The Fisherman

by Vaughn C. Hardacker

  “Da, I understand. Nevertheless, I also understand that if we allow the killing of our pakhan to go unpunished, we will lose a great deal of influence.”

  There was general consent that he was correct. They seemed willing to allow him a free rein when he said, “Trust me, I will not jeopardize our business.”

  “Now,” Istomin said, “what is to be done about the . . . product we lost on the Cape?”

  “Nothing,” said Aliyev. “We look at it as a loss. The leverage O’Leary has on our benefactors is dependent upon us leaving those whores alone.”

  “I believe,” Evseyev said, “that brings us to the most pressing issue before us: who is to be pakhan?”

  The conversation dropped to an uneasy silence. The assembled brigadiers wondered who Evseyev would try to kill first.

  61

  Fischer followed the stream, circumventing several swampy bogs and weaving a path through mud and ferns for hours. Twice he’d heard the sound of an airplane motor and had been forced to take cover in the waist-high weeds and brush. Flies and mosquitoes, attracted by the blood and pus that seeped from his wounds, flew around his head, and he blew through his lips trying to keep them away from his eyes. His exposed flesh itched from more insect bites than he could count, and he wondered how many blood-sucking ticks and leeches had infiltrated his clothing. From his knees down, he was soaked from the water he’d splashed through, and from the knees up, he was wet with sweat and blood. He cursed and pushed onward.

  The sun was directly west and dropping toward the horizon when he saw the bridge where the St. Croix Road spanned the stream of the same name. He breathed a deep sigh of relief. Now all he had to do was wait for a vehicle to come along. He paused, wiped his forehead with his sleeve, and wondered what Cheryl was doing. His wife would remain at Ernestine’s and wait for him to come for her. He squatted down in a stand of bulrushes and cattails, the cottony fluff filling the air around him. He saw someone walk onto the bridge, and he squatted lower, peering intently at the figure. She was familiar. He flushed with a mixture of anger and satisfaction when he realized that here, in the middle of fucking nowhere, stood the woman who had taken Cheryl away and forced him to flee his home. He hissed with pain as he raised the rifle to his shoulder. Maybe there is justice in life after all.

  _________________

  Bouchard half walked, half slid down the bank to the eddy beside the bridge. She dipped her hand into the water and dabbed it on her forehead and the back of her neck. Suddenly she heard the thud of a bullet hitting one of the bridge’s wooden supports—the last thing she heard as she dove into the oily water and cattails was the report of a weapon firing. She pulled her 9 mm pistol out of the waistband of her jeans and stared through the branches of the rushes, looking for the source of the attack.

  “Anne, are you alright?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where’d the shot come from?” Houston asked.

  “Downstream.”

  “Stay where you are and stay low.”

  “Can you see him?” Bouchard asked. There was no response, and she knew that by now Houston had gone into sniper mode and was stalking the shooter.

  _________________

  Fischer heard the woman talking to someone else—a man. He turned and began to follow his own trail south. The stream, which only a short time ago had been his guide, was now a hindrance. He had no idea how deep it was, and it was too wide for him to cross without exposing himself. He recalled a spot where a series of large rocks spread across the waterway’s breadth. He could use those rocks as stepping stones to ford the river and disappear into the woods.

  Fischer realized that he needed to move quickly, and that meant he’d have to move away from the stream and the swampy marshes along its bank. He turned to his left and out of the corner of his eye spied two figures moving north alongside the St. Croix. He recognized the green uniform of a game warden and one of the camouflaged cops. He was caught in the middle. There was, he surmised, one positive to the situation; maybe he could get the two groups shooting at each other. He scrambled through an area of thick bushes and into the dense pine forest and crouched low enough that the undergrowth hid him from view. He heard voices behind him shout but no gunfire. He ran due east and, after a hundred yards or so, spun left into an area of boggy moss and dead trees. His feet sank into the soft ground, and he surprised a cow moose that was foraging in the marshy vegetation. The large clumsy-looking animal bounded over some deadfall and disappeared into the wilderness.

  _________________

  Boudreau was the first to recognize Houston. He waved, and when Houston returned the signal, the two snipers slowly advanced until they met in the shade of a huge pine.

  Houston was on one knee studying a scuffmark in the pine needles. “Looks like he went that way.” He pointed into the darkness created by the dense trees.

  “Who fired the shot?” Boudreau asked.

  “He did.”

  Försberg appeared through the bushes and tall grass. “Where’s Anne?”

  “By the bridge. She’s the one he shot at.” As if on cue, a pistol shot rang out, and Houston forgot his training and started running toward the source.

  _________________

  Fischer made a loop turning toward the bridge. He hoped that he could circumvent the two parties, and once past them, he could dash across the bridge and get away. He broke out of the woods about two hundred yards from the bridge and crouched in the waist-high grass that bordered the road. He crept forward, keeping his rifle in a position where he could quickly fire. He halved the distance between him and the bridge and saw no sign of pursuit or ambush. He fought back the impulse to leave the grass and run down the road. He continued his cautious approach.

  The wind gusted, and the sounds of it coursing through the trees covered any sound he made. When he estimated that he was within twenty-five yards of the bridge, he exploded from the cover of the bulrushes and dashed for the bridge. He was a quarter of the way across when the woman appeared, partially hidden in a stand of bushes. She held a pistol and fired at him. He fired from the waist as he ran, and she went down. He kept running and disappeared on the western side of the stream.

  _________________

  Houston sprinted through the cattails, ignoring the explosion of down as he blasted a path through them. He stopped abruptly when he saw Bouchard standing on the road and aiming her pistol across the stream. He was in the throes of an extreme adrenaline rush but still paused in relief when he saw that she appeared to be okay.

  “Did he hit you?”

  “No.”

  “Did you hit him?”

  “If I did, it didn’t slow him down any.”

  _________________

  Cheryl sat at the table in Ernestine’s kitchen, staring off into some destination only she could see. Wera Eklund pulled out a chair and sat across from her. “You’ll be out of here soon,” she said. “And this will be over.”

  Cheryl looked at the Deputy Sheriff and appreciated her caring words, but she wasn’t sure whether or not to believe them. “Over? I don’t think I’ll ever get over this.”

  “With time and help, you will.”

  Ernestine brought over a pot of freshly brewed coffee and three mugs. She sat beside Wera. “This must have been a very harrowing month for you.”

  “You know what’s ironic about all this?” Cheryl said.

  “What?” Wera asked.

  “In spite of everything, Willard may have saved my life.”

  The two women looked at her, and she saw the disbelief in their faces.

  “When he took me, I was addicted to heroin—strung out bad. When he had me shackled to that bed, he nursed me through a cold turkey withdrawal.”

  Ernestine poured her a mug of coffee and slid it across the table. Cheryl added cream and sugar and said, “If he hadn’t taken me, I’d most likely be dead from an overdose or possibly HIV positive by now from unsafe sex or a dirty needle.”

  “Al
l that matters,” Eklund said, “is that you’re safe now.”

  “Safe? Is anyone ever truly safe? I’m sure that those people out there are going to put an end to Willard one way or another, but who’s ever safe from themselves? What will keep me off the smack or off the streets?”

  “You have a couple of things going for you,” Ernestine said.

  “Really?”

  “You have a support group now. Look at what these people have done to save you. They have risked their lives and even when it seemed there was no hope of ever finding you, Mike and Anne—and your grandparents—refused to give up. They kept looking.”

  “My grandparents? How will I ever explain all this to them?”

  “I’m sure they’ll forgive and forget,” Eklund said.

  “I’ll settle for forgive—I don’t want anyone to ever forget.”

  Eklund reached across the table and took Cheryl’s hand. “No, don’t forget, but don’t dwell on it or let it drive you.”

  “If it gets to be too much for you,” Ernestine said, “you can come up here for a while. You can’t get much further away from it than here.”

  Cheryl felt a wave of emotion, and she began sobbing. The two older women circled the table like mother bears protecting their cubs and wrapped their arms around her. For the first time in what seemed like eternity, Cheryl Guerette felt safe. They stayed that way until the sound of a landing helicopter made them part.

  “Well,” Eklund said, “looks as if your ride to the hospital is here.”

  “I’m fine,” Cheryl protested, “I don’t need . . .”

  Ernestine placed a finger against Cheryl’s lips. “The first step in getting over this is to listen to the people who care about what happens to you.”

  62

  “ Did you see where he entered the woods?” Houston asked.

  “By that dead tree,” Bouchard said.

  Houston looked at the stumps and trunks of thousands of cut trees that the loggers had discarded along the periphery of the road.

  “The one with the red paint on it,” she added.

  Houston saw Boudreau and Försberg appear on the road. They waited for them and then spent a few seconds updating them. The foursome set off in pursuit. Boudreau looked at Bouchard and said, “You really should have a long gun.”

  “Why? It wouldn’t have made a difference. Besides, every time I’ve seen this perp, he was well within the range of my Glock.”

  They crossed the bridge and left the road. Without saying, they all knew better than to offer Fischer any easy targets of opportunity. “We’ll go in here. You’re a better tracker,” Houston said to Försberg. “You guys follow his tracks.”

  _________________

  Fischer bolted away from the road and into the trees. A large grouse exploded out of a pine tree, and he started, his rifle aimed in its direction. In seconds, the bird disappeared into the deep woods. Realizing that he was in an agitated state, Fischer forced himself to stop, get his breathing under control, and calm down. He sank to the ground and leaned against a tree. He studied his surroundings and verified what he already knew—he had no goddamned idea where he was.

  Well, you got yourself into a fine fucking mess this time.

  Fischer sighed in frustration. The last thing he needed now was to listen to a harangue from his old man. “Go away.”

  Go away? You need me more than ever, dummy. What do you know about surviving in the woods?

  “I’ll learn.”

  If you get a chance. What you think those cops are doing right now? I’ll tell you one thing they ain’t doin’ . . . they ain’t sittin’ on their asses like you. Get up and get movin’.

  “I don’t know where I am.”

  Doesn’t fuckin’ matter where you are. You’re still free. There’ll be time to worry about where you are once you ditch those assholes chasin’ you.

  As much as it pained him, Fischer knew the old man was right. He struggled to his feet and moved deeper into the trees.

  _________________

  Houston glanced at his watch: three o’clock. At best they had four-and-a-half hours of daylight left. If they didn’t catch Fischer soon, they had a decision to make; they were not equipped to spend the night in the forest. Truthfully, they weren’t carrying even the rudimentary equipment for a day in the woods—no food or canteens. He knelt beside a small brook and scooped a handful of water into his mouth. At first Bouchard had refused to drink that way, but as the chase wore on, thirst overcame her objections, and she, too, drank whenever they found a moving source.

  Bouchard sat on a boulder, wiped her brow, and stared up the ridge they had been climbing. She looked to her left and saw Försberg and Boudreau to their right. The pairs had regrouped after they were several hundred yards off the road and had spaced themselves so they could keep Fischer’s trail in sight. He had led them deeper and deeper into the forest. Bouchard wondered how long it had been since human beings had ventured into these woods—if ever.

  Suddenly Houston dropped to one knee and shouted, “Stop!”

  Bouchard and the others looked at him and saw that he aimed his rifle toward the top of the ridge. They turned in that direction and saw a figure at the crest. Houston fired, and the figure disappeared. They scrambled for cover, expecting return fire. It didn’t come.

  Houston raced upward, and they fell in behind him.

  _________________

  Fischer felt the bullet pass through his side, propelling him forward. He crashed through a copse of alder bushes and tumbled down a slope he had heretofore not seen. He slid downslope in the detritus of years’ worth of dead leaves and humus. Too shocked to do anything but keep a tight grip on his rifle, he let gravity propel him down. He hit several broken limbs and came to rest amidst the branches of a downed pine. He scrambled to a shooting position. A quick glance upward told him that he had to move. The trail he’d left while sliding down the grade was so evident a cub scout would have no problem following it. He crawled out the back side and scrambled away.

  _________________

  “Did you hit him?” Boudreau asked when they joined Houston on the ridge top.

  “Not good enough. He turned at the last second. If anything, the wound’s superficial.” He pointed at the line of disturbed leaves. “We know where he went, though.”

  The four hunters slowly descended, their bodies at an angle so that their forward legs acted as brakes to keep them from entering an uncontrolled slide. They reached the downed pine and saw a blood trail. “You hit him,” Försberg said. “Don’t know how badly, but he’s bleeding.”

  “I hope he bleeds out,” Bouchard spat.

  _________________

  Fischer didn’t think the bullet had hit any vital organs, but he felt his strength flowing out of his body with his blood. He slowly walked along the footpath that followed the cliff’s edge. He looked over the promontory and saw the beaver pond about twenty-five feet below. He heard a sound behind him and spun around. . . .

  _________________

  Fischer was less than twenty yards away when they broke out of the woods along the periphery of the ledge. The man in the lead carried a lethal-looking rifle with a scope. He dropped to one knee, but before he could get a shot off, the bitch who’d caused all this skidded to a halt and had her pistol out. She screamed, “Bastard!” and fired twice.

  _________________

  Houston saw the first bullet hit Fischer in the left shoulder. He watched in silence as the Fisherman rotated and then fell over the precipice. He followed the killer’s descent until he disappeared into the water. The four manhunters stood watching the surface for several minutes, waiting for his body to reappear.

  It did not.

  _________________

  At seven, the sun was sinking below the trees and Eklund, Houston, Bouchard, and Försberg stood on the shore of the abandoned beaver dam watching bubbles break the surface where three warden service divers searched the pond for Fischer’s body.


  Eklund looked at her watch and said, “They’ll have to come up soon. It’ll be dark in a half hour, and they’ll never find anything.”

  “No sign of his having gotten out?” Houston asked.

  “Do you really believe he could have survived being shot twice and then falling from up there?” Eklund pointed at the promontory from which Fischer had tumbled.

  “No offense to my partner,” Houston said, “but I saw him get hit in the shoulder. Unless the bullet hit bone and ricocheted into his heart or lungs, there isn’t anything there vital enough to kill him. At least he won’t be using that arm anytime soon.”

  One of the divers broke the surface and swam toward them; when he was able, he stood and staggered through the deep mud until he was beside them.

  “Anything?” Försberg asked.

  “A shit load of old stumps and downed trees. One entrance into an abandoned old beaver hut, but it’s too dark for us to get in there and check it. Looks like the entrance had caved in—there was debris all around it, so I doubt he would have fit in there.”

  “Well,” Eklund said, “if the weather holds, we’ll check it out tomorrow. We may as well put a wrap on it for today.”

  “I’ll have a couple of wardens stay in the area,” Försberg said. “Just in case he’s still around.”

  63

  He woke up lying with his torso on wet dirt and his lower extremities submerged in water. Wherever he was, it was pitch black and smelled of dead wood, mud, and something musty. His shoulder throbbed with pain, and he felt hot. He pushed back into the water and almost cried when the pain from his multiple wounds ripped through his body. He lowered his head below the surface, it felt cool and refreshed him. Where the hell am I?

  He pushed himself out of the water and onto the muddy shelf. He lay back and remembered the bitch shooting him then the plunge into the water. He sank to the bottom and saw the dark mound. He clawed his way inside and remembered gasping for air and then feeling around until he felt the muddy shelf. With the memory came the knowledge of his location. He was inside the beaver lodge—the musty stink he smelled was probably beaver shit.