Kate Hoffmann: The Pirate

As she stared down at his perfect features, Meredith found herself hypnotized. She had seen him before, just hours ago as she focused on the illustration of the pirate in the old book. Pinching her eyes shut, she tried to steady her spinning thoughts. If she had believed in the powers of fate, she might have also believed that she'd somehow summoned him here to answer her girlish fantasies.

But she knew better. He was merely one of Tank Muldoon's boys, she repeated to herself, out to tear up the town right alongside Hurricane Horace. And yet, even though that explanation seemed perfectly logical, it didn't make sense. This was a grown man, not a college boy. No one developed a body like his waiting tables-he worked hard for a living, probably outdoors. And no one took Tank Muldoon seriously enough to wear an authentic costume.

Meredith leaned over to wipe a trace of shaving cream from his cheek. Suddenly, his hand snaked up and clamped onto her wrist in a punishing grip. She cried out and tried to pull away, but he held her fast. Her gaze met his. His pale blue eyes were now lucid and hard as ice. They watched each other for a very long time in the dim light, Meredith's pulse thudding in her throat, his breathing harsh and even.

"Where am I?" he demanded, his voice ragged.

Meredith tried to pull out of his grasp again, but he only tightened his fingers.

"Tell me, lad. Who are you?"

"Lad?" Meredith asked.

He easily twisted her wrist and brought the razor she was holding flat against her throat; "Who brought me to this place?" he asked, enunciating each word, a slight brogue to his proper British accent. "Have a care, for I will know if you speak falsely."

"I-I brought you here," Meredith whispered. "You were washed up on the beach during the storm."

"The purse, where is it?"

"You want my purse?"

"The purse," he said, his grip weakening. "I… I must deliver… proof… upon my soul… I must… avenge… father…" His eyes rolled back in his head and his hand flopped down on his chest, suddenly lifeless, boneless.

"Have a care!" Ben squawked from the shadows.

Meredith quickly retreated from the couch, watching the man from a spot near the fireplace. If she wasn't frightened of Ned before, she certainly was now. He was a madman, muttering about purses and revenge in some hokey British accent. She could still feel the cold blade of the razor against her throat. Her fingers flexed and the straight-edge clattered to the wooden floor. Without thinking, she wrapped her grip around the fireplace poker instead.

She turned and raced to the closet for her slicker. She couldn't stay here. She'd have to summon the sheriff before her pirate woke again. But when she pulled open the front door, the reality of the situation slapped her in the face.

The wind ripped the door from her hand, slamming it back against the wall with stunning force. Debris whipped through the air and the rain stung her skin like a hail of tiny bullets. It took all her strength to push the door shut-and all her courage to admit that she stood a better chance inside with the pirate than outside with the hurricane.

In a panic, she searched the house for something to use against him, something to provide protection in case he tried to attack her. Lord, he'd called her "lad." He wasn't just drunk, he was hallucinating, too. She nearly missed finding the coil of rope on the closet floor, until she tripped on it.

"That's it!" she cried. "I'll tie him up! So tight he won't be able to move. And once the storm dies down, I'll get the sheriff."

"Tie him up," Ben echoed. "Tie him up!"

By the time she finished, he looked like Gulliver after the Lilliputians were done with him. A riot of ropes circled his wrists and ankles, then wrapped around both his body and the couch. It would take superhuman strength to break the bonds and if she believed anything about this pirate, he would be too hung over to be sailing the high seas for some time.

Once he awoke, she'd question him, and if she decided it was safe to let him go, she would. If not, the sheriff could have him. As an added measure of protection, she retrieved a butcher knife from the kitchen before she curled into an overstuffed chair near the fireplace and watched him warily, exhausted.

Meredith closed her eyes and tipped her head back, trying to calm her racing heart. Suddenly, the raging weather outside didn't frighten her at all. This man had become her "Delia" now, the name she had given to all her fears since she'd been a child.

Meredith had been only eight years old when Hurricane Delia had roared along the Atlantic shore of the Outer Banks of North Carolina. She and her widowed father, a shrimp fisherman, had lived in a tiny weather-beaten cottage on the creek side of Ocracoke Village.

Though she had been only a child, her memories of that day had completely supplanted all the shining Christmas mornings and blurry birthday celebrations she'd come to experience in the following years. The day, September 11, 1976, had dawned calm and humid. But somewhere south of the island, Delia had lurked, turning the ocean into a terrifying force of nature. As darkness began to fall and the wind began to rise, her father had left her alone in their cottage, promising to return once he had checked the lines on his boat for a final time.

As he pulled on his rain suit and knee-high rubber boots, she had begged him to stay. He'd bent down from his towering height and told her she would be safe, tucked inside the house until he returned. But he hadn't returned. She'd crawled inside a dark closet and cried for her father, and then for her mother, even though Caroline Abbott was just a vague memory to her. She'd been left to face a hurricane alone and from that night on, Delia came back to haunt her dreams.

Her father had been injured that night and had nearly died, but with the help of friends on the island and Meredith's nursing, he'd recovered. His boat hadn't fared as well, but a bank loan repaired it and he continued to shrimp in the waters off the Outer Banks. Still, shrimping had been a hand-to-mouth existence before Delia, and it only got worse after the hurricane.

He lost his boat to the bank the year Meredith turned thirteen, bringing an end to her childhood on the island. Sam Abbott was forced to leave Ocracoke for a dredging job in Maryland, his young daughter in tow. How well she remembered that day, standing at the rail of the ferry and watching Ocracoke Island disappear behind the southern tip of Hatteras.

In her heart, she'd been secretly relieved. There would be no more dreams of Delia and no more hurricanes to fear. But though she hadn't missed Ocracoke, her father had. The island had been part of his blood, calling to him every minute he spent on the water. He died when Meredith was twenty-five, still longing to return to his island home.

So she had made the trip back for him, to bring back the memories of the times they'd spent together when she was young. And now, in less than a day, her life had turned into one major nightmare. She was trapped inside this cottage with a man who could very well be a psychopath.

But even though she knew she should be terrified, she wasn't. She was an adult. She had a big knife, an even bigger fireplace tool and a few more miles of rope if needed. She actually felt in control, as if she could handle whatever might happen.

And she could… until Ned the pirate decided to wake up.

He was dead, of that much he was certain. He recalled very clearly falling overboard… or had he been pushed? God's teeth, his head ached. Had someone bashed him on the costard, as well? 'Twas no small talent for a man who had spent his entire life on the deck of a ship to simply pitch over the rail without cause. Aye, that must be the truth of it then. Murder had been done and Griffin Rourke had died of it.