The hull of the boat is about five feet away. She can smell gas fumes from the engines.
He has the grappling hook out. The same one he used to shred her hand.
“Grab hold!” Dupont shouts.
She has no choice.
It is him or drown.
She glances at Joey. He is losing consciousness.
“Grab hold!” The shout comes again. She does as she is told.
“The boy first.”
She has no choice.
She must turn over her only child to him or watch Joey die. She takes the hook end of the grapple and puts it around the waist of the life vest.
Cat says a silent prayer. Please, God, protect him.
It is all she can do not to scream as she watches Joey move away from her. Toward the monster. He hauls the boy out by the jacket. Joey says nothing. He is limp. Lifeless.
“Now you.”
She looks up. Dupont’s eyes are all hope and terror, all in one. He smiles a sly smile, white teeth showing. She must get out of the water. God, forgive me. “Grab hold of the hook.” By now, her shredded hand is almost useless. She uses the other one to do as she is told.
She is being pulled to the boat.
She is face-to-face with him again. He is grinning. He thinks he has won.
“Welcome back. So good you decided to join me.” His tone is chilling, even more chilling than the cold night air.
She looks him straight in the eyes. “Screw you” is the best she can manage.
Exhaustion overtakes her and her legs meet the deck. She crumples into a ball, grabbing hold of her son, pulling him onto her lap.
She cradles him; his lips are white and blue. There is no color in his face. “Come on, baby.” She waits. “Open your eyes for mommy.”
Joey’s lids flutter open momentarily. He says something she cannot make out. His pupils are dilated and wide. She screams over the waves, engines, and thunder, “Do you have somewhere that I can get him warm?”
Dupont’s voice is low behind her. “Down below in the galley there is a first aid kit and blankets.”
She scoops up her limp child in her arms. As cold as she is, he is much colder. He doesn’t react to her touch. Her instincts take over as she rushes him below.
He shivers. His eyes open and close again.
She lays him down on the galley table and starts stripping off his wet clothes. His face is still ashen. Lips a blue shade she has seen before. She opens cabinets, searching for a first aid kit, finding a silver hypothermia blanket. Cat wraps Joey in it.
He does not seem the register the change around him.
Eyes flutter and close.
“Come on, baby, you’re okay.”
No response. She holds him tighter, rubbing his body, trying to warm him. His body feels like ice.
He is her all now.
He fills her mind and soul.
“Come on, baby. Be all right.” She has never meant anything more in her life.
“Please, God,” is all she can think to say. “Don’t let him die.”
Suddenly, something is around her throat, choking her. She hears him practically sneer the words. “So how is our little man? Going to make it, is he, doctor?”
Whatever is on her throat is bearing down harder. Tighter.
Enough of this.
She wants to scream “How dare you?” But her words are inaudible. No words come out. She cannot find her breathe.
“What? I didn’t hear you.”
As he clenches down harder, she struggles against him. But with her blood loss, he is stronger.
There is hissing in her ear.
The room is turning black. Black-and-white spots appear. She is sucking air. She is losing consciousness.
No!
Whatever he has around her neck is tightening.
She fights it, trying to get her fingers under whatever it is.
He will have none of it.
“Now be a good doctor,” he snarls against her left ear, “and go to sleep.”
No. She fights him with every ounce of her being.
But she can’t help it.
She is blacking out, leaving Joey helpless.
No. No. No. No. No.
Her good hand and her shredded hand have no strength.
Being in the water has taken it out of her. Buzzing in her ears increases. Black-and-white dots are bigger and bigger. A strange metallic taste in her mouth. Her legs cannot hold her weight. Suddenly she goes down. Her last thought and vision is Joey. Lying there surrounded by silver, only his wet hair and eyes visible. Eyes filled with fear.
Then there is blackness.
Deep blackness.
And silence.
FORTY-THREE
Until the day of his death, no man can be sure of his courage.
—Jean Anouilh
Joey says nothing. But sees all.
Dupont is standing over his mother, his face twisted in rage and hatred. Eyes burn into Joey with one quick glance. Then back to his mother, motionless on the floor.
What am I going to do? he thinks. I have to do something.
Joey’s eyes dart to the fire extinguisher just to his right, mounted on the galley wall. His right hand under the blanket quietly unhooks it from the mount.
Dupont is still transfixed by his mother.
She does not move.
Is she dead? he wonders.
Then rage overtakes Joey’s mind. He unwraps the blanket and throws it off, his hand up to the fire extinguisher. He is almost naked, only in his underwear, but it does not matter. The only thing he cares about is hurting this man who has hurt his mom.
Dupont turns, startled.
The extinguisher is up in front of Joey’s face. He blasts it down square in Dupont’s face. The white chemical covers him—his face, hair, eyes.
Dupont screams as the chemicals react with his eyes. He rips at his mouth and his eyes. With each attempt at a breath, the chemical crawls deeper and deeper into his nose, his eyes, his throat.
Choking him.
He is blind and mute. Choking.
In his mind, he is cursing the boy. But no words will come out.
The white stuff is all over the floor. In his desperation to breathe, Dupont loses his footing, goes down.
The boy is over him, knees straddling his chest.
Little brat, he thinks, trying to say it. But what comes out is something inaudible. He opens his eyes but can see nothing, yet he can feel the boy on him.
And smell the chemicals.
“Arrgh.” Some sound finally comes.
Joey does something unexpected. He takes the fire extinguisher up and over his head. He brings it down, right to left, in a strong swing that grazes Dupont’s left temple. The child’s strength must be fueled by adrenaline, Dupont thinks.
Dupont feels the pain, is staggered by it. What?
Astonished by this boy.
Astonished by the child’s arrogance. He is just like his mother.
Dupont is trying to find air, breathe, to express his shock.
How dare you? is all he can think.
Another blow comes left to right.
His brain reels with pain and lack of oxygen. Chemicals crawl deeper into his lungs, increasing their burn. He can’t see or hear anything that makes any sense.
Damn child is his last thought as he descends into blackness.
FORTY-FOUR
Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear—not absence of fear.
—Mark Twain, Pudd’nhead Wilson
Cat startles from her own darkness. She is covered in white stuff on her chest and her legs. What is it? It smells like chemicals. Joey is above her. His face is flush and tears well up.
To her right, Dupont is lying motionless, his face contorted into a strange mask. Even though he is out, his face is still twisted in hatred. The fire extinguisher lies next to Joey, also covered in white chemicals.
Joey whimpers, “Mom, I hurt him.”
Tears come as she opens her arms.
He falls into them, his full body weight against her, face buried.
He is sobbing, low and quiet.
He shudders as the tears come harder and faster.
“I hurt him.” A tiny voice on her shoulder.
She holds him tighter than she ever has before. My God, her mind says over and over.
She starts to cry too. Joey continues to shudder and cry.
“It’s okay, baby” is all she can muster. “It’s okay now.”
Her voice is so low she can barely hear it herself.
Joey looks up; his face tilts to one side.
“Safe?” he whispers.
It is all she can bear not to cry more.
She holds him by his shoulders, looking him straight in the eyes.
She whispers back, “Yes, safe.”
FORTY-FIVE
Often the test of courage is not to die but to live.
—Vittorio Alfieri, Oreste
She steers his yacht closer into the harbor aiming for an empty dock. With little sailing experience, Cat wonders how she has done it.
Gotten through this.
She had no choice. It was her and Joey. Or Dupont.
It is over.
She smiles as Dana Point Harbor comes closer into view. Moorings stand like glad sentinels around her. The dawn is breaking. The storm is past now. The sky is the color of cantaloupe. A low mist hangs over the water. Joey is asleep, not leaving her side. She wonders what emotional scars this night will leave on him, on them both.
But especially Joey.
His father is gone.
Now he will have to live with this the rest of his life.
Will his scars ever heal?
As the boat nears the dock, she can see McGregor, his face filled with worry.
For her, for Joey.
Charles Dupont, Eric, whatever he wants to call himself, is down below. They managed to tie him up with the netting Dupont used to try to strangle Cat while he was still out. Joey stirs and is immediately at her side. His small arms wrap around her waist as the dock nears.
“I’m scared.”
“It’s okay, baby. You are okay.”
He hugs her tighter. For a moment, she blames herself for what he has been through.
McGregor grabs the rope as they pull up, securing it to a cleat.
Joey clings to her. “It’s okay,” she says again. But her words seem not to register with her son. He looks up at her, and she realizes he is probably in shock—pupils dilated, breath shallow, skin an odd shade. She shouts to McGregor, “Call an ambulance, he’s in shock.”
Joey is collapsing at her feet. He is saying something she can’t understand. She takes his face between her hands. “It’s okay. We are safe. Stay with me.” Her words come at a quick clip. She realizes she is sucking air, hyperventilating. Calm down, calm down, she tells herself. Joey’s pupils continue to increase in size. He is now unable to speak.
Her legs turn to jelly.
But she must stay strong.
A bolt of adrenaline kicks in. She lifts Joey in her weary arms. She is sprinting toward McGregor, then passes him.
She can hear the ambulance sirens whine. It is there at the docks.
Her limbs are so tired, one hand is a mess, but none of that matters. All that matters is getting Joey to medical attention, and even though she is a forensic MD, he needs more medical help than she can provide. She feels helpless. This tiny boy she gave birth to, in her arms, looking smaller than ever.
Needing her more than ever. And she can do nothing but run with him.
My God, how did it come to this? How did Dupont do this to Joey, to me?
“No,” she says out loud, “I won’t let you take my son.” She wills her legs to move faster. Her lungs are burning.
She can’t feel her injured hand but does not care. She climbs into the ambulance with Joey. Tells the paramedics the basics. They take over as she takes stock of what has happened. She sees nothing but her son.
Suddenly McGregor’s arm is around her; he tries to console her.
Fear, grief, and panic fill her. She allows herself to feel them fully for the first time.
The air is thick, unbearable. She watches Joey, who looks small and innocent, as the paramedics work feverishly. The siren is blaring. Lights flash from the siren outside.
She puts her hands up in prayer, bowing her head into her hands. More hot tears.
How did it come to this?
She can’t respond. She realizes she is in shock.
She watches as the paramedics work on her mangled hand but feels nothing. Says nothing.
How can she?
It is over.
She is safe and will survive. Joey is safe and will survive.
That is all she ever asked from God.
FORTY-SIX
Nothing can be created out of nothing.
—Lucretius, “DeRrerum Natura”
Cat wakes in the hospital to a stinging IV drip, the beep-beep-beep of the monitor in her ear for the second time in weeks. She is so tired of hospitals. Her sheets smell like bleach and Bounce. Not a good combination. Wet hair prickles her neck.
She dreads looking at her bad hand but pulls down the sheets. Some neurosurgeon has been very hard at work reconnecting tendons. Trying to put things back as they were. But how can they be as they were? Her hand is a mass of bandages, but she can feel the pain.
She will never be the same.
Her mind shifts to Joey. How is he?
Bile in her mouth, she is ripping out the IV and pulse monitor, jumping out of bed. The room is cold, cold tile on her feet.
She doesn’t care.
Joey.
Where is Joey?
She rams into McGregor as she runs from the room.
“And just where do you think you’re going?” he says.
“Where is my son?”
“He’s okay. He’s in recovery.”
Thank God, she thinks. But says nothing.
Her eyes grow wide. “And…?”
McGregor knows what she is asking. He looks at the floor. Looks at her hand. Looks at anything but her eyes. They are boring into him.
“And…?” Her voice is monotone and cold.
“Let me show you” is all he can say. It is not easy for him, she can see. He did not want this. Nor does she.
“No. Tell me the truth.”
His eyes meet hers. Then they are away again, darting to the floor, walls, ceiling.
She will have none of it. “Tell me.” She holds his arm in a vise grip.
His wet eyes meet hers. She does not understand why.
He says two words and she understands. “He’s gone.”
It is clear he is sucking in oxygen. His eyes refuse to meet hers.
“What? No…” Her body physically refuses to believe it.
Her eyes are stinging. She feels as if every vein in her body is about to burst.
Her brain cannot register it.
“What?” she says again, and even that is an effort.
McGregor looks like a small boy for a second.
Good God, Joey has more balls than this is all she can think.
“WHAT?” she says one more time, her voice growing hard and menacing.
“He is gone.”
A jolt through her body like an earthquake. She can’t believe what she is hearing.
“Let me show you,” McGregor says.
Her hand is clutching and releasing in anger. Her blood pressure and heart rate have spiked.
He pulls photos out of a manila envelope, police standard. But there is nothing standard about what has become of her life. Her ex-husband is gone. Joey is forever changed.
Nothing can change that. Nothing can take them back to where they used to be.
Her body is numb, her mind even number. Slowly, McGregor pu
lls the photos out.
He holds them in front of her, telling her something…she only hears pieces but it is enough. “We went back to the boat. We found the netting he tried to strangle you with. We found the chemicals. He was not there.”
“What?” Her brain is numb. She is not aware she is alive now. The world is dead to her. She feels her knees go weak. “What?”
McGregor tries to modulate his tone without success. Beads of sweat are visible on his forehead and upper lip.
“What?” she says again, her voice barely audible.
“He was not there, Cat. Gone. We found his footprints up the steps out of the galley.”
Cat is silent.
“Apparently he was watching you, us, as you docked and Joey collapsed…”
With that, her body goes weak. She cannot think. She knows nothing, says nothing. Not even breathing feels normal. “What?” is all she can say.
McGregor is still sweating.
“He was watching you as you brought the boat to the dock. Then, with all the confusion with Joey, he slipped away.” McGregor’s tone is apologetic, as if any apology could make up for this.
Cat stares at him, utterly silent. What is there to say?
She risked her life. Gave up her hand.
Her child would never be the same, and now this.
GONE. THE MONSTER IS GONE.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
When trial lawyer and new author Solange Ritchie isn’t practicing law, you can usually find her penning her next legal thriller.
Born in the beautiful tropical island of Jamaica of a Jamaican father and a French mother, Solange immigrated to the US at age 11. Since then, she has been a dynamic force for change. Fed up with thrillers that start with a fizzle and longing to see more power women as lead characters, Solange decided to create her own characters. Despite the demands of a busy legal career with her husband, Steve Young, she accomplished her ambitious goal by rising each morning to write before work, dedicating her weekends to writing and even spending her vacation time writing.
Words have always been Solange’s passion. Now so, more than ever.
Solange achieved a successful writing career while working hand in hand with her husband doing “last minute trials” mostly in Southern California. Dubbed “the Case Saver,” Solange does the “heavy lifting,” handling intense paperwork that can either make or break a case, especially in business, labor and employment law areas. With a Bachelor in Telecommunications BA from the University of Florida, and after serving as Editor in Chief of Law Review at Western State College of Law, Solange’s passion for writing has always been clear.
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