49

Ernestine Fischer had spent a great deal of time thinking about her brother, Willard. She had been away from the craziness in which her overly pious mother and rednecked father had raised them. It was obvious from what she’d learned from Wera Eklund and the people from away that Willard had been affected by the dysfunctional upbringing more than any of his siblings. She quickly amended that thought. Willard had always been slow-minded, and having his head smashed by that heavy block and tackle only made him slower. But Richard had definitely suffered the most. As he’d grown, his homosexuality had shown, and their father had made a crusade out of getting his oldest son to suppress it and become a normal man. The verbal and physical abuse had gotten so bad that one night Richard went into the bathroom and slashed both of his wrists to the bone.

If I were Willard and I wanted to hide, she wondered, where would I go? The answer came to her, and it was so obvious that she couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of it sooner. She needed to talk to Wera. She was due to make a run for supplies, and it wasn’t much farther to Houlton than it was to Presque Isle. She closed up her house and held her breath as she cranked the old truck motor. She let out an involuntary, “Yes!” when the truck started.

_________________

Deputy Sheriff Wera Eklund was surprised when Ernestine Fischer walked into the Aroostook County Sheriff’s Office. “What’s the problem, Ernestine? You haven’t come to Houlton in years.”

“When you brought them folks from away out to Howe Brook, you said Willard was on the run and wondered if there was someplace he might go.”

“That’s right,” Eklund said. “Come in, I just made a fresh pot of coffee.” She led Fischer into the large room the deputies used as their office. Once they were settled, Eklund said, “Since we talked, we’ve learned that it’s a hell of a lot worse than we told you. They found three bodies on the property. At this time, no one has a clue as to how many victims he’s had. But the state police found a trunk with about fifty purses and wallets in it. Apparently, he’s been at this for several years.”

“Lord, help us.”

“Ernestine, he’s gone underground and dropped completely out of sight. Do you have any idea where he might be?”

Fischer drank her coffee. “As you know, I usually get my supplies at that big Walmart in Presque Isle, but I’ve been thinking about that last visit and wanted to talk to you, so I came to Houlton instead. There is a place . . . and it’s not very far from here . . .”

“Where would that be?”

“We had an uncle, Jonah. He’s been gone for years. He had a camp on the western shore of Square Lake.”

“Our Square Lake?” Eklund asked. “There may be more than one in Maine.”

“Yes, our Square Lake, just north of here in the Fish River chain of lakes.”

“Can you help me narrow the search a bit?”

“Lord, it’s been years since I was up there. I don’t even know if the cabin is still standing. I do recall one thing, though: once you get to the lake road, the camp was the fourth on the right . . . maybe the fifth. It was a log cabin on the west shore, I recollect that.”

_________________

Eklund called Houston. “We may be on to something,” she said and passed on what she’d learned.

“Ernestine thinks he may be staying at the cabin on Square Lake?” Houston asked.

“We’ll know in a couple of hours—it’ll take me that long to get there,” Eklund said.

“Do you want us to head up there?”

“Not yet. The only way into the lake is by logging and private woods roads. Let me check it out first. If there’s any reason for you to come up here, I’ll call.”

“Wera, be careful.”

“Not to worry, if I see any indication that he’s up here I’ll call in everyone I can—including the National Guard.”

“Okay. Anne and I will be at our place.” He gave her the number. “Call us the minute you know something or if they show up.”

“I will.”

_________________

Fischer listened to the rain hitting the roof and was surprised to learn that there were no leaks in it. He opened the cupboard and shook his head. It was as bare as the one in the nursery rhymes. He would have to risk a trip to a store. They’d have to go to either Stockholm, where there was a general store, or to a supermarket in Fort Kent or Caribou.

“Come on.”

Cheryl had been cleaning the small bedroom. She walked out into the common room and asked, “Where we going?”

“We need food.”

“I’ll wait here.”

“The fuck you will. You’d bust out of here as soon as I was out of sight. Come on.”

He took her arm and pulled her outside the cabin. He latched the door behind him, and when he tried to lock it, he realized that he also had to stop by a hardware store to get a lock and hasp to replace the one he had destroyed. They got into the van, sat for a few seconds waiting for the engine to smooth out, and then backed into the narrow gravel lane that was the only road in or out of the small collection of camps. He came to the top of a long hill and had to pull to the side to allow another vehicle to pass. He tried not to stare at the oncoming driver. A chill ran through his spine when he saw the gold-and-white logo of an Aroostook County Sheriff vehicle painted on the side of the SUV.

“You make a move to signal this cop and you’re dead,” he warned Cheryl.

He smiled at the cop as the SUV drove past.

The driver waved as she passed, and Fischer returned the greeting. He watched her drive by, obviously headed for the camps on Square Lake. He felt his heart beat faster, and he panicked. He turned around to follow the SUV. What in hell are you doing, dummy?

“That cop saw me.”

She’s probably seen a lot of people as she drove around these woods roads.

“But she’s headed for the lake . . .”

She also could be headed for the lodge on Eagle Lake to check fishing licenses. You turn around and follow her, and she’s going to think that you want to talk with her.

“If you’re so smart, old man, what should I do?

Go about your business. Chances are you’ll never see her again.

Fischer ignored Cheryl as she stared at him during the conversation with the old man. He gave her no explanation as he executed a tight K-turn and continued on.

_________________

Eklund passed the van and raised her hand to wave at the driver. The van’s side windows were covered with dirt, and it was difficult to see the driver’s face through the tinted glass. In the tradition of the area, they exchanged waves and passed by each other.

Twenty minutes later, she was parked in front of the Square Lake Camp. She got out of her truck, adjusted her pistol, and studied the area for a few seconds. The drive was empty, so she decided to take a look around. She circled the building, peering through the filthy windows, and it was evident someone had recently been staying in the small cabin. She walked to the lake’s edge and saw large footprints in the soft dirt on the water’s edge. She walked back to her truck and backed out of the camp’s drive. As she started back the way she had come in, she picked up her radio, contacted her dispatcher in Houlton, and asked them to relay a message to Sam Fuchs for her.

_________________

Fischer returned to the cabin and immediately noticed the small boot prints in the soft ground. Someone had been to the cabin. He remembered the Deputy Sheriff and cursed. He grabbed Cheryl, dragged her into the bedroom, and began throwing their few belongings into a backpack.

They know where you are.

“I know that, old man.”

Then get your thumbs out of your ass and get out of here. It’s been four hours since you saw that cop—by now she’ll have called for help. They’ll be here before you know it, an’ they’s only one road in and out of here.

“I’ll get a boat.”

Then what, you idjut? You gonna hitchhike south?

“Leave me be.” Fischer ignored his father’s curses and began gathering his belongings.

_________________

Wera Eklund stopped her SUV in a large open area that had once been Blackstone Siding, a railroad stop where loggers loaded their timber onto railroad cars. But the Bangor and Aroostook Railroad went bankrupt, and the siding had not been used for more than forty years. The right of way through the woods from Presque Isle to Van Buren was abandoned in the 1970s and turned into an ATV and snowmobile trail in 1980. As a result, the siding was now a several-acre grass-covered parking area. She exited the vehicle and waited for the rest of the assault team. Within twenty minutes she was joined by two other Aroostook County Sheriff’s Department Deputies, three members of the Department of Inland Fisheries and Wildlife Warden Service3, and two members of the Maine State Police Tactical Team4. She gathered them into a circle and briefed them on what they faced.

“This guy is extremely dangerous, very likely armed, and we know he has a hostage. He’s a suspected serial killer and will have no reservation about killing any one of us who gets in the way of his escape.”

One of the Tactical Team members was a Maine State Police Sergeant, and he took charge of the impromptu meeting. “The subject has only a few escape routes: this road, the lake—if he has access to a boat—and the woods, but he’ll have to go by foot. We don’t have enough people to completely blanket the area, so we’ll have to use surprise as our primary tool.” He turned to the three wardens. “You folks know these woods better than I, is there anything we should be careful of?”

The oldest warden spoke up. “We have to keep him off the lake. If he gets out there, he can go in several directions. There are thoroughfares between this lake and Cross and Eagle Lakes. The entrance to the Cross Lake thoroughfare is shallow and, when the water is as low as it is now, could be impassable for some boats. Bottom line, he could disappear very quickly if he gets afloat. We have a plane from our Eagle Lake station on location. He’ll try and keep a visual on him if it comes to that, but . . . well, you get my drift. It’d make things a whole lot easier if we take him here.”

The team spent several minutes dividing up responsibilities and establishing methods of communication. Finally Wera said, “Okay, let’s get this done.”

The task force drove ten miles on rough, unpaved woods roads and stopped a quarter mile from Square Lake. They left their vehicles and closed in on the camp on foot. Wera took the middle position, as she knew the precise location of the building. She stopped across from the camp, staying concealed in a dense copse of alder bushes, and saw the same van she’d passed earlier that day parked beside the cabin. When she was certain that everyone was in position, she darted across the narrow dirt road and stopped against the front wall. She raised her service pistol and called out, “Aroostook County Sheriff’s Department!”

_________________

Fischer happened to glance up and see the cop in the tan uniform dash across the narrow lane. He grabbed his rifle and hissed at Cheryl, “Get down and keep your mouth shut.”

A female voice called out, “Aroostook County Sheriff’s Department! Is anyone in there?”

Fischer estimated the location from which the voice came and fired a round through the window. He raised his head and saw other cops, some in the green uniform of the warden service and others wearing camouflage. He fired at one of the wardens.

_________________

The bullet missed Eklund’s head by inches. She dropped to the ground and crawled on her belly to a new location. She saw members of the task force moving through the brush and trees that bordered the rudimentary camp road. A warden broke from cover, and another shot erupted from the interior. The warden dropped in her tracks and rolled into the drainage ditch that ran along the road’s thin shoulder. Eklund wanted to call out and see how badly the warden was hurt but dared not give away her position.

“Holmquist, are you all right?” It was the voice of the State Police Sergeant.

“Yeah, it’s just a scratch.”

“Well keep your ass low!”

Another shot came from the camp.

_________________

Cheryl heard Fischer fire a third shot and then saw him scramble over to the bedroom, where she was curled up against an interior wall as far from the exterior as she could get. He glanced at her. “We got to make a break for it,” he said.

“Leave me, Willard. If they find me it will slow them up enough for you to escape.” Cheryl hoped he would fall for her ruse and she would be free.

“I didn’t chase you all over the fucking coast to just let you go. You’ll go where I go.”

Cheryl’s heart sank. Death was going to be her only escape.

He popped up, looked through the window, and said, “Come on.” He grabbed her arm and pulled her from her haven. He led her through the common room to the porch that faced the lake. Through the windows that enclosed the veranda, she was unable to see any of the members of the law enforcement team that was assaulting the camp. He paused before the glass door and cautioned her. “Run as fast as you can to the woods!” He pointed to the left of the cabin.

He opened the door and tugged her arm, “Run, goddamn you, run.”

Cheryl bolted from the enclosure, vaulting over the three wooden steps, and raced for the safety of the trees. A shot rang out, and for the briefest of moments, she thought that they had shot him. But she knew her prayer had gone unanswered when he came running up alongside her. He grabbed her arm and dragged her into the trees. When they were at the forest’s edge, she almost lost her balance, but he lifted her, and suddenly they were out of the brilliant late morning sun and into the cool shade of the woods.

He dropped to one knee, forcing her to squat beside him. When he looked at her she was surprised—something she had heretofore thought he could no longer do. Instead of looking panicked and desperate, Willard looked cool as if he were in his element. He released her arm and gripped the rifle with both hands. He reached into his pocket and took out several cartridges. He replaced the spent ammunition with new rounds as he searched the immediate area for any sign of pursuit.

When he motioned for her to move to her right along the lakeshore, he seemed happy, almost euphoric, as if he believed himself to be indestructible. She realized he was high on the adrenaline of the situation.

“There’s a camp about a hundred yards this way. They have a boat. Stay low, and don’t make any more noise than is necessary,” he said.

As she crept through the brush and trees, Cheryl heard a loud snap as someone stepped on a piece of deadfall. She looked at Fischer. He placed his finger across his lips and motioned for her to lie down. She dropped to her stomach, and he did likewise. He crawled beside her, and when she looked into his eyes, she knew not to make any sound.

After a few seconds, she heard footsteps off to her left. She ventured a peek through the brush and waist-high ferns. One of the wardens, alongside one of the camouflaged men, were creeping through the woods. They spoke in hushed voices. “We’re going to need to get some dogs in here,” the camouflaged sniper—by now Cheryl had decided that the men dressed like Marines were police snipers—said.

“By that time he’ll be halfway to Timbuktu,” the warden commented. Without further words, they passed by.

It seemed like hours passed before Fischer nudged her. He raised up slowly, surveying the woods around them. “Come on,” he whispered.

They trotted in a low crouch to the edge of the lake and in minutes were at his neighbor’s camp. They stopped just inside the trees and waited for several moments. Fischer’s caution paid off. Two of the tan uniforms were slowly walking around the building with their pistols drawn. Cheryl watched Fischer, expecting him to open fire on the unsuspecting officers at any second. Although he held his rifle on his shoulder, prepared to shoot, he waited until the cops circled the building and disappeared. She could hear the low murmur of their voices as they moved away toward the next camp in the line.

Fischer waited until it was quiet and the only sounds were the breeze in the trees, the squealing of blue jays, and the gentle sound of the water hitting the shore. He crept toward the dock, where a small boat was suspended above the water by some sort of framework. They crept across the dock, and Fischer used the hand crank on the frame to lower the boat into the water. He motioned for her to get in and then followed her. He lifted the gas can and cursed. “Stay here, and keep the boat close to the dock.” He held his rifle as he darted off the dock to a small shed. He used the rifle’s barrel to wedge the hasp free. It came loose with a loud screeching sound. Fischer looked paranoid as he checked to see if anyone had heard the sound, and then he disappeared inside. In seconds he reappeared carrying a red plastic gas can. Cheryl saw the way he held the rifle up with his left arm and knew he was using it as a counterbalance; the can was heavy.

Once on the boat, Fischer filled the fuel tank and secured it and the gas can. He squeezed the bulb in the fuel line several times and said, “Get behind the wheel.” When she was seated, he opened the plastic battery case that sat beside the fuel tank and connected the cables.

“I hope there’s juice in this battery,” he said. “Start it.”

Cheryl flipped the toggle switch labeled choke, turned the key, and the motor cranked several times before it began idling. Before the motor smoothed out, Fischer grabbed his rifle and jumped into the front seat beside her. “Get us the fuck out of here.”

She pulled the transmission handle back, felt the motor engage, and then slowly backed away from the dock. When they were about fifty feet from shore, she reduced throttle, shifted the transmission forward, and then gave the motor some fuel. As they started forward, there were shouts from the shore, and several members of the police assault force appeared. They opened fire. Cheryl increased the throttle, and the boat’s nose rose as they sped away. Fischer stood up and fired several useless shots at the cops.

In minutes they were well beyond the range of the cops’ weapons, and Cheryl asked, “Where to?”

He pointed to the northwest. “We’ll head out by way of Eagle Lake.”

 

3 Members of the Maine Department of Inland Fisheries and Wildlife Warden Service are law enforcement officers.

4 The Maine State Police Tactical Team works in conjunction with the Maine State Police Crisis Negotiation Team to safely resolve critical incidents, which include barricaded subjects, wanted felons, high-risk K-9 tracks, hostage situations, and high-risk warrant services.