“He was a good-looking man. I hope you don’t mind my asking how he died,” Bouchard asked.
“No, it’s been long enough that I can talk about it. Archie still has a time of it, though. Jeremy worked with his father . . . he was lost in a storm. They were fishing for swordfish off the Flemish Cap.”
“The Flemish Cap?” Houston asked.
“It’s about 350 miles east of Newfoundland, farther out than the Grand Banks.”
“I’m sorry,” Houston said, realizing how insufficient the comment was.
“It was over ten years ago. Laurel, Jeremy’s wife, lost it after that. She got into drugs and just drifted away. We don’t even know if she’s alive or dead.”
They followed her into the kitchen and sat at the table. Betty placed a steaming mug of coffee, cream, and sugar in front of them and said, “I’ll get Archie.”
A door led from the kitchen to the back yard, and Betty exited through it. Houston looked out the window at the most beautiful view he could recall. The water came up to within a hundred feet of the house, and he saw the same fishing trawler he had seen in the picture docked along a wooden pier with its aft facing the shore. On the stern, the name Betty G was painted in blue letters. The fishing boat was big but not big enough in Houston’s estimation to go 350 miles out into the Atlantic. Obviously, not only was Archie strong, but he had more than one man’s share of courage.
“We have to find Cheryl before it’s too late,” Bouchard said. “Everyone close to Archie and his wife has either died or fallen off the face of the Earth.”
“We’ll bring Cheryl home, even if for no other reason than they’ll have at least one of their loved ones to mourn and a grave on which they can place Betty’s beautiful flowers.”
He watched Betty walk to the dock and heard her call out. Archie’s head popped out of a window in the pilot’s cabin. Betty said something more and then walked toward the house.
In minutes, she was back in the kitchen. “I been at him to sell the boat,” she said as she sat at the table. “Archie’s getting on a bit and can’t crew it alone. But the sea is all he knows, and he can’t seem to give it up.”
Houston thought of his own situation. Being a cop was in his blood, but a year ago he had thought he could just walk away and never look back. However, of late he knew he never could—he would miss the adrenaline rush he got when he was on the chase.
Archie appeared through the back door, inhaling deeply. “Smells like you bin busy, old woman,” he said. He pulled out the chair between Houston and Betty, sat and spooned five teaspoons of sugar into his coffee. He saw Houston watching him and said, “Never could drink coffee with milk or cream, but I need my shugah. Have you learned anything?”
“It seems there is a man, Willard Fischer, who has been around each time a . . .” Houston and Bouchard had agreed on the drive to Kittery that they would avoid using the phrase serial killer—afraid it would rob the Guerettes of all hope that Cheryl was still alive. He hesitated, trying to find the right words, “woman has disappeared.”
“Seems to me I know that name,” Archie said.
“Apparently he owns a fishing boat and does some chartering.”
“Yuh, know who you mean now . . . that’d be one of Hallet Fischer’s boys. He was never the same after the accident.”
“What accident?”
Houston realized that, like all Mainers, Archie would only tell a tale in his own way, so he sat back to listen.
“Hallet was a piece of work, mind you. He drove them boys like they was full-growed men. Had them working the boat and that stupid factory from the time they was old enough to walk. Was a time Hallet fished commercially—gave it up after the kid got hurt. They was out in the gulf one day, and a boom let go, and a turnbuckle slammed the kid in the head. God-awfullest thing I ever seen. Hit that boy so hard his eyes never straightened out—flattened one side of his head like it had been squeezed in a cider press.
“Hallet, now, he never let up on the kid. After getting smashed in the gourd, that poor little bugger was always a couple of sardines short of a full can. Of course, that don’t surprise me none. A shot to the head like that youngster took would be enough to take the starch out of any man’s pencil—”
“Archie,” Betty admonished him, “there isn’t any need to be crude.”
Archie chuckled, making Houston believe he’d used the phrase for no reason other than to tease her. “Anyways, the old man kept him working the boat and making those fish cakes from sunup to sundown.”
“Where was their place?” Houston bent forward as he spoke.
“Used to be north of here in Yarmouth, but twenty maybe twenty-five years ago, Hallet sold out and moved farther north somewhere—way north, could have been as far as Camden, ya know. I never saw him after that.
“His wife, Beatrice, now she was something else, too. Bible thumper—she could quote the good book better than any fundamentalist preacher I ever heard. Between Hallet’s irreverence and her devotion to God’s word, them boys never had a snowball’s chance in hell. I r’collect the last time I seen Hallet. It was back in ’93 . . .”
_________________
April 1993
Archie guided the boat in close to the dock and saw Hallet Fischer leaning against a post. When the boat was alongside the wharf, Archie idled the motors and looked out the window of the wheelhouse. Fischer strode down the pier and stopped beside the wooden gangplank. Hallet was not a trusting man, and he suspiciously eyed Archie’s crewman. The sailor ignored Hallet, jumped off the trawler, and tied another line to the mooring. Like most Mainers, Hallet was tightfisted and squeezed a nickel so tight that Jefferson moved into Monticello. Rather than lose a piece of rope or a tool, he made a point of meeting every boat and staying on the dock until they were unloaded and on their way.
Fischer stepped aside as the boat thumped against the old tires strung along the pier as bumpers. He waited until the craft’s motor died. The morning stillness seemed amplified in the absence of the rumble from the big diesel motor. A loon broke the silence, its call like a maniac’s laugh.
Archie poked his head out of the cabin window and waved. “How you doin’, Hallet?”
Fischer shielded his eyes. The morning was calm, and the sun reflected from the ocean’s glassy surface. “Is that you, Guerette? Mite early to be heading in, ain’t it?”
“We hit it lucky. We left Prince Pint at three this morning and hit a big school less than ten miles out. Got a bunch of mackerel if you’re interested.”
A cold wind blew in from the Gulf of Maine, and Hallet looked at the ice on the railing of the boat. “You suppose spring’s ever going to get here?” he asked.
Guerette smiled. “Nope. But this is Maine, ain’t it? We know what that means.”
“That we do, Archie. Nine months of winter and three months of poor sleddin’.” Fischer chuckled at the cliché.
Guerette walked out of the wheelhouse and down the gangplank. Although not a tall man, Archie possessed strength greater than one would expect from a man of his stature. He held out his hand and grasped Fischer’s. “How’s the family, Hallet?”
“The old woman ain’t doing too well. Somethin’ called alls-hiemer got her.”
“Don’t think I ever heard of that.”
“From what I’m told, they might better call it the can’t remember shit disease. Doc says t’won’t be long b’fore she don’t know anyone nor care about nothin’. I’ll bet that won’t keep her from caterwauling about the scriptures, though.”
“Sorry to hear she’s ailing.”
“Yuh, well, that’s the way it is. None of us gets out of this life alive, now do we?”
Archie pulled a pipe from his pocket and stuffed it full of tobacco. He paused, wondering how anyone could be so cold while discussing such a serious matter. He lit the tobacco and said, “That may be the case, Hallet, but nobody should have to go that way. Is she seeing a doctor?”
“Not no more.”
Archie
pulled the pipe from his mouth and stared at Fischer. “Not no more? Why the hell not? Those doctors in Portland can do miracles.”
“I already had her down there. They said wasn’t nothing they could do for her. So I said fuck it—I brung her home to die. It’d be just like her to hang on f’evah. Then agin, she might jist die outta spite.”
“How’s that?”
“She’s gonna die an’ stick me with slow-witted, cockeyed Willard. Woman only gave me two sons, and one had to be a friggin’ dummy.”
“He ain’t such a bad boy. From what I see, he works hard.”
“That he does. Does everything you tell him to do, too. You say, ‘Willard, pick up the hammer’, and he’ll pick it up. Then you say, ‘Take the hammer up to the shed and put it in the tool box,’ an’ he’ll do it. Problem is you got to tell him every goddamned thing. He ain’t got enough brains to look around and put away a ten-dollar hammer he sees sitting on the ground rusting. Hell, I got to either smack him in the head or give him a kick in the ass three, four times a day just to keep him from sitting around burning daylight. Fucking kid is dumah than a sack of assholes marked spoiled. He ain’t like his older brother, Richard. That one has a head on his shoulders—I only wish he wasn’t a goddamned sissy.”
Just as Hallet finished his harangue, Willard stepped out of the small toolshed. Hallet’s eyes narrowed when he saw his son. He yelled at the boy. “Get your worthless carcass on down here, shithead! Can’t you see there’s fish to be off-loaded?”
The boy’s head snapped up at the sound of his father’s voice. He stood still as if petrified.
“Come on, you fucking dummy,” Hallet yelled. “Stop lollygagging, you dimwitted son of a whore! You know better than to stand around when there’s work to be done.”
Willard jogged toward the dock.
Archie felt for the boy and knew that one day Hallet was going to rue the way he treated his son. The youngster already had massive shoulders and arms, and he wasn’t much over fifteen. “Boy’s growing,” Archie said.
“Yup but still stupid. Hell, time we was his age we’d already been down to Portland and Boston. When I was fifteen, I’d already had my first woman. Whore down in Scollay Square. My old man took me there when he sold a load of cod—said fifteen was time for a boy to learn the difference b’tween men and women. Willard though, he’d be like that Evangelist fellow down south . . . he’d just sit in a chair and watch.”
Archie laughed in spite of himself. He bent over and tapped the pipe’s bowl on the pier, knocking the fire into the water.
“Well, I suppose, we’d best get to it. That hold full of mackerel ain’t getting any fresha.”
Archie watched in amazement at how fast and strong Willard Fischer was. God has a way of making up for things, he thought. That boy may have been slow of mind, but he out-worked any two men Archie knew. In a little over two hours, the mackerel were off-loaded, and the Betty G had backed away from the dock. He gave the Fischers a farewell blast of his horn, turned into the channel, and sailed south for Prince Point.
Archie glanced back and saw Willard standing alone on the dock. The boy had a simple way about him, as if he were a little boy imprisoned in a man’s body. But the thing that stayed in Archie’s mind as he sailed away was the look in the boy’s eyes. Archie recalled reading that people’s eyes are like windows. If that was the case, Willard was home to an awesome rage.
_________________
Norwood Anders, who was responsible for loading and unloading ships on the Mystic River, sat before the desk, fidgeted in his seat, and tried to avoid Jimmy O’Leary’s piercing gaze. “Relax, Norwood, I didn’t have you brought here to bust your ass. What happened happened, and it’s time to move on.”
“Honest, Mr. O’Leary, I thought the Russian had paid his fees. I never would have unloaded that ship otherwise.”
“Forget it. I’m more interested in what else he’s carrying.”
Anders looked like a kitten seeing a ball of twine for the first time. “I don’t understand.”
“That ship is carrying more than freight. There are jail cells in it.”
“Well, I heard some rumors.”
“Norwood, I’m getting tired of prying everything out of you. Tell me what you know.”
“Well, it ain’t like I got any proof or anything, but I hear they been smuggling in illegal immigrants.”
“Mexicans?”
“No, that ship’s home port is Odessa. I hear they been bringing in Russian women—young ones.”
“Go on.”
“They rendezvous with someone in international waters and transfer the women. I heard the women sign a deal with . . . I guess you could call it an agent in Russia.”
“What’s this deal?”
“Kind of like when the English first came here in colonial times, they get passage and once they’re here, room and board. They work off what they owe . . . there’s a word for what they were called . . .”
“Indentured servants,” O’Leary interjected.
“Yeah, that’s it. I heard some of them are mail-order brides—ain’t that a kick?”
“Okay, I understand what you’re saying,” O’Leary studied the end of his cigarette for a few seconds, as if he were lost in thought, and then crushed it in an ashtray. He ignited another smoke and looked at Anders. “You better get over to the docks.”
“Sure thing, Mr. O’Leary, and don’t you worry, ain’t going to be no more screw-ups.”
“I’ll take that as a promise, now beat it.”
When the door closed behind Anders, Gordon Winter said, “I figured as much. Someone is importing young girls. Probably promising them the world and then making them do around the world.”
“Get Shiloh. That sonuvabitch must know something about this.”
23
Houston and Bouchard paused on the sidewalk, surveying the busy street. Portland, Maine’s Old Port, was one of their favorite places. Houston enjoyed watching the boats come and go from the busy marinas, and she liked to spend hours poking around in the shops. The morning was warm and sunny, a perfect day for goofing off and playing tourist. Unfortunately, today he had no time—too much to do, too many people to see. He stepped out of the heat into the cool, dark interior of Two Dollar Louey’s. As soon as he entered, Houston spotted Sam Fuchs. Fuchs was a homicide detective assigned to the Maine State Police Criminal Investigation Division I, known as CID One. They had become close friends when Houston was a cop, and they had once worked together on a case involving an interstate meth ring.
Houston slipped into the booth, and Fuchs grinned. “Christ, Mike, what’s it been—almost two years since we last saw each other?”
“Give or take a couple of months.”
Fuchs looked at Bouchard and said, “And who is this?” His look and tone were ample evidence that he found her more than a little bit attractive.
“Sam Fuchs, this is Anne Bouchard. Anne, Sam.”
“So I finally get to meet the superwoman who can keep this reprobate in line.” He offered her his hand.
Houston drank from his coffee mug and glanced out the window at Portland’s bustling waterfront. “Seems like another planet compared to Oxford County.”
Fuchs chuckled. “Shit, North Overshoe, Minnesota is more civilized than there. Okay, now we got the old times crap out of the way, what’s up?”
“We got a problem,” Houston said.
“So? Who doesn’t?”
“We’re talking serious trouble, Sam.”
“How serious is this trouble, and how does it involve me?”
“How serious do you consider a serial killer?” Bouchard asked.
His eyes narrowed slightly. “Serial killer—what leads you to think we have a serial operating in Maine?”
“A few days back a couple from Kittery hired us to find their granddaughter, one Cheryl Guerette,” Bouchard answered.
“And?”
“In the course of our investigation we’ve learn
ed about missing women—a lot of missing women.”
He sat back. “If there’s a lot of missing women, why haven’t I heard anything?”
“The guy doesn’t make his contact here,” Houston said. “He usually hunts Boston—more of his particular type of game available there.”
“Exactly what does ‘his particular type of game’ mean?”
“He preys on hookers, drug addicts, and homeless women,” Houston answered.
“So, why hasn’t Boston PD sent out anything?”
“The brass doesn’t care. BPD figures someone is cleaning up the streets for them, and they haven’t found even a single body. You know how it goes with homicide cops—no body means no crime. No offense intended,” Bouchard said.
Fuchs finished his coffee and motioned for the server to bring him another. “You still haven’t told me why I should get involved.”
“The women who have seen this guy say he drives a truck and that it smells like month-old fish guts,” Bouchard answered.
“Lots of trucks like that in every seacoast town up and down the East coast.”
“Well, this one has been reported to have Maine plates on it. I have a name for you to check out,” Houston replied.
Fuchs leaned forward. “Now you got my attention. What’s the name?”
“Willard Fischer, that’s Fischer with S-C-H.” He spent fifteen minutes relating everything he had learned in his investigation. When he finished, Houston sat back. “That’s it, Sam. That’s why we’re here. We don’t have the resources to handle this alone.”
Fuchs’s cell phone rang, and he flipped it open. “Fuchs.” He was silent for a second. “Hold on. I need to write this down.” He pulled a notebook from his back pocket and began jotting notes as he listened. “Okay, I’ll be there in half an hour.”
“Problems?”
“Yeah, there’s been a homicide, I gotta go.” He tossed a ten-dollar bill on the table. “Mike, can you send me what you got? I promise I’ll look into this for you.”
“Sure.”
Houston gave him a business card. “Those are my current numbers.” Fuchs left without another word.
The Fisherman Page 13
