33

Cheryl led them down the hall and stopped before the last door on the left.

Willard shoved her aside. “Move away so I can unlock the door.” Once the door was open, he stepped aside, keeping himself between them and the stairs. “Go in.”

Bouchard followed Cheryl into the room.

He turned on a light, and Bouchard studied the room. A king-size bed sat in the center of the bedroom and dominated the floor. There was barely enough room to walk around it; the two miniscule end tables were crammed in so tight that they touched the walls on either side. The tables attracted Bouchard’s attention. A tall lamp with what appeared to be a granite base sat on each.

He followed them in and locked the door behind him. He motioned the women to the bed but did not immediately join them. Instead, he put a finger across his lips and whispered, “We got to be quiet. If we wake Mum, she’ll have a conniption. She won’t approve of what we’re doing. She thinks it ain’t proper for married men and women to . . . do things with people they ain’t married to.”

Bouchard lay on the bed, keeping distance from Cheryl, and watched him prepare the room.

For several tense moments, she lay still, observing his psychotic behavior. He seemed to listen for sounds only he could hear. Satisfied all was well, he placed the rifle in the closet, closed the door, closed a hasp, and locked it with a combination lock.

Damn, Anne thought, so much for the rifle.

He turned off the overhead light and walked to the nightstand at the right side of the bed and turned on the lamp. She felt a light touch on her arm and glanced at Cheryl, who nodded as if to say, “Don’t worry.”

When Fischer climbed into the bed and settled between the women, Bouchard thought he looked like a man having his first extramarital sex. Cheryl immediately went to work on him. She turned on her side and stroked his chest.

Bouchard, on the other hand, struggled against her revulsion at having his naked body so close and wasn’t sure what her role was to be in this threesome, so she laid still. She tried to block out the phony words of endearment Cheryl whispered to Fischer. She slowly moved her hand toward the nightstand. She hoped Cheryl could keep him distracted for a few more seconds. After what seemed an eternity, she gripped the lamp. It was heavy but not so heavy that she could not lift it with one hand. Bouchard heard Cheryl coaxing him, doing her best to keep his attention from their other bed partner. Slowly, so as not to alarm him, she lifted the lamp.

She glanced at Fischer and wondered how she could strike without hitting Cheryl. She saw her opportunity when Cheryl said, “Let’s try this—maybe it will help,” and slid down his torso.

Bouchard raised the lamp and for a second felt resistance. Suddenly, the plug pulled out of its socket, and it was free. When the room went dark, Fischer cried out in alarm. She raised the lamp as high as possible and smashed it into his head. As soon as she struck, she jumped from the bed and held the broken lamp up, poised to strike again if needed.

He grunted and then relaxed. Blood flowed from a nasty gash on his forehead. Cheryl popped up to a kneeling position. “Is he dead?”

“I doubt it. Come on, we have to get out of here before he comes around.”

Cheryl’s face shone in the moonlight that filtered into the room through a gap in the curtains. “Hit him again—kill the son of a bitch!”

He groaned and rolled over.

“Go on!” Cheryl said in a low voice. “Kill him!”

“No.” Bouchard grabbed Cheryl’s arm. “We’ll send the cops after him.”

Cheryl grabbed the fractured lamp from Anne’s hand. “If you won’t do it, I will.”

Bouchard snatched the lamp back. No matter how heinous he was, she could not condone cold-blooded murder. “Come on, we don’t have all night,” she said.

Cheryl turned to the dresser and grabbed a photo of two people, one of whom struck a striking resemblance to the old woman in the next room. “Well,” she said, “let’s see how he likes this.” She smashed the picture against a corner of the dresser and then did the same to three others.

Bouchard quickly rolled Fischer over and used the lamp’s power cord to tie his hands. He moaned and his eyes fluttered as she bound him. She fought against her escalating panic; time was short, he would be regaining consciousness soon.

Once Fischer’s hands were securely tied, she said, “Come on, let’s get going.”

Cheryl paused as if at a quandary. She punched Fischer in the groin and, when he grunted in pain, said, “If I had a knife, I’d cut that useless thing off.”

“Let’s go!” Bouchard grabbed Cheryl’s arm and pulled her from the room. They bolted down the stairs and out into the night.

Bouchard turned toward the drive.

“This way,” Cheryl said. “If we’re on the road, he’ll come after us with the truck.” She pointed toward the gulf. “We’ll swim along the shore until we’re safe.”

The women bolted from the house and ran along the shore. Bouchard wished she had shoes on as she stomped on pebbles and debris, the pain slowing her down. She ignored the agony of her weight landing on sharp stones and raced after Cheryl. Her heart skipped when she heard the sound of waves lapping against the shore.

They ran onto a pier and past three boats, a commercial trawler, a charter boat, and a small punt. Damn, Bouchard thought, why didn’t I look for keys? We could have used one of these! Ahead of her, Cheryl did not hesitate; she vaulted off the end of the dock into the surf. Once she had swum away from the pier, she turned, paused, and beckoned for Anne to follow.

Bouchard gasped as she plunged into the fifty-degree water and knifed beneath the surface. She arched her back and, when her head broke the surface, gulped air. She kicked her legs and fought against the surf, using all of her strength to pull herself forward. She circumvented a large black rock and cautioned herself that she’d have to pay attention lest she smash into one. The current seemed to work against her. As she struggled to make progress, she wondered whether they’d made a mistake. They could travel faster on land and would put more distance between them and the Fisherman. She saw Cheryl swimming away from the shore out to sea and followed suit. In short time, her body acclimated to the temperature, and she swam with a renewed sense of urgency. Bouchard lengthened her strokes, knowing each one was taking her closer to freedom.