Eklund placed an enlarged satellite photo on the hood of her truck. “This is what was once Howe Brook Village. All it is now is a cluster of seasonal camps except for . . .” she placed her finger on one building, “. . . this place. That’s where Howe Brook’s only year-round resident lives. It’s the home of our perp’s sister, Ernestine.” She let everyone study the photo for a few moments and then continued. “Ernie knows Anne, Mike, and me . . . maybe you wardens, too.” Holmquist nodded. “We’ll approach the cabin. I want the rest of the team to set up a perimeter around the house. If he gets into the woods behind it, we’ll play hell trying to find him. Everyone ready?” She waited for a few moments, and when no one spoke up she said, “Let’s roll. It’s between three quarters of an hour and an hour drive in there.”
_________________
Houston and Bouchard’s was the second vehicle in the convoy. It had been a dry summer, and the woods company had recently graded the road but had not gotten around to oiling the surface; the result was a cloud of dust so thick that the five-vehicle procession had spread out until it was almost two miles long.
Since all the law enforcement vehicles were equipped with two-way radios and Houston’s had none, they felt lost and isolated. “I hope no one runs into us,” he said as he backed off the accelerator, opening the distance between his truck and Eklund’s SUV.
“Give me your cell phone,” Bouchard said.
Houston tossed the phone in her lap. “Wera should be the first number in the recent call log.” He listened as Bouchard spoke to either Eklund or the deputy riding with her.
As soon as Bouchard closed the call, she placed the phone in the console, and she reached into the back of the extended cab for her backpack. She extricated a pair of L. L. Bean Maine hunting boots, removed her walking shoes, and replaced them with the boots. “If he gets into the woods, I’m going after him,” she said. “I put your boots in the back, too.” She laced the leather uppers and sat back. “Looks like it’s getting light,” she said, sounding as if they were on a Sunday excursion.
Houston noticed that she was correct—the truck’s headlights had less effect on the billowing cloud of dust, but he was still able to see. Eklund’s SUV suddenly appeared off to the side, and he stopped. He rolled to a stop and opened his window. The air was chalky and smelled of dust. “Problem?” he asked when Eklund appeared.
“Nope. This is Harvey Siding Road. From here we walk.”
Houston and Bouchard exited their truck and studied their surroundings. The dust had settled, and they saw the trees that lined the road seemed to be suffocating in the powdery dirt that coated them, forcing their limbs to droop with the weight. “Come the next rain,” Eklund commented, “this place is going to be one huge mud pie.”
“Never mind that,” Houston said, “a good wind and there’ll be a sandstorm of Olympic proportions.”
58
Ernestine was already awake and sitting at the table when Fischer woke up. He rolled out of the bed and saw her. “There’s coffee on the stove,” she said.
“Gotta go,” he said.
“Privy is out back.”
She sat at the table until Willard returned from the outhouse. He poured a cup of coffee and sat across from her. “Who is she, Willard?” The woman he had brought with him was asleep on the old sofa that sat in front of the fireplace.
“I told you, she’s my wife.”
“Where and when were you married?”
“In Portland, last year. You can ask the old woman and the old man. They were there.”
Ernestine stared at him. “Willard . . .”
He sighed in frustration. “What?”
“Dad has been dead for over twenty years.”
Willard looked confused, almost bewildered. “That can’t be. I talk to him all the time.”
“You and Mother talk with each other, too . . .”
His face flushed, and he began to fidget like a schoolboy enduring a boring math lesson on a warm spring day. “Why shouldn’t I talk with her? She’s my mother.”
“Because I’ve been told that Mother is in an advanced stage of Alzheimer’s. She doesn’t know where she is, let alone have the ability to talk.”
He suddenly became suspicious. “Who told you that? Who’s been here?”
“Calm down, Willard.”
Willard leapt to his feet and knocked his chair over. “You’re just like the rest of them! Always questioning, never believing a thing I say!”
“Willard, please sit down.”
He slapped the table and pushed his face toward hers. His eyes seemed to light with a demonic fire, and he snarled, “I don’t want to.” She realized how dangerous her brother was and tried to calm him.
“Willard . . .”
“What?”
“I’m sorry that I doubted you. Sit down . . . please?”
He picked up the chair and placed it by the table.
“Willard.”
He dropped into the chair, folded his arms across his chest, and turned his face away from her.
“Look at me, Willard.”
When he faced her, the rage was gone and a calm, reasonable man smiled at her. “Hey, how about you give me a break, okay? After all this time, you don’t know me.” He glanced around the room. “You haven’t had to bust your ass trying to keep the business going and take care of the old homestead. After I got rid of the old man . . .”
“I always thought that Father drowned at sea.”
A wicked leer covered his face. “He drowned with a gaff in his back.” He stood up. “I need some fresh air.”
“If you’re going for a walk, stay on the roads, there are millions of acres of woods out there. You could get lost forever. And take your rifle, it’s getting on toward fall, and there’s been some bears hanging around.”
Fischer picked up his rifle and walked outside.
As soon as the door closed, Ernestine darted to the sofa and woke Cheryl up. “We have to get out you of here.”
Cheryl sat up and looked startled as she took in the interior of the single room cabin. “Where’s Willard?”
“He’s gone out for a bit. How long has he had you?”
“Truthfully, I’m not sure. What’s the date?”
“September 10th.”
“A month, give or take a few days.”
“Are you and he married?”
“Only in his twisted mind.”
“Has he . . . ?”
“Had sex with me? No, he’s impotent. He’s been kidnapping women for a long time trying to find one who will help him—and give him an heir.”
“I was told that he’s been getting away with this for several years? Why haven’t one of the women’s bodies been discovered before this?”
Cheryl looked at her and said, “They won’t find them. He disposes of the bodies.”
59
Once the state police and wardens were in place surrounding the cabin, Houston, Bouchard, and Eklund walked up the drive. When they turned the corner around a line of dense bushes, they spotted the stolen truck. Houston said, “He’s here.”
Eklund took her service revolver out. “You carrying?”
“Yes.” Houston took a 9 mm pistol from his holster and checked the magazine. He racked the receiver and loaded a round in the chamber.
“What’s our plan?” Houston asked.
“All we can do is play it by ear.”
“Wera, don’t fool with this guy. If he as much as looks at us cross-eyed, shoot him.”
Bouchard also drew her weapon, and they spread out until they were separated by about twenty feet. She checked her Glock, ensured there was a live round in the chamber, and slowly approached the cabin, watching for any sign of movement.
They were thirty feet from the cabin when the door opened. All three dropped to one knee, their weapons pointed at the open door. When Ernestine Fischer led Cheryl Guerette through the door, they relaxed but kept their pistols ready.
The sigh
t of three armed strangers rattled Cheryl, and she stepped behind Ernestine. “Who are these people?” she asked.
“The woman on the left is Deputy Sheriff Wera Eklund. I only met the other two the other day. It seems your folks hired them to find you.”
Cheryl stepped to one side and studied the three people. “Anne?”
“Yes, Cheryl, it’s me.”
Bouchard lowered her Glock when Cheryl ran forward and leaped into her arms. The two former captives hugged each other and began to cry. “You were right,” Bouchard whispered in Cheryl’s ear.
Cheryl pulled her head back, looked into Anne’s face, and asked, “When was that?”
“That night in his room when you wanted me to kill him—I should have listened.”
“Where is he?” Houston asked, watching the front of the cabin.
“I don’t know,” Ernestine answered. “He went for a walk.”
Houston turned his attention to Cheryl. “Are you alright?”
“Yes, bruised and scared, but other than that I’m fine.”
A shot was fired in the woods behind the cabin; within seconds it was followed by two more.
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Fischer strolled along the old logging road, which was really two tracks with a grass median in the middle. The wind had picked up and created enough noise that it drowned out the sounds of birds; occasionally he heard a tree creaking as it swayed back and forth. Suddenly a figure in a green uniform appeared to his right.
Fischer spun, dropped to one knee, and shot the game warden. The morning calm was ripped apart by people shouting and calling. Fischer’s heart pounded. They’re everywhere. He ran straight down the road, deeper into the wilderness. He heard something snap by his head followed by the immediate report of a weapon being fired.
Fischer ran as hard as he’d ever run in his life, vaulting over downed trees, skirting brush and large rocks, and blasting through ferns. After five minutes, he slowed and listened. At first it was difficult to hear over his own rasping breath, but his breathing soon slowed. He saw a game trail that meandered up and down a series of small hills and ridges and listened for the sound of pursuit. Hearing none, he turned his back to Howe Brook and ventured deeper into the woods.
_________________
Houston ran to his truck and drove it to Ernestine Fischer’s cabin. He took out his Remington 700 and a box of ammunition. He placed the ammo, extra magazines, and some food supplies in a rucksack. He felt a presence and turned to see Guy Boudreau, the MSP Sergeant, standing nearby. The cop said, “I’m going with you. I can take him into custody and, should he be killed, back you up in any inquest.”
“Someone needs to stay here with Cheryl,” Houston said.
“I’ll stay here,” Eklund said. “Someone needs to coordinate things when the reinforcements arrive.”
“Okay, I’ll be ready in a few seconds.” Houston opened the rifle’s bolt and, one at a time, pressed four .308 caliber rounds into the weapon’s internal magazine. He engaged the safety with his thumb.
One of the game wardens stepped forward. “I’ll be with you, too.” She held out her hand. “Allison Försberg, this is my district. I know these woods and have tracking skills.”
“Glad to have you.” Houston slipped the rucksack onto his shoulders, adjusted the straps, and turned to Bouchard. “I’m ready.”
The four-person party set off following the narrow lane that Fischer had taken. Once inside the protection of the trees, Försberg took the lead. The warden’s face was grim when she stopped alongside the trail. She pointed at a small pool of blood. “This is where he shot Nick Holmquist. When Nick gets back to duty, he’ll catch hell. It isn’t everyday a warden gets shot twice by the same perp . . . not to mention with the same rifle.”
“So he’s going to be all right?”
“Should be—he was hit in the thigh, but it missed all the major blood vessels. Wera is arranging for a helicopter to get him out.”
They moved on, each of them looking at the spot where one of their party had been shot. After she’d walked about ten yards, Försberg led them off the lane into the brush and ferns. The sun shined through openings in the canopy, making the woods come alive in a kaleidoscope of color. Ferns and shade plants grew alongside the brilliant colors of sundry blooming flowers. The small squad ignored the aesthetics of nature and concentrated on the area, expecting Fischer to attack at any moment.
Försberg pointed at the top of a dead fallen tree; someone or something had leaped over it, scraping the moss that covered its surface in the process. “He’s headed this way.” She pointed to the northwest. “It’s about ten miles in that direction before he’ll hit a road of any size. These woods are littered with old tote roads, most of which are impassable unless you have an ATV or are on foot. But they’ll make walking a lot easier.”
Bouchard stood beside the warden. “How will we ever find him in here?”
Försberg touched her on the arm. “Believe me, he’s leaving me a trail a blind woman could read.” She walked in the direction she had earlier indicated.
Bouchard watched her walk away and turned to Houston and Boudreau. “Is that so?” she muttered, “Well, I’m not blind, and I can’t see it.”
Houston kept his voice low and said, “Let’s get this bastard.”
_________________
Fischer stopped and wiped his forehead. He had been trying to make a looping left circle that would lead him back to the railroad tracks that passed through Howe Brook. He came upon them as the sun was making its presence felt. He realized that he was not in the best of situations. He’d been forced to flee with no provisions and only had the four rounds that were loaded into his rifle. More than anything else, he needed transportation. Once he found the rail bed, he would be able to find the St. Croix Stream, which would lead him to St. Croix Road. Once he was on the road, he could hopefully steal a ride. Worst case, he’d have to follow the road to Route 11 and follow it until he came to a house or business where he could find assistance.
He quickly glanced at the sky. By now they would have put out calls for backup. There would be eyes on all of the major thoroughfares and in the sky. Fischer wondered how far behind him the ground troops were—at best he had an hour’s head start. He dashed across the railroad tracks and into the woods on the far side.
_________________
“He’s heading for the tracks,” Försberg said.
“What?” Houston asked.
“The railroad,” Boudreau answered. “It’s the old Bangor and Aroostook right of way, the same one that runs through Howe Brook belongs to the Montreal, Maine & Atlantic Railway for now—after that derailment in Lake Mégantic, they’ll probably be bankrupt soon. He won’t be stupid enough to stay on them, though. He’d have to be a complete idiot not to realize there’s an air search going on.”
“But,” Försberg said, “if he crosses over, he could follow the stream to the road.”
“And,” Bouchard said, “he’s been known to steal a car or two.”
“Shit,” Houston added, “if there are still trains running through here, he could hop one, then who knows where in hell he could end up.”
“We can’t be concerned about that. From the looks of his trail, he’s headed north along the stream. I think we can get ahead of him.” Försberg said, “Guy and I will stay on his trail.” She turned to Houston and Bouchard. “You guys can walk the tracks, and when you hit the road, turn left to the bridge over the stream . . . he’ll come there sooner or later.”
60
O’Leary guided Tasha into a seat in the back booth of the Claddagh Pub. After the waitress had dropped off menus and took their drink order, Tasha said, “This is nice place. Do you own it?”
“Until yesterday I did—now I’m a partner.”
Their drinks came, and O’Leary said, “Tasha, I’m leaving Boston.”
Her smile dropped.
“I’m heading down to Florida. I bought a place on the g
ulf coast south of Fort Meyers.”
“When will you leave?”
“I’ll be around for a while yet. I want to get you and the others settled in someplace where you’ll be safe from assholes like the late Carl Konovalov and his people.”
“You shouldn’t worry about us. We’ll get along alright.”
The waitress returned, and they ordered meals. Once they were alone again, O’Leary said, “I was thinking about taking Inca. I’ll enroll her in school . . . I’ve never had a child of my own.”
Tasha sipped her drink. “What do you know about raising a girl on the verge of womanhood?”
“Not a lot, that’s certain.”
“Then I better come with you.”
O’Leary’s acne-scarred face broke into a jagged smile. “Christ, I thought you’d never offer.”
Winter suddenly appeared beside their table with a bottle of champagne wrapped in a towel. “Compliments of the new management,” he announced as the waitress placed two long-stemmed glasses on the table. Winter began to pour. “So are we pouring a farewell drink or toasting a budding relationship?”
_________________
The Samovar Restaurant was empty, an uncommon occurrence for a Friday. However, the ownership was not concerned. The entire restaurant had been reserved for a meeting between Zinovy Istomin, Athanasius Aliyev, Vyacheslav Evseyev, and Yaropolk Kryukov—the recently deceased Carl Konovalov’s brigadiers. The men—similar to caporegimes in the Italian mob—each were in charge of one of the organization’s businesses.
Once all were in attendance and bottles of chilled Stolichnaya had been opened, they got down to the matter at hand. Since all were Russian speakers, the meeting was conducted in their native tongue. “What,” Istomin asked, “is to be done about this O’Leary?”
“I am taking care of that,” Evseyev answered. “He will not be a problem much longer.”
Istomin gave Aliyev a quick look. Evseyev’s way of dealing with matters was well known. He was reputed to have killed so many people in Russia that the krysha there had shipped him to New York. The Brighton Beach krysha had in turn sent him to Boston. “Vyacheslav,” Istomin said, “we cannot have a blood bath in the streets. This O’Leary has information that if it becomes known could ruin any number of our benefactors.”
The Fisherman Page 27
