32

Houston was frantic. It was eight in the morning and no sign of Anne. He began making phone calls to her friends that he knew. He tried Jimmy O several times but got no response, and then he called Dysart. Nobody had seen nor heard from her since he’d left her early yesterday. His final call was to Sam Fuchs.

“Sam, Anne is missing.”

“What?”

“I think she’s gone after Fischer.”

“But we were there yesterday. There was no sign of her.”

“Believe me, I know my woman. She isn’t about to let us run with this. She probably followed us and was keeping him under surveillance.”

“I’ll get hold of someone to check it out.”

“Under what pretense? We have no proof she’s at his place.”

“I don’t know, goddamn it, but I’ll sure as hell come up with something.”

_________________

Bouchard heard the doorknob turn and sat up. When Cheryl slipped into the room and knelt beside the bed, she looked at the door and said, “What are you doing? What if he finds out you’re in here?”

Cheryl placed an index finger across her lips. She leaned close and whispered, “We may have a golden opportunity tonight.”

“How so?”

“I told you he can’t get it up. He thinks it’s because he hasn’t yet found a woman who appeals to him.”

“Sick bastard.”

“Well, he’s decided that maybe it’s not a problem of quality . . . maybe it’s one of quantity . . .”

“Are you saying . . . ?”

Cheryl nodded; the whites of her eyes seemed to glow in the dimly lit room. “Yeah, he wants a threesome—tonight.”

Bouchard started to respond, her face red with anger and indignation.

Cheryl held up her hand, stopping her. “Let me handle the nasty stuff.” Cheryl said. “Cheri, not Cheryl, will keep him occupied while you take care of him.”

“How will I do that wearing this?” Bouchard held up her manacle.

“He won’t do it in here or in my room. He has a king-sized bed—he’ll want more room. He’ll have to unshackle you if for no other reason than he’ll be afraid you’ll strangle him with his own chain.”

“Now there’s a thought to cherish. Nevertheless, it may work out to our benefit.”

Cheryl stepped away and faced the door. She listened for a few seconds and then turned back to Bouchard. “You got to promise me one thing, though.”

“What?”

“If you get the chance, you’ll kill him.”

_________________

Bouchard was searching the section of the room that her shackles allowed her to reach hoping to find anything she could use as a tool to free herself. She held the mattress up on edge and was studying the floor beneath the bed when she heard someone fumbling with the lock on her door. She dropped the mattress and sat on it just as he entered the room.

He stared at her for several seconds, saying nothing.

Bouchard turned to him and returned his stare.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“The worst thing that could possibly happen to you.”

He paced around the room for several seconds and said, “You aren’t in a position to do much.”

“The authorities know about you.”

He smirked. “They got shit. If they had anything they’d be all over this place.”

“They’ll find a reason to get a warrant.”

He peered at her. “You talk like you know a lot about it.”

Not wanting to alarm him by revealing what she did for a living, Bouchard decided to back off. “My brother is a cop in Boston.”

“Boston . . . that explains the accent.” He turned away. “I wouldn’t get my hopes up that your brother can help you. This is Maine, not Boston.” He stopped and turned back to look at her. “I can’t help but wonder if the fact that you have a bunch of licenses as a private investigator, one of which is from Maine, in your purse has anything to do with it. What is it with you fucking women that you think you can lie to men and not get caught?”

_________________

Cheryl came into Bouchard’s room shortly after nightfall. “He wants to see us.”

“Listen,” Bouchard said, “if the chance for you to get away presents itself, run. Don’t worry about me . . . I can take care of myself.”

Cheryl nodded. “Let’s hope we can both get out of here.” She leaned forward and pushed a key into the lock. Bouchard almost cried with relief when the manacles fell away from her chafed flesh. “Whatever you do,” Cheryl warned, “don’t make him suspicious. He’s paranoid as hell.”

Bouchard thought it was funny that Cheryl would be giving her advice on how to deal with a maniac. On the other hand, she listened because Cheryl had survived with this lunatic for several weeks. “I understand.” She stood on wobbly legs and stretched her arms, reveling in her newfound freedom.

Cheryl turned to the door and motioned for her to follow.

“I suppose clothing is out of the question.”

Cheryl did not answer. Bouchard followed her, taking small steps as her legs struggled to get used to walking and supporting her weight.

_________________

Bouchard followed Cheryl down the stairs, memorizing the layout of the house. “I don’t think Better Homes and Gardens will ever publish an article on his housekeeping abilities,” Bouchard said.

Cheryl’s eyes were wide, and she placed her hand against Bouchard’s lips. “Shhhhh! If he hears you there will be hell to pay.”

Bouchard had a thousand questions she wanted to ask Cheryl, but she refrained. She realized what Cheryl was trying to say; he could be lurking anywhere, spying and listening.

Bouchard stepped onto the porch, and immediately the cool night air chilled her. He sat in a chair, looking like a monarch on his throne. She watched Cheryl for clues as to how she should act. She noted that Cheryl kept her head tilted down, avoiding eye contact with their captor. Bouchard immediately recognized what Cheryl was doing; she was acting the role of a submissive lesser wolf in the presence of the alpha. She imitated her. Although with her eyes facing downward, she couldn’t see their surroundings, she was able to discern objects—like the rifle that leaned against the wall beside his legs. The chair creaked as he shifted his weight. “It’s going to be a great night . . .”

“It could be,” Bouchard made a concerted effort to keep her anger out of her voice. She glanced wistfully at the weapon propped up beside his chair. If she could get her hands on the rifle it could be a terrific night; in fact, it would be wonderful.

“Sit,” he said.

Bouchard sat in a wooden Adirondack chair beside him. She raised her head slightly and looked at him out of the corner of her eyes.

“Nice night,” he announced as if they were cordial companions.

“Yes, it is,” Cheryl said.

He turned to Bouchard, his eyes narrowed, and he said, “You don’t agree?”

Bouchard saw his stern gaze and realized he had addressed her. “Yes,” she replied.

“Yes it is or yes you don’t agree?” His voice had a dangerous edge to it.

“Yes, I agree that it’s a nice evening.” She did not want to rile him. If they were to have a chance of escaping, they needed him calm.

He glanced at his watch. “Mum should be asleep by now.”

He stood and picked up the rifle.

Bouchard noted that he scanned the water’s surface. The ocean was calm like a shimmering sheet of glass in the moonlight.

“Looks like I got rid of the bastards,” he said.

Bouchard couldn’t resist the impulse to look at him. He returned her gaze and looked like he was talking to a child. “Seals,” he explained. “Ain’t nothin’ I hate any more than them fuckers.”

She glanced at Cheryl, who shook her head, warning her not to pursue the subject.

“Well, ladies, time for bed.” He stood back waiting for them to precede him inside.

Cheryl took the lead and led them up the stairs. She paused before her door, waiting for him to tell her what he wanted.

“Keep going,” he said, “to my room.”