66

Ernestine Fischer tossed the shovelful of heavy wet spring snow to the side and straightened up. She stared at the early morning sun and wiped sweat from her forehead. She was pushing fifty-five, getting too damned old for all this manual labor. She heard the sound of a large truck braking and wondered who it could be. It was April, and no one hauled timber during mud season. She heard the vehicle splash through the large puddles left by the early melt and saw its nose appear along the track of unpaved road that was called Main Street. The truck ground to a halt, and the door opened and slammed. With the rising sun in her eyes, she was unable to identify the driver when he rounded the nose of the large eighteen-wheeler, though it was easy to see that it was a man, and his walk and demeanor seemed familiar. She pushed her shovel into the snow beside the narrow path she’d been digging out and splashed through the flowing water that coursed down to the cabin. As she walked, she took great care not to rush or appear frightened.

She stepped onto the porch and looked back before entering the house; the figure had waded through the thigh-deep snow and had reached her path. Ernestine reached inside the door and grabbed her bolt-action .308 rifle. She opened and closed the bolt, loading a round into the chamber and then took the safety off. She waited until the man closed to within twenty yards. He wore filthy, worn clothes, and his face was obscured by a heavy black beard. His hair was long, stringy, and in need of both cutting and washing.

Trying to keep a calm tone of voice, Ernestine asked, “Can I help you?”

“Ernestine . . . don’t you recognize me?”

The voice was familiar, and her stomach sank. “Willard?”

He smiled, and she saw that he had lost at least one tooth in the months since he had disappeared into the northern Maine woods. “Yeah, surprised to see me, sister?”

“Willard, it’s not safe for you to be here. The police are still looking for you.”

The smile left his face, and he looked every bit the killer that she knew he was. She knew that she had to do something; at the very least she had to notify the authorities of her brother’s reappearance, but how could she? She lived in a house so far away from the benefits of society that her only electricity came from the gas-powered generator she used sparingly, and there was no way the phone company was going to run a line in for one permanent resident.

“So, big sister, are you going to let me in or not? After all, it’s been six months since we last talked.”

_________________

Houston was dozing, an open book on his lap and the Red Sox Patriot’s Day broadcast playing at a low volume on the radio, when the phone rang. He answered on the second ring. “Houston.”

“Mike? Wera Eklund.”

“Hey, how are you, Deputy?” Houston was surprised. “What’s up?”

“Ernestine Fischer just left my office.”

“How is she?”

“Willard showed up on her doorstep on the eighth . . .”

Houston was on his feet before he realized it. “So he’s alive. Is Ernestine alright?”

“He beat her quite severely. She believes that being his sister was the only thing that saved her life.”

“Why did she wait so long to go to you?”

“He left her place this morning. You know how she lives—no electricity and no phone, just whatever she needs to survive. Once he left, she got in her old truck and drove here. I don’t know how she did it. She’s one tough old lady, that’s for certain. She’s over at the hospital now. I’m going to try and get her to stay a few days. At least until we get a fix on his location.”

“Does she know where he went?”

“He didn’t say anything, but he did go on a rant about getting even with someone.”

“Cheryl?”

“Eventually . . .”

“Anne.”

“Mike, you two need to watch yourselves. Somehow or another he found out where you live.”

“Shit,” he swore. “You know, last summer when he had her, we never did recover her wallet or her credentials and driver’s license.”

“There’s a BOLO out on him. He was last seen driving an eighteen-wheeler log truck.”

“Thanks for the call, Wera. We’ll do what we have to. He’s personal.”

“Okay, but if you end up chasing him into my jurisdiction, I want to know about it.”

Houston hung up the phone and heard a noise in the kitchen. Anne Bouchard entered the room and asked, “Who was that, hon?”

“We need to get ready. We got company coming.”