Impossible. Bootsie was nearly seventy. He didn’t fit any profile. What had suddenly turned him into a murderer? And when?
The questions that seemed to arise in a flurry didn’t matter. Her life was at stake. Bootsie wasn’t stupid; she was sure he’d taken her Glock and her cell phone. What he’d done with them, she had no idea.
That particular question was quickly answered. She heard two splashes in the water and knew her phone and Glock were about to meet the river bottom.
She feigned unconsciousness.
Which didn’t bother Bootsie. He began to talk. “Ah, pretty girl, pretty girl! You always were the best wench, Abigail. I have been searching and searching, but I didn’t see, didn’t realize. You were the real beauty, the prize of the river—of the whole vast sea. You’re the one I’ve searched for, Abigail. Aye, we’ve only now to chuck the other. She wasn’t worthy, so we’ll toss her into the water. It will be a fitting end for such a one! Women, you see, can be evil. Protect the women and the children! Bah, vicious little bastards—that be the children! And wicked, horrid creatures—that be women. Most of them, anywise. But now, perhaps, we’ll sail the seas together, eh, Abby? As it should be.”
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.