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* * *
Abby slowly walked the tunnel to the river; she saw nothing. It didn’t seem anyone had been down recently. But of course they’d kept the grate locked with a new combination lock since last week. She, Malachi and Jackson Crow were the only people who knew the combination to the new lock.
But she’d learned that the tunnel from the Wulf and Whistle connected to this one. There’d been a guard on at the Wulf and Whistle, though. No one could have used these tunnels since the situation was discovered—not without being seen. And if she looked at it the way the police and Malachi and Jackson’s Krewe were looking at it, all the suspects were currently accounted for. Aldous was at the station; the others were in the Dragonslayer.
It took her a few minutes to work the catch on the false or pocket door that led from tunnel to tunnel. She wished she’d paid more attention when Malachi had opened it. But, eventually, she heard the catch give and then the pocket door gave, as well.
She moved farther, running her light carefully over the walls. First, she retraced the steps they’d taken when she came down with Malachi.
When she reached the junction, where the second tunnel branched off, she hesitated, casting her light to either side. She saw nothing. Then she heard a cry. Ragged, throaty.
“Help. . . help. ”
The sound was weak, but it seemed to ricochet off the tunnel walls.
“Malachi?” she called.
No response.
She instantly took out her phone to call for help. Of course, there was no signal. She was so angry she nearly threw the phone against the wall but refrained, sliding it back into her pocket. “I’m here!” she shouted. “Where are you?”
Still no response. She was sure the sound hadn’t come from behind her, so she started forward, into the second tunnel, calling out, “Malachi!”
“Abby, stop!” she heard him call back, but it wasn’t with the same voice she’d heard before.
“Where are you?” she cried.
“Don’t move any farther. I’m in some floor trap in the tunnel. ”
“I’ll get you out,” she said, moving carefully, step by step.
“It’s a trap in the floor. I walked right into it,” he said with disgust. “There aren’t any holds here, anywhere. Get help. Go get Jackson. I’m okay. ”
His voice had become clearer, louder. She must be almost on top of him. She fell to her knees and crawled ahead, carefully covering the distance, feeling the ground as she did so. She’d just about reached him when she heard something behind her.
It wasn’t a tap, tap, tap. . .
It was a thump, thump, thump.
“Abby!” she heard Malachi yell.
She started to turn, started to reach for her Glock.
That was when the object slammed into her head, and only then did it register exactly what the sound was.
* * *
“Abby!”
Malachi heard the thud. Abby made a sound—not a scream but a gasp of surprise and pain. He pulled out his gun but he was afraid to fire; he couldn’t see from the depths of the hole and he was afraid he’d hurt her.
He shouted out instead. “Let her be. We all know who you are now. It’s over!”
“Ah, me hearty young lad! No, no, I think not. They’ll hang old Aldous for my sins, and it’s a shame, but that’s the fate of seamen such as ourselves!” came the answer.
Malachi began to scrabble at the earth. The killer had her. He heard the soft thunk, thunk, thunk, as the killer moved away with Abby.
And Abby. . .
Abby hadn’t let out another sound.
Swearing, Malachi scratched and clawed at the earth, desperate to find a handhold.
* * *
At some point while she was being jostled, Abby started to come to.
Bootsie had used the hard end of an old blunderbuss to strike her. She was astonished that she had come to, although her awareness was dulled by the sharp pain in her head.
Thump, thump, thump turned to tap, tap, tap, and then she felt herself thrown down. She was in a boat. Yes. Thump, thump, thump. The sound of Bootsie’s peg leg. The sound she’d been told about.
And now. . . a rowboat.
Blue had said something about a rowboat. When the rowboats were out. . .
She could hear laughter and conversation but it seemed to come from far away. She heard another sound—the splash of oars. She was on the water.
She tried to open her eyes without betraying that she was awake. Raising her eyelids slightly, she could see the riverfront easing away from her. Bootsie was facing her as he rowed. She realized that he’d tied her wrists together. He’d used sailor’s knots. Struggling would only tighten her bonds.
Police were all over the riverfront! Why hadn’t they seen her?
She tried to calculate where she was. South on the river—south, and that was why the sounds of life were so distant. They’d come up well below the customary tourist area and she thought he must have kept the tiny boat beneath one of the docks. It wouldn’t have been obvious, and therefore probably hadn’t been searched. It was a rowboat, and there was nowhere to hide a woman in a rowboat.
He’d easily eluded the police time and time again.
Not now, she told herself. Not now. He was caught. He hadn’t stopped to kill Malachi. Maybe he thought Malachi would die in the hold. That no one knew he’d gone below the earth. But Jackson and the Krewe did, and they’d find him.
Before he killed her?
Bootsie. Her grandfather’s old and dear friend. Bootsie.
A man she’d known most of her life.
The killer. . . the River Rat. . . was Bootsie. Robert Lanigan.
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.