The Fisherman

by Vaughn C. Hardacker

  Houston could hear the frustration in her voice and tried to ease it. “It’s probably for the best,” he said. “I wasn’t too crazy about you taking him on alone.”

  “I can take care of myself. Besides, I wasn’t alone. I had a team of three deputies, three wardens, and two members of the state police tactical team.”

  “I’m glad to know that, Wera. This guy is extremely dangerous, and going there by yourself wasn’t wise. I wouldn’t want to take him on alone.”

  “I understand. But up here deputies are used to working alone.”

  “Okay, okay. Let me know if you learn anything else.”

  “In the event he tries for Quebec, we’ve notified the gatehouses on the private woods roads to watch for him, as well as immigration and customs enforcement, although ICE doesn’t have the manpower to watch every point where he could cross the border on foot. There’s places up here where he could abandon whatever he’s driving, walk across the border, and steal something over there. In the meantime, we’re searching the camp for anything that may give us a clue as to where he went.”

  “Thanks, Wera. You be careful. Okay?”

  She laughed. “Always. I’ll call if we find anything of value in there.”

  Houston broke the connection and said, “The bastard got away again.”

  “How can anyone be this lucky?” Bouchard asked.

  As much as he wanted to jump in his truck and drive north, Houston knew that it would be foolhardy—at least until they had a fix on Fischer’s location . . . if they ever did.

  5 Royal Canadian Mounted Police, colloquially known as the Mounties and internally as the Force, is both a federal and a national police force of Canada.

  52

  Burton Chaney walked out of the elevator and saw Gordon Winter sitting in one of several easy chairs that were in the lobby. He crossed the room and sat across from him. “What are you doing here, Gordon?”

  “The boss sent me, Burt.”

  “What does he need?”

  “Your expertise.”

  “What?”

  “We got a situation.”

  “Gordon, I won’t do it. I’m not in that life any longer.”

  Winter stood and said, “Jimmy ain’t gonna be happy about this. He feels you owe him.”

  “I do. I just don’t want to go back to that.”

  “I’ll tell him.”

  Winter walked toward the exit, and Chaney said, “Gordon.”

  Winter turned. “Yeah?”

  “Tell Jimmy that if he wants my help, he can come ask for it personally. No offense intended.”

  “Gotcha,” Winter said, “I’ll pass it along.”

  It took less than twenty minutes for the call. “Meet me at the Claddagh Pub.” The tone of voice told Chaney that O’Leary was not happy about the way things were turning out. “Be here in an hour.”

  “It’s nice to hear from you, too,” Chaney replied, making no effort to hide his sarcasm.

  “Just be here.”

  _________________

  Southie had not changed much since Chaney had last been there. But then, that was only a year ago; it had not changed much in the last fifty years, so it was unrealistic to expect anything drastic to have taken place. The streets felt claustrophobic when compared to the wide-open land around Chaney’s New Hampshire home. The triple-deckers were crammed together, separated by narrow alleys that were barely wide enough to allow a car to pass. Everything seemed in need of a good washing. Chaney thought flushing would be a more appropriate term. Cars lined both sides of the street, which was more suited to having parking restricted to a single side. He recalled the first time he drove these streets and how worried he was that he would sideswipe the cars that limited the thoroughfare. He saw the only open spots on the block were directly in front of Jimmy O’Leary’s Claddagh Pub. No one in Southie would dare to park in one of the three slots, which were reserved for O’Leary and his personal guests. Chaney parked in one of them.

  The interior of the bar was dark and smelled of spilled beer and liquor; even though O’Leary spent lavishly to make the place look upscale, it was still nothing more than a neighborhood watering hole. Once his eyes adjusted to the dim interior, Chaney saw Winter backing the bar. Gordon said nothing, just tipped his head in the direction of the corridor that led to O’Leary’s office. Chaney gave him a casual wave and entered the hallway.

  He knocked once on the office door and then entered, not waiting for permission. O’Leary sat behind a broad desk on which not a single piece of paper resided. He was smoking one of his ever-present cigarettes. O’Leary watched Chaney through narrowed eyes and said nothing until his childhood friend sat in one of the two easy chairs that fronted the desk.

  O’Leary ground out his cigarette and said, “You’re lookin’ good. That country air must agree with you.”

  “More so than the fog in here.”

  O’Leary ignored the comment and said, “I suppose you’re wondering why I sent . . .” He amended his words. “. . . asked you here.”

  “Yup.”

  “I’ll get to it then. I know you don’t want to have any more to do with me than I do you.”

  “It’s your meeting—do what you will.”

  “First, let me clear the air . . .”

  Chaney looked at the layers of tobacco smoke that hung in the air. “It’d be nice. This place smells like a full ashtray.”

  O’Leary ignored the comment, which told Chaney that whatever the favor was that Jimmy wanted, it was big.

  “I need you to cover my ass . . . for old time’s sake.”

  “Old time’s sake? As I recall in those old times, I was a soldier, and you were a hood.”

  “I’m talking about when we were kids—the old times before those old times, Burt. You know what I mean.”

  Chaney glared at his former friend. “Yeah, unfortunately, I do.”

  “A little less attitude would help.”

  “Last time we talked, I was recuperating from a gunshot wound, and you informed me that our truce was over, and it was business as usual.”

  “Yeah, I know. But it boils down to this: back then, you needed my help, now I need yours.”

  “I’m not a hit man anymore.”

  “Never said you were. You gonna listen to what I have to say, or are we gonna sit here and hiss and spit at each other like two tomcats?”

  “Okay. What’s got you so nervous that you’re willing to lower yourself to the point you’ll ask me for help?”

  “The Russian mob.”

  Chaney was silent for a few seconds and then said, “Thank God, for a few minutes there I thought it was something big.”

  O’Leary stood up. “C’mon, let’s take a ride.”

  “Don’t know if I like that choice of words.”

  “Okay, how about, I need you to see something?”

  “On one condition.”

  “Which is?”

  “No smoking in the damned car.”

  “You know, Burt, you can be a real ball buster sometimes.”

  “I learned it from an old friend . . . he’s a master at it.”

  O’Leary grinned. “That I am—”

  _________________

  Chaney sat in the back and only spoke when O’Leary asked something that required an answer. When Winter turned off 1A and onto Chelsea Street, he knew where they were going. “Should I be concerned?” he asked.

  “What?” O’Leary asked.

  “We’re headed for your warehouse, aren’t we?”

  “Yeah.”

  “People you take there don’t usually come out alive.”

  “For fuck’s sake, Burt, give it a rest.”

  “You’re slipping, Jimmy.”

  O’Leary turned and looked at him. “How so?”

  “No one has frisked me. For all you know I could be carrying.”

  “That tell you anything?”

  “Yeah, it makes me think that I may live through this after all.”
/>
  O’Leary turned to the front, blew through his lips, and said, “Jesus Kee-rist. You can be a real nag when you get a mind to.”

  Winter pulled up beside a warehouse and said, “End of the line.”

  “You know,” Chaney said, “I could have gone all day without hearing that.”

  Winter grinned. “How about ‘we’re here’?”

  “That’s better.”

  O’Leary led him to a side door and stepped aside to allow him to enter first. Chaney stepped inside and immediately stopped. One side of the warehouse was arranged like a huge dormitory. Women—many of whom stopped and, at first, stared at them with fear—occupied the area. “Since when did you start pimping, Jimmy?”

  “Ever since we were kids, you always thought that you had all the answers,” O’Leary said. “Now how about just once you shut up and learn the question.”

  “Okay, what’s this?”

  O’Leary led him to a small dining area, and they sat at the table. Immediately, two women were at the table asking if they could get them anything. Their accents were Slavic, most likely Russian, and Chaney saw respect, not fear, when they spoke to O’Leary. A frail child raced forward and sat on Jimmy’s lap. “Meet Inca. Inca, this is a friend of mine. His name is Burton.”

  The girl, who looked to be no more than eleven or twelve, said in faltering English, “Pleased to meet you, Burr-ton.”

  Chaney smiled at her. “The pleasure is all mine.”

  O’Leary slid her from his lap and said, “Now run along, Burt and I have business to do.”

  Chaney watched the girl dash away and then turned to O’Leary. “I guess that at this point I should ask what the fuck is goin’ on?”

  O’Leary told him the entire story.

  _________________

  “So,” Chaney asked, “what is it you want from me?”

  “I’m gonna force the issue with Konovalov. He’ll come with a damned army. I need you and your sniper rifle to even the odds a bit.”

  “I don’t have a sniper rifle anymore.”

  “I’ll get one for you—same one Mike Houston used to bring down that sniper last year.”

  “As I recall,” Chaney said, “that weapon was damaged.”

  “I had it fixed.”

  Chaney was reluctant to get involved in a gangland war, but O’Leary was right about one thing: he owed him. He looked at the young women as they moved about, straightening and cleaning their living quarters. He saw Inca, sitting off by herself, watching Jimmy much like the owner of a new Bugatti Veyron looks at his or her car. “The kid seems devoted to you. What’s her story?”

  “She’s been taken away from everything she knew and was almost forced into being a whore.”

  “Almost?”

  “Yeah, almost. I got wind of it and stopped it.”

  Chaney stood and said, “Introduce me to some of the women.”

  Twenty minutes later, Chaney turned to O’Leary and said, “Okay, I’ll help you.”

  53

  The truck shifted, and Cheryl woke up. Fischer got out of the truck and slammed the door. He leaned in through the open window, glared at Cheryl, and said, “Not one fucking sound.” He turned and watched the attendant approach.

  “Good afternoon, what’ll it be?”

  “What time is it? The damned clock radio in this heap doesn’t work.”

  “Four o’clock. What can I do for you?”

  “Fill it up.”

  “Been driving far?”

  “Far enough,” Fischer answered.

  “Hey, mister, no need to get touchy, I’m just trying to be friendly.”

  “Then shut up and fill the goddamned tank. You got a toilet?”

  “Inside.”

  Fischer turned to walk to the restroom, and Cheryl started when the attendant looked through the driver side window and said, “Morning, ma’am.” She turned away from him, stared forward, and ignored him, as she remembered the charter boat trip and knew that any action on her behalf could set Fischer off.

  Fischer suddenly appeared behind the attendant. “Hey,” he said, “talkin’ to my wife ain’t gonna help you get that fucking tank filled.”

  The young man spun around and held his hands up in an apologetic pose. “I didn’t mean nothin’, man. I was just being sociable, that’s all.”

  “What is this—a gas station or a social club?”

  “Hey, I didn’t mean any harm . . .”

  Fischer stood beside the truck as the kid removed the gas cap, activated the pump, and began to fill the tank. He turned to Cheryl and said, “You need the toilet?”

  “Not right now.”

  “Do it anyway.” He gave the attendant a hard look.

  Cheryl saw how close Fischer was to becoming violent, slid across the seat, and opened the truck door. She circled the truck and said, “I really wish you hadn’t broken the door handle on my side.”

  “I bet you do.” He guided her to the ladies’ room.

  _________________

  The gas station attendant returned to the station’s office and wrote down the license number of the four-by-four pickup. He thought there was something odd about the couple in it. An hour later he was watching the early evening news on the TV that was mounted on the wall across from the desk. The anchor told of a shootout between law enforcement personnel and a suspected serial murderer on Square Lake. When the announcer read the description of the suspects and added that it was suspected they had stolen a truck in Eagle Lake, the attendant thought about the asshole whose truck he’d filled up an hour before. When the license number appeared on the screen, he compared it to the one he’d jotted down. His heart raced as he dialed the phone number for Troop F of the Maine State Police that appeared on the screen.

  _________________

  Fischer stopped a hundred yards short of the border station in Fort Kent. Normally vehicles exiting the United States stopped on the Canadian side; however, he wanted to assess the situation first. If he did a U-turn in front of the customs window, it would raise alarms from Ottawa to Washington, DC. He watched as armed Border Patrol officers stopped and searched a truck before allowing it to cross. It was evident to him who they were looking for. He backed up and turned around. This necessitated a change in plans. Instead of crossing into Canada here, he would have to follow Route 11 south.

  Fischer glanced at his watch. An hour had elapsed since he had stopped for gas, and he needed to get some rest. It had been more than eighteen hours since he’d last slept, and his eyes burned with fatigue. He realized that he should have known the cops would close the border; he could have saved precious time. Now he would have to drive a hundred miles of woods and nothing to get to I-95 and on to Bangor, adding three hours to the drive. He did not like it when things changed.

  _________________

  Houston and Anne were preparing for bed when the phone rang. When Houston answered, Wera Eklund informed him that Fischer had reappeared. The stolen truck had been seen at a gas station in Fort Kent and again in Ashland.

  Anne listened while Houston spoke with Wera and, after he broke the connection, said, “Where’s he going?”

  “He probably tried to cross the border at Fort Kent but got scared away.”

  Houston walked into the living room and grabbed his copy of DeLorme’s The Maine Atlas and Gazetteer from the bookcase. He flipped through the pages until he found the one he sought. “From Fort Kent he could go south on a couple of roads to Route 1. I doubt he’d go west because once he gets past Dickey there are no public roads.” He pointed at the map. “Route 11.”

  “What’s on Route 11?” Anne asked.

  “He’d pass through Ashland again, then at Masardis he could leave the highway and go to Howe Brook . . .”

  “His sister’s place.”

  “I doubt he’s had any sleep in a while. He’s probably exhausted. I think he’s headed to Ernestine. It’s possible that he thinks he’ll be safe there.”

  Anne leaped from the be
d, took off her nightgown, and started putting on a pair of jeans. “Call Wera and tell her to put together another tactical team,” she said. “If we split the driving we can be there in the morning.”

  “Anne, are you sure you’re up to this?”

  “When a kid falls off a bike what’s the first thing you do?” She didn’t wait for his answer. “You make them get right back on it.”

  “This is not the same—”

  “Oh, you bet your life it is. Now make the damn call.”

  Houston saw he was not going to dissuade her and dialed the number. He spoke to Wera as he opened the closet door, removed a Remington 700 bolt-action rifle equipped with a high-power scope, and placed it on the bed. Anne heard him tell Wera, “I’m coming equipped this time . . .”

  54

  They came during the afternoon, only not the way O’Leary thought they would. Instead of Russian mobsters, the first assault was from the Commonwealth of Massachusetts in the form of the Health Inspector, who went through the Claddagh as if he were looking for the missing key to his girlfriend’s chastity belt. O’Leary leered at him when he resentfully gave him a pass on the inspection. Once he was out the door, Winter said, “I suppose we better start carding everyone we serve.”

  “Yeah, I imagine the Alcoholic Beverage Control will be in here next.”

  “You know, boss, they’ll keep hounding you until you die.”

  “Or until I do something about it.”

  _________________

  O’Leary entered the warehouse by the side door and slowly walked toward the corner, where his men had erected small cubicles with crates as walls and drapes for doors. One of the compartments had the curtain pushed to one side, and he looked inside. The room was furnished with a single bed, a dresser with mirror, a small nightstand with lamp, and a chair. He was impressed with how ingenious and versatile his men had turned out to be. They had even found ways to provide electricity to each of the rooms and had used a mixture of tarps and canvas to enclose the ceilings, giving the women total privacy.