The Helper

TWENTY-FIVE

He pounds on the door. Which in itself is a favor, because what he really wants to do is kick it right down.

When it opens a crack, Doyle slams his palms on it and sends Gonzo reeling across the living room.

‘What the fuck happened, Gonzo? You were supposed to be looking after her. How could you take your eye off the ball like that?’

Gonzo’s jaw moves up and down, but nothing comes out. It’s like someone has pressed his mute button.

It’s only then that Doyle notices the absurdly large, white-framed spectacles that Gonzo is sporting. Only then that he sees the swelling on Gonzo’s cheek, distorting his face into that of a hamster with a peanut in its jowls. Only then that the truth dawns on him. He lowers his voice to a more respectable level.

‘Oh shit. Tell me what happened.’

‘I. . I don’t know, Detective. I went down to the laundry room. I didn’t want to, but Tabitha insisted. She wanted clean sheets. So I went. I thought it would be okay if I wasn’t going out of the building. Only the light wasn’t working down there, and all the windows are boarded up. I couldn’t see a thing. And then somebody hit me. They put a bag over my head and tied me up. I was down there for hours. I’m sorry, Detective. I did my best. I really did.’

Doyle stares at the pitiful wreck before him. He knows that Gonzo is absolutely right. There’s nothing more he could have done. He’s not a cop. He doesn’t know how to fight. He’s just a kid. A kid with really bad glasses. What the hell was I thinking?

Except that I didn’t think it would come to this. There wasn’t supposed to be any fighting. The killer was never supposed to find Tabitha. How did he do that? How does he always manage to stay one step ahead?

‘You think she’s okay, Detective? You think you’ll be able to find her?’

Doyle hears the optimism, and is saddened that he has to quash it. ‘We found her, Gonzo. She’s dead.’

Gonzo tilts his head, blinks. ‘Tabitha? Our Tabitha? The one who stayed here last night?’ He steadies himself on the back of a chair, then gently lowers himself onto the seat. ‘How could that be?’

Doyle has no answer.

Gonzo suddenly straightens in his chair. ‘I didn’t tell anyone. I swear. I didn’t tell anyone she was staying here.’

Doyle puts out a hand to calm him. ‘It’s okay. I know you didn’t. Somehow the killer figured it out. I don’t know how he did it, but he’s damn smart. Did you pick up anything on him in the laundry room? His voice, his height, his clothes?’

‘Nothing. I just walked in there, and bang! That was it.’

Doyle gestures toward Gonzo’s face. ‘You should get that looked at.’

‘I’m okay. It’s sore, but I’m okay. My glasses got broke, though. These are my old pair. I don’t see so well out of them.’

‘Get some new ones. Send me the bill.’

‘You don’t have to do that.’

‘Yes. Yes, I do. I got you into this mess.’

‘You couldn’t have known. It wasn’t your fault.’

‘Gonzo! Stop being so fucking nice to me. It is my fault. It’s all my fault. I shouldn’t have brought her here. I shouldn’t have asked you to watch over her. You could have been killed, do you understand that?’

‘But I wasn’t. I’m okay. I was glad to help out. I like you. And. . and I liked Tabitha too.’

The purity of motive hits Doyle hard. There is no selfishness here, no hidden agenda.

‘Yeah,’ he answers. ‘I liked her too.’

He moves to the window. Across the street, a low-rise school building in concrete and glass occupies most of the block, but he doesn’t really take it in. Doesn’t really see anything. It’s just a meaningless geometric shape. His head is too crowded with other thoughts. He’s been outsmarted. Again. The killer said this one would hurt, and it does. God, it hurts.

The others hurt too. Their names will be forever seared into his memory. Cindy Mellish. Lorna Bonnow. Sean Hanrahan. Andrew Vasey. Helena Colquitt. And now Tabitha Peyton. A roll call of lost souls. And all reaching out for Doyle. All calling to him from beyond the grave. And isn’t there a note of blame in their plaintive cries?

He thinks it’s time.

Time to do what he should have done at the very beginning of all this. Time to surrender.

He thought he could win. He was arrogant enough to think he had the intelligence to catch this evil bastard. But now, humiliating as it might be, he has to accept he was wrong.

The killer is laughing at him. Ridiculing his puny efforts. He could easily have killed Tabitha here, in Gonzo’s apartment. Instead, he chose to make a statement. By taking Tabitha back to her apartment and killing her in the way he intended last night, he was saying, I can do what I want and you can’t stop me.

And Doyle is starting to realize he’s right about that. The killer does what he wants. He goes where he wants, murders who he wants. He’s like a ghost. He can’t be seen or touched or caught. But if he chooses to haunt you, then you’re condemned. He will pass through your walls and he will whisper in your ear and you will do his bidding. And then you will die.

‘Detective? Are you okay?’

Doyle turns his gaze on Gonzo. ‘That attitude of yours? The way you just want to be of some value? Don’t ever lose it, okay? No matter how many times life kicks you in the balls, stay just the way you are, Gonzo.’

He starts heading for the door.

Gonzo calls after him. ‘Where are you going?’

Doyle pauses, just for a second.

‘To catch a ghost.’

He should be proud. What he did with Tabitha Peyton today was practically a work of art. Nobody would have been expecting that. It was a stroke of genius. He should open some champagne.

And yet. .

The kid. The geeky red-headed fuckwit with the stupid name. Gonzo.

What the hell was he doing there? Again! Seeing him outside Vasey’s place not once but twice was disconcerting enough. But this!

Why would Doyle take the Peyton girl to him? He can’t be a cop. Cops don’t look like that. And they certainly put up a better fight than he did in that basement.

So what the fuck?

I should have killed him, he thinks. Yes, that would have been the best thing to do. It would have been so easy. I missed an opportunity. He’s starting to get under my skin, and I can’t let him interfere like this.

There are people who need my help.

Doyle works his shift. He spends most of it going through the reports on the various murders, over and over again. Hoping to catch something he’s missed. Praying that he’ll find something that will mean he doesn’t have to go through with his decision. But it’s fruitless. He knew it would be. He’s looked at all the paperwork before, dozens of times. Other than the link between Vasey, Hanrahan and Cindy Mellish, there is nothing. And even then it could be that Hanrahan and the girl were killed simply as pointers to Vasey as the next victim. There may be no more of a connection than that. There is nothing to suggest that any of the other victims were linked in any way to Vasey.

So that’s it, then. He is left with no choice.

He gets up from his desk. Steps toward the door. He passes Holden’s desk. Holden is typing at a keyboard. He has pulled overtime on the murders of the two girls. He looks up at Doyle.

‘You wanna talk?’

Doyle considers the offer. He wishes Holden hadn’t asked. It would be so easy to say yes.

‘Tomorrow,’ he says. ‘We’ll talk tomorrow.’

Holden nods slowly and returns to his typing. Doyle moves out into the hallway and enters a storeroom. He opens a wall cabinet and takes down what he needs. He’s supposed to sign it out but he doesn’t bother. He drops the item into his pocket and returns to his desk.

Then he waits.

It’s almost one-thirty in the morning when he gets home. He’ll be back on duty at eight. It’s a tough switch-over. Doyle knows a number of detectives who don’t even bother going home, especially if they live way out in the sticks. Some of them grab what sleep they can on a cot in the station house. Some even go partying between the shifts. Family man that he is now, Doyle always goes home. He goes home and he slips into a warm bed with his warm wife and he sinks instantly into a deep and reinvigorating slumber.

But not tonight.

Tonight his brain has no plans for winding down. It has too much to consider. Too much to worry about.

His future, for instance. Or, to be more precise, whether he has one.

So, instead of going to bed, he switches on a lamp and fetches a cold beer from the kitchen and makes himself comfortable on the sofa. And then he raises his beer bottle in a farewell toast to his career.

Because it’s over. One way or another, his life as a cop is over.

Maybe his liberty too. And his marriage.

Hell, his whole life is over.

Fuck it.

He takes a long swig of beer. God, that feels good. Enjoy it while it lasts, Doyle. It could be a while before you have the opportunity to get good and drunk again.

He drains the bottle. Goes to the kitchen again. Comes back with a trio of bottles. Already open, because he doesn’t plan to waste any time.

He’s halfway through the second when his cellphone rings. He’s not surprised. He’s been expecting this.

‘Talk,’ he says. ‘Tell me what a good job you did.’

‘Hello, Cal. You answered quickly. What’s the matter? Can’t sleep? Now why would that be?’

‘Don’t fuck with me. I’ve had it. Say what you gotta say, and then fuck off. I’m tired of this shit.’

‘Don’t be like that, Cal. You knew it would be painful. I told you it would. You didn’t really think you could keep Tabitha hidden from me for long, did you?’

‘You didn’t have to do that to her. She did nothing wrong. She never did anything to hurt you.’

‘And I never said she did. Jesus, Cal, you still don’t get it, do you?’

‘Get what?’

‘You don’t understand what’s happening. Brain power. That’s what’s missing here. Find it, Cal. Use it.’

‘You finished? I need another beer.’

‘Depends on what you mean by finished. Tabitha’s death was a hell of a showpiece, but she wasn’t the finale. There will be others. But if you mean am I finished giving you help, well that’s up to you, buddy. Like I told you, I’m not going to sneak anything in. You want my help now, you’ll have to ask for it. So what’s it going to be?’

‘I need to think about it.’

‘So think about it. I’ll give you one hour, and then I’ll call you back. It’ll be up to you then. You decide if you want my help or not. Either way, somebody else is set to die in the next twenty-four hours. Maybe you’ll get lucky this time. This could be your chance to shine, Cal. What have you got to lose?’

When the call ends, Doyle almost laughs. What have I got to lose? Everything, that’s what.

Tabitha wasn’t the finale, the caller said.

Well, she was for Doyle. He can’t have another death on his conscience.

He’s in a lose-lose situation now. If he continues to play along with his mysterious caller’s little game, then there’s every likelihood another innocent life will be lost. Experience has taught him that he’s not a strong enough player to prevent that outcome.

And the alternatives?

Well, he could do what he did before: cut the bastard out. Refuse to take his calls. The sonofabitch hated that. Couldn’t handle not having an audience, someone to play with.

But it didn’t prevent further deaths. All it did was reduce Doyle’s chances of catching the killer from infinitesimally small down to nil.

So there’s only one move left to make.

He has to pass on everything he knows to the Department. Let them handle this. Give them a half-decent chance of stopping this insane genius. A person whose existence they’re not even aware of right now.

They’ll throw the book at Doyle, of course. That’s a given. Probably throw the whole fucking library. He’s left them no choice. Maybe if he’d gone to them much earlier he could have gotten away with a mild disciplinary charge. But not now. He’s covered up too much, for too long. Some people on the force are already looking for ways to kick him out. They’ve been just itching for him to step out of line. Well there you go, guys. I’m so far off the line I can no longer even see the fucking line. Go ahead, string me up.

And if, by some miracle, the PD displays even an ounce of sympathy for his plight, that’ll go straight out the window once they hear what else he’s been up to. The killer knows things about Doyle. Lots of things. Things even his own wife doesn’t know. And if he chooses to divulge that information — as he undoubtedly will once it becomes apparent that the cops have heard all about the calls he has been making — then Doyle can forget about any mercy pleas.

Unless, of course, the killer has been bluffing all along. Maybe he’s been exaggerating the extent of his inside information.

Not that it matters now. With or without any revelations the killer is able to make, Doyle’s ass is toast. It’s only a matter of degree now. Severely burnt or completely carbonized.

‘You coming to bed?’

Rachel, standing in the doorway. Wearing just a long T that barely covers her modesty. She peers at him through half-closed eyes. Her hair looks as though it’s just been hit by a blast of wind.

‘Soon. I need to unwind first.’

He hopes she’ll go back to bed, but instead she comes over to join him on the sofa. She tucks her legs beneath her and rests her chin on his shoulder.

‘You okay?’

What to say? Yeah, I’m fine, but tomorrow they’ll be carting my ass to jail?

‘Yeah, just thinking.’

She laughs through her nostrils, and he feels the warmth of her breath on his neck.

‘That’s not like you. Does it hurt?’

He feels he should laugh back, to let her know it’s nothing serious. But he can’t do it.

‘I’m not sure I can be a cop anymore.’

She raises her head. ‘What? What brought this on?’

‘Dunno. Things have changed. I’ve changed. The job doesn’t mean what it used to.’

She strokes a finger across his cheek. It’s gentle, soothing.

‘Are you in trouble?’

He shrugs. ‘Aren’t I always? Seems I can’t do anything to stay outta trouble these days.’

‘Is it the phone calls?’

He looks at her, and she says, ‘I heard your phone again, a few minutes ago. I know there’s something going on, and I know you can’t talk about it, and it’s killing me. Worse than that, I think it’s killing you too. Tell me one thing, Cal. Tell me it’s going to end soon. Tell me this isn’t going to carry on for the rest of our lives.’

It’s an easy one to answer. ‘It’s not going to carry on. It’s nearly over. I promise.’

Yeah, it’s nearly over. Everything he ever worked for is nearly over.

‘Then. . maybe things won’t seem so bad once it’s out of the way.’

He holds back a reply to that one. Swallows it down with a mouthful of beer.

She leans closer, kisses him on the cheek. ‘Come to bed.’

He nods. ‘Soon.’

She gets up from the sofa again. He watches the gentle gyration of her hips as she walks to the door.

‘Rach?’ he calls. She looks over her shoulder at him. Her heavy eyelids lend her expression a dreamy, seductive quality.

‘I love you,’ he says. ‘You know that, don’t you?’

‘Come to bed,’ she answers, and there is a promise there that lingers in the air even after she has gone.

He aches to follow that promise and catch it. And when, instead, he chugs from his beer bottle, he finds it a poor substitute that tastes bitter on his tongue.

But he drinks it anyway. He drains all the bottles in front of him and tries to summon up the energy to go fetch some more, but finds that he can only stare into nothingness and listen to the silence.

When his phone finally rings again, he checks neither the time nor the caller ID. He knows who this is from, and that it will be precisely one hour since his last call. He experiences a sense of finality as he presses the answer button.

‘Hello again, Cal. Time’s up, pal. What’s it to be? You want my help or not?’

‘I want your help,’ says Doyle.

‘You sure? I don’t want to twist your arm or anything.’

‘Just say what you gotta say.’

‘All right, Cal. I’m glad you’ve seen sense. Here we go. .’

As the music fades in, Doyle tunes out. He doesn’t even listen to what the man is telling him. Just lets him say his piece. Doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t give him any reaction. Nothing for the pond life to feed off. And when the monologue is over, Doyle hangs up without even a word.

He stares into space for a few moments longer. Then he reaches for the item he brought home from the station house. A digital voice recorder, still wired up to his cellphone. He switches it off. At the start of his shift he will hand it over to the Lieutenant.

And with it, he’ll be handing over his life.