The Fisherman

by Vaughn C. Hardacker

  “If it isn’t a four-by-four, you might have a problem getting there in that,” Gendreau said. “It’s been a wet summer, and those woods roads can become impassable without four-wheel drive. You’d better to go in Eklund’s SUV.”

  Eklund checked her watch. “It’s 2:45 . . . it doesn’t get dark until eight, so we should be able to get over there.”

  _________________

  Eklund drove south on I-95. The speed limit between Stillwater Avenue north of Bangor to Houlton was seventy-five, and she took advantage of the fact that she drove a sheriff’s car and did ninety. They left the interstate at the exit for Oakfield and Smyrna Mills, where they picked up US 2. From there they followed State Route 212 to Knowles Corner and the intersection of State Route 11. “In twenty miles we’ll turn off. We’re still an hour from Ernestine’s farm.”

  “She farms?” Houston looked at the endless expanse of woods. “In the middle of the woods?”

  “Ernestine is a bit of an eccentric. She’s into organic everything. Her farm isn’t much more than a clearing along Howe Brook. There used to be a village there back in the fifties and sixties. The logging companies built a store, train station, and hotel of sorts. They had a saw mill in there, but once they’d cut all the spruce and pine they could, they tore down the mill and their buildings and then burned what they didn’t want. After that, it became a weekend getaway and sort of hippie haven. There isn’t much left now—just some camps and Ernie Fischer living there.”

  “The logging company just decided to close down and destroyed an entire village?”

  “It was different back then. There was an infestation of a parasite called the spruce budworm, and they took out all the trees they could before the worm destroyed them. It did help to end the problem.”

  “It must take a particular type of person to live out here,” Bouchard said. “I thought where we live is remote, but this is miles away from anything.”

  Eklund laughed. “This is the only place I know of where you first head to nowhere and then turn left to get to it. Still, the lifestyle is simple—and in a way inexpensive, seeing as there’s no place to spend money. These last ten years or so, the Amish have discovered the county. There are settlements in Sherman, Smyrna Mills, and farther north between Easton and Fort Fairfield.”

  “Actually, that doesn’t surprise me. This area looks to be a couple of centuries behind the times,” Houston said.

  Eklund smiled at him. “Truthfully, I talk like I hate it here, but I’d take this over the craziness of a big city like Portland any day.”

  Houston had to admit that she might have something there. “I can understand why you’d feel like that.”

  They came upon a sign that said St. Croix Road and turned onto the road.

  “Are we getting close?” Bouchard asked.

  “That depends on what you call close. In a straight line we’re about ten miles away, but by road its closer to twenty. We’ll follow St. Croix Road until we come to Harvey Siding Road, which will take us down to where Howe Brook Village was. If you think this is remote, wait until we get there.”

  “How do you keep track of these backwoods roads? There has to be hundreds of them!”

  “It’s a joint effort between the State Police, the Department of Inland Fisheries and Wildlife, the logging companies, and us. Whenever one of us finds something, we notify the appropriate authorities, and they disseminate it.”

  At 4:30 they left St. Croix Road and turned onto Harvey Siding Road. “When do we get to St. Croix?” Bouchard asked.

  “We’ve been in it for the last fifteen minutes.” Eklund smiled. “What? Were you expecting a town or something?”

  “Or something.”

  At five o’clock, they came to railroad tracks, and the road took a ninety-degree turn along them. Houston laughed when he saw a street sign that said North Main Street.

  Eklund said, “Welcome to Lake St. Croix and what’s left of Howe Brook Village.”

  They followed the narrow lane past a wash where water from a beaver dam flowed across North Main, and Houston saw a bunch of buildings, three of which were on the opposite side of the tracks. The buildings were backed by a barrier of scrub brush and immature trees so dense that he could only see brief glimpses of the lake. On their side of the tracks, the road turned right and climbed a small knoll upon which stood two more structures. Eklund followed the road and stopped beside the first set of buildings: a rustic shingled cabin and what Houston believed to be a storage building. The road continued past the buildings then narrowed into two ruts and disappeared into the woods. Behind the shingled house was a small garden in which a woman, who Bouchard thought to be in her mid-fifties, hoed a row of green plants. The long flowered dress and huge sunhat she wore made Houston think that she looked like the pioneer woman depicted in the Western movies of his youth. She heard the SUV and stood up straight, placing her left hand in the small of her back. Her eyes narrowed, and Houston easily saw she was not happy about the intrusion.

  “Let me do the talking,” Eklund said.

  They got out of the truck, and Eklund waved to the old woman, “Afternoon, Ms. Fischer.”

  Fischer squinted her eyes as the deputy approached, holding the hoe like a soldier at port arms. “That you, Wera?”

  “Yes.”

  Fischer kept approaching, and even though Eklund had identified herself, the old woman kept her guard up. “Who’s that with you?”

  “This is Mr. Michael Houston and his partner, Ms. Anne Bouchard. They’re investigators from downstate.”

  Fischer stopped and scrutinized him then snorted and spit off to the side. “Ain’t no intelligent life south of Millinocket.”

  Houston found himself smiling in spite of the slur. “How do you do, Ms. Fischer?” He held out his hand. When the old woman gripped his, he felt the grip of someone half her age and twice her size, as well as the calluses of someone who did manual labor on a daily basis.

  She abruptly dropped his hand and said, “Got coffee in the house.” She turned and walked up the path toward the front door of a log cabin home.

  Houston looked at the workmanship and turned to Eklund. “Something tells me that’s not a prefabricated cabin.”

  “Nope, she and some local people cut the logs and hauled them down with horses. It was kind of like an Amish barn raising.”

  “Local people?” Bouchard asked. She scanned the area and, although there were five houses within a couple hundred yards of her, saw not a single soul.

  “The summer people who own the other camps—there are five or six more along the lake about a half mile south. Ernestine is the only year-round resident.”

  Houston stepped up onto the wooden porch that ran the width of the cabin. He found himself admiring this unique, independent woman. Fischer had lit a kerosene lantern; it was apparent that she had no electricity—nor had he seen any power or phone lines along the unpaved forest roads they had used to get here. He saw that the inside of the cabin consisted of a single room. A bed and dresser sat in one corner, and the rest of the room was partitioned with throw rugs in such a manner that one could determine the living area from the kitchen. A huge wood-burning cooking stove, which also served to heat the cabin, sat along the far wall, and the aroma of coffee permeated the air.

  “Sit yourselves down,” Fischer said, gathering some coffee mugs from one of the cupboards that lined the walls adjoining the stove. Houston sat and noted that even the furniture appeared to be handmade, rustic, and sturdy.

  “I really like your home,” Bouchard said.

  “I doubt you’re from House Beautiful Magazine,” Fischer said. She turned to Eklund. “They still publishing that one?”

  “They are.”

  Fischer seemed to ignore the deputy’s response and said, “So, what brings you to Howe Brook? You didn’t come all this way to see my home.”

  “No, ma’am, the truth is that we’re trying to find your brother.”

  Fischer sat and pou
red coffee into each of their cups. “Only brother I got would be Willard, an’ he ain’t right . . .” She touched the side of her gray-haired head. “That one is a couple of logs shy of a bonfire.”

  “Can you explain?” Bouchard asked.

  “He’s nuts. Been that way ever since he was hit in the head by that block and tackle.”

  “Excuse me?” Houston said. “I’m confused . . .”

  “Willard got smashed on the side of his head when he was eighteen, and if that wasn’t enough, he’s manic as hell.”

  “He’s bipolar?” Eklund asked.

  “It is also called manic depression.” Fischer smiled at the look of surprise on Bouchard’s face. “When you live without radio or television, you get lots of time to read. Whenever the train goes by, Charley Dodge throws me a bundle of newspapers.”

  “Which reminds me,” Eklund interrupted. “There’s a box of books for you in my truck.”

  “Hope you brought some mysteries and thrillers . . . ain’t nothing I like better than scarin’ the hell out of myself on a long winter’s night.”

  Houston took a drink of coffee and asked, “Do you know where we can find Willard?”

  “At the homestead, I would imagine. Back in ’88, when our father died . . .” She looked at the ceiling. “May that one rot in hell . . . Willard would have gotten everything. Maddie—that’s Madeleine, my departed sister. She’s buried under that oak on the hill over yonder. She and I left as soon as we were able. After Richard killed himself, that left only Willard for the old man to abuse. What’s my crazy brother gone and done?”

  “He’s a suspect in a number of murders. We need to talk with him.”

  “I don’t think he’s living at the old place. I heard that the old man sold that and moved north . . . where they moved, I haven’t a clue.”

  “We’ve been to his home,” Houston said with a quick glance at Bouchard.

  “I haven’t had anything to do with my family in better than thirty years,” Fischer said. “All I know is that it was between Bath and Brunswick.” Fischer slurped a mouthful of coffee and smacked her lips, exposing a mouth that was missing a few teeth. “You wanting to talk with him about a murder don’t surprise me either. Maddie and I always knew that one day he’d go over the edge. Who’s he supposed to have killed? Besides my father, that is.”

  46

  Fischer parked near the back of the lot. As he had done on his last visit to the hospital, he studied the building and the surrounding grounds. A security guard with a German shepherd on a leash appeared around the corner of the building. Fischer muttered. He felt certain that he could avoid the guard; the dog, however, was another matter. He put the transmission in drive and coasted out of his parking spot. He followed the pavement to the rear of the building where the emergency room was located. He found a vacant spot, parked the truck, and reached for the door handle.

  You nuts, boy? All these years, I knowed I raised a fool. Now I learn you’re a babblin’ idjut . . .

  Fischer cocked his head to better hear the voice only he could hear. “What the hell you want, old man?”

  What was you gonna do, shit-for-brains, just stroll in there like it was friggin’ Kmart or something? Every cop in three states is huntin’ you, moron.

  “Ain’t nothin’ I can do about that. I got to see Mum. She’ll tell me what to do next.”

  Like that Bible-totin’ ol’ bitch has a clue. Now listen to me, retard. You only got one choice, and gettin’ your ass caught visitin’ that looney toon ain’t it. Your problem is them women. You got to fix them—one way or th’other.

  “You ain’t as damned smart as you think you are, old man. I heard on the news that the bitch that got away is some kind of fucking cop . . . I’ll never get close enough to fix ’er.”

  Nobody said nothin’ about doin’ it right now. What you got to do is lay low for a while, get the fuck out of Dodge.

  “Dodge? I ain’t in no place called Dodge, I’m in Brunswick.”

  Then get the fuck out of Brunswick—way out. Go up to Aroostook County, the place your uncle left you on Square Lake—it ain’t been used in years. Only way in is on loggin’ roads. Ain’t never been a cop in there.

  “I remember it. How long do I got to stay?”

  How in hell do I know—as long as it takes, you friggin’ idjut. For once, stop being like your nutcase mother and listen to me. You stay around here, they gonna get’cha sure as there’s a tide tomorrow. Go to a gas station or a bookstore and get one of them map books—one that shows the back roads. Stay off the turnpike and interstates, the cops watch ’em.

  “Who’ll take care of Mum?”

  Who cares? She sure as hell don’t—she ain’t been aware of shit for ten years, maybe longer.

  “You lie, you ol’ bastard—she’s aware of things. She talks to me all the time.”

  So do I, dummy—an’ you killed me almost twenty years ago.

  Fischer sat in his van and watched the hospital for several minutes. He ignored the old man’s cursing tirade. He touched his shoulder where the gaff had gored him; the wound had gotten infected. He reached under his shirt and squeezed the puncture wound. When the scab over the laceration split open, he ground his teeth against the pain—one more debt for which the bitch would have to pay. A small stream of pus flowed out of the open sore, covered his fingers, and made them sticky. He turned back and wiped the noxious stuff on Cheryl’s shirt. A slow sinister smile looked back at him from the rearview mirror, and he felt excitement cause a strange tickling sensation in his stomach. He was going to enjoy getting even with her—no one could hurt him and get away with it.

  Satisfied that Cheryl was still secure, he drove US 1 north on his way to Aroostook County.

  47

  O’Leary looked around the small kitchen for a second and then turned his attention to Tasha. She, being the most fluent in English, had become the official spokesperson for the Russian women. “Are you ladies being taken care of?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Tasha answered, “we have all we need.”

  “I didn’t ask if you had all that you need. There are always little things we want that we don’t really need, and I know this place ain’t the most luxurious, especially when compared to the house on the Cape.”

  “We are fine. This warehouse has everything we need and is many times nicer than what most of us grew up in. Besides we don’t have to . . . how do you say it? Fuck for our supper.”

  He ground out his smoke and sipped from the coffee mug that he held and studied her for several seconds. “Tasha, I’m a pretty good judge of when something is bothering people, and I can see that you got something on your mind. I hope that by now you realize I’m here to help you, not use you like Adriana did.”

  “We know, Jimmy. But . . .” she was hesitant to say more.

  “Tasha, in this country we have a custom. It ain’t anything unusual, but what it boils down to is if you don’t tell me what’s buggin’ you, I can’t do anything about it.”

  She reached over and took a cigarette from the pack Jimmy had placed on the table when he arrived. Once she had lit it, she arched her head back and exhaled a stream of smoke at the ceiling. “What will happen to us?”

  O’Leary, too, lit a cigarette. He stared at the fiery end as he thought about his answer. After several moments, he used his right index finger to tap the cigarette, dropping ash into the ashtray, and sat back. “I ain’t exactly sure—not yet. However, I can say this, there are several avenues available to us. Two of which I’m not about to let happen: you ain’t goin’ back to Russia, and you ain’t goin’ back to no place like that fancy whorehouse on Cape Cod—at least not as long as Gordon and I are alive.”

  Tasha looked away from him as she, too, tapped ash from her cigarette. She rolled the burning end around the ashtray until the fire was a perfect dome. She looked at Jimmy. “I hear things.”

  “We all hear things.”

  “I hear there are people who are determined to
kill you.”

  “Is that what’s bothering you?”

  She smiled. “Jimmy, no one is indestructible.”

  “Didn’t say I was. I’m just awfully careful.”

  “I have also heard,” she said, “that some of the people who want to harm you are in positions of power.”

  He reached over and gently lifted her chin with the side of a curled index finger. He looked into her large brown eyes. “I’m starting to think that your interests are more than you’re saying.”

  She blushed. O’Leary found it charming. Considering all she had been through and had been forced to do, blushing did not come easy. She smiled—he thought it a sad one. “You are very special to all of us . . .”

  He grinned, more than a little pleased that a woman as beautiful as Tasha could have strong feelings for him. “All of you . . . or you?” He pulled his hand back and gazed into her eyes.

  “Both but especially to me.”

  Winter walked into the room and stopped short when O’Leary glared at him. “Am I interrupting something?”

  “Of course not,” Tasha said.

  “Give me five minutes, will you, Gordon?” O’Leary said.

  When Winter left, he turned back to Tasha. He ground out his cigarette and said, “Tasha, you’re one gorgeous woman, you truly are. But you just been through some heavy shit . . .” Her quizzical look made him pause. “You’ve been through some tough times.” Her face showed that she now understood what he was saying, so he continued. “So let’s take things slow, okay? If after this is all over you still feel the same way . . . well, we’ll deal with it then.”

  She nodded. “I understand.”

  “Do you really understand?”

  “Yes.” She looked forlorn when she stared at the floor. “I cannot blame you. No man would want a woman who has done the things I have done . . .”

  “Stop right there. That thought has never crossed my mind. What I’m trying to say is that you’re one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever known—and I ain’t exactly eye candy. I don’t want you to confuse gratitude for something else. Am I making myself clear on this?”