62

“ Did you see where he entered the woods?” Houston asked.

“By that dead tree,” Bouchard said.

Houston looked at the stumps and trunks of thousands of cut trees that the loggers had discarded along the periphery of the road.

“The one with the red paint on it,” she added.

Houston saw Boudreau and Försberg appear on the road. They waited for them and then spent a few seconds updating them. The foursome set off in pursuit. Boudreau looked at Bouchard and said, “You really should have a long gun.”

“Why? It wouldn’t have made a difference. Besides, every time I’ve seen this perp, he was well within the range of my Glock.”

They crossed the bridge and left the road. Without saying, they all knew better than to offer Fischer any easy targets of opportunity. “We’ll go in here. You’re a better tracker,” Houston said to Försberg. “You guys follow his tracks.”

_________________

Fischer bolted away from the road and into the trees. A large grouse exploded out of a pine tree, and he started, his rifle aimed in its direction. In seconds, the bird disappeared into the deep woods. Realizing that he was in an agitated state, Fischer forced himself to stop, get his breathing under control, and calm down. He sank to the ground and leaned against a tree. He studied his surroundings and verified what he already knew—he had no goddamned idea where he was.

Well, you got yourself into a fine fucking mess this time.

Fischer sighed in frustration. The last thing he needed now was to listen to a harangue from his old man. “Go away.”

Go away? You need me more than ever, dummy. What do you know about surviving in the woods?

“I’ll learn.”

If you get a chance. What you think those cops are doing right now? I’ll tell you one thing they ain’t doin’ . . . they ain’t sittin’ on their asses like you. Get up and get movin’.

“I don’t know where I am.”

Doesn’t fuckin’ matter where you are. You’re still free. There’ll be time to worry about where you are once you ditch those assholes chasin’ you.

As much as it pained him, Fischer knew the old man was right. He struggled to his feet and moved deeper into the trees.

_________________

Houston glanced at his watch: three o’clock. At best they had four-and-a-half hours of daylight left. If they didn’t catch Fischer soon, they had a decision to make; they were not equipped to spend the night in the forest. Truthfully, they weren’t carrying even the rudimentary equipment for a day in the woods—no food or canteens. He knelt beside a small brook and scooped a handful of water into his mouth. At first Bouchard had refused to drink that way, but as the chase wore on, thirst overcame her objections, and she, too, drank whenever they found a moving source.

Bouchard sat on a boulder, wiped her brow, and stared up the ridge they had been climbing. She looked to her left and saw Försberg and Boudreau to their right. The pairs had regrouped after they were several hundred yards off the road and had spaced themselves so they could keep Fischer’s trail in sight. He had led them deeper and deeper into the forest. Bouchard wondered how long it had been since human beings had ventured into these woods—if ever.

Suddenly Houston dropped to one knee and shouted, “Stop!”

Bouchard and the others looked at him and saw that he aimed his rifle toward the top of the ridge. They turned in that direction and saw a figure at the crest. Houston fired, and the figure disappeared. They scrambled for cover, expecting return fire. It didn’t come.

Houston raced upward, and they fell in behind him.

_________________

Fischer felt the bullet pass through his side, propelling him forward. He crashed through a copse of alder bushes and tumbled down a slope he had heretofore not seen. He slid downslope in the detritus of years’ worth of dead leaves and humus. Too shocked to do anything but keep a tight grip on his rifle, he let gravity propel him down. He hit several broken limbs and came to rest amidst the branches of a downed pine. He scrambled to a shooting position. A quick glance upward told him that he had to move. The trail he’d left while sliding down the grade was so evident a cub scout would have no problem following it. He crawled out the back side and scrambled away.

_________________

“Did you hit him?” Boudreau asked when they joined Houston on the ridge top.

“Not good enough. He turned at the last second. If anything, the wound’s superficial.” He pointed at the line of disturbed leaves. “We know where he went, though.”

The four hunters slowly descended, their bodies at an angle so that their forward legs acted as brakes to keep them from entering an uncontrolled slide. They reached the downed pine and saw a blood trail. “You hit him,” Försberg said. “Don’t know how badly, but he’s bleeding.”

“I hope he bleeds out,” Bouchard spat.

_________________

Fischer didn’t think the bullet had hit any vital organs, but he felt his strength flowing out of his body with his blood. He slowly walked along the footpath that followed the cliff’s edge. He looked over the promontory and saw the beaver pond about twenty-five feet below. He heard a sound behind him and spun around. . . .

_________________

Fischer was less than twenty yards away when they broke out of the woods along the periphery of the ledge. The man in the lead carried a lethal-looking rifle with a scope. He dropped to one knee, but before he could get a shot off, the bitch who’d caused all this skidded to a halt and had her pistol out. She screamed, “Bastard!” and fired twice.

_________________

Houston saw the first bullet hit Fischer in the left shoulder. He watched in silence as the Fisherman rotated and then fell over the precipice. He followed the killer’s descent until he disappeared into the water. The four manhunters stood watching the surface for several minutes, waiting for his body to reappear.

It did not.

_________________

At seven, the sun was sinking below the trees and Eklund, Houston, Bouchard, and Försberg stood on the shore of the abandoned beaver dam watching bubbles break the surface where three warden service divers searched the pond for Fischer’s body.

Eklund looked at her watch and said, “They’ll have to come up soon. It’ll be dark in a half hour, and they’ll never find anything.”

“No sign of his having gotten out?” Houston asked.

“Do you really believe he could have survived being shot twice and then falling from up there?” Eklund pointed at the promontory from which Fischer had tumbled.

“No offense to my partner,” Houston said, “but I saw him get hit in the shoulder. Unless the bullet hit bone and ricocheted into his heart or lungs, there isn’t anything there vital enough to kill him. At least he won’t be using that arm anytime soon.”

One of the divers broke the surface and swam toward them; when he was able, he stood and staggered through the deep mud until he was beside them.

“Anything?” Försberg asked.

“A shit load of old stumps and downed trees. One entrance into an abandoned old beaver hut, but it’s too dark for us to get in there and check it. Looks like the entrance had caved in—there was debris all around it, so I doubt he would have fit in there.”

“Well,” Eklund said, “if the weather holds, we’ll check it out tomorrow. We may as well put a wrap on it for today.”

“I’ll have a couple of wardens stay in the area,” Försberg said. “Just in case he’s still around.”