Chuck the other...
She hoped that meant Bianca was still alive.
And that he was taking her to wherever he had Bianca.
A moment later, the rowboat hit something. Hard. Opening her eyes a little, Abby saw that it wasn’t a ship; they’d come to a rickety old boathouse on the river.
Clip, clip, clip...
That was the sound Bootsie’s peg leg made against the wood of the rowboat as he beached it and then grabbed her.
The sun was dying as he threw her over his shoulder and began to walk, his gait jagged as he sank a bit on the left side of his body each time he took a step.
She heard the bang of a door and they entered the shack. It was old—Civil War era, she thought. He threw her down and she continued to feign unconsciousness. When he’d hobbled off, she looked around. She was on a flat surface. Old boats in various stages of disrepair littered the ramshackle structure. There was a door that led to a room, an old office or such.
The cabin Helen Long had told them about?
That had to be it.
And somehow, she had to stop him before he drowned the other young woman.
Malachi didn’t waste his breath screaming or shouting. He forced himself to be calm, trying to find anything that could serve as a grip.
He was startled when things started to fall on him.
Dirt...an old box...even the old bones...
He looked up. In the spill of light from his flashlight, lying on the ground by his feet, he saw a face appear before him.
He’d hoped for a cop.
Or anyone living, for that matter.
It was Blue.
“Get me help, Blue. I’m begging you, get me some help. Find my friends from the agency—they’ll see you, Blue, they’ll get me out.”
“There’s no time. He has Abigail,” Blue said.
“What are you doing?”
“Building up the ground. He would not mind. The bones belong to Blackheart McCready. He went to the devil long ago, my friend. Use them, step on them, use everything you have.”
Blue fell flat on the ground, pushing in more dirt, dirt and rocks.
Malachi understood what he was doing. Piling up all the refuse Blue sent down to him, picking up his flashlight to use as a tool as well as for whatever illumination it could provide, he set to work. He built the refuse up and clawed at the walls above, creating a handhold for himself. He created a foothold next, and gripped the earth wall with his toes. The bones of the long-dead pirate helped him dig into the earth walls. He hollowed out another hold and then another. Blue reached down to him; they both knew that the ghost had no real ability to grab him and yet...he felt as if he was helped, pulled upward.
He rolled onto the ground. “Which way, Blue? Where the hell is he taking them?”
“This way...and then...follow me!”
He ran after Blue, who was speeding through the darkness as if he were a bolt of fire. They seemed to run forever, until they came to a series of steps dug into the ground many years ago. They were far down the river. Dusk had fallen, and he could see nothing on the water.
“Blue, where?” he said desperately.
“He comes out here... There are boats under that old dock.”
Malachi stared at the river. And then he saw it—an old boathouse on a jut of land that curved about fifty feet into the water.
He began to run again.
Abby felt she must have been doing a decent job of feigning unconsciousness. Bootsie walked around—tap, tap, tap, tap, tap—muttering. She had to find a way to take him by surprise—difficult when her hands were tied.
He was old, for God’s sake, close to seventy. But he was in good shape, good health—except for his mind, obviously—and he was decked out with a blunderbuss and sword.
How the hell had he gotten those weapons? Where and when had he changed into the frock coat and hat he was wearing?
He couldn’t have come from the Dragonslayer. David Caswell would have seen him—would have followed him, would have stopped him.
She heard Bootsie still moving around, still muttering to himself. “Ach, I’ll worry about this one later... We’ll need time. Best wench, yes, I have Abby now, and she is the one. I should have known before, yes. This will work. But I must get the other one out of the cabin...get rid of her now, out in the river. Poor lass—not good enough. She’ll have to die....”
He was going for Bianca. He walked toward the closed room in the boathouse. At this moment, she was alive. But he was going to take her out and kill her. Bootsie didn’t keep more than one woman at a time. He had taken her that night, Abby thought, because he’d had the opportunity.
Because he was losing control.
Tap, tap, tap, tap...
He was going for Bianca.
She heard Bianca’s muffled scream as the door was thrown open. Abby twisted around and got to her feet, looking for a weapon. At least he’d tied her hands in front of her. If he’d tied them behind her...
She could see nothing in the shadowy expanse of the old boathouse except a discarded fishing pole. It was better than nothing. With her head still pounding, she took a step and staggered. She froze, afraid he’d heard her, willing herself to find her balance. Bianca screamed again. Bootsie must have reached her.
She hunkered down for the fishing pole and got it in her hands, then rushed for the door. Bootsie was inside, hauling Bianca over his shoulder.
He had powerful shoulders, a powerful physique he’d maintained all the years she’d known him.
The room in the boathouse was just as Helen had described it—small, paneled, like a cabin on an old sailing vessel of days long gone. A pirate’s vessel, perhaps.
Bootsie started to turn; she slammed the fishing pole over his head with all her strength. He lurched backward, dropping Bianca. She struck him again with the fishing pole, and he fell against the wood, almost on top of Bianca.
But as Abby drew back, ready to strike again, Bootsie recovered his balance. Blood poured from a wound on his forehead and he was infuriated. He bellowed out a curse and came after her. Abby lifted the fishing rod again, but he caught it and wrenched it from her hands. She backed away, faltering only a little, watching him with the same fury.
“Ah, lass! I will break you, you will see!” He walked toward her, bringing them to the main room of the boathouse. “There is no defying me! I am the king of the seas. Governments fall down before me, none may rule me. And you will obey me or you will die! I am Blue Anderson! I am Blue Anderson, and I will rule the seas from here to eternity.”
“You’re not Blue! Blue didn’t hurt anyone!”
“You’re not hurt! You’re a captive, and you want to stay with me!” he roared.
Abby stared at him in shock. But he seemed to believe what he was saying—that he was Blue Anderson.
“You will. You will be the wench, and you will want me!”
He walked over to her; she raised her hands in self-defense. He was incredibly strong—slapping her arms down and throwing her back to the floor. Again, the world seemed to spin. He wrenched her up, gripping her arms with viselike strength.
“Don’t want to scar you, lass, but I won’t mind beating you within an inch of your life,” Bootsie told her. “Now, I’ll have to be hog-tying you until I get rid of the other one.”
“Touch her again and you’re dead!”
The threat rang out with cold assurance.
Relief filled Abby.
Malachi.
He was soaked and muddy; he’d apparently crawled up to the boathouse from the river. He had his gun trained on Bootsie and his eyes were centered on the man.