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.
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.