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.

But Bootsie didn’t release her. He spun her around in front of him, whipping something from his pocket. She suddenly felt steel against her neck.

“Can your bullet move fast enough to stop the blade of my knife, boy?”

Malachi strode closer to Bootsie. “Let her go.”

“Fight for her. Fight for her like a man, Scurvy Pete! You won’t take my woman!”

Malachi frowned.

“He can’t fight you, Blue,” Abby said. “He has no weapon with which to fight. Blue wouldn’t fight him without a weapon. It’s a pirate’s honor!”

“He’s got himself a mighty pistol there,” Bootsie said. She felt the knife scratch against her throat.

“Give him a sword. He’ll put the pistol down.”

Malachi must have seen the madness in Bootsie’s eyes. “A sword! No pirate captain would claim his captive without a fair fight!” He shoved his gun back into the shoulder holster. “Leave your hostage. Play out the scene, Blue Anderson. Give me a sword!”

Bootsie wasn’t crazy enough just to let her go. He dragged her with him, backing toward one of the chests. “Here—take your sword. Throw the gun to the corner of the room and take up your sword, Scurvy Pete!”

“I’ve put the gun away,” Malachi began.

“No! Throw it across the floor!” Bootsie commanded.

Malachi took his weapon from the holster, bent down and let it slide across the floor to a corner of the room.

“My sword now, sir! Blue Anderson, it will be a fair fight.”

Bootsie, still holding his knife against Abby’s throat, thrust her away from the chest. “Get your weapon, Scurvy Pete, get your weapon.”

His eyes never leaving Bootsie’s, Malachi reached into the chest, piled high with swords and knives. He chose a sword.

He stepped back, lifting the sword. Abby saw him judge her position and that of Bianca, who’d sidled back against the cabin door and sat there now, eyes wide with shock, not making a sound.

“Shall we, Blue?”

Bootsie pushed Abby from him, sending her to her knees. He turned. Malachi was ready, and still Bootsie went after him with a vengeance that was startling.

Malachi fought hard. She didn’t know where he might have learned about this kind of sword fighting—and perhaps he knew nothing. At first, he struggled just to defend himself from the fury of Bootsie’s attack. And then, finally, he began to move forward, managing to attack rather than merely defend. The two men dodged and maneuvered about the room.

Abby rolled away from the action, coming at last to where Malachi’s gun had ended up. He carried a Colt .45.

She got her hands around it. It was a larger gun than hers with a higher caliber bullet, but she wasn’t afraid to fire it.

She tried to take aim; the men kept moving about.

Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap...

Bootsie could move fast with his peg leg; he could all but dance.

Malachi lunged forward, slamming Bootsie’s weapon, and the sword went flying across the room. Malachi staggered back, wearied by the fight.

“Stand down, Blue, stand down!” he cried.

Bootsie seemed to falter. Abby realized he was reaching down to his thigh—to grab a knife from its sheath.

She had a clear shot.

She fired as he drew the knife, about to throw it into Malachi’s heart.

The sound was deafening; the recoil sent Abby flying back, her arm in agony.

Bootsie froze. Then he crashed to the floor, his peg leg moving at an awkward angle as his twisted body fell.

Malachi rushed to Abby, drawing her into his arms, loosening the ties that bound her wrists. As he did, they heard sirens.

A floodlight suddenly lit up the interior of the boathouse.

“You are surrounded. Put down your weapons. Come out with your hands up!” someone ordered over a megaphone.

Bianca gave a strangled sob and Malachi started toward her.

Thankfully he didn’t have to leave Abby.

Police were pouring in, Jackson Crow and David Caswell at the head of the group.

* * *

Since Bootsie was dead, it was difficult to put together the complete history of what had happened—where his madness had begun and exactly how he’d managed all his feats of kidnapping, disappearances and murder.

David Caswell told them they might never know; it was sad to say, but there were people who might remain missing forever—and there were bodies that might never be found.

A search of his house led them to a stairway, which went to the cellar. There they discovered a pocket door that opened into the labyrinth of tunnels—and his hidden store of frock coats, breeches, hats and pirate weapons.

As the Krewe and David Caswell sat around the table at Abby’s house on Chippewa, they learned that the police had been examining other unsolved cases they’d had over the years. They couldn’t be sure. But Bootsie might have started his murder spree as much as a decade before. Back then, he might have lived out his fantasies at a slower rate. His wife had been alive then; she’d probably kept him from totally indulging in his longing to be a pirate captain who kidnapped women and tried to get them to fall in love with him. But they’d always wonder about a number of other situations. They’d uncovered a drowning victim in their records from ten years earlier. Foul play had been suspected, but the case had grown cold. Two years later, the body of a young woman, decomposed beyond recognition, had been found south of them, off North Hutchison Island in Florida. There were missing-person cases that had never been solved in the following years. So, yes, it was possible that Bootsie had begun killing slowly—and had then escalated into his mad world of piracy, seizing young women and killing them at a more frantic rate.

“Here’s what I don’t understand,” Abby said. She was glad to be at the table; she’d stayed at the hospital the night before because of the concussion she’d received. “Why didn’t Helen recognize Bootsie? He approached her with a business card identifying him as a man named Christopher Condent. But Helen knew Bootsie. And he didn’t use Blue’s name. He used the name of a different pirate.”