened. He was talking, probably to the bitch that spawned him, but she was unable to make out his words. After a few minutes, she heard a key in her door, and she feigned sleep.

  As he crossed the room, the old hardwood floor creaked under his weight. The sound of his walking ceased, and Cheryl lay still, fighting the urge to sneak a look at what he was doing. Finally, he spoke to her. “I know you’re awake. So stop fucking around and get up.”

  Cheryl opened her eyes and raised her shackled right hand. “With this on?”

  “There’s enough slack for you to stand up.”

  He threw a pair of jeans, a belt, and a shirt on the bed. “Put these on.”

  She studied the man’s shirt, long-sleeved and made of plaid flannel; it was too hot for the weather. “Don’t you have anything a bit more seasonal? Where are my things?”

  “Gone. I burned them. You ain’t going to meet Mum looking like a harlot.”

  She raised her shackled hand and shook the chain that held her secure to the beam. “It’s hot today—short sleeves would be much more comfortable. Not to mention that it isn’t going to be easy putting that shirt on over this.”

  “And have your arms show? They will be hidden from sight until the bruises and needle marks fade.” He stepped forward and removed a key from his pocket. He grabbed her wrist and unlocked the shackle. “I don’t have to tell you what will happen if you get out of line, do I?”

  Cheryl almost shrieked when he touched her. She clenched her teeth, glared at him, and then shook her head.

  “Good, now get dressed.”

  She stared at him, determined to be defiant to the end. “Some privacy would be nice.”

  He laughed. “Why? Ain’t like I haven’t seen all you got.” His eyelids narrowed and a menacing sneer came over his face. “Now put the fucking clothes on.”

  He stood back and watched her, his arms folded across his chest. When she was dressed he said, “A word to the wise. You better be on your best behavior because if Mum doesn’t approve of you . . . I’ll have to get rid of you.”

  Suddenly, Cheryl felt a wave of nausea, and her legs seemed to lose strength. Meeting Mum took on an ominous importance.

  She turned her back to him and slowly picked up the jeans he had thrown on the bed. Before pulling them over her hips, she noted they were women’s, size fourteen, and she wondered where they had come from. The floor creaked each time he shifted his weight, and she sensed his impatience. She stepped into the pants and buttoned them and then slid the belt through the loops, pulling it tight. The jeans were too loose for her size-six frame, and when she tightened the belt, the waist doubled over in several places. When she felt certain the jeans would not drop, she picked up the shirt and slipped her arms into the sleeves, which were too large for her slight frame. She rolled the cuffs until her hands were free of the material.

  She turned to him and said, “I need a mirror.”

  “What for?”

  “I don’t want to meet your mother looking like a street person.”

  “Isn’t that what you are?”

  Her head snapped up, and without thinking of the potential consequences, she snapped at him. “I said person, not walker.”

  He hesitated for a few seconds, and she realized he was debating within himself. Finally, he said, “Come on. But don’t get any funny ideas.”

  He took her by the arm. When he touched her, pain shot up Cheryl’s arm, and she pulled away. He snarled at her and tightened his grip, multiplying her agony. “You’re hurting me,” she protested.

  “Then stop struggling. Don’t think you can get away—you can’t.” He guided her to the door, where she hesitated. Not having been out of the room since her abduction, she was unfamiliar with the layout of the house, and she had no idea which way to turn. He shoved her into the half-light, and she found herself in a corridor. He pushed her back down the hallway. They stopped before the second door on the left, and he pushed it open.

  Cheryl stepped into the bathroom, and when she attempted to close the door, he placed his foot between it and the frame. “The door stays open.”

  “What if I have to pee?”

  “Then you do it.”

  The cold look in his eyes told her that the issue was not open for debate, so she turned to the sink. She stared into the mirrored medicine cabinet door and gasped when she saw the woman who stared back at her. Her hair was snarled, matted, and greasy with sweat. Dark circles enclosed her e
yes, and the only words she could think of to describe the look on her face were fear and exhaustion. The woman who stared back at her from the mirror looked as if she had been battered and beaten to near-death.

  Suddenly, his malformed face appeared in the mirror. He looked over her shoulder, and she started with surprise. “See,” he said, “I told you that dope was no good for you.”

  “I’m hurting,” she said.

  “Do what you got to do and come on.” He stepped away and stood by the door.

  Cheryl turned on the water and waited until the pipes stopped banging as they purged air and rust before spitting hot water into her cupped hands. Then she rinsed her face. “You own a bar of soap?”

  He stepped past her, opened a mildewed shower curtain, and grabbed a green bar of soap.

  Cheryl became angry and found a small reserve of strength in it. She said, “I don’t suppose this is a beauty bar?”

  He ignored her sarcasm and thrust the soap into her hand. “If you’re going to wash, then wash. If not, shut up and let’s go.”

  Once she had finished washing her hands and face, she turned to him. “A comb and some makeup would be nice.”

  He opened the medicine cabinet and removed a comb. “Mum says only homely girls need makeup . . . and you ain’t that.”

  She combed several snarls out of her hair, wincing in pain whenever the comb found a snag and pulled the hair from her scalp. When she decided she had done all she could with it, she tried to pull it back into a ponytail. She thought about the repercussions of not meeting Mum’s approval and added, “I need something to tie my hair with. I want to look my best when I meet your mother.”

  He exhaled sharply, and she tensed, expecting him to hit her. Instead, he took her by the arm, ignoring her involuntary attempt to pull free from his grip, and guided her out of the bathroom. They followed the corridor to a flight of stairs, and he motioned for her to proceed ahead of him.

  When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Cheryl was appalled at the conditions she saw. They were in what she assumed was the living room. The couch and chairs had to be at least fifty years old and were so badly worn that the fabric was torn in several places and the padding visible. Discarded newspapers and magazines covered the floor, and the air smelled musty, as if the windows had been sealed shut years ago, trapping the stale air inside. Beside the couch and each of the chairs were lamps, all without shades; two were missing light bulbs. He cut her survey short when he said, “Over there.” Cheryl looked at him and saw he pointed to a door in the far corner. “I might have something in the kitchen.” Cheryl stared at the condition of the living room, and the thought of what the kitchen might contain made her shudder.

  When she walked into the kitchen, Cheryl stopped short and clamped a hand over her mouth and nose. The kitchen was ten times filthier than the rest of the house. She looked at the work area and thought that the countertops were moving. She looked closer and realized the movement was from hundreds, if not thousands, of cockroaches scrambling to safety. The sink overflowed with unwashed dishes—some of which had been there so long she figured a hammer and chisel would be the only way to remove the remnants of food that had hardened on their surfaces. Nobody had taken the garbage out for weeks, maybe months, and the room smelled like the dumpster behind a fish market on a hot day. He pulled her toward the sink and opened a drawer. He rummaged around for a few seconds and then showed several rubber bands to her. “One of these will have to do.”

  Cheryl, reluctant to take her hand from her face, ignored the proffered rubber bands and in a muffled voice said, “You cook my food in here?” She became determined not to eat another bite as long as he held her in this pigsty.

  He yanked her arm, and she almost dropped to one knee as agonizing pain raced through her. “Take your fucking hand away from your face and talk to me.” He snarled like a rabid dog when he spoke.

  She dropped her hand and said, “How do you stand living in this filth?”

  He paused and looked as if he didn’t have a clue what she was saying. Instead, he placed the elastic bands in her free hand. “Take these—Mum’s waiting.” He waited as she tied her hair into a ponytail and then led her out of the kitchen and back up the stairs. As he led her down the hall, Cheryl noted that there was another door past hers, and this one, too, was secured with a heavy-duty padlock. She wondered, Is he holding other women? He stopped beside the door directly across from hers, and when he opened the door, she saw a Victorian-era bedchamber. Through the open door, she studied the room. It could have been a queen’s chambers but for the distinct smells of old woman and human waste. A huge canopied bed dominated the room, flanked by stained glass lamps, and a large dresser covered most of one wall. In a corner beside the bed sat an elegant rocking chair, large enough to be a throne. In the middle of the chair, surrounded by frilly pillows, sat a frail old woman.

  Her captor gripped Cheryl’s arm, and she automatically pulled away, which resulted in him tightening his grip. He pulled her through the door and across the room. He stopped in front of the old woman, who stared into a place only she could see. Her thin arms looked skeletal and rested on the chair’s arms. The crone said nothing and did not acknowledge Cheryl. She sat with her head tilted toward her left shoulder with her mouth open. A thin line of drool trickled down her chin.

  “Mum,” he said, “this is Cheryl.”

  Cheryl was surprised to hear him use her name; then she realized that he must have her bag somewhere and had searched it. She stood statuesque, uncertain how to proceed. He turned to her and said, “Don’t be bashful, dear. Say hello to Mum.”

  “H-how do you do?”

  The old woman showed no sign of having heard a word.

  “Cheryl is from Kittery,” he said. “Her family is fishers, too.”

  Inadvertently, Cheryl’s head snapped toward him. How did he know how her family made their living? She decided that he must have made it up, hoping to appease the incoherent woman whom only he could hear.

  He paused as if listening. “Oh, yes, they’re a very well-positioned family. They own their own boat.”

  Another pause.

  “Yes, she’s a church-going girl—not at all like the other girls that I brought home. Cheryl, tell Mum about your beliefs.”

  Suddenly it came to her that he expected her to talk to the old woman, who was clearly in a vegetative state. She looked at him and was amazed to see him urging her as if they were a couple of teenagers on a first date. She turned back to the old woman and said, “I’m a—” Not sure what to say, she glanced at him from the corner of her eye and saw him mouth the word Methodist. “—Methodist.”

  “Of course,” he said, “Cheryl would love to have afternoon tea with you, wouldn’t you, Cheryl?”

  Cheryl stared at him. Her knees weakened, and she knew she was in danger of falling. Not only was her captor brutal and violent—he was insane.

  _________________

  He came to her in the middle of the night.

  Cheryl felt someone grab her breasts, and she started from a deep sleep. She shouted, “Stop it!” and he covered her mouth with a hard calloused hand that felt like sandpaper against her sensitive skin.

  She kicked at him, and he snarled, “Shut your fucking mouth.”

  Cheryl twisted her torso, trying to buck him off, but all it did was enrage him, and he slapped her. To her still hyper-sensitive body, each blow felt as if she’d been slammed into by an overweight truck. When he reached down to spread her legs, she resisted by tensing her thigh muscles. His nails ripped at her flesh, and she cried out in agony.

  “Shut the fuck up—you’ll wake Mum.” Although he muted his voice to a soft whisper, the malice in the warning was evident.

  “Get off me,” she said.

  He answered with yet another slap. The coppery taste of blood filled her mouth, and she realized that to resist him would only lead to more punishment and pain. Cheryl resolved to let him have his way with her . . . hopeful
ly it would be over quickly.

  He grabbed her breasts and began kneading them like they were bread dough. Cheryl decided to act as a willing partner. “Easy,” she said. “They aren’t made of clay.”

  He spread her legs apart, and she realized that he wasn’t erect. Willard continued with his ministration, and his penis remained limp. Cheryl turned her head away and hoped that he couldn’t see the smile on her face. There was justice in the world after all—the son of a bitch was impotent.

  9

  Houston and Bouchard were at Andy’s, one of their favorite restaurants from their time as cops. They sat by the window and hunched over the table, as Houston drank his second cup of coffee. He had been smoke-free for more than five years, but caffeine still made him crave nicotine. At that moment, he would have killed for a cigarette. He turned his attention to Anne. “This case bothers me.”

  “It isn’t going to be easy telling Betty and Archie their granddaughter is a hooker.”

  “And who knows what else.”

  Houston glanced at his watch, 9:45 in the morning; he had always been an early riser, and while he didn’t like food when he first arose, around this time of day he was ready for breakfast. He had ordered coffee, ham, and eggs.

  A black Lincoln Navigator pulled alongside the curb, and a skinny man of average height with an acne-scarred complexion stepped out of the vehicle. Houston immediately recognized Jimmy O’Leary. He was as dapper as Houston remembered him. Even when they were kids, O’Leary had been a slave to fashion. It hadn’t been a surprise to Houston when he returned from the Marines and learned that his childhood friend had become one of the leading mobsters in Boston. O’Leary walked through the door and stopped while searching the room for something or someone. He saw Houston and took the seat beside Bouchard.

  “Mike, how are you?”

  “Great. You’re looking good, Jimmy.”

  He turned to Bouchard. “You still hanging around with this burnout?” His acne-scarred skin seemed to crease when he smiled.