59

Once the state police and wardens were in place surrounding the cabin, Houston, Bouchard, and Eklund walked up the drive. When they turned the corner around a line of dense bushes, they spotted the stolen truck. Houston said, “He’s here.”

Eklund took her service revolver out. “You carrying?”

“Yes.” Houston took a 9 mm pistol from his holster and checked the magazine. He racked the receiver and loaded a round in the chamber.

“What’s our plan?” Houston asked.

“All we can do is play it by ear.”

“Wera, don’t fool with this guy. If he as much as looks at us cross-eyed, shoot him.”

Bouchard also drew her weapon, and they spread out until they were separated by about twenty feet. She checked her Glock, ensured there was a live round in the chamber, and slowly approached the cabin, watching for any sign of movement.

They were thirty feet from the cabin when the door opened. All three dropped to one knee, their weapons pointed at the open door. When Ernestine Fischer led Cheryl Guerette through the door, they relaxed but kept their pistols ready.

The sight of three armed strangers rattled Cheryl, and she stepped behind Ernestine. “Who are these people?” she asked.

“The woman on the left is Deputy Sheriff Wera Eklund. I only met the other two the other day. It seems your folks hired them to find you.”

Cheryl stepped to one side and studied the three people. “Anne?”

“Yes, Cheryl, it’s me.”

Bouchard lowered her Glock when Cheryl ran forward and leaped into her arms. The two former captives hugged each other and began to cry. “You were right,” Bouchard whispered in Cheryl’s ear.

Cheryl pulled her head back, looked into Anne’s face, and asked, “When was that?”

“That night in his room when you wanted me to kill him—I should have listened.”

“Where is he?” Houston asked, watching the front of the cabin.

“I don’t know,” Ernestine answered. “He went for a walk.”

Houston turned his attention to Cheryl. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, bruised and scared, but other than that I’m fine.”

A shot was fired in the woods behind the cabin; within seconds it was followed by two more.

_________________

Fischer strolled along the old logging road, which was really two tracks with a grass median in the middle. The wind had picked up and created enough noise that it drowned out the sounds of birds; occasionally he heard a tree creaking as it swayed back and forth. Suddenly a figure in a green uniform appeared to his right.

Fischer spun, dropped to one knee, and shot the game warden. The morning calm was ripped apart by people shouting and calling. Fischer’s heart pounded. They’re everywhere. He ran straight down the road, deeper into the wilderness. He heard something snap by his head followed by the immediate report of a weapon being fired.

Fischer ran as hard as he’d ever run in his life, vaulting over downed trees, skirting brush and large rocks, and blasting through ferns. After five minutes, he slowed and listened. At first it was difficult to hear over his own rasping breath, but his breathing soon slowed. He saw a game trail that meandered up and down a series of small hills and ridges and listened for the sound of pursuit. Hearing none, he turned his back to Howe Brook and ventured deeper into the woods.

_________________

Houston ran to his truck and drove it to Ernestine Fischer’s cabin. He took out his Remington 700 and a box of ammunition. He placed the ammo, extra magazines, and some food supplies in a rucksack. He felt a presence and turned to see Guy Boudreau, the MSP Sergeant, standing nearby. The cop said, “I’m going with you. I can take him into custody and, should he be killed, back you up in any inquest.”

“Someone needs to stay here with Cheryl,” Houston said.

“I’ll stay here,” Eklund said. “Someone needs to coordinate things when the reinforcements arrive.”

“Okay, I’ll be ready in a few seconds.” Houston opened the rifle’s bolt and, one at a time, pressed four .308 caliber rounds into the weapon’s internal magazine. He engaged the safety with his thumb.

One of the game wardens stepped forward. “I’ll be with you, too.” She held out her hand. “Allison Försberg, this is my district. I know these woods and have tracking skills.”

“Glad to have you.” Houston slipped the rucksack onto his shoulders, adjusted the straps, and turned to Bouchard. “I’m ready.”

The four-person party set off following the narrow lane that Fischer had taken. Once inside the protection of the trees, Försberg took the lead. The warden’s face was grim when she stopped alongside the trail. She pointed at a small pool of blood. “This is where he shot Nick Holmquist. When Nick gets back to duty, he’ll catch hell. It isn’t everyday a warden gets shot twice by the same perp . . . not to mention with the same rifle.”

“So he’s going to be all right?”

“Should be—he was hit in the thigh, but it missed all the major blood vessels. Wera is arranging for a helicopter to get him out.”

They moved on, each of them looking at the spot where one of their party had been shot. After she’d walked about ten yards, Försberg led them off the lane into the brush and ferns. The sun shined through openings in the canopy, making the woods come alive in a kaleidoscope of color. Ferns and shade plants grew alongside the brilliant colors of sundry blooming flowers. The small squad ignored the aesthetics of nature and concentrated on the area, expecting Fischer to attack at any moment.

Försberg pointed at the top of a dead fallen tree; someone or something had leaped over it, scraping the moss that covered its surface in the process. “He’s headed this way.” She pointed to the northwest. “It’s about ten miles in that direction before he’ll hit a road of any size. These woods are littered with old tote roads, most of which are impassable unless you have an ATV or are on foot. But they’ll make walking a lot easier.”

Bouchard stood beside the warden. “How will we ever find him in here?”

Försberg touched her on the arm. “Believe me, he’s leaving me a trail a blind woman could read.” She walked in the direction she had earlier indicated.

Bouchard watched her walk away and turned to Houston and Boudreau. “Is that so?” she muttered, “Well, I’m not blind, and I can’t see it.”

Houston kept his voice low and said, “Let’s get this bastard.”

_________________

Fischer stopped and wiped his forehead. He had been trying to make a looping left circle that would lead him back to the railroad tracks that passed through Howe Brook. He came upon them as the sun was making its presence felt. He realized that he was not in the best of situations. He’d been forced to flee with no provisions and only had the four rounds that were loaded into his rifle. More than anything else, he needed transportation. Once he found the rail bed, he would be able to find the St. Croix Stream, which would lead him to St. Croix Road. Once he was on the road, he could hopefully steal a ride. Worst case, he’d have to follow the road to Route 11 and follow it until he came to a house or business where he could find assistance.

He quickly glanced at the sky. By now they would have put out calls for backup. There would be eyes on all of the major thoroughfares and in the sky. Fischer wondered how far behind him the ground troops were—at best he had an hour’s head start. He dashed across the railroad tracks and into the woods on the far side.

_________________

“He’s heading for the tracks,” Försberg said.

“What?” Houston asked.

“The railroad,” Boudreau answered. “It’s the old Bangor and Aroostook right of way, the same one that runs through Howe Brook belongs to the Montreal, Maine & Atlantic Railway for now—after that derailment in Lake Mégantic, they’ll probably be bankrupt soon. He won’t be stupid enough to stay on them, though. He’d have to be a complete idiot not to realize there’s an air search going on.”

“But,” Försberg said, “if he crosses over, he could follow the stream to the road.”

“And,” Bouchard said, “he’s been known to steal a car or two.”

“Shit,” Houston added, “if there are still trains running through here, he could hop one, then who knows where in hell he could end up.”

“We can’t be concerned about that. From the looks of his trail, he’s headed north along the stream. I think we can get ahead of him.” Försberg said, “Guy and I will stay on his trail.” She turned to Houston and Bouchard. “You guys can walk the tracks, and when you hit the road, turn left to the bridge over the stream . . . he’ll come there sooner or later.”