Daniel Palmer - Helpless

He stood in the same foyer where weeks ago he’d come to ask Roland about Kip Lange. He listened for any sounds that might direct him. He heard nothing useful. Tom’s footsteps fell silently as he ascended the winding staircase in front of him. He assumed Mitchell’s bedroom was located on the second level. If his daughter was still in the house, that was where he would find her.

At the top of the stairs, Tom came to a long east-west-running corridor. Light seeped from a closed door at one end of the hallway.

Tom moved toward that door. He kept his breathing quiet. When he couldn’t pad his footsteps on the plush carpeting, he stayed close to the wall, where the floors typically creaked less.

Tom continued noiselessly down the hall. He moved the way he’d been trained. He set his heel down first and rolled his foot slowly and gently toward his toes. He bent low at the knees to improve his balance. He tightened the muscle on the inside of his pelvis.

At the end of the hallway, Tom pressed his body against the wall and leaned his head toward the door to get a better listen. No sound. Nothing at all.

He heard a cry. It was a soft, plaintive, scared-sounding cry. It was Jill. Close as he was to rescuing her, Tom managed to remain calm. He took a few breaths to center himself. He reached for the doorknob.

With a gentle nudge, Tom pushed the door open. Only part of his body was exposed to the room. He peeked inside.

Mitchell Boyd was standing with his back to the door. Jill was seated on his bed. The boy’s position kept him from getting a clear visual of his daughter. Jill’s sobbing was louder now. There was no way for Tom to tell if she was hurt or not. Tom needed to ascertain if Mitchell carried a weapon.

Tom pressed his body against the wall. Through the slot between the door and the doorjamb, he had Mitchell directly in his line of sight. He knocked on the open door.

Mitchell whirled around. Nobody was standing in the doorway. Mitchell appeared to be confused.

Tom determined the boy was unarmed. That was all the information he needed. Mitchell took a single step toward the open door. Tom pushed himself clear of the wall.

“Dad!” Jill cried out. He could hear the relief in her voice.

Tom charged at Mitchell. There were hundreds of ways Tom could incapacitate him. What he needed was one that wouldn’t permanently injure or kill the boy.

In hand-to-hand combat, the body got divided into three sections—high, middle, and low. Each section was rife with vital targets, key nerves and arteries that, when struck, caused debilitating pain, unconsciousness, or even death. Tom knew every target and could attack them at will with bold precision. A strong blow to the side of the neck—specifically, below and slightly in front of the ear—shocked the carotid artery, jugular vein, and vagus nerve. Such a strike would render his opponent instantly unconscious. A lesser blow would result in intense, but incapacitating pain.

Tom opted not to hit Mitchell at all. Rather, he applied pressure to the strike area. Mitchell shrieked at Tom’s touch and fell helplessly to the floor. Jill leapt up from the bed as soon as Mitchell went down, and grabbed hold of her father. Tom felt her body shake with sobs.

“Are you okay?” Tom asked. “Are you hurt, Jill?”

She was hyperventilating. Her hot tears wet his shirt. Mitchell was still groaning on the floor beside them.

“Slow your breathing. Are you hurt? Did he rape you?”

Jill shook her head. Tom let out a huge relieved breath.

“Can you walk out of here with me?”

“Yes…. Please… take… me… home….” Each word she spoke was punctuated by a fast breath that was also part cry.

They turned to leave.

But Roland Boyd was blocking the doorway. “What the hell is going on here!” Roland shouted.

Tom let go of Jill and rushed at Roland. Before Roland could even put his hands up in defense, Tom secured a grip around his neck and had him pinned against the door frame.

“You wouldn’t open the door! You wouldn’t check in on my daughter!”

“What… what did Mitchell do?” Roland said. Roland’s face turned red from the constricted blood flow. His words came out weak because of the grip Tom held around his throat.

“By the looks of it, he assaulted her,” Tom said to him. “We’re leaving. Now.”

“You can’t just break into my home and attack my family,” Roland managed to say.

“I’m leaving with my daughter now, and you can’t stop me,” Tom shot back.

Mitchell was still writhing on the floor in pain. He was holding his neck and whimpering.

“You can go back to jail for this,” Roland said.

“Cool. Mitchell and I can become prison pals.”

Tom eased his grip around Roland’s neck. Roland slumped to the floor and began rubbing at the spot where Tom’s hand had been.

“Let’s be rational here,” Roland said, still breathing hard. Mitchell had managed to get himself onto his knees. He wasn’t going to be standing anytime soon.

“Okay, let’s,” Tom said. “I need five hundred dollars for my cab ride home.”

“Are you buying what I think you are?” said Roland.

Tom got low to the floor. He leaned in close to Roland so that Jill couldn’t overhear him. “I’m not buying my daughter’s silence, if that’s what you’re asking. If she wants to press charges against Mitchell, that’ll be her decision.”

Roland took out his wallet. He stayed slumped on the floor. He fished out five crisply pressed hundred-dollar bills.

“I hope it doesn’t come to that,” Roland said.

Tom plucked another hundred from the billfold. “For the tip,” he said.

Tom stood and took hold of Jill’s hand. They walked the length of the hallway together. He helped his daughter navigate the majestic staircase, because her footing was uncertain. They emerged into a star-drenched night, bathed by a warm southerly breeze, and followed the walkway to the driveway’s edge.

Tom signaled for the waiting cab. The driver kept his headlights turned off. He pulled over to pick them up. Tom eased Jill into the backseat of the cab. He came around the other side and slipped in beside her.

“Where to?” the driver asked.

“Home,” Tom said.

Jill rested her head on his shoulder as she wept.

Tom eased Jill onto the sofa. Her skin was pale and clammy to the touch. Her breathing was shallow. He covered her with a thick fleece blanket and left the living room, to return holding a blood pressure cuff and gauge. Over the years coaching soccer, Tom had amassed enough medical equipment to open his own ambulatory service. To his relief, the blood pressure reading was normal, so while Jill exhibited some of the symptoms of shock, he didn’t need to rush her to a hospital.

Tom sat on the faded yellow armchair across from Jill. His head continued to pound. Adding to his discomfort, Tom’s knee had ballooned to the size of a youth soccer ball, and the IV puncture hole had begun to bleed.

Jill pointed to the red river of blood that snaked across the back of Tom’s hand and ended up as drips on the armchair.

“You’re bleeding, Dad,” she said. Those were the first words she’d spoken since the cab ride home. “I’ll get you a bandage.”

Jill came back with a Hello Kitty Band-Aid. The two shared a quick laugh after she secured it in place.

“Are you ready to talk?” Tom asked.

Jill retreated to the sofa and rested her head on a makeshift platform of her interlocking fingers. She kept her eyes fixed to a spot on the floor, and her expression remained grave.

“I’m not going to judge you, honey,” Tom added, “but I’d like to know the truth. What did Mitchell Boyd do to you?”