The Fisherman

by Vaughn C. Hardacker

  “I understand you have need of some special services,” she said.

  “You might say that,” he replied. “I have some business associates—men with particular tastes.”

  “Well, entertaining such people is our specialty,” Ariana said. “When are you expecting them?”

  “They’ll be here late next week, Friday afternoon.”

  “I believe we should be able to accommodate your needs, but first I need some details.”

  “Okay.”

  “Will you be requiring us to make the evening a private affair?”

  O’Leary made every effort to appear as if he were thinking about his answer. “That would be best, yes.”

  “How many clients will we be entertaining?”

  “Five men . . . at the most six.”

  Ariana was all business; it was as if she were arranging a dinner reservation for a large group. “I’ll need to know if they have any. . . . shall we say special needs . . . you’d like to have taken care of.”

  “I’m not sure, but I could get you that information by midweek.”

  “Of course. Depending on the nature of these special needs, there may be additional charges.”

  “That will be fine, in fact, I expected it would be so. I’d like to emphasize that it is imperative my clients be given whatever they want.” O’Leary could not believe he had actually used a word like imperative; sometimes his ability to immerse himself in a role amazed even him.

  “Would you like a tour of the manse?”

  Tour the manse? O’Leary almost laughed aloud. No matter what she called the place, it was still a whorehouse. The degree people would go to delude themselves never ceased to amaze him. “Of course,” he replied.

  Ariana stood and led them from the sitting room and up a long curving staircase. “I think you’ll find our facilities are well above the average,” she said with as much pride as a wealthy old man showing off his twenty-year-old beauty-contest-winner wife. “We pride ourselves on providing our customers with a level of elegance and taste beyond anything they’ve ever experienced.”

  O’Leary doubted that carnal pleasures—even for an exorbitant fee—would look very elegant; screwing was still screwing, no matter how fancy the boudoir. He wondered if Ariana had a professional writer produce her sales pitch. As she climbed the stairs ahead of him, he studied her figure. Twenty years ago she had probably been beautiful with a body to die for. Her derriere swayed as she climbed, telling him more about her than any biography. He was certain Ariana had worked her way up through the ranks; every movement of her body exuded sexual invitation.

  She paused at the top of the stairs and opened a door. The room was lavish; the decor and furnishings were eighteenth century with pleasing dark Persian rugs covering the floor and, in keeping with the décor, a portrait of a mostly undressed woman in colonial attire including a white curled wig.

  He grunted and turned from the portrait. He knew nothing about art and couldn’t care less.

  The focal point of the room was a king-size canopied bed, covered with an expensive bedspread and huge pillows. The room looked more like a duchess’s chamber than a prostitute’s workplace.

  O’Leary watched Winter drift over to the bed and glance up at the canopy’s underside. He heard him chuckle and say, “Nice.”

  O’Leary walked to the bed and looked at what Winter had found so humorous. The underside of the covering was a mirror. O’Leary thought, At last, something that looks like it belongs in a bordello. He pushed up and down on the bed as if he were in a furniture store contemplating a mattress and box-spring purchase.

  “All of our chambers are like this,” Ariana said. “I’d show you more; however, the rest are occupied.”

  “Impressive,” O’Leary said, turning from the bed.

  “Would you like to meet some of our young ladies?”

  “Sure,” he answered, “why not?”

  Ariana turned to the muscle-bound goon in the tux and said, “Richard, please have the girls who are not entertaining guests gather in the sitting room.”

  The muscle nodded and then left the room without a word. O’Leary wondered if this place were like a sultan’s harem; all the males who worked there seemed mute . . . maybe, like the keepers of the sultan’s harem, they were also eunuchs.

  “Would you please follow me?” Ariana did not wait for their reply. She turned and exited the bedchamber.

  “I will say this,” O’Leary said to Winter, “it’s a first-class joint.”

  Winter, on the other hand, did not seem as impressed as his boss did. “It’s almost nice enough to make you forget that it’s nothing more than an elegant prison—almost.”

  “Yeah, that’s the truth. Come on, we better follow her before she gets suspicious.”

  They walked into the hall and down the stairs. Ariana awaited them at the bottom. “Gentlemen, this way please.”

  They returned to the same room they had been ushered into when they arrived, and Ariana beckoned them to sit. “As you can see,” she said, “we take great care and pride to ensure everything is top of the line.”

  “It’s all of that,” O’Leary said.

  Before she could reply, six beautiful young women walked into the room. They were dressed as if they were going to their senior prom, and all looked young enough to attend one. All, that is, except the petite blond at the end of the line. O’Leary stared at her. He believed that she was no older than thirteen or fourteen, if that. Anger and indignation exploded within him. He strained to keep it from his face and his movements.

  Ariana started at the right and introduced each woman, but he heard none of their names until she stopped beside the diminutive girl. “This is Inca,” Ariana said, “our newest.”

  Each of the older girls had smiled and curtsied when introduced; Inca had not. “Inca, you’ve been shown how we greet gentlemen callers. Please do so.” The girl looked awkward as she bent forward and lowered her head. Her eyes were wide with uncertainty and, O’Leary realized, fear of what would surely happen if she did not do it correctly. He thought she would not have a clue about how to act before strange men. Especially when they looked at her as if she were a horse they were considering purchasing.

  Inca straightened up and tentatively looked at Ariana. She seemed to relax a bit when the madam smiled at her. Ariana turned her attention from Inca to O’Leary. “Would you like to spend some time with one of our ladies?”

  O’Leary could not shake the idea that he was at a horse auction and wondered if he should check their teeth. Still, he was surprised when he realized that Ariana was a skilled salesperson. She was offering him a test ride on the horse of his choice. His first impulse was to request Inca. As the youngest and newest addition to Ariana’s stable, it might be easier to pry information from her. He looked at Inca. She stood rigid, paralyzed with terror. He also noticed Ariana’s gaze. Her body tensed; she gave him a scathing look. He knew choosing Inca would be stupid. The kid looked like a rodent in a python’s den. Jimmy knew that even if she spoke English—he believed she must at least understand it—she would be too terrified to tell him what he needed to know. He decided not to put her at risk. He turned and faced the second girl in line, a shapely brunette. “I’d like her.” He said.

  He knew he’d made the right decision when Ariana relaxed, and Inca looked as if she would cry with relief.

  “Tasha it is,” Ariana said. She turned to the young woman. “Tasha, show Mr. O’Leary to your chambers.”

  He followed Tasha out of the room. As he mounted the stairs, he heard Winter say, “No, thank you, I’ll wait here.”

  _________________

  Tasha stopped before her door and smiled at O’Leary, and motioned him to enter first.

  The room was the same one Ariana had shown him moments before. He dropped into one of the room’s two easy chairs and placed his right index finger across his lips, signaling to Tasha to keep quiet. He took a small notebook and pen from his inside suit coat
pocket and wrote, “Do they listen?”

  Hoping the woman spoke English, he offered the note to Tasha, who quickly read it and nodded. She nodded toward the large mirror on the dresser. He got up and strolled around the room, making small talk. “This is a really nice place.”

  “Yes,” Tasha said.

  He stopped before the dresser and closely inspected the mirror. In the upper left corner, he saw a small dot and knew it was a listening device. They make the goddamned things so small these days, he thought. He pointed to the bathroom and walked into it, motioning for Tasha to follow him.

  Once inside he walked to the whirlpool and turned it on. “These things really help me relax,” he said. He twisted the handles until they reached their limit. When he thought that the sound of the jetting water would be loud enough to drown out their voices, he walked across the room and turned the shower on all the way.

  He turned back to Tasha. She had shed her evening gown and stood before him wearing nothing but a petite bright-red bra and matching thong. She was breathtaking. So much so that he had to force himself to stay on task.

  He pulled her tight against his chest and placed his mouth close to her ear. In a voice so low he wondered if she could hear over the rushing water, he said, “Don’t be afraid, I’m here to help.”

  At first, Tasha was rigid; however, after a few seconds his words registered with her. She slumped into his arms and held him tight.

  The feel of her body pressed tightly against his appealed to O’Leary’s need to protect women. He clutched her snug against his chest and silently vowed he was going to get these women out of this mess—and he would kill anyone and everyone who tried to stop him.

  27

  Houston and Fuchs arrived at Fischer’s place an hour before the appointed time. They parked on a dirt road about a half mile from their destination and entered the woods. “Pretty isolated,” Fuchs said while they surveyed the pine and deciduous hardwood trees that covered the landscape.

  “Very.” They found a narrow footpath and followed it until they were on a promontory overlooking a small harbor. Two boats were moored alongside a wooden pier—one a charter boat and the other a small trawler. A multistory house was in the middle stages of decline and faced the harbor. “Looks like the Bates Hotel with outbuildings,” Houston said. To the left of the house stood a barn with a sagging roof, and to the right was a rectangular building made of cinderblock. At the distance he was viewing it, Houston thought that it looked like a white shoe box.

  Fuchs stood beside him and silently studied the layout. “When we come after him, we may need a friggin’ battalion to cover these protective hills.”

  Houston scanned the high cliffs that protected the lot on two sides. “Only ways in and out are the driveway and the gulf.”

  Fuchs scanned the narrow drive that wound its way through the trees. “Gonna need SWAT . . . or the damned Marines.”

  Houston grinned. “That’s why you got me.”

  _________________

  Houston parked his Ford F-150 in front of the house. A man, whom Houston believed to be Fischer, stood on the porch as he and Fuchs disembarked.

  Fischer nodded. “You the guys called yesterday?”

  “That would be me,” Houston said.

  “Boat’s at the dock.” Fischer stepped off the porch before they could walk onto it. He led the way across the sandy lot toward the pier.

  Houston followed, hoping he would get an opportunity to inspect the buildings closer. Fischer strode up the gangplank of the charter boat and stepped aside to allow the potential clients access. Houston was surprised. Based upon the appearance of the buildings, he’d expected to see a craft barely able to stay afloat. The opposite was true. The boat was neat and well-kempt; all gear was securely stowed, and the deck was spotless. “Nice vessel,” he said.

  Fischer nodded and moved his head at an angle that exposed the indentation Candy had described to Anne. His arms were folded across his chest, amplifying the size of his flexor muscles. He emanated raw power, and Houston decided not to get into a physical confrontation with him. There was a violent, evil aura surrounding Willard Fischer.

  _________________

  Bouchard watched Houston and Fuchs board the charter boat. She smiled when she visualized how Mike’s face would look when he learned that she had decided to follow them and place Fischer’s house under surveillance. She sat in the shade beneath the lower boughs of a towering pine, watching the house through binoculars. She scanned the boatyard and then turned her attention to the ramshackle house. She concentrated on the windows of the second floor and caught her breath when she saw a young woman in one. The figure was fleeting—there one second, gone the next. Nevertheless, she saw enough to know that the woman fit the description they had of Cheryl Guerette.

  Bouchard took another glance and saw that the men had disappeared, probably touring the charter boat’s interior. She decided to investigate and started down a narrow path that led to the bottom of the bluff. Reaching the bottom, she checked the area and saw no sign of the men—and more to the point, no sign of Fischer—and she dashed to the porch.

  _________________

  “When you want to go out?” Fischer asked.

  “Well, we aren’t sure,” Houston said.

  Fischer dropped his arms and turned toward the gangplank. “Then all you’re doing is wasting my fucking time.” He led them off the boat.

  In an attempt to salvage the visit, Houston said. “If we were to charter you, could you pick us up in Portland?”

  Fischer stopped walking and glared at them. “What is this anyway? Some kind of joke? You guys are about as interested in going fishing as I am in learning needlepoint.”

  “You’re wrong,” Fuchs said. “We are interested.”

  Fischer’s eyes narrowed. “Well, I’m not. Get the fuck out of here.”

  He walked away and took a position on the porch, watching them as they got into the truck. As they drove up the tree-lined drive, Houston said, “I don’t like that sonuvabitch.”

  “Either way, we blew that out of our asses.”

  Houston replied, “Yeah, but now I’m convinced that bastard is our man.”

  “The only way to prove it is to get inside that house,” Fuchs said.

  28

  Bouchard tried the door and was surprised to find it unlocked. She entered the house and found herself in complete bedlam. The place looked like a supermarket after an earthquake; dishes, utensils, and trash were interspersed with sundry canned goods and processed foods. The sink overflowed, and she was certain that she saw the surface of several dishes move.

  She turned right and entered a large room with a fireplace centered in the far wall. The furnishings were past due at the local landfill—the coverings torn, worn, and their insides open to the eye. She turned around and saw a staircase on the right.

  Bouchard slowly climbed the stairs as she tried to avoid any creaking steps. She saw several doors and opened the first she came to. In a huge canopy bed that had once been elegant lay a diminutive old woman. Bouchard approached and said, “Hello.” There was no response from the woman. She lay unmoving, her eyes open but seeing nothing. A thin line of spittle trickled down her chin. Without thought, Bouchard took a tissue from the box on the nightstand and wiped the old lady’s chin. A quick inspection told her that the woman was alive, yet she was not alive.

  “Advanced Alzheimer’s,” Bouchard whispered.

  She turned, and through the old woman’s door she saw another door across the hall—this one secured with a large padlock. She walked to it, lifted the lock, and looked at it. Her heart leapt when a voice from inside said, “Who’s there?”

  “Cheryl?”

  “Who are you, and how do you know my name?”

  “My name is Anne Bouchard. I’m a private investigator. Your grandparents hired me to find you.”

  “Anne or whoever you are, you need to get out of here now! He’s crazy.”

  “
I’m not going to go without you. I’ll find something to get this lock off with.”

  She turned and inhaled sharply when she saw Fischer standing at the top of the stairs. “You ain’t goin’ nowhere,” he said.

  He punched Bouchard, driving her head into the doorjamb.

  _________________

  Willard stood in the doorway of her room. “I got a job for you.”

  She knew better than to ask questions. She got up from her bed and followed him out of the room. Cheryl had gained an appreciation for the smaller things in life—for instance, he had let her keep the clothes she had worn on the charter.

  He stopped beside the room that had once been Monique’s prison and took his ever-present key ring out of his pocket. Once the padlock on the door was open, he pushed her through. When Cheryl saw the condition of the naked woman that he had shackled to the bed in the same manner he had done to her, it brought back vivid images of her own first week in captivity. Then she remembered how Monique had said, “Now that he has you, he’ll take me to the factory.” Cheryl closed her eyes. Was he planning to replace her?

  The woman tossed and groaned, reminding Cheryl of her struggle with addiction. This woman, however, was not in the thralls of drug withdrawal; she had been brutally beaten. “What am I supposed to do?”

  “Nurse her until she’s better.”

  Rather than scaring her, realizing the precariousness of her situation angered her. “What happens to me once I do that?”

  He stepped back and looked at her with a furrowed brow. She was not sure if he was angry or surprised by her standing up to him.

  Reluctant to give up her advantage over him, Cheryl pushed on. “Well? Answer me.”

  “Nothing.”

  “Does bringing her here mean that you are no longer interested in marrying me?” She turned on him, pushing her face toward his, her anger under control.

  He gathered his composure and grabbed her by the arms. She felt tears well up in her eyes as he increased the power of his grip, hurting her.