The Fisherman

by Vaughn C. Hardacker

  While Winter went to get help, O’Leary began searching the office. He struck a bonanza within minutes. He found a laptop that Ariana must have been using when they had arrived. It was open to a file that was a ledger containing names and addresses and amounts of money spent. His heart stopped as he scrolled through the files and scanned entries; many of the names were those of well-known men in and around Boston. He opened the desk drawer and found a thumb drive. He quickly formatted the drive and copied the accounting files to it. He picked up the laptop and left.

  When O’Leary re-entered the sitting room, Winter was still there. “Forget about the filing cabinets, I found all I need,” O’Leary said.

  “I gather we’re going after the girl?”

  “You bet your ass,” O’Leary said, “my old friend Halsey is about to learn what it’s like to be tried, convicted, and . . .”

  _________________

  The convoy raced over the Bourne Bridge. O’Leary looked at the parking lot of the state police barracks for signs of activity; there were none. He glanced to his right at Tasha’s profile. “How long have you been here?”

  Tasha turned to him, her beauty amplified in the ambient lights of the vehicle’s instruments. “I’m not sure. I left Saint Petersburg in August . . . 2009. What is the date today?”

  When he told her the date, she leaned her head back against the headrest. “I came to this house last Christmas. Before this, I was someplace else, not far from Chicago.”

  The implications of the size of the prostitution ring startled him. It could very well span the entire country. He recalled the names in the ledger and thought, There’s big money and power behind this. Maybe Gordon was right; this shit sandwich could turn into a footlong. . . .

  “Well, it’s over now. You’re going to be alright.” He saw her smile as if she believed him. He, on the other hand, was not so sure.

  32

  Houston was frantic. It was eight in the morning and no sign of Anne. He began making phone calls to her friends that he knew. He tried Jimmy O several times but got no response, and then he called Dysart. Nobody had seen nor heard from her since he’d left her early yesterday. His final call was to Sam Fuchs.

  “Sam, Anne is missing.”

  “What?”

  “I think she’s gone after Fischer.”

  “But we were there yesterday. There was no sign of her.”

  “Believe me, I know my woman. She isn’t about to let us run with this. She probably followed us and was keeping him under surveillance.”

  “I’ll get hold of someone to check it out.”

  “Under what pretense? We have no proof she’s at his place.”

  “I don’t know, goddamn it, but I’ll sure as hell come up with something.”

  _________________

  Bouchard heard the doorknob turn and sat up. When Cheryl slipped into the room and knelt beside the bed, she looked at the door and said, “What are you doing? What if he finds out you’re in here?”

  Cheryl placed an index finger across her lips. She leaned close and whispered, “We may have a golden opportunity tonight.”

  “How so?”

  “I told you he can’t get it up. He thinks it’s because he hasn’t yet found a woman who appeals to him.”

  “Sick bastard.”

  “Well, he’s decided that maybe it’s not a problem of quality . . . maybe it’s one of quantity . . .”

  “Are you saying . . . ?”

  Cheryl nodded; the whites of her eyes seemed to glow in the dimly lit room. “Yeah, he wants a threesome—tonight.”

  Bouchard started to respond, her face red with anger and indignation.

  Cheryl held up her hand, stopping her. “Let me handle the nasty stuff.” Cheryl said. “Cheri, not Cheryl, will keep him occupied while you take care of him.”

  “How will I do that wearing this?” Bouchard held up her manacle.

  “He won’t do it in here or in my room. He has a king-sized bed—he’ll want more room. He’ll have to unshackle you if for no other reason than he’ll be afraid you’ll strangle him with his own chain.”

  “Now there’s a thought to cherish. Nevertheless, it may work out to our benefit.”

  Cheryl stepped away and faced the door. She listened for a few seconds and then turned back to Bouchard. “You got to promise me one thing, though.”

  “What?”

  “If you get the chance, you’ll kill him.”

  _________________

  Bouchard was searching the section of the room that her shackles allowed her to reach hoping to find anything she could use as a tool to free herself. She held the mattress up on edge and was studying the floor beneath the bed when she heard someone fumbling with the lock on her door. She dropped the mattress and sat on it just as he entered the room.

  He stared at her for several seconds, saying nothing.

  Bouchard turned to him and returned his stare.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “The worst thing that could possibly happen to you.”

  He paced around the room for several seconds and said, “You aren’t in a position to do much.”

  “The authorities know about you.”

  He smirked. “They got shit. If they had anything they’d be all over this place.”

  “They’ll find a reason to get a warrant.”

  He peered at her. “You talk like you know a lot about it.”

  Not wanting to alarm him by revealing what she did for a living, Bouchard decided to back off. “My brother is a cop in Boston.”

  “Boston . . . that explains the accent.” He turned away. “I wouldn’t get my hopes up that your brother can help you. This is Maine, not Boston.” He stopped and turned back to look at her. “I can’t help but wonder if the fact that you have a bunch of licenses as a private investigator, one of which is from Maine, in your purse has anything to do with it. What is it with you fucking women that you think you can lie to men and not get caught?”

  _________________

  Cheryl came into Bouchard’s room shortly after nightfall. “He wants to see us.”

  “Listen,” Bouchard said, “if the chance for you to get away presents itself, run. Don’t worry about me . . . I can take care of myself.”

  Cheryl nodded. “Let’s hope we can both get out of here.” She leaned forward and pushed a key into the lock. Bouchard almost cried with relief when the manacles fell away from her chafed flesh. “Whatever you do,” Cheryl warned, “don’t make him suspicious. He’s paranoid as hell.”

  Bouchard thought it was funny that Cheryl would be giving her advice on how to deal with a maniac. On the other hand, she listened because Cheryl had survived with this lunatic for several weeks. “I understand.” She stood on wobbly legs and stretched her arms, reveling in her newfound freedom.

  Cheryl turned to the door and motioned for her to follow.

  “I suppose clothing is out of the question.”

  Cheryl did not answer. Bouchard followed her, taking small steps as her legs struggled to get used to walking and supporting her weight.

  _________________

  Bouchard followed Cheryl down the stairs, memorizing the layout of the house. “I don’t think Better Homes and Gardens will ever publish an article on his housekeeping abilities,” Bouchard said.

  Cheryl’s eyes were wide, and she placed her hand against Bouchard’s lips. “Shhhhh! If he hears you there will be hell to pay.”

  Bouchard had a thousand questions she wanted to ask Cheryl, but she refrained. She realized what Cheryl was trying to say; he could be lurking anywhere, spying and listening.

  Bouchard stepped onto the porch, and immediately the cool night air chilled her. He sat in a chair, looking like a monarch on his throne. She watched Cheryl for clues as to how she should act. She noted that Cheryl kept her head tilted down, avoiding eye contact with their captor. Bouchard immediately recognized what Cheryl was doing; she was acting the role of a submissive lesser wolf in th
e presence of the alpha. She imitated her. Although with her eyes facing downward, she couldn’t see their surroundings, she was able to discern objects—like the rifle that leaned against the wall beside his legs. The chair creaked as he shifted his weight. “It’s going to be a great night . . .”

  “It could be,” Bouchard made a concerted effort to keep her anger out of her voice. She glanced wistfully at the weapon propped up beside his chair. If she could get her hands on the rifle it could be a terrific night; in fact, it would be wonderful.

  “Sit,” he said.

  Bouchard sat in a wooden Adirondack chair beside him. She raised her head slightly and looked at him out of the corner of her eyes.

  “Nice night,” he announced as if they were cordial companions.

  “Yes, it is,” Cheryl said.

  He turned to Bouchard, his eyes narrowed, and he said, “You don’t agree?”

  Bouchard saw his stern gaze and realized he had addressed her. “Yes,” she replied.

  “Yes it is or yes you don’t agree?” His voice had a dangerous edge to it.

  “Yes, I agree that it’s a nice evening.” She did not want to rile him. If they were to have a chance of escaping, they needed him calm.

  He glanced at his watch. “Mum should be asleep by now.”

  He stood and picked up the rifle.

  Bouchard noted that he scanned the water’s surface. The ocean was calm like a shimmering sheet of glass in the moonlight.

  “Looks like I got rid of the bastards,” he said.

  Bouchard couldn’t resist the impulse to look at him. He returned her gaze and looked like he was talking to a child. “Seals,” he explained. “Ain’t nothin’ I hate any more than them fuckers.”

  She glanced at Cheryl, who shook her head, warning her not to pursue the subject.

  “Well, ladies, time for bed.” He stood back waiting for them to precede him inside.

  Cheryl took the lead and led them up the stairs. She paused before her door, waiting for him to tell her what he wanted.

  “Keep going,” he said, “to my room.”

  33

  Cheryl led them down the hall and stopped before the last door on the left.

  Willard shoved her aside. “Move away so I can unlock the door.” Once the door was open, he stepped aside, keeping himself between them and the stairs. “Go in.”

  Bouchard followed Cheryl into the room.

  He turned on a light, and Bouchard studied the room. A king-size bed sat in the center of the bedroom and dominated the floor. There was barely enough room to walk around it; the two miniscule end tables were crammed in so tight that they touched the walls on either side. The tables attracted Bouchard’s attention. A tall lamp with what appeared to be a granite base sat on each.

  He followed them in and locked the door behind him. He motioned the women to the bed but did not immediately join them. Instead, he put a finger across his lips and whispered, “We got to be quiet. If we wake Mum, she’ll have a conniption. She won’t approve of what we’re doing. She thinks it ain’t proper for married men and women to . . . do things with people they ain’t married to.”

  Bouchard lay on the bed, keeping distance from Cheryl, and watched him prepare the room.

  For several tense moments, she lay still, observing his psychotic behavior. He seemed to listen for sounds only he could hear. Satisfied all was well, he placed the rifle in the closet, closed the door, closed a hasp, and locked it with a combination lock.

  Damn, Anne thought, so much for the rifle.

  He turned off the overhead light and walked to the nightstand at the right side of the bed and turned on the lamp. She felt a light touch on her arm and glanced at Cheryl, who nodded as if to say, “Don’t worry.”

  When Fischer climbed into the bed and settled between the women, Bouchard thought he looked like a man having his first extramarital sex. Cheryl immediately went to work on him. She turned on her side and stroked his chest.

  Bouchard, on the other hand, struggled against her revulsion at having his naked body so close and wasn’t sure what her role was to be in this threesome, so she laid still. She tried to block out the phony words of endearment Cheryl whispered to Fischer. She slowly moved her hand toward the nightstand. She hoped Cheryl could keep him distracted for a few more seconds. After what seemed an eternity, she gripped the lamp. It was heavy but not so heavy that she could not lift it with one hand. Bouchard heard Cheryl coaxing him, doing her best to keep his attention from their other bed partner. Slowly, so as not to alarm him, she lifted the lamp.

  She glanced at Fischer and wondered how she could strike without hitting Cheryl. She saw her opportunity when Cheryl said, “Let’s try this—maybe it will help,” and slid down his torso.

  Bouchard raised the lamp and for a second felt resistance. Suddenly, the plug pulled out of its socket, and it was free. When the room went dark, Fischer cried out in alarm. She raised the lamp as high as possible and smashed it into his head. As soon as she struck, she jumped from the bed and held the broken lamp up, poised to strike again if needed.

  He grunted and then relaxed. Blood flowed from a nasty gash on his forehead. Cheryl popped up to a kneeling position. “Is he dead?”

  “I doubt it. Come on, we have to get out of here before he comes around.”

  Cheryl’s face shone in the moonlight that filtered into the room through a gap in the curtains. “Hit him again—kill the son of a bitch!”

  He groaned and rolled over.

  “Go on!” Cheryl said in a low voice. “Kill him!”

  “No.” Bouchard grabbed Cheryl’s arm. “We’ll send the cops after him.”

  Cheryl grabbed the fractured lamp from Anne’s hand. “If you won’t do it, I will.”

  Bouchard snatched the lamp back. No matter how heinous he was, she could not condone cold-blooded murder. “Come on, we don’t have all night,” she said.

  Cheryl turned to the dresser and grabbed a photo of two people, one of whom struck a striking resemblance to the old woman in the next room. “Well,” she said, “let’s see how he likes this.” She smashed the picture against a corner of the dresser and then did the same to three others.

  Bouchard quickly rolled Fischer over and used the lamp’s power cord to tie his hands. He moaned and his eyes fluttered as she bound him. She fought against her escalating panic; time was short, he would be regaining consciousness soon.

  Once Fischer’s hands were securely tied, she said, “Come on, let’s get going.”

  Cheryl paused as if at a quandary. She punched Fischer in the groin and, when he grunted in pain, said, “If I had a knife, I’d cut that useless thing off.”

  “Let’s go!” Bouchard grabbed Cheryl’s arm and pulled her from the room. They bolted down the stairs and out into the night.

  Bouchard turned toward the drive.

  “This way,” Cheryl said. “If we’re on the road, he’ll come after us with the truck.” She pointed toward the gulf. “We’ll swim along the shore until we’re safe.”

  The women bolted from the house and ran along the shore. Bouchard wished she had shoes on as she stomped on pebbles and debris, the pain slowing her down. She ignored the agony of her weight landing on sharp stones and raced after Cheryl. Her heart skipped when she heard the sound of waves lapping against the shore.

  They ran onto a pier and past three boats, a commercial trawler, a charter boat, and a small punt. Damn, Bouchard thought, why didn’t I look for keys? We could have used one of these! Ahead of her, Cheryl did not hesitate; she vaulted off the end of the dock into the surf. Once she had swum away from the pier, she turned, paused, and beckoned for Anne to follow.

  Bouchard gasped as she plunged into the fifty-degree water and knifed beneath the surface. She arched her back and, when her head broke the surface, gulped air. She kicked her legs and fought against the surf, using all of her strength to pull herself forward. She circumvented a large black rock and cautioned herself that she’d have to pay atten
tion lest she smash into one. The current seemed to work against her. As she struggled to make progress, she wondered whether they’d made a mistake. They could travel faster on land and would put more distance between them and the Fisherman. She saw Cheryl swimming away from the shore out to sea and followed suit. In short time, her body acclimated to the temperature, and she swam with a renewed sense of urgency. Bouchard lengthened her strokes, knowing each one was taking her closer to freedom.

  34

  You goddamned moron. You fucked things up again!

  Hallet! That language doesn’t help matters. He’ll make things right.

  Fischer opened his eyes and lay dazed. It took a couple of seconds for him to remember what had happened.

  Willard, get up.

  “Yes, Mum.” He felt a quick flash of guilt and fear. Mum was angry. He knew eventually she would find out what he had been doing with the women, and she would punish him severely.

  You have to catch them. Mum’s voice cut through him. Do you think I haven’t known what you’re doing with the women you’ve brought here? If the new one gets away, she’ll bring police. Now get after them! We’ll deal with your lustful ways later.

  Fischer rolled over and tried to get up. He was unable to move his arms and realized they were tied. He flexed his arms, grunting with effort as he spread his hands. The electric cord bit into his wrists, but he felt it give ever so slightly. He screamed in frustration and rage. He looked around the room, wondering why Mum did not help him get free. He gathered his strength and spread his arms apart; the cord suddenly gave, and he was free.

  He rolled from the bed with a curse. He staggered across the room, stepped on something sharp, and cursed. He snapped on the overhead light and then turned and glared at the broken glass and damaged photographs of his family. Rage burned through him when he saw the carnage on the floor. He knelt down, picked up the photo of his parents, and held it against his face. He sobbed. He swore that if it took him forever, he would make those bitches pay.