Helpless Page 4

  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

  The 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.

  I’m the ex-husband of a woman who was murdered three days ago, Tom told himself. People aren’t going to know how to act around me.

  Jill shuffled along behind her father. He hadn’t let her out of his sight since the incident in the woods. She had spent the night with him at his house in Westbrook. What she didn’t know, but soon would find out, was that she’d be spending every night there.

  Tom paused at the door to Marvin’s office. “I haven’t seen Marvin since high school,” he said. “We’re going to need a few minutes to play catch-up. Then we’ll get down to business.”

  Jill had her head bowed and her mouth in a frown. “Whatever,” was all she said.

  “Everything is going to be all right, Jill,” Tom said. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you.” Tom gave Jill a hug, but his daughter turned her head sideways, leaving her arms hanging limply by her side.

  Persistence and patience, Tom reminded himself. Persistence and patience. The two Ps formed the foundation of Tom’s well-proven coaching philosophy. Showing frustration with a struggling player was the surest way for that player to lose interest in the game. Tom had made huge strides in repairing their damaged relationship. But he understood that he still had a long way to go. If his daughter sensed his own frustration with her, she could easily lose interest in him.

  Tom knocked on the door to Marvin’s office, heard a muffled “Come in,” and went inside.

  Marvin was standing behind an expansive desk, reading a document he held in both hands. Back in high school, Marvin had been a good-natured kid with a tangle of unkempt, curly hair. Tom remembered him struggling through several failed bids to make the soccer team. But his former classmate had gone from skinny to heavyset, and his thinning hair looked to be losing the battle.

  Sifting through Kelly’s papers, Tom had discovered that she had recently hired Marvin to help her negotiate a settlement for her mounting credit card debt. Tom had called Marvin and confirmed for himself that he was the right man for the job.

  “Tom Hawkins,” Marvin said, coming out from behind his desk and walking toward him with lumbering steps. His voice was a deep, pleasing baritone, befitting his large frame. He shook Tom’s outstretched hand with vigor. “It’s great to see you. Though I’m terribly sorry about the circumstances.”

  Marvin quickly turned his attention to Jill. “Hi there,” he said, shaking Tom’s daughter’s hand as though she were his peer. “I want you to know how truly sorry I am for your loss. I knew your mother well. This is all just a terrible, terrible tragedy. You have my deepest sympathy.”

  “Thanks,” Jill said in a quiet voice.

  “Honey, if you want to take a seat on the couch over there,” Tom said, pointing. “Marvin and I have some catching up to do.”

  Jill slipped buds into each ear and sat on the couch without verbally acknowledging Tom’s request. Even from across the room, Tom could hear snippets from whatever music was permanently damaging her hearing. Jill took out her cell phone, and Tom could tell that she was texting.

  “How’s she holding up?” Marvin asked, motioning with his head toward Jill, who seemed oblivious.

  “She’s doing okay. As well as can be expected.”

  “The funeral is next Wednesday, right?”

  “That’s right,” Tom confirmed.

  “Any break in the case?”

  “No, nothing new,” Tom said.

  “Any theories?”

  “Only that she walked in on a robbery in progress, but that’s still speculation. All we know is that somebody was definitely in the house with her. There’s evidence of a struggle and assault. The police think at some point she broke away and ran out the back door, slipped and fell down the ravine, hit her head on a rock, and died instantly. But they don’t know who broke into the house.”

  “Any suspects?” asked Marvin.

  Tom pointed to the red welt on the side of his head where he’d been hit with the binoculars. “I caught, or almost caught, somebody out back of Jill’s house, surveying the property with binoculars.”

  “You think it’s him?”

  “Maybe. I told Brendan Murphy about it. Gave him a name, because I thought I recognized the guy. He said he’s looking into it. That’s all I’ve heard.”

  “Sounds like progress.”

  “I’m not sure about that,” Tom said in a low voice. “I think Murphy is still convinced that I had something to do with what happened to Kelly.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  Tom glanced over at Jill, still seated on the leather couch, relieved her attention was fully engaged in electronics. “I went to the police station voluntarily, and he did everything but name me as an official suspect. Apparently, he visited Westbrook and interviewed some of my neighbors to see if any of them witnessed me leaving my house when I said I did.”

  “Did any of them see you?”

  “No idea,” Tom said. “But Murphy paid a visit to my next-door neighbor. She felt bad telling me that she didn’t see me leave.”

  Marvin scoffed. “Murphy’s always had a pole up his ass about you,” he said. “But… now, I’m just being curious, mind you…. Do you have an alibi?”

  “Well, I was at the Home Depot near where I live, buying a box of nails when it happened, only I didn’t save the receipt and I paid in cash.”

  “That’s a drag,” Marvin said.

  “Figures my car was parked where the mall security cameras couldn’t see it, and I was wearing a hat, so it was impossible to make a positive ID from the surveillance inside the store.”

  “Did you save the box?”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “The box should have a SKU number on it,” Marvin said. “That SKU number can be matched up with Home Depot’s store records and can confirm you were shopping when you said you were.”

  “I may still have it. I’ll look.”

  “You know, I do handle criminal defense cases, not just estate planning and family law.”

  “Well, let’s plan on my not needing those particular services of yours.”

  Marvin studied Tom and seemed to take notice of his physical conditioning. “Thinking I might waive my usual fee in exchange for some personal training,” Marvin said, patting his ample midsection. Marvin’s rumpled suit suggested that he might have slept in it, an assessment confirmed by the attorney’s bleary eyes.

  “Coaching high school soccer has made me fret off the pounds,” said Tom.

  “State champs three years in a row now. Pretty impressive.”

  “Thanks. The girls put in a huge effort.”

  “Well, Jill’s been a rising star for the Wildcats, from what I’ve read in the Journal. Guess I know where she got the talent from.” Marvin pointed to a photograph on his office wall, which was covered with dozens of framed pictures of great moments in sports history. The specific photograph was one Tom remembered well: Marvin himself had taken the picture of a young Tom Hawkins making a bicycle kick shot against onetime New Hampshire powerhouse Wiltshire.

  “That’s a great shot, Marvin.”

  “Yours or mine?” Marvin said with a slight laugh.

  “We lost that game, if I remember,” Tom said, thinking of the hours he’d spent in the coach’s room, watching game tape and going over every mistake he’d made on the pitch.

 
; “We did, but as I recall, both teams were pretty evenly matched,” Marvin said. “Did you know that if two teams are equally matched, seventy-two percent of the time it’s randomness that makes one of them lose, not real skill difference? So that loss wasn’t your fault. It was just a random outcome.”

  Tom shrugged. “Doesn’t make me feel any better. Though I admit, that’s one soccer stat I’ve never heard before,” he said.

  Marvin gestured to other sports pictures that adorned his office walls. “Well, I was never a great athlete,” he said, “but I am a freak for sports stats. I can tell you the stat that goes with every picture on my wall.”

  “You weren’t that bad an athlete, Marvin,” Tom said.

  “That’s kind of you to say, but completely untrue,” Marvin corrected him. “I got cut every year I tried out for the soccer team.”

  “But at least you tried.”

  “And you were one of maybe three other guys who didn’t laugh at me whenever I did. Besides, there are approximately seventeen thousand professional athletes in the United States. That gave me a point zero zero five percent chance of becoming one myself. The law seemed a far more surefire way to financial security.”

  “By the looks of it, you’re doing well,” Tom said.

  By all appearances, it was true. The cozy office inside the well-kept Victorian home was smartly furnished with several dark bookcases stocked with legal tomes. A richly colored Oriental rug lay over a pale wide-plank hardwood floor. The meeting area within Marvin’s high-ceilinged office had an unmarked whiteboard, similar to the type Tom used to map out soccer plays; a large black-lacquered conference table; and a set of six plush leather chairs.

  “Business keeps growing,” Marvin said. “I might not be scoring goals, but I am helping people, and that feels good. So, you ready to get started?”

  Tom tapped Jill on the shoulder. She pulled the buds from her ears and followed Tom over to the meeting area. Tom sat first, and Jill sat on his side of the table, but two seats away. Marvin sat across from them.

  Marvin began by addressing Jill. “So, Jill, we’re here today to talk about your future.”