The Fisherman

by Vaughn C. Hardacker

  “Leave me, Willard. If they find me it will slow them up enough for you to escape.” Cheryl hoped he would fall for her ruse and she would be free.

  “I didn’t chase you all over the fucking coast to just let you go. You’ll go where I go.”

  Cheryl’s heart sank. Death was going to be her only escape.

  He popped up, looked through the window, and said, “Come on.” He grabbed her arm and pulled her from her haven. He led her through the common room to the porch that faced the lake. Through the windows that enclosed the veranda, she was unable to see any of the members of the law enforcement team that was assaulting the camp. He paused before the glass door and cautioned her. “Run as fast as you can to the woods!” He pointed to the left of the cabin.

  He opened the door and tugged her arm, “Run, goddamn you, run.”

  Cheryl bolted from the enclosure, vaulting over the three wooden steps, and raced for the safety of the trees. A shot rang out, and for the briefest of moments, she thought that they had shot him. But she knew her prayer had gone unanswered when he came running up alongside her. He grabbed her arm and dragged her into the trees. When they were at the forest’s edge, she almost lost her balance, but he lifted her, and suddenly they were out of the brilliant late morning sun and into the cool shade of the woods.

  He dropped to one knee, forcing her to squat beside him. When he looked at her she was surprised—something she had heretofore thought he could no longer do. Instead of looking panicked and desperate, Willard looked cool as if he were in his element. He released her arm and gripped the rifle with both hands. He reached into his pocket and took out several cartridges. He replaced the spent ammunition with new rounds as he searched the immediate area for any sign of pursuit.

  When he motioned for her to move to her right along the lakeshore, he seemed happy, almost euphoric, as if he believed himself to be indestructible. She realized he was high on the adrenaline of the situation.

  “There’s a camp about a hundred yards this way. They have a boat. Stay low, and don’t make any more noise than is necessary,” he said.

  As she crept through the brush and trees, Cheryl heard a loud snap as someone stepped on a piece of deadfall. She looked at Fischer. He placed his finger across his lips and motioned for her to lie down. She dropped to her stomach, and he did likewise. He crawled beside her, and when she looked into his eyes, she knew not to make any sound.

  After a few seconds, she heard footsteps off to her left. She ventured a peek through the brush and waist-high ferns. One of the wardens, alongside one of the camouflaged men, were creeping through the woods. They spoke in hushed voices. “We’re going to need to get some dogs in here,” the camouflaged sniper—by now Cheryl had decided that the men dressed like Marines were police snipers—said.

  “By that time he’ll be halfway to Timbuktu,” the warden commented. Without further words, they passed by.

  It seemed like hours passed before Fischer nudged her. He raised up slowly, surveying the woods around them. “Come on,” he whispered.

  They trotted in a low crouch to the edge of the lake and in minutes were at his neighbor’s camp. They stopped just inside the trees and waited for several moments. Fischer’s caution paid off. Two of the tan uniforms were slowly walking around the building with their pistols drawn. Cheryl watched Fischer, expecting him to open fire on the unsuspecting officers at any second. Although he held his rifle on his shoulder, prepared to shoot, he waited until the cops circled the building and disappeared. She could hear the low murmur of their voices as they moved away toward the next camp in the line.

  Fischer waited until it was quiet and the only sounds were the breeze in the trees, the squealing of blue jays, and the gentle sound of the water hitting the shore. He crept toward the dock, where a small boat was suspended above the water by some sort of framework. They crept across the dock, and Fischer used the hand crank on the frame to lower the boat into the water. He motioned for her to get in and then followed her. He lifted the gas can and cursed. “Stay here, and keep the boat close to the dock.” He held his rifle as he darted off the dock to a small shed. He used the rifle’s barrel to wedge the hasp free. It came loose with a loud screeching sound. Fischer looked paranoid as he checked to see if anyone had heard the sound, and then he disappeared inside. In seconds he reappeared carrying a red plastic gas can. Cheryl saw the way he held the rifle up with his left arm and knew he was using it as a counterbalance; the can was heavy.

  Once on the boat, Fischer filled the fuel tank and secured it and the gas can. He squeezed the bulb in the fuel line several times and said, “Get behind the wheel.” When she was seated, he opened the plastic battery case that sat beside the fuel tank and connected the cables.

  “I hope there’s juice in this battery,” he said. “Start it.”

  Cheryl flipped the toggle switch labeled choke, turned the key, and the motor cranked several times before it began idling. Before the motor smoothed out, Fischer grabbed his rifle and jumped into the front seat beside her. “Get us the fuck out of here.”

  She pulled the transmission handle back, felt the motor engage, and then slowly backed away from the dock. When they were about fifty feet from shore, she reduced throttle, shifted the transmission forward, and then gave the motor some fuel. As they started forward, there were shouts from the shore, and several members of the police assault force appeared. They opened fire. Cheryl increased the throttle, and the boat’s nose rose as they sped away. Fischer stood up and fired several useless shots at the cops.

  In minutes they were well beyond the range of the cops’ weapons, and Cheryl asked, “Where to?”

  He pointed to the northwest. “We’ll head out by way of Eagle Lake.”

  3 Members of the Maine Department of Inland Fisheries and Wildlife Warden Service are law enforcement officers.

  4 The Maine State Police Tactical Team works in conjunction with the Maine State Police Crisis Negotiation Team to safely resolve critical incidents, which include barricaded subjects, wanted felons, high-risk K-9 tracks, hostage situations, and high-risk warrant services.

  50

  O’Leary stood in the unlit hall that led to his office and watched as Winter began to close the bar. Two men strode through the door, and they did not have to wear signs for him to know what they were—either cops or hired muscle. He stood still and watched them until they took seats at the bar. The older of the two—at least his gray hair indicated he was oldest—flashed a badge at Winter. “O’Leary in the back?” he asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Mind if we take a look?”

  “You got a warrant?” Winter asked.

  “No, but we can get one.”

  “Then you better get it.”

  “You are aware that he’s up to his ass in alligators—and they’re snapping?”

  “I’ll be sure to tell him that when I see him. You guys drinking or bullshitting?”

  The younger cop gave him a hard look. When his partner nudged him on the arm, they slid off the bar stools. “We’ll be back with a warrant.”

  “I’ll be waiting with unbridled anticipation.”

  Once the cops were gone, O’Leary walked out of the darkness.

  “You heard?” Winter asked.

  “Yeah, they’ll be back.”

  “You think they got probable cause for a warrant?”

  “Nope. But it won’t matter. There’re at least six judges listed in that ledger—they’ll have a warrant in an hour.”

  “So what we gonna do?”

  O’Leary lit a cigarette.

  “Smokin’ in a public place is against the law,” Winter said, knowing his boss couldn’t care less.

  “Then lock the door. As of now this is a private club.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  A cloud of smoke surrounded O’Leary’s head. “We go on the offensive.”

  “I wondered when you were gonna start kicking ass and taking names.”

/>   “We already got the names,” O’Leary said with a sardonic smile. “Now we’re gonna kick some ass.”

  _________________

  O’Leary had just finished locking the door as he turned away from the building and Winter said, “We got company.”

  Three men walked out of the darkness and into the glow of the streetlights. O’Leary immediately took a pistol from within his jacket. Winter already had his out and pointed in the direction of the men. When they were a quarter of the way down the block, the three split, making it difficult for two guns to cover them. When the one who had remained on the sidewalk stopped walking and raised his hands, showing he had no weapon, O’Leary recognized him. “What brings you to Southie, Carl?”

  “Take it easy,” Carl Konovalov answered, “we’re here to talk.” He spoke with a heavy Russian accent.

  “It takes three of you to talk?”

  “Jimmy, Jimmy, your reputation precedes you. They’re merely a precaution—not much different than your man.” He half-turned and said something in Russian. His two companions stopped their approach, one standing on the empty street and the other on the opposite sidewalk.

  “You okay, boss?” Winter asked.

  “Yeah, I can handle this guy if it comes down to that.”

  “I’ll be right over there.” Winter stepped back several paces and then positioned himself between two parked cars, where he could watch the gunmen in the street and on the sidewalk.

  O’Leary motioned for Konovalov to approach. “When I learned that Gorky was involved in this, I knew you were too,” O’Leary said.

  “That is part of what we must speak about.”

  “I don’t think we should discuss business on the street.” O’Leary put his pistol away, turned, and unlocked the door to the Claddagh Pub. “You can bring your muscle in with you . . . or you can come in alone.”

  Konovalov motioned for his companions to follow them inside.

  Once inside, Winter deactivated the alarm system, walked behind the bar, and carefully placed his pistol on it. O’Leary nodded at him and then turned to the Russian mobster. “You want to sit at a table or will the bar do?”

  Konovalov seated himself on a bar stool, and his henchmen separated once again—one standing by the door and the other to his right about twenty feet away.

  O’Leary took a seat on Konovalov’s immediate left, keeping the Russian between him and his men. “You want a drink, Carl? It’s on me.”

  The Russian turned his head and said to Winter, “Vodka.”

  “Neat?” Winter asked.

  “What is this . . . neat?”

  “Straight up, no ice, no chaser.”

  Konovalov nodded.

  Winter turned and took a bottle from the bar back.

  “None of your American swill—the good vodka.”

  O’Leary nodded his approval, and Winter replaced the bottle of bar brand, picked up a bottle of Stolichnaya, and poured a shot. He pushed the glass toward the Russian. “This do?” he asked.

  Konovalov nodded again.

  “Okay, Carl,” O’Leary said, “you called this meeting. What’s on your mind?”

  “You have caused a major disruption in our revenue stream.”

  “Revenue stream? You an accountant now?”

  “Every business needs a good accountant.”

  “Okay, suppose you get to the point? If you haven’t noticed, it’s getting late.”

  “You have taken our property and . . . taken away two of my valued employees—”

  “Cut the bullshit, Carl. This place ain’t bugged. I gather that you’re upset because I killed Halsey, Gorky, and Adriana.”

  “Replacing the women will be easy, Gorky not so easy, but we have other vessels to carry our cargo. The madam is a minor inconvenience, and the lawyer was no loss—them I can buy for . . . how is that American saying? A dime a dozen? Yes, that’s the expression. I can get lawyers for a dime a dozen.”

  “Still,” O’Leary said, “it’s the cargo you’re after.”

  “I said it was easy to replace the women, I didn’t say it was cheap. I have a considerable amount of money invested in them.”

  “I get the feeling that isn’t all you want.”

  “What else is there?”

  “The laptop.”

  The Russian waved his hand in front of his face as if he were shooing a fly away, and O’Leary was surprised by his answer. “Pshh, that’s of no consequence, merely a client list.”

  “You sayin’ that the names on that computer aren’t part of running this business?”

  “Other than I have to pay them for certain services, no.”

  O’Leary thought about what he had heard. It made sense; the Russian mob had a long history of infiltrating and using corrupt government officials in their kryshas. “But,” O’Leary said, “they’re still covered by your krysha?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, here’s the problem I got with this, Carl. I don’t like the fact that you’ve brought kids—virtual babies—and placed them in your fancy whorehouses. Adults who understand what they may be getting into are one thing . . . kids are another.”

  Konovalov’s expression turned hard. “Since we are being blunt, I want my property back.”

  “There’s a problem with that, I don’t have them,” O’Leary said.

  “Who’s bullshitting now?” Konovalov stood, picked up the shot glass, drank the vodka in a single mouthful, and banged the glass down. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand and said, “One day—that’s all I will give you to return my property to me. One day, not a minute more.” He nodded to his men, and they left the bar.

  Once the door closed after the mobsters, Winter picked up the shot glass and threw it in the trash. “You gonna do it?” he asked.

  “Fuck no! How long you think we’d last if we gave in to a bunch of foreign goons?”

  “That your only reason?”

  “You know better. There’s no way I’ll ever return those women to him.”

  Winter nodded. “Okay, I’ll make sure the boys are ready. What in hell is a krysha?”

  “It’s Russian for roof. All their businesses and corrupt officials are sheltered under the krysha—it’s like a mafia family.”

  “Okay, how we gonna handle this?”

  “We got to make them come after us. . . . Is Chaney still in town?”

  Winter looked at O’Leary. “Are you sure you want him involved in this?”

  “As much as I hate it, he’s got some special skills we can use. After all, he owes me, and who else is there?”

  “Mike.”

  “Naw, he’s got his hands full chasing that psycho up in Butt Fuck, Maine. Besides, there’s still a lot of cop left in Mike. We’ll go with Chaney.”

  51

  Houston chopped the last piece of firewood and threw it on the pile beside the cabin. He wiped sweat from his forehead and entered the house. He looked around the living room, saw no sign of Anne, and crossed the room to the bedroom. He heard the shower running and smiled. He decided he’d surprise her, and they could take a long hot romantic shower. He turned the knob and was surprised: the door was locked—something she’d never done before. Then he heard her sobs. He knocked lightly on the door. “Anne, are you all right?” He waited several moments for her to reply and then knocked again. Again she failed to respond. Houston walked into the kitchen to find a long thin tool that he could poke into the hole in the knob that unlocked the bathroom door from the outside in the event of an emergency. He found what he needed and returned to the bedroom. He saw that the bathroom door was open a crack and pushed the door open and walked inside.

  Anne sat on the toilet, wrapped in a towel and staring out the window at the valley below. He could see tears running down the sides of her face. “You alright, hon?” he asked.

  She quickly wiped at the drops, and replied, “I’m fine.”

  Houston walked over and squatted beside her. “Bullshit.”

  �
�Mike, I’m alright—”

  “Anne, this is me you’re talking to. Just like you know me better than anyone else, I know you. On many occasions you’ve told me to let my feelings out—that although I was a cop, I was still human. Well, now I’m telling you the same thing.”

  She looked at him, and he noticed how red her eyes were, especially when contrasted with the pallor of her skin.

  “I don’t know what’s wrong,” she said. “He didn’t . . . Cheryl . . .”

  “Anne, honey, you’re suffering from PTSD—you’ve been through a harrowing experience. Don’t try to hold back. Let it out. Trust me, I know something about this. I went through it after Somalia, again last year after the Rosa situation, and several times as a cop.”

  She forced a smile, and then her face twisted, and her composure broke like glass after being hit by a rock on a frigid day. Sobs racked her body; Houston wrapped his arms around her and held her securely while she cried. Feeling her body tremble against his made him feel awkward. On one hand he felt helpless—as much as he wanted to make her hurt and fear go away, he had no idea of what he should do; on the other, he maintained his protective posture, cursing Fischer for hurting his woman this way. For the first time in his life, he wanted to inflict pain on another human being. He wanted to kill Willard Fischer . . . and do it slowly.

  _________________

  “You’re sure he’s gone?” Houston asked.

  “I went back this afternoon with a tactical team,” Eklund said. “We ended up in a firefight, and he got away.”

  “Firefight. Was anyone hurt?”

  “I got the shit scared out of me, and one warden received a superficial wound. I underestimated him—I think he knew we’d found him. Somehow or another he knew that we were onto his location—maybe something as simple as him seeing my tracks when I investigated the camp this morning. When we got inside, all their things were packed. He was getting ready to take off.”

  “Damn.”

  “We have a BOLO out on him, but there are any number of ways he could have gone. All we know at this point is that he stole a boat from a nearby camp. They took the thoroughfare to Eagle Lake. We lost him—there’s more boat traffic on Eagle than Square and a number of trailerable launches where he could steal a car. That’s not taking into consideration that he could have put ashore at a private camp or residence. After that it’s a short trip to Route 11. He could take Route 11 north to Fort Kent or south to Bangor. If he got on the American Reality Road, he could go all the way to Quebec and never hit a public highway. We’ve got every law enforcement agency in Aroostook, Penobscot, and Piscataquis Counties, as well as the Warden Service and the RCMP5 looking for him.”