The Fisherman

by Vaughn C. Hardacker

  “I think so . . .”

  “The last thing I want you to do is change from one form of slavery to another. I’ve done many things that are, let’s say, illegal. Things far worse than anything you have ever done. Let’s wait until all this shit settles down, then we’ll see what happens. I don’t want you to say or do anything now that you’ll later regret.”

  She nodded, took a final drag on her cigarette, and ground it out.

  “There is nothing I’d like better than to go around Boston with you on my arm—and woe to any son of a bitch who said anything about you. But I want you to be sure that an old beat-up hoodlum like me is what you want.”

  She smiled. “Jimmy, you will always be my knight. Your armor may be tarnished, but it will always shine for me.”

  O’Leary got up from the table, walked around, and placed a hand on her elbow. He urged her to stand and then took her in his arms. He kissed her and felt his heart increase its beat when she responded. After several intense moments, their lips separated, and she tilted her head back to better see him. “Woman, you have no idea how you make me feel . . . and even less of an idea of how big a problem you would be taking on.”

  “Problem? I see no problem.”

  He laughed. “When you have a few minutes, you need to have a long talk with Gordon—he knows me better than anyone else.”

  As if on cue, Winter reappeared. “Boss, we got to go . . .”

  48

  Fischer got out of the van and studied the crude cabin. It was small and showed the effects of being vacant. Jonah Churchill had been dead for more than fifteen years. A lifelong bachelor, he’d had no heirs and had left the cabin to Willard, his closest relative. Fischer had not visited since that long ago summer.

  Fischer circled the building and stood on the lakeshore, staring at the placid water. He watched as several small boats trolled for fish about a hundred yards off the shore. On his first visit to his Uncle Jonah’s lakeshore getaway, he had heard many of the local stories of Square Lake and the way it could change in the blink of an eye. “One minute the water’s as smooth as a baby’s ass, the next a squall will come up and swamp a boat. There’s been many a fisherman lost on this lake.” The old man had pointed to a spot directly across from the camp. “That’s the thoroughfare from Cross Lake,” he said, “’bout halfway acrost there’s a sandbar, and the water is only four foot deep. A hundred yards straight out from where we stand it’s over 120 feet deep. The reason I’m tellin’ you all this, Willard, is b’cause this ain’t a lake you want to take for granted.”

  Fischer snorted and turned away from the water. He was not there to fish. He was there because of all the lakes in the Fish River Chain, Square was the most undeveloped. Unlike Long, Cross, and Eagle Lakes, which were lined with houses called camps by the locals, there were only a few miles of them on the shores of Square Lake . . . and they were unoccupied for most of the year. He knew that he would only be able to stay for a short time; winter came to Aroostook County in November, and the downside to the lack of human presence was that the roads were not plowed. To stay after that was foolhardy—asking to die of starvation or exposure.

  Spiderwebs hung from every outcrop on the building. He saw a spider twice the size of his thumb sitting in the center of a web that sealed the steps leading to the door. He picked up a fallen branch and used it to sweep the snare away. The arachnid scrambled across the gray wood and Fischer stomped on it.

  “It’s going to take a lot of work to make this habitable.”

  Willard spun and was surprised to see Cheryl standing behind him. He had untied her and allowed her to ride beside him during the six-hour drive north. “I told you to stay in the truck.”

  “You afraid I’ll run away again?” She gazed at the forest around them and the placid surface of the big lake. “Where would I run to?”

  Willard stared at her for several seconds. “You planning on helping clean up?”

  “If I don’t this place will be as filthy as the house on the coast.”

  “I don’t need any of your lip.”

  Willard dug in his pocket for the key his uncle’s lawyer had sent and hoped that after fifteen years the lock would still be functional. He inserted the key into the rusted lock and cursed when it twisted and broke off in the plug. He threw the useless piece into the woods and walked to his truck, where he opened up an old toolbox and found a small crowbar. He returned to the door and pried the hasp from the door frame.

  The condition inside was no better than the outside. Spider and cobwebs hung down from the rafters and dust coated everything. He surveyed the furniture, which consisted of an old Formica-topped table, chairs on which the vinyl covers had cracked and split, a couch that had outlived its usefulness twenty years ago, and a rusty woodstove.

  He crossed to the opening that led into the bedroom. An antiquated metal bed with a decrepit striped mattress was against the wall; the stuffing showed through tears in the ticking. Rodent droppings covered every horizontal surface in the building.

  He left the ramshackle interior and began to unload the van. He carried several boxes inside and hoped he had everything he needed for their stay. If they had need of anything, it was about twenty miles by road to the nearest store, and that was really a bait shop that sold beer and a few canned goods. The nearest town of any size was Fort Kent, and it was more than thirty road miles to the northwest. The towns in northern Aroostook County were, for the most part, small, and he was unsure how much he’d stand out.

  He found an old broom propped in a corner, brushed the spider- and cobwebs from it, and then threw it to Cheryl. “Don’t just stand there, clean this place up.”

  49

  Ernestine Fischer had spent a great deal of time thinking about her brother, Willard. She had been away from the craziness in which her overly pious mother and rednecked father had raised them. It was obvious from what she’d learned from Wera Eklund and the people from away that Willard had been affected by the dysfunctional upbringing more than any of his siblings. She quickly amended that thought. Willard had always been slow-minded, and having his head smashed by that heavy block and tackle only made him slower. But Richard had definitely suffered the most. As he’d grown, his homosexuality had shown, and their father had made a crusade out of getting his oldest son to suppress it and become a normal man. The verbal and physical abuse had gotten so bad that one night Richard went into the bathroom and slashed both of his wrists to the bone.

  If I were Willard and I wanted to hide, she wondered, where would I go? The answer came to her, and it was so obvious that she couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of it sooner. She needed to talk to Wera. She was due to make a run for supplies, and it wasn’t much farther to Houlton than it was to Presque Isle. She closed up her house and held her breath as she cranked the old truck motor. She let out an involuntary, “Yes!” when the truck started.

  _________________

  Deputy Sheriff Wera Eklund was surprised when Ernestine Fischer walked into the Aroostook County Sheriff’s Office. “What’s the problem, Ernestine? You haven’t come to Houlton in years.”

  “When you brought them folks from away out to Howe Brook, you said Willard was on the run and wondered if there was someplace he might go.”

  “That’s right,” Eklund said. “Come in, I just made a fresh pot of coffee.” She led Fischer into the large room the deputies used as their office. Once they were settled, Eklund said, “Since we talked, we’ve learned that it’s a hell of a lot worse than we told you. They found three bodies on the property. At this time, no one has a clue as to how many victims he’s had. But the state police found a trunk with about fifty purses and wallets in it. Apparently, he’s been at this for several years.”

  “Lord, help us.”

  “Ernestine, he’s gone underground and dropped completely out of sight. Do you have any idea where he might be?”

  Fischer drank her coffee. “As you know, I usually get my supplies at that big Walmart
in Presque Isle, but I’ve been thinking about that last visit and wanted to talk to you, so I came to Houlton instead. There is a place . . . and it’s not very far from here . . .”

  “Where would that be?”

  “We had an uncle, Jonah. He’s been gone for years. He had a camp on the western shore of Square Lake.”

  “Our Square Lake?” Eklund asked. “There may be more than one in Maine.”

  “Yes, our Square Lake, just north of here in the Fish River chain of lakes.”

  “Can you help me narrow the search a bit?”

  “Lord, it’s been years since I was up there. I don’t even know if the cabin is still standing. I do recall one thing, though: once you get to the lake road, the camp was the fourth on the right . . . maybe the fifth. It was a log cabin on the west shore, I recollect that.”

  _________________

  Eklund called Houston. “We may be on to something,” she said and passed on what she’d learned.

  “Ernestine thinks he may be staying at the cabin on Square Lake?” Houston asked.

  “We’ll know in a couple of hours—it’ll take me that long to get there,” Eklund said.

  “Do you want us to head up there?”

  “Not yet. The only way into the lake is by logging and private woods roads. Let me check it out first. If there’s any reason for you to come up here, I’ll call.”

  “Wera, be careful.”

  “Not to worry, if I see any indication that he’s up here I’ll call in everyone I can—including the National Guard.”

  “Okay. Anne and I will be at our place.” He gave her the number. “Call us the minute you know something or if they show up.”

  “I will.”

  _________________

  Fischer listened to the rain hitting the roof and was surprised to learn that there were no leaks in it. He opened the cupboard and shook his head. It was as bare as the one in the nursery rhymes. He would have to risk a trip to a store. They’d have to go to either Stockholm, where there was a general store, or to a supermarket in Fort Kent or Caribou.

  “Come on.”

  Cheryl had been cleaning the small bedroom. She walked out into the common room and asked, “Where we going?”

  “We need food.”

  “I’ll wait here.”

  “The fuck you will. You’d bust out of here as soon as I was out of sight. Come on.”

  He took her arm and pulled her outside the cabin. He latched the door behind him, and when he tried to lock it, he realized that he also had to stop by a hardware store to get a lock and hasp to replace the one he had destroyed. They got into the van, sat for a few seconds waiting for the engine to smooth out, and then backed into the narrow gravel lane that was the only road in or out of the small collection of camps. He came to the top of a long hill and had to pull to the side to allow another vehicle to pass. He tried not to stare at the oncoming driver. A chill ran through his spine when he saw the gold-and-white logo of an Aroostook County Sheriff vehicle painted on the side of the SUV.

  “You make a move to signal this cop and you’re dead,” he warned Cheryl.

  He smiled at the cop as the SUV drove past.

  The driver waved as she passed, and Fischer returned the greeting. He watched her drive by, obviously headed for the camps on Square Lake. He felt his heart beat faster, and he panicked. He turned around to follow the SUV. What in hell are you doing, dummy?

  “That cop saw me.”

  She’s probably seen a lot of people as she drove around these woods roads.

  “But she’s headed for the lake . . .”

  She also could be headed for the lodge on Eagle Lake to check fishing licenses. You turn around and follow her, and she’s going to think that you want to talk with her.

  “If you’re so smart, old man, what should I do?

  Go about your business. Chances are you’ll never see her again.

  Fischer ignored Cheryl as she stared at him during the conversation with the old man. He gave her no explanation as he executed a tight K-turn and continued on.

  _________________

  Eklund passed the van and raised her hand to wave at the driver. The van’s side windows were covered with dirt, and it was difficult to see the driver’s face through the tinted glass. In the tradition of the area, they exchanged waves and passed by each other.

  Twenty minutes later, she was parked in front of the Square Lake Camp. She got out of her truck, adjusted her pistol, and studied the area for a few seconds. The drive was empty, so she decided to take a look around. She circled the building, peering through the filthy windows, and it was evident someone had recently been staying in the small cabin. She walked to the lake’s edge and saw large footprints in the soft dirt on the water’s edge. She walked back to her truck and backed out of the camp’s drive. As she started back the way she had come in, she picked up her radio, contacted her dispatcher in Houlton, and asked them to relay a message to Sam Fuchs for her.

  _________________

  Fischer returned to the cabin and immediately noticed the small boot prints in the soft ground. Someone had been to the cabin. He remembered the Deputy Sheriff and cursed. He grabbed Cheryl, dragged her into the bedroom, and began throwing their few belongings into a backpack.

  They know where you are.

  “I know that, old man.”

  Then get your thumbs out of your ass and get out of here. It’s been four hours since you saw that cop—by now she’ll have called for help. They’ll be here before you know it, an’ they’s only one road in and out of here.

  “I’ll get a boat.”

  Then what, you idjut? You gonna hitchhike south?

  “Leave me be.” Fischer ignored his father’s curses and began gathering his belongings.

  _________________

  Wera Eklund stopped her SUV in a large open area that had once been Blackstone Siding, a railroad stop where loggers loaded their timber onto railroad cars. But the Bangor and Aroostook Railroad went bankrupt, and the siding had not been used for more than forty years. The right of way through the woods from Presque Isle to Van Buren was abandoned in the 1970s and turned into an ATV and snowmobile trail in 1980. As a result, the siding was now a several-acre grass-covered parking area. She exited the vehicle and waited for the rest of the assault team. Within twenty minutes she was joined by two other Aroostook County Sheriff’s Department Deputies, three members of the Department of Inland Fisheries and Wildlife Warden Service3, and two members of the Maine State Police Tactical Team4. She gathered them into a circle and briefed them on what they faced.

  “This guy is extremely dangerous, very likely armed, and we know he has a hostage. He’s a suspected serial killer and will have no reservation about killing any one of us who gets in the way of his escape.”

  One of the Tactical Team members was a Maine State Police Sergeant, and he took charge of the impromptu meeting. “The subject has only a few escape routes: this road, the lake—if he has access to a boat—and the woods, but he’ll have to go by foot. We don’t have enough people to completely blanket the area, so we’ll have to use surprise as our primary tool.” He turned to the three wardens. “You folks know these woods better than I, is there anything we should be careful of?”

  The oldest warden spoke up. “We have to keep him off the lake. If he gets out there, he can go in several directions. There are thoroughfares between this lake and Cross and Eagle Lakes. The entrance to the Cross Lake thoroughfare is shallow and, when the water is as low as it is now, could be impassable for some boats. Bottom line, he could disappear very quickly if he gets afloat. We have a plane from our Eagle Lake station on location. He’ll try and keep a visual on him if it comes to that, but . . . well, you get my drift. It’d make things a whole lot easier if we take him here.”

  The team spent several minutes dividing up responsibilities and establishing methods of communication. Finally Wera said, “Okay, let’s get this done.”

  The task force drov
e ten miles on rough, unpaved woods roads and stopped a quarter mile from Square Lake. They left their vehicles and closed in on the camp on foot. Wera took the middle position, as she knew the precise location of the building. She stopped across from the camp, staying concealed in a dense copse of alder bushes, and saw the same van she’d passed earlier that day parked beside the cabin. When she was certain that everyone was in position, she darted across the narrow dirt road and stopped against the front wall. She raised her service pistol and called out, “Aroostook County Sheriff’s Department!”

  _________________

  Fischer happened to glance up and see the cop in the tan uniform dash across the narrow lane. He grabbed his rifle and hissed at Cheryl, “Get down and keep your mouth shut.”

  A female voice called out, “Aroostook County Sheriff’s Department! Is anyone in there?”

  Fischer estimated the location from which the voice came and fired a round through the window. He raised his head and saw other cops, some in the green uniform of the warden service and others wearing camouflage. He fired at one of the wardens.

  _________________

  The bullet missed Eklund’s head by inches. She dropped to the ground and crawled on her belly to a new location. She saw members of the task force moving through the brush and trees that bordered the rudimentary camp road. A warden broke from cover, and another shot erupted from the interior. The warden dropped in her tracks and rolled into the drainage ditch that ran along the road’s thin shoulder. Eklund wanted to call out and see how badly the warden was hurt but dared not give away her position.

  “Holmquist, are you all right?” It was the voice of the State Police Sergeant.

  “Yeah, it’s just a scratch.”

  “Well keep your ass low!”

  Another shot came from the camp.

  _________________

  Cheryl heard Fischer fire a third shot and then saw him scramble over to the bedroom, where she was curled up against an interior wall as far from the exterior as she could get. He glanced at her. “We got to make a break for it,” he said.