The Helper cd-2

by David Jackson

  ‘Let me get that,’ says Doyle.

  ‘Are you sure about this?’ she asks. ‘About the killer, I mean. That he’s coming back? That he wants to hurt me?’

  Doyle takes the bag from her hand, but knows that what she really wants is for him to take away her fear.

  ‘It’s a precaution, okay? Maybe he won’t come back. Maybe he’ll realize he made a mistake and just move on. But we can’t take that chance. We have to be sure you’re safe.’

  She nods, but still she seems unsure. He waits while she locks up the apartment, and then they head down the staircase.

  When they get to the first floor she says, ‘I can’t just leave like this. I need to talk to Bridget — Mrs Serafinowicz.’

  ‘Not now. You can call her tomorrow. Right now we just need to get you outta here.’

  Doyle is the first onto the front stoop. He scans the street, his hand within snatching distance of his firearm, then leads her toward his car. He continues to watch all around him while she climbs into the passenger seat, and then he throws the bag into the trunk. He gets in behind the wheel, fires up the engine and takes off, exhaling his relief to get away from this place.

  And only then does he think, Where the hell am I going?

  Doyle has been so preoccupied with the task of getting her out of danger that he’s not given any thought as to where he’s going to take her next.

  His own apartment is the first location that springs to mind. It’s also the first to be jettisoned with extreme force.

  Hi, Rachel. Look what I brought home. No, let me explain. She’s a potential victim. Yes, victims can look like this. A victim of whom? Well, that serial killer who’s been talking to me in those phone calls I never explained to you.

  But Rachel’s objections aren’t the only problem. It just wouldn’t be safe. The killer knows too much about Doyle, including what he does and where he goes. Inviting Tabitha into his home would be the same as inviting the killer. And that is something he cannot bring to his family.

  So where? A hotel? No. Too public. And she can’t be left alone. She needs to be with someone. Someone who can keep an eye on her.

  But who? He can’t ask another cop — not without revealing why he’s got this girl with him in the first place.

  ‘This is crazy,’ she says. ‘I feel like I’m dreaming. Where are we going, anyway? Some kind of safe house?’

  ‘Uh, yeah. Something like that.’ He sees a coffee shop ahead on the right. ‘Listen, you want a coffee?’

  ‘A coffee? Now?’

  ‘Yeah. Come on.’

  Without waiting for an answer, he pulls the car over and climbs out. He goes around the car and opens the door for Tabitha. While she gets out, he scans the street again.

  He thinks, What are you doing? She’s safe now. He can’t get to her here. Relax.

  But still he finds himself standing close to her as they move toward the coffee shop, his body shielding hers, his fingers edging under his jacket.

  Inside, she starts to move to a booth in the window, but Doyle takes her arm and guides her over to a table in a shadowy alcove. He sits facing the door, so that he can see anybody who might enter.

  You’re acting like a spy, he thinks. Stop it. The sonofabitch is good, but he’s not that good. He’s human. He makes mistakes. Remember that.

  A waitress comes across. When she smiles, Doyle gets the impression that she thinks they’re a couple. For some reason he gets the urge to tell her they’re not together, before he realizes how stupid and unnecessary that would be.

  Tabitha orders a skinny latte, while Doyle opts for a decaf cappuccino. He’s wired enough as it is without pumping caffeine into his system.

  Tabitha says, ‘I suppose I should thank you.’

  ‘It’s just coffee,’ says Doyle. ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘I don’t mean the coffee. I mean for coming to my aid like this. For being the white knight.’

  He looks into her eyes, then wishes he hadn’t. ‘I. . I’m just doing my job.’

  ‘To protect and serve, huh?’

  ‘Actually, that’s the LAPD. But yeah, same principle.’

  ‘Will you be staying with me?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Wherever it is we’re going. Will you be staying there with me?’

  ‘Uhm, no.’

  ‘Pity. You make a good bodyguard. You make people trust you.’

  ‘You’ll be safe. I promise. I need to get out there and catch the bad guy.’

  ‘Will you? Catch him, I mean?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  She lapses into silence and looks down at the table. While she is lost in her thoughts he steals the chance to search her face, and wonders why he finds it so hard to meet her gaze. It’s not attraction. Of that he’s certain. She is young and beautiful and shapely — those things are undeniable. But it’s not attraction.

  It’s what she said. It’s the trust. When he looks into her eyes it’s like looking into the eyes of Amy, his daughter. There is undiluted trust there. Faith. Belief. Tabitha believes that he is her guardian angel. The white knight, as she put it. He has rescued the damsel in distress and next he will vanquish the dragon, and they will live happily ever after. That’s what she believes.

  He’s not sure he’s ready for that responsibility. It makes him wish he wasn’t so trustworthy in her eyes.

  Because what if he gets it wrong?

  What if, despite his constant assertions to himself and his continued reassurances to her that she is out of danger, she still comes to harm?

  It’s an unbearable thought. And that’s why he cannot look her in the eye. Loath though he is to admit it, he needs the emotional detachment. Just in case.

  But no! Fuck that sick sonofabitch! He’s not going to get Tabitha Peyton. She is safe now.

  The coffee arrives, and he’s glad of the interruption to his mental wrangling. Neither of them adds sugar to their drinks. Both take careful sips from their cups of steaming liquid.

  ‘Do you like this city?’ she asks.

  The question throws Doyle. Not merely for its random nature, but also because it’s something which for him has a lot more depth than it might appear to possess. To Doyle, this city is far more than a collection of buildings and people and vehicles crammed into a few square miles of land. He was brought here at the age of eight from a country with vast open spaces and sheep and cows and an altogether gentler pace of life. The shock of that contrast — the excitement of it — has never left him. Yes, the city can be cruel, can even seem heartless at times, but there is a soul there which, once you recognize it and connect to it, never lets you go. You reach a point where your heart beats to the city’s rhythm. And then you’re a part of it.

  ‘I love it,’ he answers, and he is not exaggerating.

  She nods, plays with her spoon. ‘I thought I would too. Sometimes I get this close to thinking I’m happy here. And then the city goes and shows me how wrong I can be.’

  ‘You’ve had a tough time.’

  ‘Ever since I got here. That fresh start idea of mine never worked out. I pictured friends, dancing, theater, movies. What I got was loneliness and despair. Millions of people all around me, and still I felt the loneliest woman on the planet. Crazy, huh?’

  Doyle says nothing. Just sips his coffee. She needs to talk, to be listened to.

  She says, ‘I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking it’s my fault, not the city’s. I’ve noticed that about New Yorkers: they’re very loyal. And maybe you’re right. Maybe me and New York were never going to get along. A clash of personalities. And I can see why you love it here. It has so many wonderful things, so much to offer. But I think that sometimes, for some people, it takes instead of gives. And when you’re the one it picks on, you don’t have a prayer. ’

  Doyle sips. Waits.

  ‘It beat me, this city. Beat me into the ground. You know how low I got? I was going to finish it all, that’s how l
ow. One night, drunk as a skunk, I actually went out to the Brooklyn Bridge with the intention of jumping into the East River.’

  ‘What stopped you?’

  She smiles then, the first smile Doyle has seen from her. And on such a serious subject.

  ‘I picked the wrong bridge. You know how difficult it is to jump off that thing? The walkway goes right through the middle. You have to climb across the bridgework to miss the traffic below. I was so drunk that night I couldn’t even climb my own front stoop.’

  Her smile broadens, and for a second it lights up her face before it dims again.

  She says, ‘You’re only the second person I’ve ever told that story too. See what I mean about trusting you?’

  ‘Who was the first?’

  ‘Mrs Serafinowicz. I never even told Helena.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because. . because she was another fresh start. I didn’t want her pity. I wanted her happiness. I wanted her to be the same with me as she was when we were at college. And that’s what I got. For a short while.’

  Doyle tries to work on what he should say. He’s not good with females who cry, and he’s not any better at giving advice on life. But he gives it a try.

  ‘Tabitha, listen. This is bad. As bad as it gets. There’s no way I can really understand how tough this must be for you. The only thing I do know is this: it’ll get better. Not right away. It’ll take time. But I know you can be happy again. You’re too young to give up without a fight.’

  She raises her head, and this time he cannot avoid looking into her eyes. And he tries to convince her without words that everything will be all right again. And when he sees a tear bulge from her eye and roll down her cheek he wants to catch it and he wants to take her in his arms and shield her from the terrors of the big bad city she sees out there.

  And he wishes he had never met this girl.

  ‘I have to go to the bathroom,’ she says.

  He guesses that she’s going to cry again, and he’s ashamedly relieved to let her go and do that.

  It also gives him the opportunity he needed. He was planning to use the washroom excuse himself, or maybe pretend he needed to go out and fetch something from the car.

  He takes out his cellphone. He finds the number he wants in his contact list and makes the call.

  ‘It’s me. Detective Doyle. I need a favor.’

  TWENTY-TWO

  ‘What kind of favor?’ says Gonzo.

  ‘I need you to look after something for me.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘A package. I can’t talk about it now. I’ll explain when I see you.’

  A lengthy silence. ‘Detective Doyle, it’s really good speaking with you again, but you’re being very mysterious here.’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry. It’ll all be clear when we meet. What’s your address?’

  ‘My address? You mean now? You want to deliver this package right now?’

  ‘Is that a problem?’

  ‘Well. . yes it’s a problem. This is Friday night, Detective. I have plans, you know?’

  ‘What, you got a girl coming over? You hitting the clubs? What?’

  ‘Paradoxia.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Paradoxia.’ He says it like the meaning should be obvious.

  ‘Gonzo, you’re talking gibberish. Is that a new nightclub or something?’

  ‘You never heard of Paradoxia? Where have you been, Detective? Paradoxia is only the hottest online game ever invented. I’m right in the middle of an all-night session here.’

  Doyle hears the whoosh of a hand-drying machine as a washroom door is opened here in the coffee shop.

  ‘Gonzo, are you gonna help me out here or what?’

  Gonzo sighs. ‘All right, Detective. But only because I like you, okay?’

  He reels off an address, and Doyle files it in his brain.

  ‘I’ll be right over.’ He cuts the call just as Tabitha gets back to the table.

  ‘Last minute preparations,’ he explains. ‘You okay?’

  She nods.

  ‘Then let’s go.’

  ‘This is it?’ she says. ‘This is your safe house?’

  He gets the feeling she’s not impressed with this address on Henry Street in the Lower East Side. He’s not sure why. The signs on the store fronts are at least translated into English below the Chinese. The imposing sight of the Manhattan Bridge looming over the street is a whole block away. And the graffiti covering the front of the building they’re about to enter isn’t even pornographic.

  Doyle buzzes and gets an immediate answering buzz. He pushes open the door and heads upstairs, Tabitha trailing cautiously behind. The air is heavy with the scent of Chinese food, and from behind one of the doors comes the sound of raised voices. It sounds heated to Doyle, but he’s not au fait with the tongue or the culture. For all he knows, it could be anything ranging from a murder in progress to a discussion about the cost of noodles.

  He continues up to the third story and finds the door of Apartment 32, the number Gonzo gave him. He puts down the bag and knocks heavily on the door.

  When Gonzo opens up, Doyle sees that he’s wearing a pair of blue-and-white striped undershorts and a T-shirt emblazoned with the message, ‘Normal service will resume as soon as possible.’

  Gonzo gives Doyle one of his idiotic smiles. It fades quickly when his eyes refocus to take in the figure hidden in the gloom behind the detective.

  Doyle moves to one side with the intention of introducing his companion. He sees that Gonzo and Tabitha seem to have locked eyes. Their expressions tell him it’s not love at first sight.

  ‘Uh, Tabitha Peyton, meet Gonzo. . just Gonzo.’

  The two of them continue to stand there in silence, still engaged in the staring competition. Tabitha is the first to break it off.

  ‘Detective Doyle, can I speak with you for a moment?’

  Doyle turns to Gonzo. ‘She wants to speak with me.’

  Gonzo nods. ‘Okay.’ He doesn’t move.

  ‘In private,’ says Tabitha.

  ‘In private,’ Doyle repeats, like he’s the world’s worst translator.

  Gonzo’s expression suggests that he still doesn’t get it, so Doyle has to motion to him to close the door.

  ‘Oh,’ says Gonzo. ‘Sure.’ He shuts the door gently, leaving Doyle and Tabitha in the hallway.

  Tabitha’s voice is a harsh whisper: ‘Who the hell is that?’

  ‘I told you. Gonzo. He’s gonna look after you.’

  ‘Him? Look after me? I don’t think so. Is he a cop?’

  ‘He works for the NYPD.’

  ‘But not as a cop.’

  ‘Not exactly. But he’s a good guy. He’s helped me a lot. I can trust him.’

  ‘Trust him to do what? Does he have a gun? Is he Karate Kid? Was that Mr Miyagi I heard downstairs? Maybe he just stares people to death, is that it? What the hell is this Bonzo-’

  ‘Gonzo.’

  ‘Whatever. What the hell is he going to do if the killer shows up here? I think it’s more likely that I’ll end up protecting him, instead of the other way round.’

  ‘It’s not going to come to that. Nobody knows you’re here, and I know Gonzo won’t tell anyone. Please, give him a chance. You’ll like him, I’m sure. And it’s only for a day or two.’

  She thinks about it.

  ‘You trust him? He’s not some kind of pervert?’

  ‘He’s totally harmless, I swear. He’s a computer geek. His idea of dirty talk is binary.’

  She thinks some more.

  ‘All right. I’ll stay. But any funny business and I’m outta here. After I’ve kicked his ass.’

  Doyle smiles and knocks on the door again. It opens immediately, Gonzo standing in exactly the same position he occupied before.

  ‘Yes?’ he says, as if the previous encounter has been wiped totally from his mind.

  ‘Uh, Gonzo. Here I am. Like I told you? On the phone?’

  Gonzo’s eye
s slide to Tabitha and then back to Doyle. ‘Is this okay? In front of. .’ He gives a subtle nod toward Tabitha.

  ‘Yes, Gonzo, it’s fine.’

  ‘Okay, so did you bring the, uhm, the — ’ his voice drops to a whisper ‘- the package?’

  Doyle licks his lips. How to explain this?

  ‘Gonzo, this is Tabitha.’

  Gonzo glances at her again. ‘Yeah, I know. We already did this. But about the-’

  He halts himself. Looks again at Tabitha. Back to Doyle.

  ‘Detective Doyle, can we have a word?’

  Jesus, thinks Doyle. Not again. Why does a simple thing have to turn out to be so fucking difficult?

  ‘I’m not leaving her alone out here, Gonzo. Either we all come in, or else Tabitha goes in and you come out.’

  Gonzo shifts from foot to foot like he wants to pee. Finally making up his mind, he opens the door wider and waves Tabitha into his abode.

  She looks with uncertainty to Doyle. He nods for her to go inside. As soon as she’s in, Gonzo slips out and pulls the door shut behind him.

  ‘Detective Doyle, you lied to me. You said a package. You mentioned nothing about a person. Especially one of the female persuasion. What are you trying to do to me?’

  ‘Gonzo, please. I need your help, okay? She’s in danger. The killer I’ve been trying to catch? He wants to kill Tabitha too. She needs somewhere she can hide for a coupla days.’

  Gonzo’s voice rises a whole octave. Which, given the pitch of his natural voice, is pretty damned shrill. ‘He wants to kill her? And you bring her here? To my apartment? What’s wrong with your place?’

  ‘I would if I could, Gonzo. But the killer’s been watching me. He’s been checking up on me. If I take her back to my apartment she won’t last five minutes.’

  ‘But you’re a cop. Cops put people in protection programs all the time. What’s so different about her?’

  Doyle hesitates. ‘I’m gonna level with you, okay? This is unofficial. The squad doesn’t know about this. In fact, nobody else in the NYPD knows about this.’

  ‘Why? I mean, why do you have to be so secretive? Why not just tell somebody?’

  ‘It’s a long story. It may come to that. For now, I need to put her with the only person I can trust. That’s you, Gonzo.’