Fischer knew that as much as he’d like to stay where he was, he had to get out of there. He rolled back into the water and found the short tunnel that led to the entrance. It took his last reserve of strength to stretch his ravaged torso. He was unable to raise his left arm, so he swam with his right hand in front and, for a brief moment, panicked when he encountered an obstruction. With strength he didn’t think he had, Fischer clawed at the obstacle, all the while fighting back the terror every fisherman had of death by drowning. He wedged his feet into the soft mud bottom and surged forward, kicking hard, and the blockage fell away.
Fischer pulled himself out of the narrow opening and swam to the surface. He broke out of the grasp of the inky water and swam to the dam. He crawled out of the pond, collapsing on the narrow path that fishermen had made along the dam top.
He was unaware of how long he lay on the top of the barrier. But when he felt he had recovered sufficiently, he crawled to the swamp that surrounded the downstream side. He grabbed the trunk of a tree and pulled himself to his feet and stood beside the pond. After the primordial darkness of the beaver hut, the silhouette of which he could see clearly, the night seemed brilliant. The moon had yet to elevate over the trees, but there was enough light for him to walk. He found a one-inch-round stick that would serve as a staff and hobbled away from the dam to the base of the short cliff from which he’d tumbled.
Several times he wrenched his damaged shoulder as he scaled the ledge. He knew that the cops had most likely left someone in the area, and he stifled the desire to cry in agony. When he reached the summit, he laid on the ground. Both of his shoulders were fucked—one with the infected wound from the gaff and the other from the bullet—and he was sure that blood and pus seeped from them, as well as from the wounds in his back and side. He wasn’t sure where he was, but he knew in which direction the road lay. Once he was there, he knew how to get back to Howe Brook, where his wife surely awaited his return. As he started the trek to his sister’s, he thought of the bitch who had done so much damage to him. He pushed his pain aside by planning and visualizing the ways he was going to punish her once he had her.
He was also aware that it was suicidal to remain where he was; he had to put as much distance as possible between himself and the beaver pond. Moving slowly so he wouldn’t draw the attention of any cops in the area, it took most of his remaining strength to walk back to the road.
It was daylight when Fischer arrived at Howe Brook. He hid in the forest and saw a strange vehicle in the yard. He sat against a tree and fought against his desire to sleep. His ravaged body screamed for rest, but he couldn’t allow it.
He burned with a fiery fever and had no idea how long he remained in a semi-comatose state beneath the tree before Ernestine came out of her cabin. He tried to call out, but all he could manage was a hoarse croaking sound that was immediately lost in the sound of the wind through the trees.
His first thought was to make his sister pay for betraying him. Then he realized that he was too weak to confront her. He needed to find someplace where he could hide . . . and heal. There would come a day when he could get even with them all: Ernestine, the bitch, and his unfaithful wife.
64
Cheryl lay in bed, staring listlessly out the window. She heard people enter the room and turned toward them. At first, she seemed scared when she saw her grandmother. Then she smiled as tears ran down her face. “Gram . . .”
Betty Guerette darted across the hospital room and hugged her granddaughter. Archie followed and looked more than a bit awkward as he stood beside the bed waiting for them to finish their embrace.
Sam Fuchs stood back, silently observing as the family spent a few moments consoling each other. After a tearful few minutes, Cheryl looked over her grandmother’s shoulder and saw Fuchs.
“Hello, Lieutenant.”
“Do you two know each other?” Betty asked.
“We met last night when they brought me here,” Cheryl replied.
Fuchs smiled. “How are you?”
“Better. Have they found him?”
“No, but they’re searching every inch of the woods up there and have alerted the rest of the state, New Hampshire, and Massachusetts, as well. They’ll find him; it’s only a matter of time.”
Fuchs took charge of the meeting. The state policeman took a small recorder out of his pocket and placed it on the stand beside her bed. “I’d like to tape this conversation if you don’t mind. Cheryl, we need to know everything you can tell us about this guy.” He looked at her grandparents. “You folks might want to step outside . . . this could be hard to hear.”
“If Cheryl is going to get past this, we need to know what we’re dealing with,” Betty said. “We’ll stay.”
Fuchs wondered how Cheryl felt about them hearing her story. When she said, “I want them here. I have to tell them what happened eventually,” she gave Fuchs an intent look.
Fuchs nodded his head and then started his recorder and told everyone to find chairs and take a seat. Once everyone was settled, he sat back, perched on the unoccupied bed. He looked at Cheryl and said, “Why don’t you start? It may be best if you start at the beginning when he abducted you.”
Cheryl glanced at her grandmother. Her lower lip trembled. “I was looking for a fix, working around Traveler Street and the Public Garden . . .” She looked at her grandmother, uncertain of the reception she would get when she confessed to being a drug addict and prostitute.
Betty wrapped her arms around her granddaughter. “Don’t worry, just tell your story.”
Archie sat on the foot of the bed and softly patted Cheryl’s leg. “Ain’t no judges or juries here, Cheryl—just your family and friends.”
She inhaled and stiffened like a condemned woman who’d just decided to get her execution over and done with. “Gram, Gramp . . . can you ever forgive me?”
Elizabeth patted her hand. “Don’t you worry, baby, there’s nothing to forgive. I know what you were doing.” Trying to ease the tension, she glanced at Archie. “You don’t live with a sailor all your life and not know of such things.”
Archie reddened and said, “Now, Betty, that was before I married you . . .”
Betty shut him up with a wave of her hand. “Go on, Cheryl, tell these people what they need to know to find this man.”
65
Houston and Bouchard sat on the front porch of their cabin. The sun hung low in the sky, and an early fall chill hung in the air. “You think they’ll ever find his body?” Bouchard asked.
“It’s hard to say. If his body ever comes up, there’s any number of predators out there.”
“Body would be pretty wasted anyhow.”
“That depends. It gets awfully cold in those woods. That pond will have a couple of feet of ice on it. He’s not in there, anyway. The divers didn’t find anything but a bunch of old trees.” Houston sipped from his mug of hot cider.
“Do you think he’s still alive?”
“Well, the chances are slim—you put a nine in him, and then he fell twenty-five feet into that pond.” He sipped the cider. “Still, I wouldn’t put it past that sonuvabitch to have survived and still be out there.”
“What,” Bouchard asked, “is that saying that Jimmy used?”
“The one where he says he’ll live forever because God doesn’t want him, and the devil’s afraid he’ll take over?”
“That’s the one.”
“Almost seems to fit doesn’t it?”
“How is Cheryl handling this?”
“When last I spoke with her, she’d taken an NRA handgun course and got a license to carry a concealed weapon. If Fischer comes after her, he may get more than he expects. She’s not the same woman she was.” Houston changed the subject. “How was your trip into Boston?”
Bouchard was quiet for a second. She’d gone to Boston under the guise of doing some early Christmas shopping, although she was sure Houston knew there was more to it. The truth of the matter was that she’d gone to
see an old friend, who happened to be a psychologist who worked closely with police officers who’d been involved in traumatic situations. “It was fine.”
“Lisa Enright still on a campaign to legalize prostitution?”
“As far as I know she is, and I heard that Jimmy O’Leary left.”
“Left?”
“Yeah, he and some Russian woman got married and went to Florida with her teenaged daughter.”
“Willard’s mother?”
“Dead from complications related to Alzheimer’s.”
“So,” Houston picked up a large thermos and offered it to Bouchard. When she nodded, he replenished the cider in both of their mugs. “Looks as if it’s a wrap.”
He walked into the cabin and sensed her behind him. She kicked the door shut and said, “Living up here in the willy-wags isn’t so bad after all.”
Houston turned, placed his mug on the table beside the door, and took her into his arms. He felt her resist his touch then loosen and return it. He inhaled the scent of her hair and sighed. He knew everything was going to be alright.
SIX MONTHS LATER
66
Ernestine Fischer tossed the shovelful of heavy wet spring snow to the side and straightened up. She stared at the early morning sun and wiped sweat from her forehead. She was pushing fifty-five, getting too damned old for all this manual labor. She heard the sound of a large truck braking and wondered who it could be. It was April, and no one hauled timber during mud season. She heard the vehicle splash through the large puddles left by the early melt and saw its nose appear along the track of unpaved road that was called Main Street. The truck ground to a halt, and the door opened and slammed. With the rising sun in her eyes, she was unable to identify the driver when he rounded the nose of the large eighteen-wheeler, though it was easy to see that it was a man, and his walk and demeanor seemed familiar. She pushed her shovel into the snow beside the narrow path she’d been digging out and splashed through the flowing water that coursed down to the cabin. As she walked, she took great care not to rush or appear frightened.
She stepped onto the porch and looked back before entering the house; the figure had waded through the thigh-deep snow and had reached her path. Ernestine reached inside the door and grabbed her bolt-action .308 rifle. She opened and closed the bolt, loading a round into the chamber and then took the safety off. She waited until the man closed to within twenty yards. He wore filthy, worn clothes, and his face was obscured by a heavy black beard. His hair was long, stringy, and in need of both cutting and washing.
Trying to keep a calm tone of voice, Ernestine asked, “Can I help you?”
“Ernestine . . . don’t you recognize me?”
The voice was familiar, and her stomach sank. “Willard?”
He smiled, and she saw that he had lost at least one tooth in the months since he had disappeared into the northern Maine woods. “Yeah, surprised to see me, sister?”
“Willard, it’s not safe for you to be here. The police are still looking for you.”
The smile left his face, and he looked every bit the killer that she knew he was. She knew that she had to do something; at the very least she had to notify the authorities of her brother’s reappearance, but how could she? She lived in a house so far away from the benefits of society that her only electricity came from the gas-powered generator she used sparingly, and there was no way the phone company was going to run a line in for one permanent resident.
“So, big sister, are you going to let me in or not? After all, it’s been six months since we last talked.”
_________________
Houston was dozing, an open book on his lap and the Red Sox Patriot’s Day broadcast playing at a low volume on the radio, when the phone rang. He answered on the second ring. “Houston.”
“Mike? Wera Eklund.”
“Hey, how are you, Deputy?” Houston was surprised. “What’s up?”
“Ernestine Fischer just left my office.”
“How is she?”
“Willard showed up on her doorstep on the eighth . . .”
Houston was on his feet before he realized it. “So he’s alive. Is Ernestine alright?”
“He beat her quite severely. She believes that being his sister was the only thing that saved her life.”
“Why did she wait so long to go to you?”
“He left her place this morning. You know how she lives—no electricity and no phone, just whatever she needs to survive. Once he left, she got in her old truck and drove here. I don’t know how she did it. She’s one tough old lady, that’s for certain. She’s over at the hospital now. I’m going to try and get her to stay a few days. At least until we get a fix on his location.”
“Does she know where he went?”
“He didn’t say anything, but he did go on a rant about getting even with someone.”
“Cheryl?”
“Eventually . . .”
“Anne.”
“Mike, you two need to watch yourselves. Somehow or another he found out where you live.”
“Shit,” he swore. “You know, last summer when he had her, we never did recover her wallet or her credentials and driver’s license.”
“There’s a BOLO out on him. He was last seen driving an eighteen-wheeler log truck.”
“Thanks for the call, Wera. We’ll do what we have to. He’s personal.”
“Okay, but if you end up chasing him into my jurisdiction, I want to know about it.”
Houston hung up the phone and heard a noise in the kitchen. Anne Bouchard entered the room and asked, “Who was that, hon?”
“We need to get ready. We got company coming.”
67
Fischer left the eighteen-wheeler at the bottom of the grade and jumped out of the cab. He zipped his coat up, trying to ward off the predawn chill. True spring came late to Maine, and here in the high country the cold and ice hung on longer than it did at his home on the coast.
He reached inside his coat pocket and gripped the knife that he wore on his right hip, cursing at Ernestine. She’d hidden her rifle and he was unable to find it—even slapping her around did no good. The best he could do was the Bowie knife he’d been carrying since he became a fugitive. Thinking of the ordeal brought on a spasm of the memory of the pain from the sundry wounds that the bitch had inflicted on him. He fingered the handle of the knife and smiled when he thought of the pain and carnage the twenty-four inch blade was going to inflict on her.
He walked up the gravel lane, the frozen surface crunching under the heavy soles of his boots. He avoided frozen mud puddles and stayed in the worn, packed tire lanes—even though he felt certain that his quarry had not a clue about the imminent danger she was in. He hoped the man, the shooter with the long gun, was there, too. He’d kill that one first, a quick slash across his throat. If things went as he hoped, the son of a whore wouldn’t die too quick—he wanted him to live just long enough to see what was in store for his bitch.
The night slowly gave way to the dull gray of early dawn, and he stood in the yard staring at the house. A trail of smoke drifted from the chimney, and the smell of wood smoke hung heavy in the air. He stepped onto the porch and gently touched the door knob. He applied a gentle pressure and was surprised when the door opened.
_________________
Fischer crept through the door and found himself in a spacious, rustic living room. A small fire burned in the fireplace, and he heard the sound of water running in the room to the right rear. Someone was in the shower—the perfect place to attack. He passed by the first of two easy chairs that faced the fire and slowly approached the door that he assumed led to the bedroom. He pulled the knife and reached for the doorknob.
“If Cheryl was here, she’d tell you that your father was right, Willard. You are a fucking idiot. You brought a knife to a gunfight.”
He spun around, and the woman stood between the chairs, holding a pistol that didn’t waver as she aimed it at him.
________
_________
Bouchard held the 9 mm Glock with both hands. “Willard, I’ve knocked you senseless with a lamp, stabbed you with a gaff, tried to run you over with a boat, and shot you—this will be twice. I guess you’re one of those people who just never learns.”
His shoulders seemed to drop for a split second, and then he bolted. She fired at him, not sure that she scored a hit. Fischer dashed through the front door and headed for safety.
She heard the crack and thud of a rifle firing and a bullet hitting home. A spray of dark liquid splattered on the window and slowly turned from black to red in the early morning sunlight. She heard a thump, and through the door she saw a hand holding a Bowie knife flop down. Then blood slowly flowed across the porch.
She held her pistol at the ready and walked to the door. Standing in the threshold, she saw where Houston’s bullet had entered the crazed killer’s head . . . directly in the center of the deformed flat spot. She nudged the body with her foot, and when she was certain he was dead, she looked away and watched Houston climb down from the tree stand across the road. She smiled at him as he approached with his sniper rifle braced on his right hip and pointed at the sky. Maybe, she thought, I’ll get the first good night’s sleep I’ve had since this scumbag grabbed me.
Anne stepped over Willard Fischer and ran from the porch. She met Mike in the middle of the yard, and neither of them said anything as they held each other tight and watched the Fisherman’s body go still.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Of all my work, The Fisherman took me the longest to write, just over eleven years. I owe thanks to many people. To list a few: The two Connies: my late wife and soul-mate, Connie Hardacker, as this story was her idea. People ask where do ideas come from? This one came when my biggest fan walked into my den and showed me the website where I learned of the case upon which this novel is loosely (very loosely) based. Cancer took her before she could read the finished manuscript, and after eight years, I still miss her terribly. At the same time that Connie was my most devoted fan, she was also my most valuable critic—she was always willing to tell me what I needed to hear, not what I wanted to hear. On those occasions where I wanted to give up writing, she was the one person who gave me the strength of purpose to struggle onward.
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