“Wait here,” the young woman said to Harry, and she ran across the lawn to the house. In several minutes she returned with a blanket. When Harry stood in place she nudged him. “Turn around and face the house, Harry.”
“What for? Oh . . .” When Harry turned his back to the ocean, Bouchard rolled over the side of the boat and then stood on her feet and walked ashore. The woman wrapped her in the blanket and said to Harry, “You can turn around now.”
Several other partygoers noticed the activity at the water’s edge and started walking toward the beach. “We better take her to the old man,” Harry said.
Bouchard, not sure what was going on, darted to the punt, held the blanket with her left hand, and grabbed the rifle with her right hand.
“Honey, you don’t need that rifle,” the woman said in a calm voice. “No one here will hurt you.”
“I can’t wait to hear her explain this to the old man,” another male voice said.
Bouchard lowered the rifle and slumped with exhaustion. Harry’s companion and another woman rushed forward and held her up. She was barely able to mutter, “Thank you.”
“Lady,” Harry said, “it looks like you’ve had one hell of a night.”
_________________
Fischer drove along the road with his headlights on high beam. He was frustrated, and with each passing minute his rage grew; thus far, the only thing he had seen was a couple of deer.
He saw an unpaved parking lot and slowed to a crawl. He parked, got out, and studied the sandy ground looking for a sign. A skilled tracker he was not; after all, he was a fisherman, not a hunter. He surveyed the area and saw a light through the trees. He got back into the van and drove until he saw a driveway, where he turned in.
He parked the truck and got out, wondering if he should bring the revolver. The sight of a fat man and a bewildered-looking woman interrupted his thoughts.
“Who the hell are you?” the man asked.
“I’m looking for my wife.”
“Why in hell would you do that?” The fat man grinned as if he’d just told the world’s funniest joke.
“Don’t ask me. Has she been here?”
Fischer saw the woman’s eyes widen with fear. He knew then that one of the women had come through here. Maybe she was inside the house. “I got a picture,” he said. He reached into the truck, his action hidden by the open door. He grabbed the revolver and stepped away from the van. He cocked the hammer on the single-action weapon and aimed it at the fat man’s chest.
The obese comedian staggered back, raised his hands, and stared into the van’s lights with surprise. Fischer cocked the hammer and said, “Now I don’t want no trouble here. But I ain’t gonna take no shit, either.” He took one step forward and slammed the revolver’s butt into the man’s forehead. The fat man fell backward onto the ground.
Fischer glanced down at the body and said, “Big bastard, ain’t he.”
He stepped forward and took the woman by the arm, crushing it with his strong grip until she cried out. “One of them was here. Wasn’t she?” He shook her so hard that she flopped like a fish on a line. “Is she inside?”
“No one is inside,” she cried, eyes wild with fear.
“We’ll soon find out, won’t we?”
He pushed her ahead of him into the house. It only took him five minutes to search the small house. Feeling no need to be careful, he flipped beds over, threw furniture around, and tore clothes off their hangers. He ransacked the house. When he had exhausted himself and there were no more places to search, sweat soaked his face, and it mixed with the blood that covered the back of his shirt. The jagged puncture in his shoulder and the twelve-inch gash in his back stung when salt from his perspiration trickled into them. He stood in the middle of the small kitchen gasping for breath. The woman had not lied. The place was empty—if either of them had been here, they were gone. “Where’d she go?” he asked the woman. He grabbed her by the hair and slammed her head against the wall.
The woman staggered and blurted out, “The woods, she ran toward the woods!” She pointed toward the rear of the house.
He stormed outside, stepped over the body of the unconscious man without so much as a glance, and circled around to the back of the house. He spied a clothesline, and in the middle of it was an open space. He could not think of any reason why someone would leave a space in the middle—unless something had been removed. He squatted and studied the ground. He saw the tracks of someone running barefoot toward a line of trees. He straightened up and walked toward them.
Fischer was within ten feet of a huge pine when he saw a figure slumped against it. He stepped on a twig, and the loud snap spurred her into action. She leaped to her feet, recognized him, and bolted into the woods.
Fischer recognized Cheryl and ran after her. He believed that she would not get far; he was tired after the night’s activities and knew she had to be near exhausted. He saw her dash through some small bushes and blasted his way through them, ignoring the pain as a thin lash-like branch whipped across his face. He fired the revolver into the air and shouted, “The next one is going through the back of your head!”
Cheryl pulled up and bent over, supporting herself by placing her hands on her thighs as she gasped. He grabbed her by the arm, spun her around, and slapped her. As quickly as he had attacked her he stopped, smiled, and said, “Hello, darlin’ . . . you have a nice girls’ night out?”
_________________
Bouchard staggered as the women helped her across the lawn. A statuesque man stood at the foot of a large stone patio. “What’s happening?” he asked.
“Senator, I think we got a situation here,” Harry said.
Anne stared into the bright lights that lined the private wharf. Her mouth fell open in surprise. The white-headed man was one of Maine’s United States senators.
“Well, let’s get her inside where it’s warm and find out what’s going on.”
“Yes, sir.”
As they led her to the huge seaside mansion, Bouchard felt as helpless as she had on her first day of kindergarten.
She was so emotionally drained that she barely saw the immaculate kitchen, large enough for a five-star hotel and populated with industrial strength stainless steel appliances, as they escorted her through it. Before she knew what had happened, she was sitting across from gigantic fireplace on the most expensive sofa she’d ever seen. She slumped back and closed her eyes while gripping the blanket tight and snug around her. After several tense moments, she heard people enter the room, and she opened her eyes. What she saw startled her into a heightened state of awareness. Over the fireplace hung three expensive-looking portraits: one was of the President of the United States, another of the senator, and third was of the woman who stood beside him.
A servant appeared, and the senator said, “Julia, get us some coffee.” Once the maid departed he said, “I’m . . .”
“Sir,” Bouchard said, surprised at the awe she felt, “I know who you are.”
The senator’s wife—at least Bouchard assumed she was—sat on the couch beside her, reached over, took her hand, and patted it gently. It comforted her. “Now dear,” she said, “why don’t you tell us how you came to be in a boat on the Gulf of Maine naked as the day you were born?”
Bouchard stared into the warmth of the crackling fire and started at the beginning. “My name,” she gathered herself, “is Anne Bouchard.” One of the people behind her reached across and held a glass of water before her. Bouchard took it and gulped down a large swallow. “Thank you. I’m a private investigator.” She took another drink, noting that her hands shook, but whether from exhaustion or the deep chill she felt, she didn’t know. “My partner and I have been searching for a young woman who’s been abducted.”
When she finished her tale, the senator turned to Harry, who by this time Bouchard knew to be his aide, and said, “Harry, call the FBI. You tell them that I want the closest SAC2 to get over here, ASAP.”
2 Special A
gent in Charge.
40
Houston’s cell rang, and he looked at the display. Susie. “Hey.”
“Any word from Anne?”
“Not yet. I’m really concerned.”
Before he could say more, the room phone rang, its ringer so loud that he jumped. “Hold on, babe . . .” He lifted the handset. “Houston.”
“Mike, Sam. We found her . . . she’s shaken but alright.”
“Thank God! Where is she?”
“Wells Point at Senator Griffeth’s beach estate. I’ll meet you in Wells and guide you in.”
“Where?”
“Get off the ’pike at exit nineteen. Take Route 9 east. I’ll meet you at the junction of 9 and US 1. Oh, she wants you to bring some of her clothes.”
“What?”
“It’s a long story. I’m sure she’ll fill you in when you get here.”
“I’m on my way.” He hung up and put his cell to his ear.
“I heard,” Susie said. “Take me with you.”
“Are you in the dorm?”
“Yes.” She gave him the address. “I’ll be out front on the sidewalk.”
Houston glanced at the digital clock. “Not at this hour you won’t. Wait in the foyer, and I’ll come for you.”
“Dad, I’m not a little girl anymore.” He heard the exasperation in her voice.
“I know. That’s why you’ll wait inside the building.”
“Okay.”
_________________
Houston and his daughter arrived at the rendezvous with Fuchs at two in the morning. They followed Fuchs for five miles until they came to a gated complex. A security guard checked Fuchs’s credentials and then waved them through. In his headlights, Houston saw a stately coastal mansion.
“Wow,” Susie commented when she saw the house. “So this is what it means to have money.”
Houston’s disdain for politicians came out. “Yeah, one of the perks of being a public servant. These people have set themselves up very well.”
He saw Susie give him a quizzical look.
“Our elected officials have voted themselves a salary six times higher than the average personal salary. I don’t want to get going on the other perks and benefits.”
He saw the look on her face morph from quizzical to surprise. “I had no idea you felt so strongly about politics,” she said.
“All my life I’ve been a victim of politics. You’ve heard the saying ‘Them that can do. Them that can’t teach’? Well, I think teachers get a raw deal. It should be: Them that can do. Them that can’t become politicians and get in the way of them that can. Bottom line, I have no use for these people. In the real world, if anyone was as nonproductive as them, they’d be fired.”
Without further discourse, he exited the pickup truck. Fuchs stood beside his state police car, and Houston noted him staring at Susie. “Sam Fuchs, this is my daughter. Susie, Sam Fuchs, Maine State Police.”
Susie offered her hand and said, “Pleased to meet you.”
“How is Anne?” Houston asked.
“I’m told all things considered, she’s fine. The senator was throwing a party, and a couple of the attendees were doctors.”
“She needed a doctor?” Houston replied, his brow furrowed with concern.
“Possible concussion. She has a nice shiner, too. That, my friend, is all I know.” With that, he led them inside the house.
_________________
When she saw Houston walk into the room, Bouchard wanted to run to him, but professional decorum prevented her from doing so. She saw the concern on his face and that was sufficient for her.
Susie, however, had no such restrictions. She ran across the room and into Bouchard’s arms. Anne held her close and gently stroked her hair. She knew that better than anyone in the room, Susie knew what was going on inside her head. Susie, too, had once been abducted.
“I’m fine, Suze.”
_________________
Houston, too, fought back the impulse to take his partner into his arms. He watched as the two most important women in his life embraced each other and realized how close he’d come to losing each of them.
When the initial greetings and questions of concern were over, Houston got down to business. “How did he get you?”
Bouchard blushed, and he knew that she, too, was aware of how foolish her actions had been. Going after a perp alone was against everything they’d ever learned as police officers. “After you went onto the boat, I watched his place from the bluff overlooking it. I saw a woman in a window, and I went down. The door was unlocked, so I went inside. He had her—Cheryl. There’s also an old woman in there. She’s incapacitated. I believe she has either advanced dementia or Alzheimer’s. Cheryl was locked inside an upstairs room. Once I was certain it was Cheryl, I turned to get something to break the lock—and he was there.”
She completed the telling of her harrowing experience, omitting some of the racier aspects of her brief captivity.
“So,” Fuchs said, “Cheryl escaped, too.”
“I don’t know, we went into the water together but got separated. I tried to locate her but couldn’t find any sign of her.”
Fuchs looked at Houston. “I need to get this out. We already have people at Fischer’s place, but the Coast Guard needs to search the water between here and there just in case . . .” He refrained from saying what everyone knew was a possibility, that Cheryl had drowned.
“I want to go with you,” Houston said.
Fuchs nodded, took his cell phone out of his pocket, and was already talking to someone as he walked out of the room.
“I’m going, too,” Bouchard added.
“No.” An elderly man stepped forward.
“Who are you?” Houston asked.
“Doctor Leland Hathaway. Ms. Bouchard needs to stay here . . . at least for this evening. She has been concussed and needs to be under medical supervision.”
Houston nodded reassuringly at his partner. “It’s for the best, Anne. Susie, I need you to stay here with her.”
Without further discussion, Houston followed in Fuchs’s wake.
_________________
Sam Fuchs turned into the drive and saw a couple of uniformed state police officers talking with an obese man. He parked behind a couple of cruisers and got out. He recognized Jeff Littlefield, the Maine State Police officer assigned to this district, and motioned him over. Once he felt certain that they were out of hearing range, he asked, “What’ve we got, Jeff?”
“Hi, Sam. It appears to be an assault.”
“This the vic?”
“Yes, George Blanchette and his wife, Mildred. He’s a born loser. I busted him a couple times for DUI, and we’ve been here a few times on domestic abuse calls.”
Fuchs studied the Blanchettes.
Fuchs stood up and looked toward the house. He turned to the local cop and said, “Secure this area, and don’t screw the scene up any more than is necessary.”
Fuchs motioned for Houston to join him and walked to Blanchette. He showed his badge and said, “Detective Fuchs, Maine State Police. What happened here, sir?”
“Some psycho drives in and wanted to know if we’d seen his fuckin’ wife. When I said I ain’t seen no friggin’ woman, he whacked me with the butt end of a goddamned gun.” He looked at his wife. “It seems she was here, hiding in the woods.”
Fuchs turned to the wife and said, “You saw the woman?”
“Yes, she was as naked as the day she was born. I caught her trying to steal clothes from my line. I told her to take them and get out of here.”
Fuchs showed her a picture of Cheryl Guerette. “Is this the woman?”
“Yes. He found her over there.” She pointed to the line of trees about fifty feet from where they stood.
“Then what?”
“He took her and . . .” She cast a nervous look at her husband. “I ran to a neighbor’s house and called 911.”
41
Everette Halsey walked
out of his house and stopped short. Jimmy O’Leary and Gordon Winter stood in his drive, leaning against Halsey’s silver Mercedes. “What’s the meaning of this?” Halsey demanded.
“Shut up, Everette. We got some business to do,” O’Leary said. He motioned for Halsey to precede him to the black SUV parked at the curb. “We thought we’d give you a ride to work.”
O’Leary took Halsey by the arm and guided him into the back seat. He stood beside the door, waited for Winter to get in with Halsey, and then walked around and got behind the wheel. He saw the fear in Halsey’s face when Winter placed his arm around the lawyer’s shoulders and grinned.
The lawyer tried to open the door. O’Leary said, “Ain’t those childproof locks wonderful, Ev?” He lit a cigarette and exhaled smoke in his face.
“Jimmy, you know I don’t like smoking,” Halsey complained. He tried to sound as if he were in control, but a nervous quiver gave him away.
“Would it surprise you to know that about now, I could give a fuck less what you do or don’t like? I got some questions for you, and how you answer will determine whether or not I turn Gordon loose on your sorry ass.”
Winter took his right hand off the lawyer’s shoulder, placed it on his thigh, and began to squeeze. He smiled when Halsey began to squirm.
“What’s this about, Jimmy?”
“A kid named Inca.”
Halsey started, caught himself, and then tried to bluff his way out of what was obviously a bad situation. “I don’t know anyone by that name.”
“Bullshit,” O’Leary said.
Winter increased the pressure of his grip until Halsey cried out in pain and leered at him as O’Leary pulled out of the driveway and drove down the street.
“Now, Everette, you’ve always been a no-nonsense type of guy, so I’m going to give it to you straight. You’re a very, very well-paid pimp, Ev. Last night we took down your little amusement park on the Cape. I took the women—all but your fancy fucking madam. She was a dedicated employee, Ev—right to the end. Broad had infinitely more balls than you, I might add.”
O’Leary blew another cloud of smoke into the confined area. “Seems that there was an item missing from the inventory though . . .”
The Fisherman Page 19