Helpless

by Daniel James Palmer

  The dark of the stairwell turned bright again, but only for brief flashes. Rainy heard two quick pops. The bullets fired from Mitchell’s gun slammed into the stairs where Rainy’s sliding body had just been. Splintered wood peppered her face and hair. Rainy aimed her weapon at the flashes of light and pulled the trigger. Her unsteady hand jumped with the gun’s recoil. She heard a grunt, followed by the sound of a body falling. Rainy finished her slide down. She expected to slam into the stairwell wall, but Mitchell’s body cushioned her impact.

  Rainy felt around in the inky darkness for his weapon. Soon her fingers brushed against something steel. Rainy pushed the weapon down the remaining stairs. Still fumbling in the dark, Rainy felt something wet and sticky to the touch. A flashlight beam lit Rainy from above. Behind her, Rainy heard a woman’s scream. She turned to see Adriana hurrying down the stairs, her flashlight beam jostled wildly with each unsteady step. The light danced back and forth, creating a miniature strobe.

  Rainy could see what had made Adriana scream. Mitchell lay slumped on the landing with his back pressed up against the wall. Blood pooled around him.

  Adriana reached the landing and fell to her knees. She caressed Mitchell’s cheek, shining her flashlight on his face.

  “Baby! Mitchell! Can you hear me?” Adriana put her ear to Mitchell’s chest. “He’s breathing! Call an ambulance. Hurry!” she shouted.

  “I’m on it,” Carter yelled from above.

  “Give me your flashlight,” Rainy said. “I’m going to check the fuse box. We need light.”

  Adriana handed Rainy her light. Rainy used the flashlight to look around. She could see the distraught mother stroking her son’s face with blood-covered hands. She checked Mitchell, making sure he wasn’t still armed. She also could see where she’d shot him in the shoulder. Another few inches to the right and he’d probably have been paralyzed, more likely killed.

  The kid was hurt, but he’d live.

  “Where did he get a weapon?” Rainy called to Adriana as soon as she reached the basement.

  “It’s probably Roland’s gun,” Adriana shouted back. “Mitchell knows where he keeps the key to the gun safe.”

  Rainy needed only a couple minutes to locate the fuse box. She flicked the breaker, and the basement was engulfed in light. Rainy stood in place, waiting for her eyes to adjust. She walked back up the stairs to the landing where Mitchell lay groaning. Adriana knelt by his side.

  “He’s not going to die,” Adriana said, her voice desperate.

  “No,” Rainy said. “He’s not.”

  “You’ll make sure he’s taken care of?”

  “Of course,” Rainy said. “The ambulance is probably on its way.”

  Adriana walked back up the stairs. To Rainy, it looked as if she were in some sort of trance, almost floating.

  “Good,” Rainy heard her say. “My boy will be all right.”

  Rainy checked Mitchell’s pulse, pleased it felt so strong. Carter raced down the stairs, carrying a first aid kit.

  “Found this in the kitchen,” Carter said.

  “Can you hear me, Mitchell?” Rainy asked.

  Mitchell just groaned.

  “You’ve been shot twice. I’m going to administer first aid. You’re going to be all right. Stay with me, okay? You stay with me now.”

  Rainy cut away Mitchell’s bloody shirt with scissors she found inside the kit. She protected her hands with latex gloves, then used a wad of gauze to apply pressure to the wounds. Rainy and Carter both looked up the stairs as soon as they heard a door slam.

  “Go check it out,” Rainy said to Carter.

  Carter bounded back up the stairs, returning moments later. He called down to Rainy. From Rainy’s vantage point, the outline of Carter’s figure standing in the doorway’s threshold looked aglow.

  “It’s Adriana,” Carter said breathlessly. “She’s gone.”

  Chapter 81

  Moonlight danced across the rippling quarry water. Roland was somewhere in the dark woods. Jill was nearby, too. A waterproof duffel bag rested on the quarry bottom, some sixty feet beneath the water. Roland had given Tom his flashlight. Even with the moonlight, Tom needed that light to locate the bag.

  “I’m going to have to come up another way,” Tom said. He could hear Roland but didn’t know where he was standing. “The cliff is too steep for me to get back up here. I’m going to have to take the longer way out.”

  “That’s fine, Tom,” Roland said. “I’ll watch your light. You just get the job done and come back to the Spot.”

  Oh, you bet I will, Tom thought. With a big surprise, too.

  Tom looked out over the water. He raised his arms high above his head and took in a deep breath. He kept his clothes on, opting to sacrifice some mobility for the extra layer of warmth. He breathed in four sharp, quick breaths. To build up his final oxygen supply, he gulped the air like a fish breathes on land. With his legs bent, Tom propelled himself off the quarry’s ledge and into the air.

  He went into his dive, confident he’d gone out far enough to avoid hitting the railroad ties below.

  Tom’s body pierced the water’s surface with barely a back splash. The air was cold, but the water was freezing. At first, Tom was too stunned to swim. The cold felt as if it had stopped his heart. But he was already ten feet deep, and his body had angled to let him dive even deeper. Tom used dolphin kicks to descend. The flashlight’s beam cut through the darkness and offered only a pinhole-sized glimpse into the infinite. He kept close to the quarry’s smooth rock wall as he sank.

  In the navy, he could hold his breath longer than most other SEALs. Five minutes was his record. But out of practice he had three, maybe four minutes of surplus oxygen in him at best. To conserve oxygen, his body would soon begin shutting down nonessential functions. Eventually, the essential ones would stop working as well.

  Tom’s skin went numb and blood pounded in his ears as the pressure in his head built up. It was coming, Tom thought. That irresistible, desperate need to breathe. It was coming, and a lot sooner than he expected.

  Keep pushing…. Don’t give in…. Don’t try to breathe.

  Tom kept his body inverted as he sank. His chest was on fire. The tightness in his throat held down the most intense pressure building up in his lungs. He might have given up and surfaced had he not reached the point in the dive where the cliff face jutted out.

  Tom guessed that he’d traveled forty feet down. Perhaps as deep as fifty. Ten or so to go. Tom’s mouth began to open. Water seeped inside. Stale tasting. Frozen. Terrifying to take in. He tried to close his mouth tight. But he couldn’t control his own muscles. He was losing consciousness, too. He couldn’t resist the urge to open his mouth even more. It was ready to take in water for air.

  Tom tried to find the belief in himself. The will to complete the mission. The belief he needed to survive. But the pain in his chest, his throat—that constricting, all-consuming agony—only intensified. Water continued to penetrate his mouth. Water that he lacked the strength to expel.

  Just a few more kicks…

  He reached with his hand. His vision went dark. But he could still feel the flashlight in his grip. More important, his other hand felt the ledge. He’d discovered the little underwater alcove as a high school kid who loved to challenge anybody to try and dive deeper than he could.

  I’m blacking out…. Hurry….

  Tom maneuvered his body under the ledge and felt about the alcove in the darkness. He touched something made of fabric. It brought him back. He gripped the slick duffel bag. The bag bunched up enough so that Tom could grab hold. He pulled, but the bag was stuck on something and wouldn’t budge. He pulled again.

  Breathe. That was all his brain wanted him to do. Breathe.

  Tom opened his mouth wider. Water began to fill his lungs. He pulled once more. The duffel bag, which he’d last seen fifteen years ago, slid out from underneath the ledge. But the bag was heavy with the extra weights Tom had added. It dragged Tom deeper int
o the abyss. He kicked. He kicked with every bit of his remaining strength.

  Tom imagined himself as a young man again. Going up, this time with the drugs. Not headed down. Doing what he should have done years ago. Kicking against the past. Using the power of his youthful muscles and strong lungs to make things right again. And he kept on kicking. Even though he knew he wasn’t going to make it back to the surface.

  Tom had no idea how deep under he was when the darkness about him turned to light. His eyes fell upon the most beautiful bright white light he’d ever seen. So intense and spectral that he thought it truly divine. Spiritual. It was warming, too. It pleaded for him. The light summoned him to it like a calling.

  And Tom went. He sped toward that light, weightless and swift. He felt full of breath and life. He couldn’t tell if he was going up or down. He couldn’t feel anything but desire and peace.

  His head broke the water’s surface. Tom felt cold air hit his face like a thousand tiny needles puncturing his skin. Water jetted from his lungs. He took in a deep, life-restoring breath. He felt the slimy slickness of the duffel bag still in his grasp. Tom gazed up at that beautiful white light.

  He marveled at the moon.

  Chapter 82

  The zipper had rusted shut. Tom had to tear the fabric away to get the duffel bag open. He shone his flashlight into the bag. Inside were a dozen, thirty-ounce, green vinyl dry bags. The roll-top closure feature ensured the best watertight seal possible. Tom had wanted to preserve not only the narcotics stuffed inside those bags but any fingerprint evidence as well.

  Tom waved the flashlight back and forth. It was a signal to Roland that he’d left the water. Tom cradled the duffel bag in his arms as if he were carrying a wounded solider away from battle. He followed the overgrown path back to the Spot. The wind had picked up, and Tom was freezing. His body shook to warm him. But Tom’s shivering was becoming more intense. Each wind gust was agony. It made him long for the water. For a moment at least, he would feel warmer under the water than he did on dry land.

  Tom arrived at the Spot. He gently set the duffel bag onto the ground. His teeth knocked together in a frozen rhythm. His shivering would not abate. His clothes stiffened as though they were icing over. He spun around in a tight circle and trained the flashlight’s beam onto the dark trees that surrounded him. The trees formed a clearing and defined the borders of the Spot.

  Roland stepped out from behind a tree. Tom saw the gun still in his hand.

  “Let’s get this over with,” Tom said.

  “Yes. Let’s. Are my drugs in the bag?”

  “Look for yourself,” said Tom.

  Roland came over to the duffel bag. He peered inside. He inspected the contents and seemed pleased with what he found.

  For a second, Roland was vulnerable to attack. Tom could have disarmed him. But Jill was still somewhere in the woods. Still in the clutches of that monster. No, he’d wait to see how this was going to play out. Then he’d make his move. Only when Tom was certain would he strike with violence of action.

  “You did real good, Tom,” Roland said.

  “Where’s my daughter?” Tom’s body was shaking violently.

  “She’s here.”

  “I want to see her.”

  Roland whistled. Dee came out of hiding. He dragged Jill alongside him. She still had her blindfold on. Her mouth was still gagged. Wrists bound. Tom could see that she was shivering, too. But more out of fear than cold.

  “Jilly-bean, it’s me, sweetheart. It’s Daddy. You just stay calm, honey. You stay calm and they’re going to let you go.”

  Jill shook and struggled to get free. Tom could feel her desperation to get away, her desire to run to the sound of her father’s voice. But Dee held her tight. Her legs kicked at the air as though she were pedaling an invisible bicycle.

  “I walk out of here with my daughter,” Tom said. “You’ve got my word that I’ll stay quiet about the drugs.”

  Roland looked over at Dee. “Take it off,” he said.

  Dee removed Jill’s blindfold but still kept her gagged. He held Jill locked in his massive arm like a vise.

  “What are you doing?” Tom said. “Now she knows it was you, Boyd. She knows you kidnapped her.” But Tom had anticipated it would come to this. Roland had had another plan all along.

  Roland distanced himself a few paces from Tom. The gun was steady in Roland’s hand. Moonlight fell on Dee’s bloated face. The man had one arm wrapped around Jill, and Tom could see the glint cast off by his massive ring. Dee’s other hand held a gun pointed at Jill’s head.

  “Get on your knees, Tom,” Roland said.

  “What are you doing, Roland?”

  “Get on your knees now, Tom. Or Frankie will shoot your daughter.”

  Jill let out a muffled cry. She struggled again to get free. Dee pressed the gun barrel against Jill’s temple. Tom sank to his knees, as though praying to the duffel bag that lay in front of him.

  “This is the scene of a double homicide. A murder-suicide, to be exact. You killed Lindsey Wells. You couldn’t let Jill live, because the scars of what you’ve done will damage her forever. No, you decided she’d be better off dead. It’ll be easier for her that way.”

  Tom heard Jill’s muffled shriek again.

  Roland circled out of Tom’s direct line of sight. Tom kept his eyes focused forward and locked on Jill. He didn’t turn his head to see where Roland had moved. Instead, he listened to Roland’s footsteps. Roland was standing to his right. He assumed Roland was pointing his gun at Tom’s head. It made sense. Murder-suicide. Roland would shoot Tom in the side of his head. Then he’d shoot Jill.

  Tom kept his eyes locked forward. He focused only on Jill. He looked into her eyes. Even in the dark he could see they were wide with fear, like two black moons against a pale white sky. Those eyes were filled with tears. She struggled again to get free. But Dee pressed the gun barrel to her head until she stopped fighting.

  Jill went limp. Fainted, perhaps. Dee kept her propped up like a doll.

  “Sorry it came down to this, Tom. But it’s the cleanest way. You’re a family man. You can understand. I have to do this for my family. I can’t give up on my boy.”

  Tom heard the emotion in Roland’s voice. A weakness in his resolve, perhaps.

  “Did Mitchell kill Lindsey? You want to pin this on me, is that it?”

  “Kids can make stupid mistakes,” Roland said. “You and I both know that.”

  “Roland, you don’t have to do this. There’s another way. We can come up with something.”

  Silence.

  Tom’s heart pounded in his chest. Jill had come back to her senses and was struggling again. But Dee held her fast.

  Roland spoke. “There’s no other way, Tom. This cleans it all up. Nobody will investigate anything now. It’ll all fall on you. You’re the guy running the sexting ring. You killed Lindsey to silence a witness. You realized all the lives you ruined. You took decisive action.”

  “The angle of your shot won’t be right,” Tom said. “Forensics will pick up on that.”

  “Won’t happen. I know where to hit you. But if it isn’t, I’ve got the connections to make questions go away.”

  “What about the gun? Where’d I get it? Did you think of that?”

  “You stole it. Stole it from me, in fact. When you broke into my house. The police report’s already been filed.”

  “Why wouldn’t I use my own gun?”

  Roland laughed. “You know, I thought you’d have one, being a SEAL and all. But we looked. When you were at Marvin’s funeral, Frank searched all through your house. He found the knife and put that where the police would find it. But no gun to be found.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Roland—”

  “Good-bye, Tom. I really am sorry it came to this.”

  “I do have a gun.” Tom fell sideways. In a single motion, he reached behind his back and pulled a gun from the waistband of his sodden jeans. The gun was remarkably w
ell preserved, even though it had lain hidden beneath the water for fifteen years. For fifteen years, the gun had been sealed inside a waterproof dry bag. Its only companion was a stash of drugs that a young Tom Hawkins couldn’t allow to get wet and ruined.

  The gun was a Beretta M9. An army private named Kip Lange had used it during a robbery gone bad. It had been fired only twice. On his way back to the Spot, Tom had checked the gun over for corrosion, to see if it still had a chance of firing. The bullets, four in total, were dry and lodged inside the magazine. Tom believed the gun would fire. But he didn’t have any proof. Just as Rainy believed in his innocence but lacked the proof. Just as Jill believed in her father enough to trust him again. Tom believed the gun would fire.

  And so he pulled the trigger as he fell. There was a flash. An explosion and burst of light followed. The recoil from the thrust as the bullet dislodged from the barrel.

  There was his proof.

  The first bullet slammed into Roland’s shoulder. The second shot hit him in the leg. Roland fell to the ground with a thud.

  Frank Dee did exactly what Tom expected of him. He acted to remove the immediate threat. Dee pulled his gun away from Jill and pointed the weapon at Tom. Tom fired two quick shots before Dee got off one.

  The first bullet hit Dee in his firing hand. Dee’s gun fell to the ground as a splash of blood sprayed out from the fresh wound like a burst of red fireworks. Tom’s second shot could have been a kill shot. He had the time and skill to take aim and hit the target. But killing was in his past. So the bullet that could have flattened Dee’s skull instead tore through the man’s abdomen. Blood spurted from that hole as well. Dee fell backward to the ground.

  Jill sprinted to her father as Dee was falling. Dee landed on the ground, groaning and clutching at his wounds. Tom doubted he’d hit any vital organs. Dee would live. Roland would live, too.

  Killing was in his past.

  Jill stumbled as she ran. Tom got to his feet and wrapped his daughter in his frozen arms. He removed the gag covering her mouth and unbound her wrists. She was hyperventilating. Couldn’t speak. She clutched Tom like a life preserver that she couldn’t grip tightly enough.