27

Houston and Fuchs arrived at Fischer’s place an hour before the appointed time. They parked on a dirt road about a half mile from their destination and entered the woods. “Pretty isolated,” Fuchs said while they surveyed the pine and deciduous hardwood trees that covered the landscape.

“Very.” They found a narrow footpath and followed it until they were on a promontory overlooking a small harbor. Two boats were moored alongside a wooden pier—one a charter boat and the other a small trawler. A multistory house was in the middle stages of decline and faced the harbor. “Looks like the Bates Hotel with outbuildings,” Houston said. To the left of the house stood a barn with a sagging roof, and to the right was a rectangular building made of cinderblock. At the distance he was viewing it, Houston thought that it looked like a white shoe box.

Fuchs stood beside him and silently studied the layout. “When we come after him, we may need a friggin’ battalion to cover these protective hills.”

Houston scanned the high cliffs that protected the lot on two sides. “Only ways in and out are the driveway and the gulf.”

Fuchs scanned the narrow drive that wound its way through the trees. “Gonna need SWAT . . . or the damned Marines.”

Houston grinned. “That’s why you got me.”

_________________

Houston parked his Ford F-150 in front of the house. A man, whom Houston believed to be Fischer, stood on the porch as he and Fuchs disembarked.

Fischer nodded. “You the guys called yesterday?”

“That would be me,” Houston said.

“Boat’s at the dock.” Fischer stepped off the porch before they could walk onto it. He led the way across the sandy lot toward the pier.

Houston followed, hoping he would get an opportunity to inspect the buildings closer. Fischer strode up the gangplank of the charter boat and stepped aside to allow the potential clients access. Houston was surprised. Based upon the appearance of the buildings, he’d expected to see a craft barely able to stay afloat. The opposite was true. The boat was neat and well-kempt; all gear was securely stowed, and the deck was spotless. “Nice vessel,” he said.

Fischer nodded and moved his head at an angle that exposed the indentation Candy had described to Anne. His arms were folded across his chest, amplifying the size of his flexor muscles. He emanated raw power, and Houston decided not to get into a physical confrontation with him. There was a violent, evil aura surrounding Willard Fischer.

_________________

Bouchard watched Houston and Fuchs board the charter boat. She smiled when she visualized how Mike’s face would look when he learned that she had decided to follow them and place Fischer’s house under surveillance. She sat in the shade beneath the lower boughs of a towering pine, watching the house through binoculars. She scanned the boatyard and then turned her attention to the ramshackle house. She concentrated on the windows of the second floor and caught her breath when she saw a young woman in one. The figure was fleeting—there one second, gone the next. Nevertheless, she saw enough to know that the woman fit the description they had of Cheryl Guerette.

Bouchard took another glance and saw that the men had disappeared, probably touring the charter boat’s interior. She decided to investigate and started down a narrow path that led to the bottom of the bluff. Reaching the bottom, she checked the area and saw no sign of the men—and more to the point, no sign of Fischer—and she dashed to the porch.

_________________

“When you want to go out?” Fischer asked.

“Well, we aren’t sure,” Houston said.

Fischer dropped his arms and turned toward the gangplank. “Then all you’re doing is wasting my fucking time.” He led them off the boat.

In an attempt to salvage the visit, Houston said. “If we were to charter you, could you pick us up in Portland?”

Fischer stopped walking and glared at them. “What is this anyway? Some kind of joke? You guys are about as interested in going fishing as I am in learning needlepoint.”

“You’re wrong,” Fuchs said. “We are interested.”

Fischer’s eyes narrowed. “Well, I’m not. Get the fuck out of here.”

He walked away and took a position on the porch, watching them as they got into the truck. As they drove up the tree-lined drive, Houston said, “I don’t like that sonuvabitch.”

“Either way, we blew that out of our asses.”

Houston replied, “Yeah, but now I’m convinced that bastard is our man.”

“The only way to prove it is to get inside that house,” Fuchs said.