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.