This Chapter is for mkrux for her enthusiasm.

***

            Veronica and Marguerite made their way back to the tree house in comfortable silence. Veronica was thinking about the about what she was going to do to their houseguest if she were given the chance, but she respected Marguerite wish for privacy. She wondered what she would have been like had she been in the same position. Veronica doubted she would have held up as well.

            Marguerite on the other hand felt as if a great weight had been lift from her shoulders. She had never felt so free before, it was amazing. She was practically skipping with the promise that Veronica and the others would find a way to save her from "Uncle" Frances. As the tree house came into view Veronica smiled at Marguerite's uplifted spirit. She was witnessing the person Roxton and Sommerlee always said existed somewhere inside her, but no one else ever believed.

            "It's really quiet up there, I guess the guys aren't back yet," Veronica observed as they boarded the elevator.

            "Good, we'll have some peace and quiet for a change."

            The elevator rattled to a halt, and as Veronica and Marguerite stepped out a voice startled them. Both spun to see Frances Beaumont leaning back in his chair pointing a revolver at them.

            "Plans have changed, Margie."

            "What plans, Rev. Jones," Marguerite tried to play innocent.

            "You know what I mean, our cover is blown, time to cut our losses and get out." Marguerite had heard this statement many times before, most often before she took to fall for one of his schemes, and it didn't bode well for Malone.

            "Where is Ned," Veronica demanded.

            "That nosey journalist is probably dinosaur food by now." Veronica charged him, but Marguerite caught her by the shoulders when Beaumont pointed his gun at her. "Marguerite, get your valuables, disarm and tie up your little friend, and lets get out of here. We don't want any trouble." He tossed a rope to Marguerite, which she easily caught.

            Marguerite led Veronica to a nearby chair and tied her hands behind her back. "I want to see a tight sailor's knot, Margie." Marguerite sighed and retied her hands, much tighter this time. Then she removed all of Veronica's knives and placed them well out of reach. She had come to a decision, it was time to except her fate.

            "Sorry, Veronica," Marguerite whispered as she bent to tie her legs to the chair.

            "Margie, we need to get moving NOW. Get your stuff, and let's go."

            She did as instructed, moving quickly. The sooner they were gone, the safer her friends would be. She would leave a trail so they could find their way off the Plateau. Before she left her room she scribbled a short note to Roxton.

            As she passed Veronica on her way to the elevator she bent and whispered, "Don't follow us, this is my problem now," and didn't look back at her friend as she descended to the ground.

            Marguerite could hear Veronica scooting across the floor toward her knives. Luckily Frances didn't seem to notice, she feared he would decided to set the tree on fire.

***

            Malone lay on the ground next to the doused campfire with the journal still in his hand. As he fought the darkness that consumed him, a vision flooded into his mind. He stood on the top deck of a ship, with a warm salty breeze bowing through his hair. It was some kind of luxury sailing ship, and very old fashioned.

            No one seemed to notice him as they bustled about, performing their daily duties. Across the deck a young couple was playing with their baby. He recognized both from the photo as Marguerite's parents. As he approached them he could hear the mother cooing to the infant in a thick Irish brogue. She was beautiful, like Marguerite, but not near as cold as his friend. She had a mass of dark curly hair tied back with a blue ribbon, but unruly tendrils still managed to escape and fly around her face, a bright, unhindered smile and shining green eyes, filled with love for her child and the handsome man crouched in front of her, coaxing Marguerite to toddle to him in a smooth British accent. She sat on her knees with her arms outstretched, supporting the infant, who grasped her index fingers, and stepped gingerly forward on the rocking surface toward her father.

            The man was dressed in a grey suit, but the jacket and tie lay across the back of a nearby chair, and his vest was left unbuttoned. His blonde hair shown in the sunlight, and his silver eyes danced as the baby neared him.

            The child was obviously Marguerite. She had the same silver eyes as her father, and were expressive, like her mother's. Her dark hair was just beginning to grow out, and formed finger width ringlets surrounding her face.

            All in all, it was a moment he hoped to experience one day.

            Suddenly, from the crow's nest above he heard someone yell, "Ship off the port bow, and coming fast."

            Those who were not otherwise occupied, and some who were, went to the railing, to see a large, schooner type vessel approach with a British flag flapping in the wind. Everyone waved in friendly greeting as the ship neared and slowed, until it finally halted alongside the smaller boat. Ned watched Moargan Krux back away from the rail nervously, holding her baby close. Little Marguerite sensed her mother's unease and began to fuss.

            "What's the matter, Moargan?" Charles Krux asked.

            "Something isn't right," she answered.

            Ned looked up just in time to see the Jolly Roger unfurl. The skull and cross bones grinned down wickedly at them as Moargan Krux ran for the lifeboat, her husband close behind. He quickly lifted her and the baby into the boat. Before he could board it a gun barrel pressed against the base of his neck.

            Ned stepped around to see the man's face, and wasn't surprised to find a thirty years younger Rev. Jones, or Beaumont, he corrected himself.

            "Get out of the boat, Mrs. Krux, or I shoot him right now."

            "Stay where you are Moargan," Charles told her with warning in his tone. Ned saw the anguish in her eyes as Beaumont cocked the weapon.

            "ALRIGHT! I'm getting out," she yelled as she scrambled out clumsily, nearly tripping over her skirt and dropping Little Marguerite. "Satisfied? Now what do you want," she hissed. That tone, Malone recognized. Marguerite had used it once or twice in his presence.

            "I need Charles to sign this paper," Frances held up a folded sheet threw it on the ground. He stepped back, still holding the gun on them. "Pick it up."

            Charles unfolded the paper and quickly read it. "This is a contract stating that I am selling you my half of the business, I'm not signing it."

            "You can sign it, or you I will kill you and your family."

            "You're going to kill us anyway," Mrs. Krux said obstinately.

            "Sign it," Beaumont threatened, turning the gun on Moargan. Charles sighed and took the pen offered him by one of Frances grungy companions, but before he could sign, Moargan snatched it and threw it overboard.

            "You wench! You'll pay for that. Lock everyone below deck and sink the ship." He turned away and headed toward his own vessel. Suddenly he turned and, almost as an afterthought, said, "Grab the baby."

            One of the pirates wrenched the crying infant from her mother, eliciting a shriek from both. Charles attempted to rescue Little Marguerite, but a blow to the back of the head rendered him useless. It took three men to drag the distraught woman below. She bit, scratched, swore, and brought curses down on the heads of her assailants as they struggled against her.

            Malone stood helplessly watching, knowing there was nothing he could do. It didn't take long to get the crew below, and toss the hysterical Moargan Krux through the door, before they slammed it shut and locked it. Then they blocked it with crates for good measure. The pirate ship then fired into the hull. Malone felt the shift of the ship as if began to fill with water, and heard the desperate cries of the people below. Above them all he could hear Moargan screaming for her child.

***

            A faint voice in the distance was calling him. Someone was calling him Neddy boy, who called him that? Suddenly, Malone inhaled deeply and sat up, wide-awake.

            "Whoa there, Malone, take it easy. You've got a nasty bump on your head," Roxton tried to calm him.

            "We have to get back, have to stop Beaumont," Malone attempted to stand.

            "Who's Beaumont?" Challenger questioned, confused.

            "Beaumont is Jones, he killed them, he is going to hurt her," Malone rambled.

            Roxton took him by the shoulders and shock him lightly, "Slow down, who did he kill, and who is he going to hurt?"

            Malone held the journal and the picture out to them. "He killed Marguerite's parents, I saw it all in a vision when I was unconscious. Then he stole her."

            Challenger took the photo and journal and examined them. "It would appear your new found gift is asserting itself once more, Malone. We had better get back to the tree house, post haste."

            "I knew there was something wrong with him, if he hurts on hair on her head I'll rip his throat out," Roxton mumbled as he began jogging back.