Chapter 17 - The Rocks of Nahant
The nor'easter slammed into the Massachusetts coastline with the fury of a thousand battering rams. Giant twenty-foot rollers crashed against the jagged black granite cliffs of Nahant, throwing plumes of freezing white spray sixty feet into the dark night sky.
At the summit of the headland, the ancient cast-iron lighthouse rotated its blinding white beam across the churning abyss of the Atlantic.
Inside the glass-enclosed watch room of the Coast Guard station, we stood shoulder to shoulder. David had wrapped a heavy navy pea coat around my shoulders. Greg stood beside Molly, who was holding Chloe in her lap. Chloe was wrapped securely in the restored blanket, its emerald edges glowing under the soft green instrument lights of the radar consoles.
"There she is," the radar officer said, pointing a steady finger at a glowing green blip struggling through the white squall three miles offshore. "Vessel *Sovereign Lady*. Her port engine just failed. She’s taking heavy water over the stern, and she’s being driven directly toward the Roaring Bull shoals."
Through the high-powered marine binoculars, I could see the sleek white hull of Julian Sterling’s luxury yacht. It looked puny, pathetic, and frail against the raw, indifferent violence of the North Atlantic.
The blinding sweep of the lighthouse beam caught the yacht’s deck.
Standing by the flybridge railing, clinging desperately to an aluminum stanchion as the freezing waves washed over her designer boots, was Evelyn. Her golden hair was plastered across her skull like wet straw; her fur coat was soaked, heavy, and dragging her toward the rail. In her arms, she was still clutching the empty mahogany heirloom box, refusing to let go of the illusion of stolen wealth even as the ocean rose up to swallow her.
Behind her, Julian Sterling was on his knees, frantically trying to deploy an inflatable life raft that had become hopelessly fouled in the ship's crushed rigging.
"Coast Guard cutter is ten minutes out, Mr. Vance," the station commander said, turning to David with grave eyes. "With the tide running this hard against the rocks, that yacht won't last seven."
Chloe pulled the blanket down from her chin. She looked through the thick, salt-streaked glass of the watch room down at the tiny, doomed speck in the raging sea.
"Mommy?" Chloe whispered, her little voice cutting through the tension of the room.
"Yes, my darling?"
"Is that Aunt Evelyn?"
I knelt down beside her chair, taking her small, warm hands in mine. "Yes, Chloe."
Chloe looked at the blanket in her lap—the blanket that had survived the trash can, the slander, the fire, and the hate. She reached out and touched the soft, indestructible emerald silk trim.
"She’s very mean," Chloe said softly, a tear welling in her clear brown eye. "And she tried to kill our looms. But Mommy... nobody should drown in the dark."
The room went dead silent.
Greg turned his head away, his shoulders shaking with silent, profound emotion. Molly closed her eyes, letting out a long, shuddering breath.
David looked down at my daughter. The ruthless titan of industry, the man who had crushed corporate empires without blinking, bent down until he was eye-to-eye with the little girl whose innocence had withstood every cruelty thrown against us.
David picked up the Coast Guard tactical radio handset. He keyed the mic.
"Admiral Miller. This is David Vance."
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"Go ahead, David," the Admiral’s voice crackled through the gale static.
"Launch the Sikorsky rescue chopper from Salem immediately. Deploy the hoist divers. Save the people on that boat." David paused, his hand gently resting on Chloe’s head. "Whatever crimes they committed, they will answer for them on dry land, in front of a judge, with the whole world watching."
