Helpless (5 page)

Odd the computer wasn’t taken in the robbery,
thought Tom.

“Any of these?” Tom asked as Jill switched from picture to picture, as if changing channels on the TV. There were pictures of Jill and Kelly on a hike, apple picking in the fall, skating in winter, swimming in summer. None of the pictures included Tom. It was like watching vignettes from a life that he could have lived.

“Some of them are okay,” said Jill. “But if she doesn’t have a cigarette in her hand, she’s got a drink, or she’s wearing something that isn’t really appropriate.” She grimaced and covered her mouth with her hands. “I can’t believe I just said something bad about Mom.”

Tom rested a hand on his daughter’s shoulder and felt a lump in his throat. He fought back his own tears so that he could stay strong for her. “Honey, it’s all right to say whatever you feel. Your mom wasn’t perfect, but none of us are. Sure, I wish she didn’t smoke, but I’m glad you don’t. And I wish she didn’t drink as much as she did, either, but never for a moment, not a single moment, did I think she wasn’t taking good care of you. And as for her clothes, well, I think the picture on the couch looks great, if you like it, too.”

Jill nodded. “That’s the picture we’ll use,” she said. She got quiet, and Tom gave her the time she needed to speak again. “Did you know that Mom and I got into a huge fight last year, when I told her I was going to try out for the soccer team?”

Tom shook his head. “No. But I can imagine why.”

“She didn’t want me to have anything to do with you. She really hated you. I mean, I don’t think I ever heard her say one nice thing about you. Not ever.”

“So why did you try out?”

“I’ll show you.” Jill got up and went over to her closet. She came back holding a stack of colorful cards and letters. Of course, Tom recognized them; he had written them all. Jill dropped the stack on the floor, next to where Tom was kneeling.

“This is why,” she said. “All these letters and cards you sent me. And I knew that everybody on the soccer team loved you. The players loved you. The parents loved you. I guess I finally got curious. It didn’t make sense to me that the person who wrote these letters was the same person my mom couldn’t stand.”

Tom swallowed hard as his throat closed.

She had read them. He had reached her.

“And how do you feel about me now? We’ve got one season under our belts. Are you ready to trust me?”

Jill fixed her father with a cold stare. “You’ve really been there for me since ... all this. I just don’t get it. Why did Mom hate you so much?” she asked.

There it was again, the question Tom could never answer. “Sometimes people just turn against each other,” he said. “I wish I could give you a better reason, but I can’t.”

“Did you hate her?”

Tom took in a sharp breath. “No.”

“Would you ever hurt her?”

“No,” Tom said again. He scooped up the stack of letters and cards and held them up for Jill to see. “Look, I know we haven’t been close. I know your mom has said a lot of bad things about me over the years. But you’ve got to believe one thing. I would never—ever—hurt your mother. Ever.”

Jill thought. Then she just nodded. Even though she didn’t say anything, Tom could tell that she believed him. If anything, all those cards and letters had made her believe.

Tom glanced at the montage of digital pictures still showing on Jill’s laptop. It was time, he decided, to become part of the photographs of her life. He could no longer wait for their relationship to heal itself. It was time to stop believing that being her coach was the closest he’d ever get to being her father.

They didn’t speak for a long moment. All was quiet except for a dog’s loud barking. The barking seemed to be coming from the neighbor’s yard. Jill looked puzzled as she stood up, went to the bedroom window, and peered into the backyard.

“That’s Rusty,” she said, craning her neck sideways to get a better look outside.

“Haven’t had the pleasure to meet him yet,” said Tom.

“Rusty’s about the quietest dog you could even imagine. Mr. McCaskey’s always joking that he wanted a guard dog and got himself a big pussy cat instead.”

Tom’s body tensed, but thanks to his navy training, Jill couldn’t possibly have noticed. “Bet it’s a coyote or fox,” he said, hoping he sounded certain. “We’ve had plenty of those animals around here lately.”

“You think?”

Tom got quiet. He went over to her bedroom window, pushed the curtain aside, and peered out into the darkness.

A Navy SEAL was taught how to tune his night vision the way a bodybuilder learned how to put on muscle. Tom knew better than to discount the something he thought he saw out back as nothing
.
He saw movement in the woods.

“Yeah,” said Tom. “I’m sure it’s nothing. But I’ll go check, anyway. Okay?” It was probably nothing, he reassured himself.

“Okay,” Jill said, sounding tentative.

“Just stay here in your bedroom. I’ll be right back.” He didn’t bother to tell Jill to lock the doors. Rather than frighten her for no good reason, Tom locked the back door himself. He checked the front door after closing it behind him. It was locked, too.

Chapter 6

T
om kept to the side of the house as he worked his way from the front yard to the back. He didn’t want to reveal himself just yet.

Just in case.

Just to be careful.

His breathing stayed even, pulse rate steady, nothing elevated. His SEAL training never left him. It was ingrained. He was, and would forever be, a warrior.

The dark vinyl siding of the house provided excellent cover, while the roof overhang kept him out of the moonlight. To keep noise to a minimum, Tom put all his weight on one foot, while stepping with the other. He used short steps. That helped him maintain his balance. Tom reached the far edge of the house, and there he waited, listening. Rusty’s barks continued unabated. The noise made it impossible to hear any movement in the woods at the edge of the wide, flat backyard.

“Shoot, move, or communicate and do it with violence of action.” That sacred maxim was a SEAL’s response to any threat. It was what made the enemy fear the SEAL above all others. They were the men who ran to, not from, the sound of gunfire. But SEALs weren’t reckless in their bravery, and the saying “The more you train in peacetime, the less you bleed in war” had served Tom and his fellow combatants well.

Tom visualized what he could not see. The dog was barking from the McCaskeys’ back porch. The porch was elevated about twenty feet off the ground. He remembered having seen lawn signs for the McCaskeys’ electric fence. Rusty could get down into the yard if he wanted. Why didn’t he? Maybe Rusty couldn’t see what was bothering him from the yard, thought Tom.

Tom listened some more. Perhaps Rusty was using the porch like a hunter’s observational tree stand. From the McCaskeys’ yard, Rusty’s keen eyes could scour the woods directly in front of Tom but would not be able to see what Tom had observed from Jill’s bedroom. Whatever was troubling Rusty was probably near the spot where Tom had spied something rustling in the woods.

Good doggy,
thought Tom. He knew the path to take where he couldn’t be seen.

Tom waited for a thin stretch of clouds to scud overhead. With the moonlight obscured, he crouched low to the ground and made a quick dash for a tall oak tree about halfway to the woods. He waited for more cloud covering before he moved again. He darted from tree to tree until he cleared the backyard entirely, then sank into the vast woodlands behind the house.

Rusty’s barks camouflaged Tom’s footsteps. He walked just inside the perimeter of the woods. He stopped. In a few more yards he’d be directly across from Jill’s bedroom window. The threat, if there was any, could be lurking anywhere from this point on. Tom had plenty of tree cover to conceal his location. He peered out from behind an ancient hemlock and saw movement some twenty yards ahead. He didn’t need good night vision to make the sighting. The moonlight helped.

Tom saw a shadow flicker when the moonlight turned even more revealing. He crawled forward on his belly, keeping his legs open, consciously using the insides of his knees to maintain contact with the ground. His elbows, fixed at ninety-degree angles, pulled him over dirt and rocks. Tom got to within a few yards of the shadow before he saw it in full view.

It wasn’t a fox or coyote.

It was a man.

The prowler had a muscular build, visible beneath his tight-fitting clothes. He was dressed all in black and wore a ski mask to conceal his face. He used binoculars to survey the rear of the house. He looked to be watching Jill, who was at her bedroom window, probably searching for Tom. The binoculars were night vision capable, had to be—but not army issued, something store-bought, costing below a grand. The man was crouched on one knee, making it hard for Tom to estimate his height and weight. But he was broad shouldered, so Tom put him at about six foot two, and somewhere between a buck ninety and two-ten.

Shouldn’t be hard
.

Tom tossed a small stone into the woods, ten or so feet behind the prowler and to his left. The stone landed with a thud on a bed of fallen leaves. The man lowered his binoculars and craned his head to look over his left shoulder.

Tom sprung to his feet and charged. Two steps, and he was within striking distance. His first blow would need to be a decisive one. Tom smashed his elbow crosswise into the side of the man’s head, which was turning from the direction where the stone had fallen, toward the new noise coming from his right. Should have been the end of it, but the prowler had surprisingly quick reflexes and pulled back, so Tom merely delivered a glancing blow.

The prowler executed a flawless shoulder roll on the uneven ground and was back on his feet in seconds, with some distance between himself and Tom. The move looked effortless.
Training,
thought Tom. The prowler retreated into the woods.

Tom took five long strides before he launched himself into the air. With his body still in flight, and parallel to the ground, Tom made a diving tackle, wrapping his arms around the man’s waist as he spun right. He used the prowler’s body to cushion his fall.

Tom got off two quick punches, one to the man’s solar plexus, and the other connecting hard to the same spot his elbow had only brushed. The air rushed out of the man’s lungs, and Tom heard a satisfying grunt. Tom ripped the ski mask off the man’s head, but it was too dark to see his face.

“Who are you?” Tom shouted. “What do you want?” Tom took hold of the man’s black wool sweater and pulled him close to his face. “Answer me!” Tom shook him by the sweater.

No answer. Tom freed one of his hands and used it to snap off two quick blows just beneath the right orbital socket.
Damn the missing moonlight,
he thought. What more could he tell in the dark?
White male? Yes. Hair color? Brown. Eye color? Unknown. Distinguishing marks? Unknown.

The moonlight returned. It illuminated the man’s face.

An icy chill streaked down Tom’s back.
It’s impossible. It can’t be him. He’s in prison.

The last time Tom had seen the man’s picture was fifteen years ago.

It couldn’t be him—but the face was too distinctive to be mistaken. He had the same aquiline nose Tom remembered. A jaw that was much more narrow than his cheekbones. The eyes were set deeply and stuck in a permanent squint. His lips were neither thick nor thin. His eyebrows were straight as the horizon.

“Lange?” he asked. “Is that you?”

From behind, Tom heard a panicked cry. “Dad! Dad, are you all right? Dad! What’s going on?”

Tom turned to look. He looked only because it was his daughter calling him. In that split second his focus was no longer locked on his target. The very next instant, Tom felt a heavy blow crash into the side of his skull.

The binoculars.

Tom fell to the ground.

“What’s happening!” Jill shouted into the dark woods.

Tom staggered to his feet, and took two uneven steps. Blood pounded inside his head. He could see the prowler running away. He started to give chase, but his vision went dark. He took two more steps, tripped over a root, and fell. Off in the distance, Tom heard the sound of fast-falling footsteps breaking branches and crunching leaves.

Lying facedown in the dirt, Tom reached forward, searching out a root, a branch, anything to give him leverage to stand. He listened to the prowler’s footfalls as he made an escape into the darkness of the woods. In a few hundred yards the intruder would reach the same ravine where Kelly had died. Tom searched the ground around him for the black ski mask, but like the prowler, it was gone.

“Dad! Dad!” Jill screamed, breaking branches as she rushed to his side. “Are you all right?”

Tom sat on the ground and rubbed his throbbing head. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he said, breathing hard.

“Who was that?” Jill asked, her voice nearing a frantic pitch. She knelt on the ground beside Tom and clutched his shoulder with her hand. Her fingers dug painfully into Tom’s skin.

“I think it might have been somebody your mom and I once knew,” Tom said, still struggling to catch his breath. “We knew him from a long, long time ago,” he continued. “When you were just a baby. A guy from the military named Kip Lange.”

“Do you think he’s the one who broke into our house?”

“Maybe,” said Tom. “I don’t know. I’m not even sure it was him. It just looked like him.”

“I don’t understand. If Mom knew him, why would she have run?” asked Jill. “Why would he have come back?”

Tom locked eyes with his panicked daughter. Her face had a ghostly white pallor, the same color as the moon. “I don’t know,” he said.

He did know.

But he couldn’t say.

Chapter 7

T
he receptionist jumped a little as Tom Hawkins neared her desk. “Attorney Pressman is waiting for you in his office,” she said, pointing to Marvin’s closed office door.

He took off his Red Sox baseball hat, damp from an August rain, and thanked her. The woman, not yet thirty, did not reply.