The Fisherman

by Vaughn C. Hardacker

  Something obscured his vision and made the room blurry. He wiped his eyes, and his hand came away covered with blood; he wiped it on his leg. He was going to kill them. He could get other women, just as he had done in the past. He wanted his rifle. He walked to the closet and spun the combination on the lock. His obscured vision made it impossible to see the numbers, and he slammed the lock in anger. He turned from the lock and saw a black lump on the floor—his pants lay in a pile where he had left them. He pulled them on and hissed in pain when they touched his battered genitals; he opened a dresser drawer and grabbed a black T-shirt. He slid it over his head and turned to the closet. He hissed, lifted his foot so he could see the arch, and plucked out a piece of glass. Standing on one foot to avoid the pain, it took him several tries before he was able to work the combination on the lock securing the closet door. He reached inside and grabbed his rifle, checked that it was loaded with cartridges, and ignored the pain in his foot as he ran from the room.

  He bolted across the living room and stopped on the porch, looking for the women. He quickly scanned the sandy ground looking for any sign of which way they’d gone. He saw tracks in the sand, headed for the water. He knew he had time, calmly walked into the kitchen, and put on a pair of boots. Once his feet were protected, he opened a small cabinet and took the keys to the punt.

  Willard, stop dallying!

  “Yes, Mum.”

  Satisfied all was in order, he walked toward the dock.

  _________________

  Fischer cursed loudly as he yanked the pull cord on the punt’s outboard motor. It refused to start. He adjusted the choke and pulled again. This time the motor coughed and then began with a stutter. He readjusted the choke and gave it fuel until the sixty horsepower Johnson smoothed out. Fischer put the boat into gear and increased the throttle. The bow rose as the propeller churned water behind him. He sped out of the small harbor, and the boat bounced as it left the placid waters of the cove behind and encountered the two-foot swells rolling in off the Gulf of Maine. He wondered if maybe he should take the trawler but discarded the idea. While the trawler offered better visibility, the punt was faster. He turned out into the gulf, peering into the light of the rising full moon, searching for the telltale dark spot that would lead to his quarry.

  Once again, the small craft bounced against the surf, and he saw something break the surface. He grabbed the rifle and stood up. He spread his legs for balance as the boat slowed and settled in the water. “Gotcha, bitch . . .”

  He sighted until it looked as if the bobbing black spot sat on the sight blade and fired.

  35

  As she went under, Bouchard heard a dull CRACK! Something smacked the water beside her. She realized that he had shot at her. She dismissed all thoughts of stealth and swam.

  A whirring noise filled the water. She surfaced and turned to look back. She saw the phosphorescent glow of the water rolling away from the bow of a small boat that raced toward her. She treaded water and gasped in deep breaths of air. What were they going to do now? Bouchard swiveled her body and saw that Cheryl, too, had stopped. Her face was illuminated by the moonlight, and Anne saw raw fear there. She cursed the brightness; in the dark, they had a chance. She motioned for Cheryl to dive and then inhaled deeply and jack-knifed, clawing at the water as she swam to the bottom. Her hands made contact with a slimy, elusive substance; she was as deep as she could go. She grabbed a handful of kelp, gripping it tightly to keep from drifting up.

  The water suddenly roiled around her, and the whirring noise increased a thousand times. Above her, the moonlight made the surface look as white as the foam of a raging river. A shadow broke across her line of sight, and she felt a rapid current and saw the deadly propeller rip the water several feet above her. The water seemed to explode as the boat sped by.

  Bouchard let go of her anchor and quickly surfaced into the swirling wake and gulped life-preserving air. The unlit skiff was drifting mere yards away, her captor sitting in the back with his body half turned toward her. He was looking forward, peering into the creeping darkness; obviously, he’d miscalculated how far she’d swum. She dove just as his head turned to check behind.

  _________________

  Cheryl resurfaced and treaded water. She used her hands as rudders and spun around, frantically looking for Bouchard. She saw the boat off to her right, and suddenly a dark spot appeared in its wake. Her heart hammered as she tried to decide what her next action should be. The boat’s motor idled and slowly drifted as he tried to locate his quarry. She succumbed to desperation. If she stayed stationary, either he’d find her or she’d drown. She wondered how long it would be before the chilly water lowered her body temperature and overwhelmed her. She steeled herself, this was no time to panic—she was free now, and she intended to stay that way. She swam away from the boat, taking care not to make too much commotion or visibly disturb the water any more than she had to.

  Suddenly he stood up in the boat and looked in her direction. She heard him curse. “Got you, bitch!” He snatched up the rifle and aimed it at Anne. In the dim light, the end of the rifle lit up like a lightning flash.

  36

  The caravan pulled deep into the warehouse. O’Leary got out of his SUV and watched the large overhead door slowly close. He lit a cigarette and waited for Winter to join him.

  “Where are we going to put these women?” Winter asked.

  “We’ll set up something here—at least for tonight.”

  “This place ain’t exactly set up for taking care of women.”

  “I know that. But, where else we got? This place has a bathroom and is only short-term. I’ll work on it tomorrow. I got a couple of properties where we can put them until we figure out what’s going on.”

  “We’re going to catch some heavy heat over this.”

  O’Leary thought of the listing of names he’d seen on the laptop he’d taken from Ariana’s office. “You got that right . . . it could very well turn out to be volcanic.” He glanced at his watch. “Come on, we got to get things organized. I want to be at Halsey’s place early in the morning. Before this is all over, I’m going to need a new lawyer.”

  “Are we going after the kid?”

  “Bet your ass we are.”

  The women exited the bus and stood in the middle of the open space, staring at the dark interior. Winter chuckled. “About now they’re probably wondering what the fuck is gonna happen. This place is a long way from what they had, and they’re probably thinkin’ that we’re their new bosses.”

  “They’ll settle down once they realize that they don’t have to turn tricks and can leave whenever they want.”

  “I don’t know about that, boss. Just because we’ll let them go don’t mean they can survive. They’re illegal aliens, and if the names on that computer are any indication of the types of people that went to that house, there’s going to be a lot of interest in finding them before they can open their mouths.”

  “I know. That’s why we’re going to make sure that anyone interested finds us before they find them.”

  37

  The bullet smacked the water inches from Bouchard’s head. She knew he had located her and that she had to do something to turn the situation around. She let out a loud grunt, rolled sideways, and then relaxed, letting her body float on the surface. She bobbed on the surf, hoping he would think she was dead. She shifted her arms slightly and let the surf roll her over onto her back. Through half-closed eyes, she watched the punt approach.

  Fischer stood in the punt, set the rifle down, and then bent over and picked up a long gaff. The point and barb glistened in the moonlight. She heard him muttering. “Got one, now where’s the other?”

  The boat bumped against her arm, and Bouchard fought against her impulse to flinch. She opened her eyes in time to see the gaff coming toward her. She grabbed the end and rolled away from the boat. Her action took him by surprise, and he flew over her and splashed into the water, losing his grip on the fishing spear.
She, on the other hand, kept hers and quickly reversed the lance so the spike pointed at him. She thrust forward. The lance struck him in the shoulder, driving him backward in the water.

  He cried out in surprise and pain and pulled away from her. She lost her grasp on the wet wooden handle but knew she had hurt him. In the eerie moonlight, she thought he looked like a harpooned whale. With strength and agility she never before thought she had, Bouchard pulled herself over the side of the small boat and grabbed the throttle. She put the idling outboard motor in gear and twisted her wrist to increase the throttle and increase the flow of fuel to the pistons. The aft end of the punt dropped as the propeller bit into the water, and she turned the boat, aiming the bow at him.

  _________________

  Fischer rolled in the water to avoid the onrushing boat. He dove, clawing at the water as he fought to get below the spinning propeller. The prop grazed him, ripping a shallow gash across his back. The boat roared past, turned, and disappeared into the night.

  _________________

  Anne felt the boat shudder as its propeller hit something. She turned her attention to the water and looked for Cheryl. Unable to see her, she began circling, her eyes seeking any telltale black ball on the surface. She saw one about a hundred yards away and turned the punt toward it. As she closed with the object, she realized it was not Cheryl but rather the peak of a large rock. She barely missed the obstruction and slowed the boat. She studied the ocean for several minutes and then turned south, seeking a place to put ashore and get help.

  _________________

  Fischer surfaced, too dazed to think about anything but survival. It felt like a chainsaw had ripped across his left shoulder. For a second he panicked, worried the scent of fresh blood would attract sharks, then he got control of himself; there hadn’t been a shark sighting in these waters in years—at least, he hadn’t heard of any. Trying to swim while keeping his damaged arm immobile, he kicked toward shore.

  It seemed like hours passed before he staggered from the sea, gasping and coughing brine. Staring out into the darkness, he cursed. He’d find them. When he did, the new bitch was going to rue the day they had met. No one could fuck with him and not pay dearly for it. He turned his thoughts to the more urgent need for first aid; he turned north and trudged along the rocky beach. He recognized a rock formation and reckoned he was two or three miles from home.

  38

  Cheryl swam along the shoreline, keeping out of the surf. Her arms and lungs burned with fatigue, and her legs felt heavy. She knew it would only be a matter of time before she began to cramp, and she had to get ashore. She altered her course, turning toward the beach. She swam until exhaustion threatened to drag her under the surface. Just as she was about to succumb to the numbing weakness, her hands touched the bottom. It took the last of her reserves for her to climb to her feet and stagger out of the water. Once on solid ground, she scrambled to the security of the boulders that littered the rugged coastline and dropped to the ground. She leaned against the hard black rock for several minutes, inhaling deeply and watching the sea for signs of an approaching boat.

  Finally, she felt strong enough to continue on and grabbed the hard black surface of the boulder and pulled herself erect. She stretched her aching muscles and wondered if Anne had gotten away. Over the sounds of the rolling waves, she heard the sound of a boat motor in the distance. Her heart began to pound. No, she thought, I’m not going to let him get his hands on me again. Frightened over the prospect that Fischer would be searching the shoreline from the still out-of-sight boat, she scanned the short span of beach, looking for anything that would give away her location. She gasped when she spied the line of footprints in the sand that told the world where she was. She had two options: run or try to wipe out the tracks. She chose the first and clambered up the steep bank that lined the shore.

  _________________

  Fischer stomped into the house.

  You didn’t get them?

  Of course he didn’t get them. I bin tellin’ you for years he’d fuck up a roll call in a one-man submarine!

  Shut up, Hallet.

  “I’m hurt, Mum.”

  That will be the least of your troubles if they get away. You’re just like your father.

  Woman, you watch your mouth!

  You know you would have always been a clam digger if not for me. You had no head for thinking.

  Beatrice, one of these days you’re gonna go too far.

  “But, Mum, one of them took the punt.”

  The other one didn’t. She can only swim so far. Now go find her. Follow the coast road—she’ll have to cross that eventually. Stop at every house along the road if you have to. She’ll need clothes and help. We’ll worry about the other one later. Son, sometimes you’re a sore disappointment to me.

  Sometimes?!

  Hallet!

  Fischer stood still, his head hanging and his damaged left arm limp along his side. “I . . . I’ll try harder, Mum.”

  I know you will—after all, half your blood is mine. Now go, it’ll be alright to leave me here with your father for a while.

  Fischer spurred into action. He walked to his room and discarded his bloody, torn shirt by throwing it into a corner. He grabbed a denim one and slid it over his injured shoulder. He hissed in pain when the stiff fabric touched the deep gouge in his shoulder and the rip in his back. Leaving the shirt unbuttoned, he cursed and walked down the stairs through the kitchen and into the den and took his father’s .45 caliber revolver from its place in the gun rack. Fischer opened the small drawer below the rack, took out a box of cartridges, and filled the gun with hollow-point bullets. He returned to the kitchen, grabbed the van keys from the key rack, and left. The door slammed behind him as he stepped into the night.

  _________________

  Cheryl followed a hiking path along the edge of the cliff. She had no idea where she was, but she believed there had to be a road or houses nearby, as they littered the seacoast.

  After what seemed like hours, she discovered a dirt parking lot and saw the shine of macadam. A road! Now all she had to do was find a house and get help.

  Less than one hundred yards from the parking area, she spied a light shining through the trees and headed for it. She turned up a sand drive and paused just out of the light. Through the window of a rundown house, she saw an obese man wearing a filthy T-shirt standing over a cowering woman. He raised his arm and slapped her. Through the partially open window, Cheryl heard him screaming at the woman, and she backed away from the window into the safety of darkness. The last thing she wanted was to appear naked before yet another brutal man. She skirted the house and breathed a sigh of relief when she saw a clothesline filled with women’s clothes. She grabbed a pullover blouse and pulled it on. Just as she stepped into a pair of faded blue jeans, the light mounted on the wall beside the door illuminated her. She froze, like an animal caught in the headlights of a runaway truck. The woman she had seen through the window stood in the door, silhouetted by the light behind her.

  Cheryl slid the pants up and snapped them. The jeans were a size too large but were better than running around in the nude.

  “What are you doing?” the woman asked.

  “Please, I need help . . . I’m running from a man.”

  “Who isn’t?”

  “You don’t understand how dangerous he is.”

  From the knowing look on her face, Cheryl realized the woman understood. “Show me one that ain’t.”

  “Laurie, who’s out there? Who the fuck you talking to?”

  The woman glanced over her shoulder and said, “Take the clothes, and get out of here.”

  “Please, could I use your phone? Or maybe you could call the police for me.”

  “I wish I could, honey, but the rotten son of a whore ripped the phone off the wall last week.”

  “Goddamn it, woman! I asked you a question! Who the hell are you talking to?”

  The man’s dark bulk appeared behind the woman.
She glanced over her shoulder and then turned back to Cheryl and said, “Go on, run. There’re other houses down the road. Go!”

  Cheryl bolted for the trees. Just as she entered their safety, she heard a loud slap. Scared and fatigued, she retreated into the darkness. Exhaustion overwhelmed her; she needed to rest for a while. Her strength and stamina depleted, she dropped down and rested her back against an ancient pine; the blouse stuck to the sappy bark and pulled it up her back. I have to get up, she thought. I have to keep going. But fatigue wouldn’t let her. She rolled over and curled up in exhaustion.

  39

  The motor sputtered and stopped—out of fuel. Bouchard slumped forward, exhausted. Too drained to guide it, she let the tide push the punt slowly toward the rocky shore. She raised her head and saw a well-lit, sprawling building complex sitting on a point that jutted out into the gulf. She wondered how much money a place like that cost. She giggled. Of all the thoughts to have at a time like this, that was probably the most ridiculous . . .

  A wave pushed the punt toward the shore, and she looked at the house and saw that a party or some sort of gathering was in process. The area between the house and the shore was lit brightly with spotlights. Another breaker pushed the boat yet closer to the lights, and Bouchard heard a voice shout that there was a boat approaching the beach.

  Bouchard slumped forward, allowing the surf to carry her to the shore. A couple came to the edge of the water and peered into the darkness. It took all the energy Bouchard had left for her to say, “Help me.”

  “Harry, it’s a woman,” the female said.

  Harry took off his shoes, rolled up the legs of his pants and started into the surf. “I’ll come get you.” He waded out, grabbed the bow of the punt, and pulled it toward the beach.

  Harry looked at Bouchard and exclaimed, “She’s naked!”