Daniel Palmer - Helpless

His mind sped through different scenarios. He needed to formulate a plan with the best odds for success. Sergeant Brendan Murphy had single-handedly made it a no-go to contact the Shilo PD.

Tom called Roland’s home number. Roland answered on the third ring.

“Roland, it’s Tom.”

“What do you want, Tom?”

“Is my daughter there?”

“She’s here.”

“Is she all right?”

“She’s with my son. They’re in his room, hanging out. How are you feeling?”

“Roland, I need you to forget about our issues. I need you to just think of me as a father. Forget anything else you suspect, or believe. Now, Jill called me. She sounded like she was in trouble. Can you please go check on her?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Roland! Please. Just check on her.”

Roland sighed into the phone. “Hang on,” he said.

One minute passed… then two.

Roland got back on the phone. “They’re fine,” he said.

“Did you speak to my daughter?”

“She said she was fine,” said Roland.

“Did you see her?”

Roland sighed again. “No. The door to Mitchell’s room was closed. But they said they were fine.”

“Roland, I need you to check again. I need you to open the door to the room and make sure she’s all right.”

“You know what, Tom? I’ve got other things to do with my time than listen to your paranoid delusions about my son. I think whatever pain meds they gave you have gone to your head. You have a good night. Glad you’re all right. Now, get some rest.”

Tom didn’t say anything more. Roland had hung up on him.

Tom decided his course of action well before the driver turned his cab onto Route 101A. The cab took the right-hand exit for south Shilo. Tom had no plans to try and reestablish contact with Jill. But when he got to Roland’s home, he’d attack the way an unconventional warrior was trained to wage a war.

The three characteristics of Navy SEAL mission planning were bottom up, extremely flexible, and short fused. By the time conventional forces finished developing their preliminary course of action briefs, a SEAL could be geared up, out the door, and engaging the enemy. Tom had been trained to think fluidly, to respond to information that could lead him from a dry target to one of high value.

Roland’s mistake was failing to establish visual confirmation of Jill’s well-being. Tom knew something was wrong. He’d heard the panic in her voice. He had no choice but to assume Jill was under duress when she claimed to be fine. That meant she needed to be extracted from the threat.

That was his one and only mission.

Tom kept his plan simple. He would enter through the front door with force, address any threats encountered, and exit with his daughter the way he came in. If there was time, he’d devise a backup plan before engagement. He’d learned that almost no plan survived first contact with the enemy. One of the SEALs many mottos evoked their ruthless determination. “The only easy day was yesterday!” His daughter was the objective. Anybody who stood in his way would be met with violence of action.

From what Roland had relayed, Tom believed his daughter was in Mitchell’s bedroom. He suspected the two were alone. Mitchell wouldn’t have risked attacking Jill otherwise. But if anybody became an obstacle, Tom would act decisively to ensure that the objective was safely extricated from the premises. No, not the objective, Tom reminded himself. His daughter.

Tom could drain himself of most emotion.

Just not all of it.

Tom mentally constructed a probable sequence leading up to his daughter’s phone call. Jill had gone to Mitchell Boyd’s house.

Why?

They were still seeing each other. Still involved. She knew that Tom disapproved. That was why she kept the relationship a secret from him.

Why didn’t they go to Jill’s house? he asked himself. He was in the hospital, and her house was empty.

Mitchell was a known womanizer, that was why. He wanted to show off in his domain. He wanted to impress her. To seduce her.

So, they were alone in his bedroom. Mitchell got aggressive. His daughter rejected him. Mitchell became angry. Simple as that.

“How far now?” Tom asked the driver.

“Three minutes. Four at the most,” the driver said. Tom had figured on that answer. He’d been keeping mental track of the time.

“What’s the big rush?” the driver asked. “Is there a fire where you’re going?”

“Not yet,” Tom answered him.

The cab turned onto Roland Boyd’s street.

“Shut off your lights,” Tom instructed. “Pull the cab to a stop fifty feet before the driveway on your right.”

“Shut off my—”

“Do it,” Tom commanded.

The cabdriver did as he was told.

“Do you have any duct tape in the trunk?”

The man stuttered before he could respond. “I think so,” he managed to say.

“Pop the trunk.” Tom heard a click as the trunk latch released. “How much money do you need to guarantee you’ll wait for me here?” Tom asked.

“Are you breaking the law?” the man asked.

“Give me a number.”

“Five hundred?” the driver said, though he made it sound like a question and not a demand.

“Done. I’ll be right back.”

Tom flicked a switch to shut off the cab’s interior light so he could exit the vehicle in darkness. He walked to the back of the cab and opened the trunk. He moved quickly to cover the trunk light with his cupped hand. Inside the trunk he found a roll of duct tape and, even better, a box of spark plugs.

Tom closed the trunk and fished around on the ground for a suitable rock. He took a single spark plug out from the box and, using the rock’s edge, knocked off a piece of the ceramic insulator. He slipped the ceramic piece into his pocket, grabbed the duct tape, and closed the trunk.

Tom cut a zigzagged path across the well-kept, chemical-green lawn. He avoided the lighted walkway and kept mostly to the shadows. He crouched low when he reached the front of the house. It was mostly windows, with more lights on in the home than he expected to see. But a long, trimmed row of evergreen shrubs kept him hidden from view. He was glad the Boyds didn’t have a dog, but was angry with himself for not having secured a weapon of some sort before he left the hospital.

Tom’s first objective was to enter the house silently. Cutting power to the home was one option, but he worried Mitchell might panic if the house went dark. Jill might try to escape and could get hurt in the process. A loud shattering window could result in the same. So Tom needed to break the window without making a sound.

The steps to the front landing were lit as well. Tom hid behind a large ceramic planter perched at the top of the landing. Somebody would have to open the front door to see him crouched there.

He confirmed that the front door was locked before pulling off the first strip of duct tape. He secured several strips of tape in an X-shaped pattern to the opaque, rectangular sidelight window nearest to the brass handle of the mahogany front door.

With the tape in place, Tom retrieved the ceramic spark-plug chip from his pants pocket. He moved out from the shadows and stood about five feet from the taped window. He threw the ceramic chip at the center of the X with a dart player’s grace. There was a quiet, near imperceptible popping sound when the chip hit the window. Veins of breaking glass danced an erratic pattern across the cracked window. But the combination of ceramic and duct tape made the break no louder than a drop of water landing in an empty bucket.

Tom popped the glass pane free from the door’s raised molding and removed it as silently as it had broken. He reached his hand through that opening and unlocked the door from the inside.