39

The motor sputtered and stopped—out of fuel. Bouchard slumped forward, exhausted. Too drained to guide it, she let the tide push the punt slowly toward the rocky shore. She raised her head and saw a well-lit, sprawling building complex sitting on a point that jutted out into the gulf. She wondered how much money a place like that cost. She giggled. Of all the thoughts to have at a time like this, that was probably the most ridiculous . . .

A wave pushed the punt toward the shore, and she looked at the house and saw that a party or some sort of gathering was in process. The area between the house and the shore was lit brightly with spotlights. Another breaker pushed the boat yet closer to the lights, and Bouchard heard a voice shout that there was a boat approaching the beach.

Bouchard slumped forward, allowing the surf to carry her to the shore. A couple came to the edge of the water and peered into the darkness. It took all the energy Bouchard had left for her to say, “Help me.”

“Harry, it’s a woman,” the female said.

Harry took off his shoes, rolled up the legs of his pants and started into the surf. “I’ll come get you.” He waded out, grabbed the bow of the punt, and pulled it toward the beach.

Harry looked at Bouchard and exclaimed, “She’s naked!”

“Wait here,” the young woman said to Harry, and she ran across the lawn to the house. In several minutes she returned with a blanket. When Harry stood in place she nudged him. “Turn around and face the house, Harry.”

“What for? Oh . . .” When Harry turned his back to the ocean, Bouchard rolled over the side of the boat and then stood on her feet and walked ashore. The woman wrapped her in the blanket and said to Harry, “You can turn around now.”

Several other partygoers noticed the activity at the water’s edge and started walking toward the beach. “We better take her to the old man,” Harry said.

Bouchard, not sure what was going on, darted to the punt, held the blanket with her left hand, and grabbed the rifle with her right hand.

“Honey, you don’t need that rifle,” the woman said in a calm voice. “No one here will hurt you.”

“I can’t wait to hear her explain this to the old man,” another male voice said.

Bouchard lowered the rifle and slumped with exhaustion. Harry’s companion and another woman rushed forward and held her up. She was barely able to mutter, “Thank you.”

“Lady,” Harry said, “it looks like you’ve had one hell of a night.”

_________________

Fischer drove along the road with his headlights on high beam. He was frustrated, and with each passing minute his rage grew; thus far, the only thing he had seen was a couple of deer.

He saw an unpaved parking lot and slowed to a crawl. He parked, got out, and studied the sandy ground looking for a sign. A skilled tracker he was not; after all, he was a fisherman, not a hunter. He surveyed the area and saw a light through the trees. He got back into the van and drove until he saw a driveway, where he turned in.

He parked the truck and got out, wondering if he should bring the revolver. The sight of a fat man and a bewildered-looking woman interrupted his thoughts.

“Who the hell are you?” the man asked.

“I’m looking for my wife.”

“Why in hell would you do that?” The fat man grinned as if he’d just told the world’s funniest joke.

“Don’t ask me. Has she been here?”

Fischer saw the woman’s eyes widen with fear. He knew then that one of the women had come through here. Maybe she was inside the house. “I got a picture,” he said. He reached into the truck, his action hidden by the open door. He grabbed the revolver and stepped away from the van. He cocked the hammer on the single-action weapon and aimed it at the fat man’s chest.

The obese comedian staggered back, raised his hands, and stared into the van’s lights with surprise. Fischer cocked the hammer and said, “Now I don’t want no trouble here. But I ain’t gonna take no shit, either.” He took one step forward and slammed the revolver’s butt into the man’s forehead. The fat man fell backward onto the ground.

Fischer glanced down at the body and said, “Big bastard, ain’t he.”

He stepped forward and took the woman by the arm, crushing it with his strong grip until she cried out. “One of them was here. Wasn’t she?” He shook her so hard that she flopped like a fish on a line. “Is she inside?”

“No one is inside,” she cried, eyes wild with fear.

“We’ll soon find out, won’t we?”

He pushed her ahead of him into the house. It only took him five minutes to search the small house. Feeling no need to be careful, he flipped beds over, threw furniture around, and tore clothes off their hangers. He ransacked the house. When he had exhausted himself and there were no more places to search, sweat soaked his face, and it mixed with the blood that covered the back of his shirt. The jagged puncture in his shoulder and the twelve-inch gash in his back stung when salt from his perspiration trickled into them. He stood in the middle of the small kitchen gasping for breath. The woman had not lied. The place was empty—if either of them had been here, they were gone. “Where’d she go?” he asked the woman. He grabbed her by the hair and slammed her head against the wall.

The woman staggered and blurted out, “The woods, she ran toward the woods!” She pointed toward the rear of the house.

He stormed outside, stepped over the body of the unconscious man without so much as a glance, and circled around to the back of the house. He spied a clothesline, and in the middle of it was an open space. He could not think of any reason why someone would leave a space in the middle—unless something had been removed. He squatted and studied the ground. He saw the tracks of someone running barefoot toward a line of trees. He straightened up and walked toward them.

Fischer was within ten feet of a huge pine when he saw a figure slumped against it. He stepped on a twig, and the loud snap spurred her into action. She leaped to her feet, recognized him, and bolted into the woods.

Fischer recognized Cheryl and ran after her. He believed that she would not get far; he was tired after the night’s activities and knew she had to be near exhausted. He saw her dash through some small bushes and blasted his way through them, ignoring the pain as a thin lash-like branch whipped across his face. He fired the revolver into the air and shouted, “The next one is going through the back of your head!”

Cheryl pulled up and bent over, supporting herself by placing her hands on her thighs as she gasped. He grabbed her by the arm, spun her around, and slapped her. As quickly as he had attacked her he stopped, smiled, and said, “Hello, darlin’ . . . you have a nice girls’ night out?”

_________________

Bouchard staggered as the women helped her across the lawn. A statuesque man stood at the foot of a large stone patio. “What’s happening?” he asked.

“Senator, I think we got a situation here,” Harry said.

Anne stared into the bright lights that lined the private wharf. Her mouth fell open in surprise. The white-headed man was one of Maine’s United States senators.

“Well, let’s get her inside where it’s warm and find out what’s going on.”

“Yes, sir.”

As they led her to the huge seaside mansion, Bouchard felt as helpless as she had on her first day of kindergarten.

She was so emotionally drained that she barely saw the immaculate kitchen, large enough for a five-star hotel and populated with industrial strength stainless steel appliances, as they escorted her through it. Before she knew what had happened, she was sitting across from gigantic fireplace on the most expensive sofa she’d ever seen. She slumped back and closed her eyes while gripping the blanket tight and snug around her. After several tense moments, she heard people enter the room, and she opened her eyes. What she saw startled her into a heightened state of awareness. Over the fireplace hung three expensive-looking portraits: one was of the President of the United States, another of the senator, and third was of the woman who stood beside him.

A servant appeared, and the senator said, “Julia, get us some coffee.” Once the maid departed he said, “I’m . . .”

“Sir,” Bouchard said, surprised at the awe she felt, “I know who you are.”

The senator’s wife—at least Bouchard assumed she was—sat on the couch beside her, reached over, took her hand, and patted it gently. It comforted her. “Now dear,” she said, “why don’t you tell us how you came to be in a boat on the Gulf of Maine naked as the day you were born?”

Bouchard stared into the warmth of the crackling fire and started at the beginning. “My name,” she gathered herself, “is Anne Bouchard.” One of the people behind her reached across and held a glass of water before her. Bouchard took it and gulped down a large swallow. “Thank you. I’m a private investigator.” She took another drink, noting that her hands shook, but whether from exhaustion or the deep chill she felt, she didn’t know. “My partner and I have been searching for a young woman who’s been abducted.”

When she finished her tale, the senator turned to Harry, who by this time Bouchard knew to be his aide, and said, “Harry, call the FBI. You tell them that I want the closest SAC2 to get over here, ASAP.”

 

2 Special Agent in Charge.