67

Fischer left the eighteen-wheeler at the bottom of the grade and jumped out of the cab. He zipped his coat up, trying to ward off the predawn chill. True spring came late to Maine, and here in the high country the cold and ice hung on longer than it did at his home on the coast.

He reached inside his coat pocket and gripped the knife that he wore on his right hip, cursing at Ernestine. She’d hidden her rifle and he was unable to find it—even slapping her around did no good. The best he could do was the Bowie knife he’d been carrying since he became a fugitive. Thinking of the ordeal brought on a spasm of the memory of the pain from the sundry wounds that the bitch had inflicted on him. He fingered the handle of the knife and smiled when he thought of the pain and carnage the twenty-four inch blade was going to inflict on her.

He walked up the gravel lane, the frozen surface crunching under the heavy soles of his boots. He avoided frozen mud puddles and stayed in the worn, packed tire lanes—even though he felt certain that his quarry had not a clue about the imminent danger she was in. He hoped the man, the shooter with the long gun, was there, too. He’d kill that one first, a quick slash across his throat. If things went as he hoped, the son of a whore wouldn’t die too quick—he wanted him to live just long enough to see what was in store for his bitch.

The night slowly gave way to the dull gray of early dawn, and he stood in the yard staring at the house. A trail of smoke drifted from the chimney, and the smell of wood smoke hung heavy in the air. He stepped onto the porch and gently touched the door knob. He applied a gentle pressure and was surprised when the door opened.

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Fischer crept through the door and found himself in a spacious, rustic living room. A small fire burned in the fireplace, and he heard the sound of water running in the room to the right rear. Someone was in the shower—the perfect place to attack. He passed by the first of two easy chairs that faced the fire and slowly approached the door that he assumed led to the bedroom. He pulled the knife and reached for the doorknob.

“If Cheryl was here, she’d tell you that your father was right, Willard. You are a fucking idiot. You brought a knife to a gunfight.”

He spun around, and the woman stood between the chairs, holding a pistol that didn’t waver as she aimed it at him.

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Bouchard held the 9 mm Glock with both hands. “Willard, I’ve knocked you senseless with a lamp, stabbed you with a gaff, tried to run you over with a boat, and shot you—this will be twice. I guess you’re one of those people who just never learns.”

His shoulders seemed to drop for a split second, and then he bolted. She fired at him, not sure that she scored a hit. Fischer dashed through the front door and headed for safety.

She heard the crack and thud of a rifle firing and a bullet hitting home. A spray of dark liquid splattered on the window and slowly turned from black to red in the early morning sunlight. She heard a thump, and through the door she saw a hand holding a Bowie knife flop down. Then blood slowly flowed across the porch.

She held her pistol at the ready and walked to the door. Standing in the threshold, she saw where Houston’s bullet had entered the crazed killer’s head . . . directly in the center of the deformed flat spot. She nudged the body with her foot, and when she was certain he was dead, she looked away and watched Houston climb down from the tree stand across the road. She smiled at him as he approached with his sniper rifle braced on his right hip and pointed at the sky. Maybe, she thought, I’ll get the first good night’s sleep I’ve had since this scumbag grabbed me.

Anne stepped over Willard Fischer and ran from the porch. She met Mike in the middle of the yard, and neither of them said anything as they held each other tight and watched the Fisherman’s body go still.