“Any other marks on him?” Malachi asked.
“Just one. On his back. Help me roll him and I’ll show you.”
He obliged; Rupert Holloway had been a big man.
Low on his back there was a wound, which was sharp and broad.
“Not serrated,” Abby commented.
“No, it was made by a smooth blade,” Tierney said. “Now, if that’s all...”
“That’s all, Dr. Tierney. Thank you so much for your time.”
He led Abby out. They removed the scrubs they’d donned and left them in the appropriate receptacles.
“Definitely a serial killer,” Abby said. She shuddered and looked at him apologetically. She was ashen, although she’d held up well. “Why...why the fingers? Is there a significance to the ring finger? Are they trophies?”
“Possibly. And I can’t begin to fathom if there’s a symbolic reason of some kind for the ring finger. Does it have anything to do with wedding or engagement rings? Holloway was married, but the others...” He shrugged. “I don’t know.” As he spoke, he watched something come alive in her eyes.
“I’m an idiot,” she said.
“Why?”
She flushed. “I mean, there is a symbolic reason for the ring finger. Pirates used to cut off the ring fingers of their hostages specifically to steal their rings. Blackbeard supposedly cut off his own ring finger as a warning to others to leave him alone.”
“Then it is symbolic,” Malachi said.
“Yes, I believe that has to be it. But still, the killing of Rupert Holloway was different from the others. The injury on his back is completely unlike the injuries on the women. What do you think the blade was?” Abby asked. “And why that mark left there?”
“At the small of his back?” Malachi mused thoughtfully. “A pirate sword, Agent Anderson. I’m willing to bet that wound was made by a sword.”
5
“It’s not Helen. It’s not Helen,” Dirk repeated. He’d said the words dozens of times during the drive back to the Dragonslayer.
“No, Dirk, it’s not Helen,” Abby assured him.
“Oh, my God! Did you see her face?”
They reached the parking lot and Abby put the car in Park. Malachi was out of the backseat, opening the door for Dirk. When Dirk stood in front of him, he steadied the man with a hand at his elbow. “Not Helen, Dirk. So if you can think of anything at all that might help us find her, it could save her life.”
“What if he’s doing that to her—to Helen—right now?” Dirk asked.
“Dirk, the poor girl looks so bad because of what the creatures in the river did to her. Helen could be alive. She’s a bright girl, and if anyone can manage to stay alive, she can. I’ll tell you what might help. You let the police do a thorough search of the Black Swan,” Malachi said.
“A search?” Dirk asked blankly.
By then, Abby had come around the car. “If they search the Black Swan, Dirk, they might find something Helen left on the ship. A note, a scrap of paper, a card—something.”
She watched Dirk carefully—although she couldn’t believe anything evil of him, not in a thousand years.
His expression didn’t change. “If it’ll help, hell, yeah, search the ship.”
Malachi might have been surprised by Dirk’s easy agreement; if he was, he didn’t show it.
“That’s fine, Dirk, thank you. I’m going to call my buddy David back and ask him to get a team in there, okay? You’ll have to give David official permission.”
Dirk nodded. “Anything that’ll help,” he said. He looked back at Abby. “It will help, right?”
“It will,” she said.
“Call him. That detective. Tell him I’ll sign anything he needs.”
“Thank you,” Abby said.
Dirk left the two of them, striding for the bar. He stopped and turned back. “You two just saw all that and don’t need a drink?” he demanded.
“We’re coming,” Abby said.
She looked at Malachi. “Honestly, it can’t be Dirk. You figure someone’s kidnapping people, taking them on a pirate ship. With the women, he’s making them behave like captives—forcing them to have sex as if they’d been seized by pirates. And because he has a pirate ship, you’re thinking Dirk.”
He shrugged. “Abby, yes, obviously, I’m thinking Dirk. Helen worked for him, Helen is gone. And he runs a pirate ship.”
“If someone is going to search the Black Swan, shouldn’t it be us?” Abby asked him.
“Get permission from your friend,” he told her.
Abby whirled around and ran, catching up with Dirk just before he got to the door. He seemed perplexed but told her she was welcome on the ship anytime, any day. He handed her his keys; the gate down at the dock where the Black Swan berthed would be locked.
She ran back to Malachi. “Let’s go!” She dashed by him.
“Hey!” he called after her.
“Faster to walk than to find a parking place on the river. Come on!”
It was only a matter of blocks to the marina. Abby used the key Dirk had given her to open the gate. She waited for Malachi, and tried not to remember how she’d seen the body here earlier. There was no crime scene tape; it wouldn’t have served much purpose. She assumed the techs had looked for anything they possibly could, considering that the body had floated in the river for a day or two.
Malachi entered behind her. “Relock it,” he warned.
She did. They hurried on down the dock. Malachi passed by her and jumped onto the deck of the Black Swan. The little gangplank that tourists used to board was on the ship, taken up at night to discourage anyone who might make it onto the dock.
Malachi stretched out his hand. She hesitated only briefly and accepted it to join him on board the ship.
Dock lights lit up the main part of the forecastle and performance area. Abby hurried on to the restaurant area and the restrooms. Employee lockers were in an anteroom. She turned on lights as she went in and heard Malachi behind her, searching the snack stand and environs.
She found Helen’s locker, which was open. But on inspection of its contents yielded nothing except for a sweater, a makeup bag, a brush and Helen’s costume.
Frustrated, Abby closed the locker.
The others were open and she decided to search them, as well. She felt awkward—as if she were sticking her nose where she really had no right—but Blake Stewart and Jack Winston worked with Helen. They were friends, and Blake had been in love with Helen. It had to be done.
But their lockers yielded nothing, either. There was a small costume and prop area next to them. She went through the swords and guns used by the players, touching each one. None was real. The blades were plastic, although they’d been artfully created to appear real.
She left the lockers, disappointed, and discovered that Malachi was no longer in the snack shop.
“Malachi?”
“Down in the magazine!” he called to her.
She hurried to the below deck and found him by one of the hammocks against the inner hull, placed there for the use of the cast and crew.
“Anything?” she asked.
“Maybe.” He handed her a folded pamphlet.
“It’s a tour map,” she said. “Actually, this particular map is printed and put out by a friend of mine. You might have met him at the Dragonslayer yesterday. I went to high school with him—he was a major player in our
