The Helper cd-2

by David Jackson

  Gonzo seems taken aback. For a second, Doyle is afraid the kid’s going to turn all misty-eyed. He presses home his advantage: ‘You wanted to get involved in police work? Well, this is as real as it gets. Helping people is what we do. Tabitha Peyton is a vulnerable citizen who needs our help. We can’t turn away someone like that.’

  Pretty cheesy, he thinks. Like something straight out of a police recruitment video.

  Gonzo breathes out heavily. ‘I guess not. All right, Detective. She can stay.’

  ‘Attaboy, Gonzo. You’re a terrific kid, you know that? You have a good heart. I’d be proud to partner up with you anytime. Here. .’

  Doyle reaches into his pocket. Finds the button that Amy gave him. The one with ‘Captain Awesome’ written on it. He fastens it to Gonzo’s shirt.

  ‘Now you’re officially deputized.’

  Gonzo stares at the button, then faces Doyle again. This time his eyes are definitely moist.

  ‘That’s pretty cool, Detective. I’m honored. I won’t let you down.’

  ‘I know you won’t. Come on, let’s go inside.’

  Doyle picks up the bag and follows his new apprentice into the apartment. He’s not surprised to see that there are at least three different computers in here, plus some floor-standing hi-fi speakers and several piles of books and magazines. What does surprise him is that the room is also home to a large number of potted plants. He never took Gonzo for the green-fingered type.

  Tabitha is standing next to the threadbare sofa, looking as if she dare not risk sitting on it.

  She says, ‘I, uh, I couldn’t help noticing that this place has only one bedroom.’

  ‘The sofa’s comfy,’ says Gonzo. ‘If you stay away from that one spring near the back.’

  Doyle coughs loudly into his fist, then sends thought waves over to Gonzo when he looks across. For once, Gonzo seems to receive the transmission without the need for further amplification.

  ‘So, uh, I can take the sofa, and you can have the bed. The sheets are okay. I changed them a week or so back.’

  Tabitha curls a lip in disgust, then shoots Doyle a glare that says, What the hell have you gotten me into here?

  ‘Okay, good,’ says Doyle breezily. ‘I’m gonna leave you two to get to know each other. Before I do, I need to lay down some ground rules.’

  They look at him like two teenagers being left on their own for the first time. Rules? Why do we need rules?

  ‘First of all, you stay in this apartment at all times. You don’t go out. You need food, order takeout. You need something you can’t get delivered, call me and I’ll pick it up for you. You see or hear anything strange, or you get any weird phone calls, you need to tell me immediately. Gonzo, you have my number. Call me anytime and I’ll come right over.’

  Gonzo nods with enthusiasm. Being cooped up in here with all his food being delivered is probably no different from his usual existence outside of work. But Tabitha looks aghast.

  ‘This is worse than prison. I can’t live like this.’

  ‘It’s for a weekend. You can do it for that long.’

  ‘Can I make calls? I have to tell Mrs Serafinowicz what’s going on. She’ll be worried.’

  ‘You can call her in the morning, but whatever you do, don’t tell her where you are or why you’ve left her apartment. Tell her you’re okay, but you’ve decided to stay with friends for a while.’

  She seems to agree to this, but her expression tells Doyle that she doesn’t see the need for all this secrecy. Doyle doesn’t want to tell her that, in his opinion, the killer would not baulk at torturing Mrs S if it meant discovering Tabitha’s location.

  ‘Okay,’ says Doyle, ‘I’m outta here. When I’m gone, put all the locks on the door. I’ll call you in the morning. Have fun, guys.’

  He looks at Tabitha, discerns that fun is probably the last thing on her mind, and beats a hasty retreat.

  ‘One other thing, Gonzo.’

  ‘What’s that, Detective?

  ‘Put some pants on. There’s a lady present.’

  Doyle hears the sirens. He sees the convoy of screaming radio cars, their roof lights bouncing color off the buildings as they hurtle toward Gonzo’s place.

  And then they’re gone, and Doyle is blowing a sigh of relief and wiping the perspiration from his brow.

  But the trigger for all this mayhem in his mind doesn’t relent. His cellphone. Practically somersaulting with urgency on his nightstand.

  The fear comes crashing back. Gonzo? Is this Gonzo calling for help?

  He snatches up the phone and thumbs the answer button.

  ‘Doyle,’ he says, and when he doesn’t get an immediate reply: ‘Hello? Hello?’

  ‘Where is she?’

  Him. He’s discovered his mistake. And now he wants to put things right.

  Well, think again, motherfucker. This is my show now.

  ‘Where’s who?’

  ‘Don’t be obtuse, Cal. We both know who we’re talking about.’

  Doyle slips out of bed, leaving Rachel making murmurs of complaint behind him, and pads softly toward the living room.

  ‘I think you need to give me some clues. Hey, you could play some music. That might work.’

  ‘That’s very amusing, Cal. Enjoy yourself while you can. It’s not going to last. I’ll find her, with or without your help.’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe not. You fucked up. In a big way. You’re a big fucking disappointment. But I bet that’s not the first time you’ve heard that. I bet your mother told you that a lot.’

  Silence. Doyle just hopes it’s filled with teeth-grinding anger and resentment. He hopes he’s got to the sonofabitch. How does it feel not to be in control of things for once, you pathetic fuck?

  ‘You blew it, Cal.’

  It’s not the response Doyle was expecting.

  ‘Blew what? What the fuck are you talking about?’

  ‘Your reaction. All wrong. All the help I’ve been giving you, and this is how you repay me. No gratitude whatsoever. Just insults. So now you have to suffer the consequences. Maybe Tabitha Peyton is safe. For now. But she’s not the only one on my list. There are plenty of others. And so I think the next one will have to be something pretty spectacular to make up for Tabitha. I’m not sure I’m even going to offer you any help to work out who it is. Whoever it is, their death is on you, Cal. It’s all your fault.’

  Sure, thinks Doyle. Like he’s going to stop if I give up Tabitha. He’s just trying to make me feel bad again. It’s the only way he has left to retaliate for the name-calling. It’s just another attempt to mind-fuck me, and it’s not even a very good one.

  ‘Whatever, man. Do what you have to. Time’s running out for you, and I am really looking forward to stringing you up. Start looking behind you, asshole. You got a cop on your tail.’

  ‘Do what I have to? You’re going to regret saying that, Cal. Someone is going to die, and it’s really going to be painful. For them and for you.’

  ‘What do you mean, painful for me? If you’re thinking about going anywhere near my family-’

  He’s interrupted by a chuckle. ‘No, not your family. I keep telling you, I’m here to help. How would their deaths be classed as helping anyone? Now enjoy your day, Cal. I’ve heard the weather’s going to be nice again.’

  He hangs up. Doyle checks the time on his phone and sees that it’s four in the morning. He weighs up the good news against the bad. The good news is that the killer doesn’t know where Tabitha is, and so she’s safe for the moment. The bad news is that someone is about to die in her place.

  And he has no idea who.

  TWENTY-THREE

  She has never spent the night with a geek before.

  Dorks, yes. An abundance of them. Even a few downright freaks.

  But nothing compares to Gonzo for sheer strangeness. He’s in a world of his own there. And it seems to be a world that doesn’t sit comfortably anywhere in this corner of the universe.

  She’s not sure she
can pin it on any particular facet of his personality. He’s just generally. . well, odd.

  The staring, for example. He does a lot of that. And she’s convinced that, half the time, he’s not even aware he’s doing it. She can be in the middle of something totally mundane — washing up a mug, say — and she’ll turn around, and there he’ll be. Just standing there, looking at her. And instead of wigging out she’ll remain the polite guest and say something like, ‘Are you okay?’ And it’s as if that causes him to snap out of some kind of trance, and he’ll say, ‘What? Oh, yeah,’ and he’ll look around the room as if trying to work out what fantastic forces caused him to be transported there.

  She went straight to bed last night. Would have done so anyway, what with all that had happened. She felt mentally and physically drained. But even if she’d had the energy of a nuclear reactor she would have escaped to the bedroom. Just to be away from His Weirdness.

  Sleeping was a different matter. The bedroom just wasn’t conducive to rest. She could put up with all the posters from movies such as Terminator, The Matrix, and Alien. She could even live with all those huge plants crowding around her bed like some flesh-starved triffids. What she couldn’t get out of her head, though, was Gonzo’s vagueness about his changing of the sheets. It kind of left her with the impression that he hadn’t changed them in weeks. Maybe even months.

  She wasn’t about to put it to the test. There was no way she was going to permit her skin to come into contact with. . well, whatever had been allowed to permeate or encrust those sheets.

  Instead, she changed into pajamas, spread her old clothes across the bed and pillow, then lay on top of those, covering herself over with her night robe. In that situation, and with the thoughts and images rushing through her head, sleep was fitful. At one point she came awake crying out Helena’s name.

  And so this morning she is tired and cranky. There is nothing in the refrigerator — not even any milk. For breakfast she had to make do with toast and peanut butter washed down with black coffee, and she never takes her coffee black. Gonzo munched his way through an overflowing bowl of Coco Pops. Also without milk. Said he prefers it that way, the weirdo.

  Small talk is a no-no. She tried it a few times, and it just got too bizarre. Like when she said to him, ‘So, do your parents live in New York?’ and he replied with, ‘Depends on what you mean by parents.’ Or, making breakfast, when she asked him if he wanted coffee, and he started telling her about the effects of that beverage on his bowels. Oh yeah, and why does he keep asking her which brand of corn chips she prefers?

  She spoke with Doyle about it an hour ago. This was after she’d phoned Mrs Serafinowicz. She stuck to the story. Told Bridget she was fine, there was nothing to worry about, she just needed to get away from that building for a day or two, blah, blah, blah. Then, when Doyle called, she said what she really thought. Took the phone into the bedroom and let rip. Told him this wasn’t working. That it was like being cooped up in a mental asylum, and that she would sooner take her chances with a homicidal maniac than go stir-crazy with this nut-job.

  Doyle calmed her down, as she knew he would. He has a gift for that. He only has to open his mouth for her to feel instantly more secure, more serene.

  Unlike the freak who’s sitting across from her at the table right now, staring at her while she skim-reads a magazine article on the success of Microsoft. Yes, he has a gift too, she thinks. The gift of turning me into a fucking nervous wreck.

  Why couldn’t Doyle stay with me? If he’s so worried about my safety, why didn’t he abandon whatever personal plans he had last night, and spend the night with me? If he had stayed. . If he had held me in his arms. .

  ‘Is there anything I can do, you know, to make you happy?’

  She wants to keep staring at the magazine. Pretend she didn’t hear that. If this is his idea of coming on to her. .

  ‘What?’ she says. ‘What was that?’

  Directly challenged like this, he suddenly looks like he wished he hadn’t said anything.

  ‘What I mean is. . What I’m trying to say is. . If there’s anything. . that I can do. You know?’

  She closes the magazine. Which is crap, anyway. Written by geeks to be read by other geeks.

  ‘Actually, yes. There is something you can do for me. You can make me happy in bed.’

  He flushes the color of his hair. His head is like a tomato with spectacles.

  ‘What? I, uhm. . What?’

  ‘The sheets, Gonzo. They need changing. If I have to stay here another night, then it has to be with clean sheets. Do you have any?’

  Gonzo looks around him, as if he is thinking they ought to be in plain sight.

  ‘I, uh, no. I don’t think so.’

  ‘Is there a laundry room in this place?’

  ‘Sure. In the basement.’

  ‘Okay, good. We’re getting somewhere. Then what you need to do is strip the sheets from the bed, take them down to the laundry room, and get them clean and dry.’

  He looks at her as though the notion is an alien concept to him.

  ‘I. . I can’t do that.’

  ‘What do you mean, you can’t do it? How hard can it be? You’ve done it before, haven’t you? Please tell me these sheets have been cleaned at some point since you bought them.’

  ‘No. I mean yes, they have been cleaned. But I can’t. Not now. Detective Doyle said that we can’t leave the apartment. I have to be with you, at all times.’

  ‘He meant the apartment building, Gonzo. I’m not asking you to head across to New Jersey. Just the basement. For half an hour. Okay?’

  He scratches his head. ‘I don’t know. I think I should give Detective Doyle a call first.’

  She loses it then. ‘Jesus Christ, Gonzo. Will you just go wash the fucking sheets before I throw the whole bed out of the fucking window?’

  Gonzo stands slowly, uncertainly. ‘Last night Detective Doyle called you a lady. Ladies don’t talk like that.’

  ‘You’re right,’ she says. ‘I should have said please. Now please go wash the fucking sheets. Okay?’

  Doyle’s shift won’t start until four in the afternoon. Which is killing him. Wandering around the apartment like this, trying to find chores to occupy his mind, trying not to get in Rachel’s way, is just not working. He finds he’s constantly checking his cellphone to make sure he hasn’t missed a call. He feels like a man whose wife is about to give birth.

  He needs the distraction of work. He will be kept busy in the aftermath of the Helena Colquitt killing. He will follow the procedure, the routine. He will talk to the people he is supposed to talk to, put the questions he is supposed to ask, write the reports he is meant to write.

  All of which will be hard given that he suspects none of it is worth jack shit.

  What will keep him going on this seemingly fruitless task is the possibility that somewhere, buried deep perhaps, is a clue to the unraveling of these apparently random killings. Okay, Helena wasn’t the intended victim. But the killer thought she was. So why? Why did he think that? And why target Tabitha anyway? What links her to the other victims?

  And the more important question right now: do any of those victims provide pointers to the next one?

  He believes the killer when he says that he isn’t going after Doyle’s family. For one thing, the man hasn’t lied to him once so far. He’s provided Doyle with uncertainty, ambiguity, clues which are open to interpretation. But no downright lies. And deep down, Doyle knows that his own family doesn’t fit the pattern of killings. He has no idea what that pattern is, but for some reason he knows that Rachel and Amy aren’t part of it.

  So how does he know that? What is he missing?

  Laden with a plastic basket containing a mountain of washing that threatens to landslide and bury him at any moment, Gonzo has to wrestle with the basement door to get it to open. He snakes his arm round the door jamb, feathers it up and down the rough wall in search of the light switch. He finds it, clicks it on.
r />   Nothing. The bulb must be dead.

  He exhales. Steps gingerly through the doorway. Tries to make his feeble eyes gain mastery over the dimness in here.

  The blow to the side of his head sends him reeling across the room. He bounces off the wall, hears his glasses clatter to the floor. He puts his hands up to fend off his attacker, but it’s a pathetic defense. Another cruise missile pilots its way between his hands and zeros in on his cheek. When it slams home, it feels as though it detaches his head from his shoulders, leaving his body to crumple to the floor. His gargantuan brain, capable of composing complex pieces of software without going anywhere near a computer, scurries for the panic button and allows his survival instincts to take the helm. He tries to push himself up from the floor, because that’s the only message he’s getting.

  And then something soft and warm is pulled over his head. Musty cloth presses tightly against his mouth and nose. He tries to suck oxygen through the weave, but it won’t come quickly enough. The claustrophobia and the pain make him want to vomit, but he swallows it back, knowing that he could drown in his own sick. He feels an asthma attack coming on. He’s going to die. He knows he is going to die.

  Everything turns to black.

  She had hoped for at least an hour of peace and solitude, maybe even longer given the amount of washing she made him take downstairs — Jesus, does he actually wear those clothes? An hour without the staring, without the randomness. Time to reflect. To think about Helena, her parents, her life. To decide what to do with her future when she gets out of this damned city.

  So when there’s a rap on the door barely ten minutes after Gonzo left the apartment, she is not amused. Can’t he even manage a simple task like-

  Oh.

  She doesn’t recognize the man standing there in the hallway when she opens the door. But he’s tall, he’s good-looking and he’s holding up a leather wallet containing a police badge.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he says. ‘Didn’t Detective Doyle tell you not to open the door to anyone?’

  ‘I. . I’m sorry. I thought it was. . Who are you, exactly?’