34

You goddamned moron. You fucked things up again!

Hallet! That language doesn’t help matters. He’ll make things right.

Fischer opened his eyes and lay dazed. It took a couple of seconds for him to remember what had happened.

Willard, get up.

“Yes, Mum.” He felt a quick flash of guilt and fear. Mum was angry. He knew eventually she would find out what he had been doing with the women, and she would punish him severely.

You have to catch them. Mum’s voice cut through him. Do you think I haven’t known what you’re doing with the women you’ve brought here? If the new one gets away, she’ll bring police. Now get after them! We’ll deal with your lustful ways later.

Fischer rolled over and tried to get up. He was unable to move his arms and realized they were tied. He flexed his arms, grunting with effort as he spread his hands. The electric cord bit into his wrists, but he felt it give ever so slightly. He screamed in frustration and rage. He looked around the room, wondering why Mum did not help him get free. He gathered his strength and spread his arms apart; the cord suddenly gave, and he was free.

He rolled from the bed with a curse. He staggered across the room, stepped on something sharp, and cursed. He snapped on the overhead light and then turned and glared at the broken glass and damaged photographs of his family. Rage burned through him when he saw the carnage on the floor. He knelt down, picked up the photo of his parents, and held it against his face. He sobbed. He swore that if it took him forever, he would make those bitches pay.

Something obscured his vision and made the room blurry. He wiped his eyes, and his hand came away covered with blood; he wiped it on his leg. He was going to kill them. He could get other women, just as he had done in the past. He wanted his rifle. He walked to the closet and spun the combination on the lock. His obscured vision made it impossible to see the numbers, and he slammed the lock in anger. He turned from the lock and saw a black lump on the floor—his pants lay in a pile where he had left them. He pulled them on and hissed in pain when they touched his battered genitals; he opened a dresser drawer and grabbed a black T-shirt. He slid it over his head and turned to the closet. He hissed, lifted his foot so he could see the arch, and plucked out a piece of glass. Standing on one foot to avoid the pain, it took him several tries before he was able to work the combination on the lock securing the closet door. He reached inside and grabbed his rifle, checked that it was loaded with cartridges, and ignored the pain in his foot as he ran from the room.

He bolted across the living room and stopped on the porch, looking for the women. He quickly scanned the sandy ground looking for any sign of which way they’d gone. He saw tracks in the sand, headed for the water. He knew he had time, calmly walked into the kitchen, and put on a pair of boots. Once his feet were protected, he opened a small cabinet and took the keys to the punt.

Willard, stop dallying!

“Yes, Mum.”

Satisfied all was in order, he walked toward the dock.

_________________

Fischer cursed loudly as he yanked the pull cord on the punt’s outboard motor. It refused to start. He adjusted the choke and pulled again. This time the motor coughed and then began with a stutter. He readjusted the choke and gave it fuel until the sixty horsepower Johnson smoothed out. Fischer put the boat into gear and increased the throttle. The bow rose as the propeller churned water behind him. He sped out of the small harbor, and the boat bounced as it left the placid waters of the cove behind and encountered the two-foot swells rolling in off the Gulf of Maine. He wondered if maybe he should take the trawler but discarded the idea. While the trawler offered better visibility, the punt was faster. He turned out into the gulf, peering into the light of the rising full moon, searching for the telltale dark spot that would lead to his quarry.

Once again, the small craft bounced against the surf, and he saw something break the surface. He grabbed the rifle and stood up. He spread his legs for balance as the boat slowed and settled in the water. “Gotcha, bitch . . .”

He sighted until it looked as if the bobbing black spot sat on the sight blade and fired.