Dupont continues talking to Joey. “Do you remember where you are?”
He nods.
“That’s good.”
Joey moves forward, stumbles, and goes down on his knees, Dupont mimicking him in one swift movement so that Joey is in his grasp, Dupont’s hand firmly around his mouth.
Only then Joey realizes his mother’s presence.
He struggles to rise but a hand on his mouth, arm around his chest, holds him down.
“Stay still,” Dupont snarls.
From the looks of it, Joey’s determination is back. He doesn’t want to stay still.
“Joey, do as he tells you,” Catherine says, both trying to comfort and empower her child.
Joey stops fighting and stands, wrapped in Dupont’s grasp.
“That’s very smart, Catherine. It’s all over for me.” Dupont is up, picking something up off the coffee table.
The glimmer of metal catches Catherine’s eye. She watches him stick something up against Joey’s throat.
“Put out your hand, Joey. Feel this. Don’t grab it, feel it.” Dupont’s words are calm, almost serene.
“It’s all right, Joey, do what he says.”
She watches her son’s small hand move across the metal. “That’s right, Joey, it’s a gun. A .22. You know what it can do to you, don’t you.”
Catherine listens to Joey quietly sob.
“Now take your hand down.”
Catherine watches Dupont push the cold muzzle deeper into her child’s throat.
She keeps her own aim direct on Dupont, but she can’t pull the trigger with her son so close.
She hears a thump-thump above before she sees it. Light in the room. From outside. Police. Please God, no. Anything but that.
The chopper hovers for an instant outside the windows. Then, snatched in updrafts and downdrafts, it loses its target point. Catherine tries to wave them off, her sights still trained on Dupont. She hopes they see her. Call it off.
“I wish I could have trusted you, Catherine. I wanted to believe you.”
He is crying.
“Now, I can’t leave Joey to you. You know what they’ll do to me.”
Dupont is bawling.
Oh sweet Jesus, Catherine thinks.
Dupont’s hand bolts down, grabbing the boy by the shirt collar, grasping enough of it that he is able to stand Joey up, his head in the air.
She tries to bring her pistol up at eye level to find him, take a level shot, but her sights are blocked by a curtain billowing. She has no room to maneuver.
“Help me!” Joey screams right at her. He’s been pulled up into Dupont’s arms now, the madman’s left arm around his stomach. Then Dupont tucks the gun and delivers a blade to Joey’s throat in one quick slashing movement. Blood spews out onto Dupont’s pants.
“Oh shit, shit!” Catherine screams, shouting in horrified madness. For a second, she can see Dupont’s face. It is christened in an exquisite rapture, watching her child’s blood gushing like an open bottle of champagne all over him. Cat hears a machine gun go off, glass shattering, the thud of a bullet. Ears numb. Light washes the room.
There is nothing.
Dupont and Joey are gone. She fears this the most.
Suddenly, glass is crunching, a door swinging open to the side of the room.
She rushes forward.
Light now is all around. She feels the night air on her arms and face. Her legs perform a crazy shuffle. Out…hurry…follow them. Stepping on glass shards, she stumbles to the door. One hand with her gun. Legs tensed, she steps into the night. Stairs. She slips, falling backward, scrambling up again. Under her, the gun. Don’t drop it.
Throat gripped in cold, moist air.
Outside now. Turned around. Confused. Trying to feel through the brush. Listen. Follow the trail. Left or right, which way did they go? She can’t think.
“Shit, shit,” she keeps saying under her breath, waiting to catch some sign of where Dupont and Joey have gone.
Something wet under her fingers. What is it? Fingers up to her nose, the smell metallic. Blood. A shuffle in the distance. Cat collapses. Up on her hands and knees now, crawling away from the house, she prays the chopper will not highlight her whereabouts for Dupont. The thump-thump-thump of chopper blades above tell her it is just off the coastline. Behind her, the house looms white against black.
She must stay low, out of sight. Breathing deep until she can stand, walk, run—until she finds them. Cat closes her eyes and turns her head left, then right, her mouth open, gasping for breath. Her hands on her weapon.
She gets off her knees, hears the sound. She hears Joey gagging. It is the sweetest and most horrific sound she has ever heard. For an instant, she is frozen. Thinking what he is doing to her son. She knows she must follow that sound. She makes up her mind not to think about it, about what he is doing to Joey. She runs forward in the brush.
Joey is still gasping. Cat doesn’t want anything to happen to him, but dear God, baby, keep making that noise.
She reaches a cliff face of sorts, taking a tentative, awkward step down the steep embankment toward the cries. She wants to move quickly, to run in their direction, each small, quiet step utterly frustrating. But she has to wait for them to reveal themselves. At the bluff’s top, she catches a glimpse of them a few hundred feet ahead, Dupont stumbling down the cliff face on a steep, barely defined path. His intention is clear. He will escape with Joey or die trying.
Now.
FORTY-TWO
There is in every true woman’s heart, a spark of heavenly fire,
which lies dormant in the broad daylight of prosperity; but which
kindles up, and beams and blazes in the dark hour of adversity.
—Washington Irving, The Sketchbook
Dupont scrambles down the cliff, Joey firmly in his grasp. Coastal cacti and grasses cut Dupont’s legs. Joey is screaming.
Dupont’s yacht is in sight, a three-quarter moon above lights the way.
Behind him, Cat is coming.
He can feel her, hear her.
He likes being pursued by her. To be near her.
Being out here is a rush.
And she is coming.
Cat-and-mouse, he thinks, smiling.
It is all a game.
Just the way he wants it. The way it is supposed to be.
Above in the not too far distance, lightning cracks. Then thunder less than a minute later. This is perfect. A storm is brewing, just as the weatherman predicted.
Someone comes over the cliff. Cat is coming.
Joey sees his mother and starts screaming louder.
Above the thunderclaps.
Dupont’s exhilaration increases.
Everything is coming together just as he planned.
Above Catherine, thunder claps again, closer. But she focuses on Dupont. She can see him. She can’t see Joey, but she hears him screaming.
The wind picks up, changing direction.
No longer a gentle night breeze.
Colder, more menacing.
Like the storm.
Like her life right now.
Dupont scurries to the boat.
It is big enough that if he makes it there with Joey, she may never see either of them again.
That can’t happen.
Dupont is almost to the boat.
Catherine is still a quarter of the way up the cliff. She has called off the police chopper. He watches it fly away.
Lightning again.
A flash that casts Joey and Dupont into a bright whiteness.
Joey breaks free.
He runs up the cliff, his face a mask of sheer terror.
Run, baby, run.
Dupont is startled by this sudden unplanned development. For a millisecond, Cat sees his indecision.
Run, Joey.
Her child is running toward her.
Then a gunshot. Joey stops in his tracks.
Oh no…no, my God, no.
Cat freezes.
Dupont is on the downed child, grabs him.
Cat can’t tell if he is hit or if he went down to avoid the bullet.
Then, in another lightning bolt, the proof is there. Joey’s side is red.
But his attempt at freedom wins Cat precious gained distance.
She knows that if Dupont makes the yacht, she will have a chance of making it there too.
Thank you, Joey. These words in her head seem hollow.
Dupont is only fifteen feet ahead now.
She can hear waves crashing against the boat. She is close, so very close, her breath ragged. Dupont is only steps away. Joey is still screaming, terrified. Dupont stumbles and goes down, a clap of lightning above. She sees him at the boat now, shoving Joey aboard. He resists.
“Mom, help!”
“Get on,” Dupont growls.
Joey does as he is told. Thunder rolls through the heavens. Dupont throws the child back and is at the console. Cat hears the engines start, smells exhaust fumes. “No, no, this can’t be happening. No.” Dupont guns the engines. Joey is thrown back. A towline is dangling off the back, three feet of towline. It is Cat’s only hope. She lunges for it.
“Come on, come on.”
As she grabs it, cold Pacific water hits her, jarring her senses, heightening them. Water surging all around. Her eyes sting with salt, engine fumes, all of it at once. But none of it matters. All that matters is Joey and getting to Dupont. The boat is accelerating. She pulls her body against the engines’ tow. With three big pulls she is hanging on a side cleat. She is in the water from the waist down.
Pull, Cat, pull. Wet fingers strain to keep hold. Dupont faces her, his eyes flashing in fury. He says nothing.
Cat pulls up, but the weight of her legs against the water is making it harder and harder to move. Her adrenaline kicks in. With one quick move, her left foot catches the side of the boat and gets traction.
Thank God for all those late-night runs. Her physical strength is a blessing.
Her arm muscles are screaming now, even though the water is cold and black. Just as she comes up over the side, she feels the boat shudder. A slight change of direction. Above her, Dupont. He has something in his hands. What is it?
Something shiny catches a light glimmer.
Lightning and thunder again over the roar of the engines. With a flash, something is digging into her hand. Pain as it makes its way through her tendons. What the…? She looks down. Dupont has jammed a grappling hook through her left hand. It is all she can do to hold on with her right hand. Her grip actually tightens. Fighting the pain, she pulls herself up and over the side. The hook is hanging from her hand. Blood everywhere. Joey screams at the sight of it. She starts to sweat.
Breathing is getting tighter.
Her field of vision is getting tighter, darker.
All of a sudden, there is not enough air in the world to fill her lungs.
She connects what is happening—shock.
But she can’t let that happen.
Not here. Not now. Not like this. She fights it.
No, not like this.
There is only one thing she can do.
She has to pull it out. There is no other way.
Dupont is on her, fighting her for control.
“No, you bastard.” She pushes him off, his eyes wild. She has no time to think.
Do what needs to be done. She reaches down and pulls with her right hand, trying to reverse the angle of the sharp hook, out of her hand. She feels it come out in one movement. Her legs go weak with pain, but she can’t let herself go down. Not now.
Cat’s hand is a mess—blood and white tendons hanging from it. She does not care. It does not matter.
Dupont picks up the hook with both hands and claps her across the face with it.
She can taste liquid metal in her mouth. Her jaw feels like it has been reset two inches to the left. “What the hell!”
She is up and on him in an instant. Her good hand is going after his eyes. He is moving side to side; he knows what she is thinking.
Her fingers find the mark.
She gouges his eyes.
He screams out, just as another clap of thunder roars.
“Take that, you devil!” she screams back.
He is over her, behind her, his arms holding her. His head butts her in the back of her head. They are tumbling together now. The boat is moving forward without a pilot.
Joey cries at the sight of his mother and this maniac covered with blood. The sound of him wrenches her back to reality. She has to end this.
The grappling hook is clanging on the deck, just out of reach.
She is looking into his eyes, his face just inches from hers.
Hatred there. He growls at her.
She holds his gaze while reaching with her good hand for something he does not see. The sky flashes again. Bright enough that she can see what she is doing. He looks at nothing but her face, her blood partially obscuring his vision.
Finally, she has her fingers around the grip.
He is over her.
Hits her again with his fist.
With one quick movement, she grabs the grappling hook’s handle and slams it against his jaw. She can see shock in his wide eyes.
With the force, he falls backward. He is cursing her but up on his elbows as quickly as she is on her knees. With the blow, the hook falls to the deck. She reaches for it again.
Once again, she is too quick for him. The hook finds its mark on the side of his head.
He is down again, this time not moving as quickly.
But still he is trying to get up.
She has the advantage now.
She is over him, on top of him.
The boat continues to plow forward, moving side to side. Quickly it jaunts right and she is thrown toward the left stern. The hook clangs above her head against its side. The boat rocks in the water. She can see white surf over her shoulder even in the driving rain. With the boat’s turn, Dupont rolls on top of her again. Now he is even stronger. Even angrier.
“Bitch.” His face is so close she can smell his breath. Cat just wants to kill him and get out of there. Frantically she reaches up, her good hand finding his eyes again. Her bad hand is not much use. He is over her. It is not good. He is going to strangle her. Then she remembers; there is someone else in this fight. Joey.
Above the engines and the ocean and the lightning, she screams, “Joey! Steer.”
She can hear him crying, but out of the corner of her eye she sees him move toward the helm. Dupont is so focused on her he does not notice.
The boat rocks farther left.
Pitches left.
She can see the black water right there. If she goes over now, it is all over. Dupont also rolls with the pitch. Then they both roll right. Hard right, him first.
She is behind him, then on him. Joey is trying to steer but has overcorrected.
Realizing what has happened, he cries “Mom, Mom!”
The hook clangs against the boat. She scrambles over Dupont, reaching for it. He has her calf in his hands, trying to hold her from it. With one final stretch, she has the hook in her hand. It is cold, slick and wet, covered in her own blood.
Above, suddenly, a spotlight.
The police chopper.
They can see her struggling with him.
Dupont is pulling at her leg, trying to pull her back. With a crack, she swings the hook wide and it comes down with force, finding its mark.
Dupont’s calf.
She can see the hook go in one side and its point out the other side of his leg. He screams in agony.
For a second, he lets go of her.
She is up.
Toward Joey.
Still at the helm trying to steer.
“Come on, baby, time to go.”
She has the back of his shirt, pulls him close, her arms protectively around him. He has never felt so good in her arms. She is up where the sail rigging is. Then, holding Joey as secur
ely as she can, she jumps.
Cold black water claps her back. The air goes out of her lungs. Everything is dark, black, confusing. Joey is gripping her so tight. Then she pops up out of the water.
Joey’s head follows. They are coughing.
Dupont’s boat is heading off into the distance. The chopper’s spotlight is so bright. She is terrified to be in the water this far out at sea. Tiny specs of light signify the coastline. The cold from the Pacific goes right through her bones. Joey’s face is white; his eyes seem to lose focus.
Teeth chattering.
Hypothermia.
He is just a little boy.
How will she protect him out here? The boat lights are heading away. Water is everywhere. Then the boat starts to come around. It is coming back.
Joey is coughing and sputtering.
What is she going to do?
Dupont is coming back.
The water is bone-chilling cold.
Joey is going into shock. She has no choice. She must get back on the boat with that lunatic. It is that or die out here in the Pacific.
A wave catches her square in the face as the boat comes closer and closer. She can see Dupont’s eyes glistening as he leans over the helm. There is pure evil in them, like nothing she has ever seen.
Lightning above.
She is shaking now too. Her jaw clenches as she tries to control the cold that has gripped her to her core. There is no controlling it.
Another twenty minutes of cold and she will be dead.
And he will have won.
Suddenly something comes flying at her. Her mind does not register what it is.
Then she knows.
Life jackets tied to a rope.
He wants them alive.
“Arghh!” she screams, struggles to hold Joey up with one hand and grab for the life jackets with the other. His face is white, his lips purple. Joey’s eyes have started to roll back into his head.
He is hypothermic.
Getting worse.
She has no choice.
She puts the life vest over Joey’s head and tells him, “Hold on to it, baby.” He manages a groan in response. It is all he can muster. She takes his arms and puts them through the sides and ties the jacket around him as best she can.
Joey groans again. He is hurting. Hurting bad.
A light in her face.
Water is all around.
The Burning Man Page 25