The Fisherman

by Vaughn C. Hardacker

  He turned his attention upward, scanning the catwalks that crisscrossed the ceiling, and nodded with satisfaction. He saw several of his men strategically located along the metal walkways and knew that, even though he was not visible, Chaney was up there, camouflaged and on guard. He turned down a makeshift corridor, and the center of the complex opened into a large common area with tables, couches, and everything that was required for a rudimentary degree of comfort.

  Tasha sat in an easy chair that she had placed strategically beneath a skylight; he thought she looked angelic sitting in the shaft of sunlight. She looked up from her book, smiled, and stood when she saw him. As O’Leary closed with her, she placed the book on the table and greeted him. “How are you, Jimmy?”

  “Just fine. What are you reading?” he asked.

  She picked up the thick volume, showed him the cover, and said, “Doctor Zhivago.”

  He took the heavy book from her and glanced at the cover. The words all seemed alien; while he recognized a few letters, most made him wonder if the author suffered from dyslexia.

  “It’s in Cyrillic,” Tasha said. “Russian.”

  “I wondered what language that was. I never read it,” he said. “But the movie was pretty good.”

  “The Soviets would not allow it in Russia, Pasternak had to . . .” She seemed to struggle to think of the correct English words, “. . . smuggle the manuscript into Italy for it to be printed.”

  O’Leary looked at her with a newfound interest. There was obviously a lot more to this woman that he had thought. “You know a lot about it.”

  “Before all this,” she said, “I was student of literature at university.”

  O’Leary led her to one of the couches and motioned for her to sit. Once they had settled, he turned to her with a solemn look. “Tasha, I need you to take charge of the women.”

  She gave him a questioning look. “Take charge . . . what means take charge?”

  “I need you to be a . . .” He, too, fumbled for the correct word, “. . . their commissar.”

  Her brows arched, and she said, “Commissar is a military position of communists.”

  O’Leary thought for a minute and then recalled a title he had heard used when one of Carl Konovalov’s men had addressed him. “I need you to be pakhan6 . . . a boss.”

  “You mean like a brigadier?”

  O’Leary had heard of brigadiers. They were the Russian mob’s equivalent to the Italian mob’s Capo régime. “Yes, a brigadier. There is a chance that Carl Konovalov will be coming for you.”

  O’Leary immediately sensed her fear and tried to overcome it. “You don’t have to worry. I have more than enough men here to protect you.”

  “What is it you want me to do?”

  “If and when things get crazy, you need to gather all of the women and get them to someplace out of the line of fire. I’ll have my guys look into building some sort of shelter where you can get out of danger.” He hoped she did not realize that there would most likely be no place where they were truly out of danger. He stood up and looked down at her. She had raised her face, and her brown eyes seemed wide with trust. He touched her cheek and said, “It’s going to be okay, Tasha, we’ll keep you safe.”

  “I know, but who will keep you safe?”

  O’Leary smiled, exuding a confidence he was not sure of, and kissed her on the forehead. “Gordon and Burt Chaney are all the safety net I need.”

  O’Leary left the small community and stopped in the center of the warehouse’s open area. He took out his cell phone and punched in a number. While he waited for the phone to be answered, he scanned the catwalks. Chaney stepped out of a secluded corner holding his phone to his ear and waved to him. “Meet me outside,” O’Leary said.

  In less than five minutes, Chaney walked out into the sunlight and blinked as his eyes adjusted from the dim interior of the warehouse. “What’s up?” he asked.

  “It’s time to hit Carl Konovalov is what’s up.”

  “Won’t be easy . . . he’ll have an entourage with him.”

  “Just do what you do best, and I’ll make it worth your while.”

  “Okay, where do I start looking?”

  “He owns a club on Comm Ave, not far from Harvard Street. You’ll find him there most nights.”

  “Consider it done.”

  _________________

  Chaney peered through the rangefinder, centering the rear window of the Cadillac in the square box. The number three hundred appeared in the block where the device displayed the distance to the target. He placed the instrument in its case and searched the area between him and the car while looking for flags, pennants, or anything that would give him an indication of wind direction and speed. Not that three hundred yards was that long of a shot—hell, he had scored hits as far out as 650 yards. Usually, under five hundred yards the wind did not become a factor unless it was blowing hard or gusting. He saw a flagpole in front of an official-looking building. The flag barely moved in the soft summer breeze. This shot was going to be routine. He settled in to wait . . . and watch.

  _________________

  It was two in the morning when Konovalov and his entourage of bodyguards appeared. Thankful that streetlights had made the use of a starlight scope unnecessary, Chaney centered the crosshairs of the scope on the Russian’s chest, then moved the reticule left, scarcely enough for the untrained eye to notice. He inhaled, let his breath out slowly until he had a steady sight picture, held his breath, and squeezed the trigger. The rifle’s angry bark broke the stillness of the night. The pakhan was dead before his guards heard the rifle’s sharp crack.

  Chaney crouched behind the building’s parapet, fully aware that the Russians had no idea where he was. They hunched down, weapons drawn as they looked in every direction, confused and scared, and awaiting the next bullet, which would never come.

  Chaney took a cell phone from his pocket and punched in a text message. The message was succinct and to the point. “It’s done. Who’s next?”

  6 Similar to a Godfather in the Italian mob.

  55

  In the primordial darkness, the truck’s headlights bored a tunnel through the never-ending ocean of trees. To Cheryl, it seemed as if they were lightyears from civilization. Even the roads had long since ceased being paved and had names like St. Croix Road instead of route numbers. She stared through the windshield, trying to ignore the smears left by flying insects smashing against the glass and splotches of mud from driving through huge puddles at too high a speed. As Fischer drove, Cheryl’s spirits sank lower and lower. She tried to remember how long it had been since she had seen another vehicle. Even if she were to escape, she would be who knew how deep into the wilderness and would surely starve or be attacked by a wild animal.

  They rumbled across a narrow wooden bridge and turned along the small stream they had just crossed. They followed the road around a sharp turn and immediately stopped. In the middle of the road, looking as if he had been disturbed, was the largest moose she had ever seen. Its huge flat antlers were majestic; its eyes shone brightly in the headlamps, and it towered over the truck. The animal seemed to resent their presence and stood in the middle of the gravel and hard-pan lane as if he owned it. “What do we do now?” she whispered as if she were afraid it would overhear her and take umbrage with their presence.

  “I guess we wait for him to move on. Hell, I don’t know. I’m a fisherman, not a hunter.”

  They sat staring through the dirty glass until the moose decided they were not a threat or of interest and sauntered away into the darkness.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen an animal so large—” Cheryl said, her voice still hushed, “at least not outside of a zoo.”

  Fischer ignored her comment and started down the road. “We should be there in an hour.”

  “Where is there?”

  He looked at her in such a manner that she felt as if she were a child. “Where we’re going, that’s where . . . now shut up and enjoy the r
ide, or I’ll gag you, tie you up, and throw you in the back.”

  _________________

  The moon had come out, illuminating the openings between the trees, and shadows seemed to be in command of the woods. As they drove, shafts of light would rip through gaps in the foliage where the trees had been thinned, allowing Cheryl to see little more than if it were still a moonless night. They crossed yet another bridge—this one looked like a large metal culvert. She saw a shaft of moonlight illuminate the road and in the headlights she saw a sign announcing they were turning onto Main Street. Suddenly they turned along some railroad tracks. Across the rail bed she saw several buildings that appeared to be vacant. “Where are we?” she asked.

  “Howe Brook.”

  “That’s it, Howe Brook?”

  “Look at it. Do you see anything worth talking about?”

  “You have family living here?”

  “Two sisters—they’re throwbacks to the hippies. They won’t eat nothing that ain’t organic, and they try to live off the land. Last time I was here, they didn’t even have indoor plumbing, let alone electricity. Couple of crazy fuckin’ women . . .”

  Cheryl stared at him and wondered just how eccentric his sisters were—especially if he considered them to be crazy.

  He turned onto a narrow track and followed the ruts until several cabins came into sight. The first lodge on the right was the only one with lights on inside, and he stopped the truck in front, got out, and walked around to open Cheryl’s door. He led her to the porch that ran across the front of the rustic structure and banged on the threshold.

  A voice from inside called, “Who’s there?”

  “Willard,” he answered.

  The door opened, and a gray-haired woman appeared in the threshold with a shotgun in her left hand. The stock rested across her forearm and was wedged into her armpit. She stared into the darkness, squinting her eyes as she tried to identify the visitor. She stared at him. “My brother, Willard?”

  “Hey, Ernestine.”

  She lowered the shotgun and stepped back. “I been hearing all sorts of stuff about you. What you been up to?” She noticed Cheryl standing beside him. “Who’s she?”

  “That’s Cheryl, my wife.”

  “The hell you say . . . ?”

  “Where’s Maddie?”

  The old woman pointed into the bright moonlight toward a massive oak tree. “There. She’s been dead for more than five years.”

  56

  O’Leary and Chaney sat across from each other. The bar had been closed for over an hour, and Winter was finishing up closing.

  “Thanks, Burt. As usual, you did good work.”

  “You got any more problems that I can fix?”

  “I’ll know in the next day or two. By the way, your expenses and hotel have been covered.”

  “Thanks.” Chaney stood and stretched. “Speaking of which, I think I’ll get some sleep. Call me when you know whether or not you’re finished with my services.” He paused, turned back to O’Leary, and said, “You watch your backs. This is probably only the beginning. These guys won’t take this quietly . . . they’re gonna hit back.”

  “You got it.”

  Once Chaney was gone, O’Leary walked to the bar. He placed the glasses he and Chaney had used on the surface and slid onto a stool.

  “What’s up, boss?”

  “You ever think of going into business, Gordon?”

  “Every now and then I do. Why, you got something in mind?”

  “I’ve been thinking about retiring. I figure that you could take over the business for say . . . forty-five percent of the profits from current business and all of any new business you drum up.”

  “I ain’t got much dough in the bank, boss.”

  “Like I said, you wouldn’t need it. Every month you send me my share of the profits, and any new business you generate is all yours.”

  Winter folded the towel he held and draped it over the sink. He circled the bar and sat beside O’Leary. “What you going to do?”

  “I been thinking about moving to a warmer climate . . . like Florida.”

  “Does a certain little Russian lady have a role in this new life?”

  O’Leary stood up. “There’s a very strong possibility.” He slid off his stool and walked away.

  Winter watched O’Leary walk to his office, smiled, and shook his head. “Mr. and Mrs. Jimmy O’Leary . . . who would have known?”

  _________________

  At eleven in the morning, O’Leary was back in his office and on a conference call with several of the men whose names he had found on Ariana’s laptop. “So gentlemen, there you have it. I have taken care of the local pakhan who was extorting each of you for your indiscretions. I, however, am still in possession of the laptop and its contents and can ensure that it will never be used again—unless someone decides to interrupt my pending retirement. Do I hear any objections?”

  There was silence from all of the other parties. “Then I consider our business concluded. Gentlemen, in the future you might want to do a bit more investigation before you decide to let your hair hang down.”

  “How can we be sure that you’ll uphold your end of the bargain?” It was the unmistakable voice of the governor.

  “I have nothing to gain from destroying your good names and reputations, Governor. You mind yourselves, and you’ll never hear from me again. If you think you can eliminate the risk by hitting me, I’ll make a call, and the same party that solved your previous problem with a three-hundred-yard shot . . . well, I think you get the point. If there isn’t anything else, good day, gentlemen.”

  He broke the connection and stood up. He opened the door to the safe in his office and handed the laptop to Winter. “Keep this safe, Gordon. It may be the only thing that keeps us alive.”

  “I’ll guard it with my life, boss.”

  “I’m not your boss anymore, Gordon. For the time being, let’s just say we’re partners—only I’m going to be a silent one.” He lit a fresh cigarette. “Gordon, keep your eyes open.”

  “For?”

  O’Leary pointed at the phone. “I don’t give a fuck what promises the Governor made, this ain’t over.”

  “Shit, boss, I know that,” Winter answered. “He’s a politician. They’re experts at tellin’ you what they think you want to hear then doing what they want.”

  “You can always tell when they’re lying to you,” O’Leary said.

  “Yeah, their lips are moving.”

  57

  Houston and Bouchard sped up I-95 north. Shortly after two in the morning, they reached the Stillwater Avenue exit north of Bangor. When they drove past the speed limit sign that announced an increase in allowable speed to seventy-five miles per hour, Houston stepped on the accelerator. Bouchard glanced at the speedometer and commented, “You’re going to get a ticket.”

  Houston glanced at the indicator, which said that he was doing a steady eighty-five. “They’ll give you ten over,” he said. “Besides, if we meet more than five other cars, I’ll be surprised.”

  Bouchard sat back, crossed her arms, and said, “Suit yourself. It’s your license.”

  Houston glanced at her. “How’re you doing?”

  “I’m okay.”

  The road raced beneath their tires, and Houston peered into the windshield, trying to see beyond the range of his high beams. He saw a yellow sign appear, and as it neared, he saw it was a warning to watch for moose in the road. Bouchard must have seen it, too, because she said, “At this speed we’ll be roadkill if we hit one of those things.”

  “We’ll be fine.”

  “Mike . . .”

  “What, babe?”

  “If he gets his hands on me, don’t let him take me with him—even if it means you have to kill me.”

  He glanced at her, and her face looked pallid in the blue aura of the dash lights. “He’s not going to get his hands on you . . . and we’re going to bring Cheryl back alive.”

  From the cor
ner of his eye he saw her looking at him. “Promise me, Mike.”

  “Anne—”

  “Promise me.”

  “All right, hon. I promise.”

  She turned back to the front. “Where do we turn off?”

  “In about fifty miles, exit 264, Sherman. From there we take Route 11 north to St. Croix Road, where we’ll meet Wera and the rest of the team. Then we have a ten or fifteen mile ride through the woods.”

  _________________

  Houston and Anne reached the rendezvous point at 4:30. They saw several vehicles parked along the entrance to the gravel woods road known as St. Croix Road. The first vehicle in line was a white SUV with the markings of the Aroostook County Sheriff’s Department. His headlights lit up Wera Eklund standing amidst seven other law enforcement people. He recognized the uniforms of the game wardens and assumed the two men wearing camouflage were members of the state police tactical team. Houston stopped in the middle of the road and rolled his window down.

  Eklund approached his truck and shined a flashlight at his face. “Mike?”

  “Looks like you really called out the troops,” he said.

  She walked to the window and bent over, looking past Houston at Bouchard. “Hey, Anne, how you doing?”

  “I’m fine, Wera.”

  Eklund smiled. “I would imagine you’re hearing it a lot lately.”

  Eklund turned to business. “This is the team that was at Square Lake. They want to take him down as much as anyone after that goat rope.”

  Houston and Bouchard got out of their truck, and Eklund introduced them to the others. Eklund stepped forward and handed Bouchard and Houston each a cup of coffee. In the early morning chill, steam rose from the foam takeout cups and drifted through the beams of Houston’s truck lights. “What’s the plan?” Houston asked.