“I see the police department is here, too,” O’Leary said. “If we’re going to get to the bottom of this, we need to cooperate and work together.”
“We’re willing to work with you,” Shiloh yelled, the sophisticated veneer of the previous day hidden by his pimp act, “but we ain’t so sure about the five-oh over there.”
Dysart spoke for the first time since he had entered the building. “The Boston Police Department is open to anything you have to say.”
Houston thought he sounded defensive.
“That right?” Shiloh seemed unconvinced. “Then how come for three years we been reportin’ that hoes been disappearing, an’ you guys ain’t done nothing?”
“Let’s be realistic here,” Dysart said, keeping his voice controlled. “The women who . . .” He paused to select the right phrase. “. . . work for you don’t exactly have a stable lifestyle.”
“That don’t mean something ain’t going on,” a pimp in a flashy suit said. “I had four girls disappear, and two of them been in my stable a long time. I think some asshole either snatched them or they’re dead.”
“In three years, we’ve never found a single piece of evidence that leads us to believe anything happened other than they decided on a change of scenery.”
“Change of scenery, my ass.” The pimp leaned forward, his muscular arms folded on the table. “Them hoes disappeared,” he snapped his fingers, “like that. I called people all up and down the East coast—ain’t no one seen them.”
Dysart leaned back. “Do you think if some pimp in New York or DC is working one of your runaway girls he’d tell you? Besides, it isn’t as if you people have a nationwide network—or do you?”
“I know that I told you people about that fish dude in the freezer truck,” Shiloh said. “You ever get a line on him? Seems like every time a hoe vanishes, that truck’s been in the area.”
“We’re looking into the truck,” Dysart said. “But even after we have a BOLO out for any truck meeting the description, our hands are tied without definitive evidence that a crime has occurred. Of one thing we are certain—if he’s a fish wholesaler, he isn’t anyone local.”
O’Leary held his hands up, signaling for the discussion to stop. “Captain,” he said, “it sounds to me as if you’re sayin’ that your department can’t—or won’t—do anything.”
“Not at all. We’re checking out as much as we can. Nevertheless, without an eyewitness or a body, there isn’t a damned thing we can do. Every day, hundreds of trucks come and go on the waterfront—many of them fitting the description we’ve been given. We’ve even checked out the markets in Everett. Thus far, all we have is a vague description of the truck—one time it’s a Peterbilt, the next a Ford. One of your women told us it was a Diamond Reo. Shit, there hasn’t been one of them made in over thirty years. We’ve had reports that it’s blue, yellow, red, and white. We don’t have enough cops to check every truck that comes in and out of the city. I got to have something to go with—a license plate would be nice, but without that my frigging hands are tied.”
“We understand your dilemma,” O’Leary said. “But if you can’t do something, we will.”
“Jimmy, if bodies start turning up like they did in the Latisha Washington situation last year, I’ll do everything in my power to bring you down.”
“You do what you have to do, Captain, and we’ll do what we have to.”
With that, O’Leary closed the meeting.
Outside, Houston, Bouchard, and Dysart watched the pimps disappear into the night. Dysart leaned against his car and smoked a cigarette. The evening was warm, and Dysart rolled his shirt sleeves above his elbows. He waited until the flow of people tapered off, tossed his cigarette away, and said, “Mike, you got to put a muzzle on O’Leary. I can’t have another of his vigilante deals.”
The previous year, the mother of a young girl asked O’Leary to help her find the gang-bangers who had raped and killed her daughter. He resolved the situation with his own unique brand of justice; within days, the cops found the four rapists’ bodies.
“Bill, I got no control over Jimmy. He always does what he wants. I’m sure he feels the BPD isn’t responsive enough to problems in the neighborhood, so he takes things into his own hands. He’s always been that way, and he always will be.”
“I know that sometimes we don’t do a good job in the neighborhoods . . .”
“That’s because there’s too much goddamned politics in the department, Bill. You know that as well as Jimmy and I do.”
“That’s life,” Dysart said. “I don’t like it any more than you, but I can’t have guys like Jimmy holding court with a 9 mm judge presiding.”
Dysart got into his car. He started the engine, rolled down the window, and said, “Mike, be careful, okay? Even though you two only been gone a year, things are different from what they were when you were cops. People are pretty anxious. You were right about one thing . . .” He nodded toward the warehouse. “. . . these people are more paranoid than most. Truthfully, if this meeting was an indicator, they’re scared shitless.” He waved as he drove away.
O’Leary and Winter walked out of the warehouse. O’Leary lit a cigarette and watched the cop drive away. “SOSDD,” he said.
“What?” Bouchard asked.
“Same old shit, different day.”
“Jimmy,” Bouchard said, “Bill Dysart is possibly the most honest and straight cop I’ve ever known. But as he said, he can’t investigate a crime until there’s evidence of one. The powers that be would have him on the carpet within an hour of opening up an investigation.”
“Well,” O’Leary replied, “the powers that be got no hold on me . . .” O’Leary walked away without saying anything else.
“Obviously,” Houston said.
Winter grinned. “I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you. He’ll come around, if not in this lifetime, the next.”
Houston grinned. “My money is on the next lifetime.”
19
Cheryl sat on the porch and watched darkness settle over the Gulf of Maine. Every now and then out of the corner of her eye, she checked to see what he was doing. He was always the same—sitting in the old wooden kitchen chair, leaning back against the wall with his feet wrapped around the chair legs while he held the ever-present rifle in his lap. He looked peaceful and out of touch with his surroundings. However, she knew he was not. She recalled the lyrics to an old song her mother used to play—the one in which the singer lamented that there was a killer on the road. The gun was all the proof she needed to know he would have no reluctance to shoot her if she fled. It was very likely that her killer was not on the road; he sat beside her.
A cool, pleasant breeze blew in from the gulf, and Cheryl let it lull her. She recalled sitting on her grandparents’ porch on evenings just like this waiting for some boy or another to stop by. They would sit and chat, maybe flirt a bit. The only difference was that now she sat naked beside a psycho who couldn’t get an erection. She sobered; it was difficult for her to believe that those idyllic days of youth had been only one year ago.
His harsh voice suddenly broke the evening silence. “You’re disgusting—you smell like roadkill.”
His tone startled her. “I know,” she said, taking care to keep any hint of defiance from her voice. “I’d love to take a bath.”
“Go clean yourself.”
She turned to the door.
“Not in there.” He pointed to the ocean. “There.”
Cheryl’s heart skipped. Was she hearing him correctly? This was the third night he had let her out of her prison to sit in the cool night air. She could not believe that he was finally going to let her swim in the ocean. She fought the excitement she felt, not wanting to show it. She recalled a movie she’d seen as a child, how Br’er Rabbit goaded Br’er Bear and Br’er Fox by saying, “Please, don’t throw me in that briar patch.” She kept her hope under control and said, “But the Gulf is too cold—and public.”
&nbs
p; “The plumbing is fucked up,” he said. “You got two choices, the ocean or nothin’.”
Her heart hammered so fast she thought he would see it. Maybe she had a chance. Maybe—just maybe.
Cheryl stepped onto the unpaved walk. She used her toes to search the ground for pebbles before she placed her weight on bare feet. She concentrated on the path until she reached the grass, where she stopped and looked over her shoulder at her captor. She wondered if he was toying with her. Was this nothing more than another of his games? Her stomach in a knot, she saw that he still sat as before; however, she noticed that his hand seemed to have a firmer grip on the rifle.
“Go on.” His smile and calm words belied the physical alertness of his body.
She turned and walked toward the water. Her shoulders tensed as she waited for a bullet’s impact. She neared the water and forced herself to keep her pace under control and not to move too quickly. In seconds, she stood at the edge of the small cove that led to the sea. She turned and looked toward the house. He had not moved; still sitting like a silent sentinel, his eyes seemed to bore through her. She was certain that he would never let her into the water; this was just a ploy—an excuse to kill her.
Cheryl placed her left foot in the surf and quickly pulled it out. It was frigid. Even though it was late July, the temperature in the water of the Gulf of Maine struggled to reach fifty degrees. She wrapped her arms across her breasts, slowly swishing her right foot back and forth, allowing it to become accustomed to the water. She stepped forward, shivering as the cold water reached her knees. When it was halfway between her knees and her waist, she stopped walking. Once again, she looked over her shoulder at the vigilant sentinel, who watched from his post.
The water lapped against her legs, and she shivered each time it touched a dry portion of her leg. She decided to get it over with and plunged in. The cold took her breath away, and then she felt a rush of exhilaration as the saltwater washed the filth, sweat, and grime of captivity from her body. Fighting off the urge to swim out to sea and get away, she realized that it was smarter to go slow and not arouse suspicion. She admonished herself, Don’t go too far or too fast. She rolled over and began to backstroke, all the while keeping her eyes on him.
The Fisherman was still on the porch, only now his chair was forward, and he leaned forward staring at the ocean.
She swam slowly, staying well within the confines of the cove and close to the shore, always watching him. She waved, feeling silly for doing it, but hoping it would put him at ease. She swam about ten yards then turned and swam back. With each lap, she allowed herself to drift a little farther and farther from the shore.
Cheryl was elated, suddenly feeling something she thought she would never feel again: hope. Even though she was still within his power, she felt free. She kept her eye on him. He stood, watching her every move; his hand seemed to be closer to the deadly rifle’s trigger.
Cheryl looked away and then back, and her heart skipped. He had moved closer and stood at the top of the steps, his eyes seeming to bore through her, waiting for her to make one wrong move. Cheryl realized that this was a test, another of his endless games. She wondered how deep the water was. Would it be deep enough for her to dive, avoiding the bullets? She suddenly wished she knew anything about guns. How far can a rifle like that shoot? Three hundred yards, four hundred, more? She stopped swimming and tried to touch bottom. The water was deeper than she was tall. She waved at him. He hesitated for a second and then waved back. She could not make out his face, but she knew he was getting concerned. The question was if he was worried enough to shoot her. She rolled over and dove beneath the surface.
Cheryl turned and began to swim back to the shore. She wanted badly to turn out to sea, but he was too vigilant. A plan began to form in her mind. She knew, however, if it were to work, she needed one thing—his trust.
Cheryl stepped out of the cool water and looked toward the house. He stood on the ground, several paces from the porch, still holding the rifle and watching her as intently as a mother cat watching a litter of newborn kittens. She walked to the porch, all the while telling herself she was stupid for not trying to escape. When she stood before the warped stairs leading up to the door, he stood watching her.
“You’re smarter than I thought,” he said.
Cheryl avoided eye contact with him and returned to her chair.
He stared out to the sea, not taking his eyes from it, and said, “If you had tried running, I would have shot you.” To prove his point he snapped the rifle into his shoulder and turned slightly to his right. “See that pine cone on the bottom branch on the big pine?”
Cheryl stared at the tree that stood at the very edge of the light from the porch’s single bulb. After a moment, she identified the pine cone of which he spoke.
Without waiting for a response, he fired. The cone exploded. He smiled at her. The twisted smile was more of a grimace, and when coupled with his deformed head, he looked demonic. It made her shiver. Suddenly the smile vanished, and his eyes flashed with insanity. His hands began to twitch, and his face reddened. “Go to your room.”
20
Cheryl woke to the sun beating through the window. Last night after her swim, he had locked her in her room but left her unshackled for the first time since he had brought her to the house. Not certain what had awakened her, she sat up, holding the sheet across her chest.
The Fisherman stood in the door while holding clothes in his arms. He threw clean underwear, a T-shirt, and jeans on the bed. “Get dressed, breakfast is ready.”
Cheryl knew he had no patience and that when he told her to do something, she had better do it immediately. She leapt from the bed and grabbed the clothes. Everything seemed to be in good order except the underpants were boys’ briefs. She slid the underwear on and dressed as fast as she could. All the while, she tried not to telegraph the pleasure and security she felt from being clothed for the first time since he had taken her to meet Mum. Once she was dressed, she followed him from the room.
He strode down the stairs, never looking to see if she followed. Cheryl paused briefly and looked at Mum’s room. She passed by, wondering if Mum was still alive.
She was surprised when he said, “After breakfast, we’re going out. I got a charter this afternoon, and you need to start learning the family business. It’s time you started earning your keep.”
_________________
Cheryl stood on the deck, the skyline of Portland visible behind the charter boat. They had left the cove at his house, and the first thing that struck her was how conditions on the boat belied those inside the house. Where the house was cluttered and filthy, the boat was immaculate with everything in its assigned place.
The twenty-five-foot craft bobbed and rubbed against the old tires he used as bumpers to protect the sides from the pier. The Fisherman opened one of the boat’s wet-wells and stirred the mess in it with a short paddle.
“What’s that?” Cheryl asked.
“Chum. It’s used to attract fish.”
“I know what chum is. What are you using?”
“Blood, guts, bone meal . . . leftovers from the factory.”
“Is that the building beside the house?” she asked.
“Yeah, my old man used it to make fishcakes. If people knew the shit he put in them, they’d never eat that crap again.”
He glanced around to see if their charter had arrived. Seeing they had the dock to themselves, he said, “Do what you’re told today. Don’t be talking to the customers.” He gave her a hard look. “One peep, and you’ll be the next one into that wet-well.”
It was then that Cheryl realized what he used for chum. Unable to keep her face from broadcasting her fear and revulsion, she turned away and stared at the pier. He saw where she was looking and turned that way. Two fat men descended the stairs onto the dock and walked to the boat.
One of them wore the loudest Hawaiian shirt Cheryl had ever seen, and his companion wore a sleeveless T-shirt th
rough which she could see the box of fat that defined his stomach. Both wore Red Sox hats. She got the distinct feeling that it was going to be a long afternoon.
“Remember,” he muttered, “not so much as one fucking word.” He walked down the gangplank to greet his customers.
“Ahoy!” called one of the men. “Are you Captain Fischer?”
The fisherman held out his hand.
“Yeah, I’m Willard Fischer. Welcome aboard.”
Hawaiian shirt thumped T-shirt on the arm, “I’ll be goddamned . . . a fisherman named Fischer! I told you this was going to be a trip to remember. I’m Chester. This burnout is Matt.”
The men stopped and looked Cheryl over. A wishful leer came over Matt’s face. “This the mate?”
“Yeah,” Fischer said, “she’s the mate—and my wife. Let’s get one thing straight right now. She ain’t part of the charter package.”
Matt’s face reddened, and he tripped on the gangplank as he scrambled aboard the boat.
As they prepared to get underway, Cheryl knew that Fischer remained vigilant. In fact, he watched her so intently that she wondered if the clients would think that something was wrong; it had to be unusual for the mate on a charter not to say anything to the clients. Fortunately, she had grown up around boats and needed little or no instruction; she knew what to do to get a fishing boat ready for sea.
_________________
Cheryl avoided Chester and Matt as if they had a communicable disease. If they asked for something, she brought it quickly; wary lest Fischer would misinterpret her actions, she took care to avoid eye contact and conversation with either of the clients.
As soon as the engines died, the vessel gently rocked in the swells. Fischer stepped down from the cockpit. “We should get something here,” he said. “Spread some of that chum around the boat.”
Her heart sank, and she struggled to keep from vomiting as she dipped a small bucket into the wet-well. With great care not to get the foul mixture on her clothes or body, Cheryl poured the bait over the side. She avoided looking at the pieces of flesh and meat that the current churned around the surface. She wiped at the tears on her face and wondered if what she was spreading in the ocean had not so long ago been Monique. She glanced at Fischer and smiled a nervous smile. He nodded and turned his back to her.
The Fisherman Page 11
