The Fisherman

by Vaughn C. Hardacker

  Winter shrugged. “There’s always tomorrow. The feeling will pass.”

  O’Leary ground out the cigarette. “Yeah,” he replied, “there’s always tomorrow.”

  “Besides, you’d get bored if all you did was pour booze and listen to every drunk in Southie’s tale of woe.”

  “Yeah, you’re right,” O’Leary said. “You locate the ship yet?”

  “Yeah, as you thought, Halsey sold the kid to Yuri. She’s on his boat.”

  “Ship, Gordon. You and I may own a boat, but Yuri captains a ship.”

  “Either way, it’s just a hole in the water you dump money into.”

  “Are you sure he’s got her?”

  “As they say on that millionaire show: Yes, final answer.”

  “You got everything set up?”

  “As much as it can be.”

  “It could get nasty when we hit them. There ain’t a lot of room for maneuvering on that thing.”

  “Yeah, but they won’t have any more room than us.”

  “But it’s their turf.”

  “We’ll handle it.”

  “Yuri’s crew looked as if they know one end of a gun from the other.”

  Winter stood up, drained his cola, and said, “Knowing how to shoot and doing it accurately with someone blasting away at you can be two different things.”

  “Okay, tell the boys it’s a go.”

  “Around two in the morning should work best,” Winter said.

  “Really, what makes you say that?”

  “Experience. When I was in the Army we’d always attack around then. Anyone on watch will be too busy thinking about a warm bed to pay attention to what’s going on. Everyone else will be sound asleep then, and there should be less activity, fewer people about. I always hated the mid-watch myself.”

  “Any chance Yuri will sail before then?” O’Leary asked.

  “Slim. They haven’t even started preparations for getting underway.”

  “Have everyone here at twelve.”

  Gordon walked out of the office. O’Leary leaned back and stared at the news. He watched silently as EMTs carried gurneys bearing sheet-covered bodies from the manse. He opened one of the ledgers and looked up a name and number. He took out a cell phone he had bought for just this call, punched in the digits and sat back.

  “Governor, I’m fairly certain that you don’t know me, and my name isn’t really important. I have some documentation in front of me that could really shake up the voters. What with this being an election year and all, I thought you’d appreciate a call . . .”

  He listened for a few seconds. “How’d I get your private number? Hell, Guv, all you need is a computer. No, not the internet—a laptop I got at a certain house on the Cape.”

  O’Leary’s face cracked. “I see there’s an investigation into some killings down there. Nope, not murders, killings. They were all self-defense. Still, you never know what might come out in an investigation. Do you know what I mean?”

  O’Leary punched the off button and cackled. Something tells me, he thought, this investigation will run into a dead end.

  _________________

  “Why is it every time we come down here it’s cold and foggy?”

  O’Leary turned to the offender. “Shut your yap. You’re getting paid good money for this job.”

  The man nodded. “Sure, boss.”

  As they walked across the parking lot, O’Leary muttered to Winter in a low voice. “He’s right though.”

  “You just don’t like docks and ships, boss.”

  “I’m not too crazy about the people who work on them, either. There’s a funky smell about them, especially the sailors.”

  Winter wondered if O’Leary ever noticed the reek of cigarettes that hovered around him. He smiled and said nothing.

  They gathered at the bottom of the gangplank.

  “Everyone clear on what we’re here for?” O’Leary asked.

  He looked at each man in turn. Satisfied they knew their objective, he said, “Okay, let’s do this.”

  The assault team screwed noise suppressors onto the muzzles of their semiautomatic pistols. They checked the action and magazines to ensure a round was in the chamber. Weapon in hand, O’Leary led them up the gangplank.

  As he neared the top, a sailor appeared. “Is Yuri on board?” O’Leary asked.

  The seaman noted the number of men climbing toward the ship’s entrance. His eyes narrowed with suspicion, and he reached for his hip. O’Leary did not hesitate and shot him in the chest. “I’m going to take that as a yes,” he said. He stepped onto the deck and turned left toward the door that led to the ship’s interior. Winter followed him, and the three others turned right, heading toward the front of the ship.

  O’Leary and Winter entered the hatch and into a narrow corridor leading to the bowels of the ship. They wasted no time, heading for the lower decks. At the bottom of the stairs another sailor confronted them. His eyes widened with surprise at the sight of armed men, and he, too, reached for a weapon. Winter took him out with a single shot and then turned to O’Leary. “I’ve never seen a commercial vessel where every son of a bitch is carrying. The cells are this way, boss.” He opened a door and started down another metal stair.

  “I’m not crazy about this, Gordon,” O’Leary commented. “Not a lot of places to take cover.”

  “Yeah, if they catch us in one of these passageways, we’ll be like fish in a barrel.”

  “There’s going to be a change of plans, Gordon.”

  “Kind of late to improvise, isn’t it?”

  O’Leary shrugged. “Probably, but Yuri is going down. If he doesn’t, he’ll keep on doing this shit.”

  “You’re the boss. You tell me what you want done, and I’ll do it.”

  “Right.”

  They entered a hatch and scrambled down two flights of the metal stairs where Winter stopped beside yet another metal hatch. “If I remember correctly, this is the deck where the cells are,” he said.

  O’Leary nodded, and Winter opened the hatch and stepped through it. They saw the cells and looked into each one as they passed. They were all empty. “Maybe it isn’t this ship,” Winter said.

  “Or that bastard Yuri is sampling the wares . . .”

  “Captain’s cabin is usually not far from the bridge and the radio room.”

  They ran down the passageway and up the stairs. At the top, they walked into the ship’s communications center. Winter pushed the door open and leaped through. O’Leary watched the corridor behind them until he heard the muffled sounds of shots. He entered the small room.

  Winter stood beside a radio console. The radio operator lay across the desk with one side of his head bloody.

  “Which way you figure to the captain’s quarters?” O’Leary asked.

  Winter pointed to a door at the rear of the room. “I believe that that door leads to the captain’s quarters. He walked to the door and turned the knob. “It’s not locked, but I’ll lay you even money Yuri is in there.”

  Jimmy studied the metal door. “And he’s probably armed . . . I know I would be.”

  “Follow me,” Winter said. He pushed the door open and then burst through it. A second later, O’Leary jumped through the open door and found Winter pointing his pistol at a cowering Yuri.

  The captain’s back was against the wall. He looked comical, clad in nothing but a pair of dingy boxer shorts with his hands in the air. “Don’t shoot!” Yuri yelled.

  “Shut up,” O’Leary said.

  He studied the room. Compared to the other rooms on the ship it was large. Rank has its privileges, he thought.

  Inca cowered in a corner, her hands in front of her face. O’Leary said, “Keep him covered,” and went to the girl. He squatted before her. “You okay?”

  Unable to speak the terrified girl nodded.

  “Did he . . . ?” He fumbled for the right words.

  She shook her head.

  O’Leary stood up and faced Yuri.
“Gorky, I can forgive you for trying to beat me out of my money. But this,” he pointed to Inca, “I can’t abide.”

  Gorky suddenly lunged for a nightstand and pulled open a drawer. He grabbed a gun, and O’Leary shot him in the forehead.

  He reached out a hand to Inca. “Come on, honey. No one is going to hurt you now. It’s over.”

  As if on cue, several shots rang out. The loud pops were immediately followed by the dull sounds of silenced weapons. Winter rose to his feet and said, “Easy for you to say. We better get out of here. After those shots, this ship’s going to be crawling with cops and who knows who else.”

  _________________

  Jimmy O’Leary leaned against the edge of his desk with his legs crossed. His right arm bent upward, he spun a lit cigarette back and forth between his forefinger and thumb. He was deep in thought and staring at the wall but seeing nothing. He puffed on the cigarette, held the smoke in his lungs for a few seconds, and then expelled it with an explosive burst. He thought about Ariana’s ledgers, filled with the names of affluent and politically powerful people—none of whom were going to accept having someone know of their involvement in a prostitution and white slavery ring. There were going to be repercussions for his attacks on the manse and the ship.

  Winter walked into the office and dropped into a chair. “We’re as ready as we can be.”

  “They’re going to come at us hard.”

  “Yup.”

  “The question is how.”

  “I doubt,” Winter said, “it will be through the cops. The last thing these people want is publicity.”

  “That’s how I figure it, too.”

  “I got the guys scattered in a few safe houses around town.”

  “Good,” Jimmy ground out his cigarette.

  “They’ll hit here, too,” Gordon said as calmly as if he were recounting the score of yesterday’s Red Sox game.

  “Can’t be helped.”

  “Still, it doesn’t make sense you sitting here waiting for them.”

  Jimmy shrugged. “If I disappear it will look as if I’m scared. Then how long will I be in business?”

  “Okay, but I got a few of the guys spread around the neighborhood in case they do try something here.”

  “Best bet is after hours. They’d have to be nuts to hit while the bar is full.”

  Winter shifted in his seat. “People as powerful as these may not give a damn. They may even think they’re untouchable.”

  “No one is untouchable. Not you, not me, and not them.”

  Uncomfortable in the smoky room, Winter stood. “It’s your call, boss. I think I’ll roam around a bit, sort of check out the area.”

  “You do that.”

  _________________

  Winter strolled into the Charlestown Pub and sat at the bar. Before he got settled, the bartender placed a Maker’s Mark and ginger ale in front of him. He nodded at the bartender, threw a twenty-dollar bill on the bar, and asked, “How’s things, Larry?”

  “Not bad, Gordon. How’s with you? You haven’t been around in a while.”

  “Yeah, I been busy.”

  “So I’ve heard. Come to think of it, I been hearing a lot about you and Jimmy of late.”

  This piqued Winter’s interest. “What have you heard?”

  “Just that you guys have pissed off some heavy hitters, and they’re planning on squaring the books.”

  “You got names?”

  “Nah, you know how it is . . . more bullshit flies around this place than at the Chicago stockyards. I do know one thing, though: most of the names I’m hearing are Russian.”

  Winter sipped his drink. “You hear any more, I want to know about it.”

  “Sure, Gordon,” Larry began wiping the bar. He glanced around to ensure no one was close enough to hear. “I did hear one thing though. Jimmy needs to engage his brain before he runs his mouth. Word is he went so far as to call the governor—if he did that, it was about as fucking stupid as you can get. There’s a big contract out on Jimmy.”

  “That’s been tried before, and Jimmy’s still around—the shooters aren’t.”

  “Yeah, only this time I hear the shooters won’t have to worry about repercussions.”

  “There are always repercussions.”

  “Not if the shooters know that cops been told to stay out of it . . . there’s only one person with the firepower to do that.”

  Winter looked up from his drink and smiled. “In that case, the governor better watch his ass because I’ll be the repercussion . . .”

  45

  Luca Power called Houston. “I got something you may find interesting.”

  “Lay it on me.”

  “Your boy Fischer has three siblings: a brother, killed in an accident about twenty years ago, and two sisters—one’s dead, and the other lives up north in Aroostook County.”

  “Aroostook County. . . . I hope you have a phone number.”

  “Nope, but I got in touch with the Sheriff up there. He knows her and says she’s one of those back-to-nature types—no phone, no television . . . hell, he’s surprised she owns a truck. He said he’d be more than happy to have one of his deputies take you out there. Either way, it looks as if you got a drive ahead of you.”

  Houston grimaced at the thought of driving three hundred miles one way. “You got a name for me?”

  “She’s either an old maid or divorced and took back her maiden name. First name is Ernestine.”

  “Ernestine?”

  “Hey, I didn’t name her, and I’ve heard worse. A friend of mine’s last name is Hazzard. His old man must have been drunk when he was born—named him Rhode.”

  “Where do I meet this deputy?”

  “County jail in Houlton. They’re expecting your call.”

  Houston glanced at the time on his phone; it was eight in the morning. He could be in Houlton by two or three and maybe he would be able to talk with Ernestine Fischer today.

  He hung up the phone and turned to Bouchard. “I have to go up north.”

  “Not alone you don’t.”

  “Anne, you should rest.” He crossed the room and sat on the bed beside her. “I heard you last night.”

  She gave him a surprised look. “Oh.”

  He pulled her tightly against his chest and in a soft voice said, “You don’t need to hide in the bathroom to cry. I do have a shoulder you can use.”

  “Mike . . . never before have I felt so embarrassed and humiliated.”

  “What about the big H?”

  She pushed back and gave him a questioning look.

  “Helpless. You and I are cops. We’re accustomed to always being in control. He took that away from you.”

  Her voice was muffled when she said, “What really bothers me is . . .”

  “What?”

  She wiped at the tears that trickled down her cheeks and said, “When we had him unconscious, Cheryl wanted to kill him, and I wouldn’t let her. If I had, she wouldn’t be in his hands right now, and this whole mess would be over.”

  “You did what you thought was right. All your life you’ve dedicated yourself to saving people. Killing anyone—especially someone who is defenseless—is against everything you’ve worked for.”

  “Would you have done it?” she asked.

  “Killed him? I don’t know. That’s one of those questions that in order to answer truthfully, you’d have to be there.”

  “I tried to kill him with the boat. If I’m ever given another chance, I will.”

  He gently pulled her to him and took her in his arms again.

  “If we’re going north, we should get started,” she said.

  He chuckled. “Would you please let me be the macho one? Just for a while?”

  She smiled and once again wiped at the tears that soaked her cheek. “Only if you promise not to listen to sports talk radio all the way up there.”

  _________________

  Houston pulled off exit 302 on I-95 and turned right, following his G
PS to School Street in downtown Houlton. He pulled into a visitor parking spot and entered the building. Houston approached the counter and saw a fit officer standing before it talking to a seated man, whom Houston assumed was the dispatcher. In spite of the gray in the man’s hair, he looked as if he could still pass the most stringent military workout. Houston paused and waited until the two officers finished their discussion. The officer sitting behind the counter had sergeant’s emblems on his shirt, and Houston addressed him. “I’m Michael Houston, and this is my partner, Anne Bouchard. Sheriff Power of York County called.”

  The athletic officer held his hand out. “Glad to meet you. I’m Sheriff Gendreau. I spoke with Luca this morning. Why don’t we talk in my office?” He turned to the desk sergeant and said, “Get hold of Wera, and ask her to come in.”

  Once they were in Gendreau’s office, a deputy walked in and stood beside Bouchard and the Sheriff. “This is Wera Eklund, she’ll be taking you to see the Fischer woman. Wera, this is Mike Houston and his partner, Anne Bouchard. They’re the investigators from downstate that Sam Fuchs called about.” Gendreau motioned for them to sit and leaned against his desk. “Before you go, Sheriff Power didn’t give me a lot of specifics—only that he was checking some stuff out. Is there something we should worry about here?”

  “Truthfully, Sheriff, we don’t know. We’ve been hired to look for a missing young woman. To make a long story short, she was a student in Boston who got involved with drugs and ended up working the streets. In the course of our investigation, we’ve learned that there have been a number of disappearances of prostitutes in Boston.”

  “What does this have to do with Ernestine Fischer?”

  “Her younger brother, Willard, is believed to be our perp, and he’s disappeared. We’re hoping that she can shed some light on things.”

  Gendreau straightened up. “Well, she lives in what was once Howe Brook Village on the shore of Lake St. Croix.”

  “Is it that far?”

  “On good roads,” Eklund said, “a couple of hours. However, the last thirty miles will be on logging roads, and with all the rain we’ve had this summer it could be rough going. What are you driving?”

  “A Ford F-150.”