David Jackson - The Helper

‘Honey, Amy’s asking you a question. A very important question.’

‘Huh?’ He comes awake and looks at his daughter. ‘What is it, Amy?’

‘I said, which is more spiky — a hedgehog or a porkie-pine?’

‘Oh. Definitely a porkie-pine. No doubt about that.’

‘Good. Because that’s what I said to Ellie, and she said I was a doofus. I’m not a doofus, are I?’

Doyle smiles at her misuse of the English language. She has developed a habit of saying ‘are I’ instead of ‘am I’ and he doesn’t have the heart to correct her.

‘No, you’re not.’

Not like your dad, he thinks. I graduated summa cum laude from the School of Doofus.

And my ignorance is going to get someone killed.

Andrew Vasey sits motionless in his typist’s chair in his apartment, staring straight ahead. Looking out through his floor-to-ceiling window at all those lights. All those sparkling, twinkling, colored lights. The city at night. Millions of people. Perhaps someone is looking back at him now. Wondering.

He breathes, and the air seems to shudder as it gets dragged into his lungs. His body vibrates with the effort. His eyes sting.

He wants to cry out to all those people. Look at me. LOOK AT ME!

It is not time yet. It will be soon. Seconds away, surely. A few pulse-beats of time remaining.

He has accomplished many things, he feels. Helped many people. He is a good man. Not everyone can see that. But he doesn’t deserve this.

He thinks about last night. With Anna. It was unplanned and perfect. The irony is that he knows whom to thank for it now. But that’s not important. He must latch onto that moment. Hold it tightly. Remember her warmth, her passion, and yes, her love. Because there was still something there. He is sure of it. And that is what he will take with him.

It is time.

The movement begins.

Slow at first, then gathering speed. Until that huge window is rushing at him at what seems like fifty miles per hour. Filling his vision with all those lights. Those bright twinkling stars.

He closes his eyes at the last possible moment. He feels the massive impact, hears the incredible noise. It is the universe breaking apart, and when he opens his eyes all he can see are the stars it contains. The wind rushing past his ears seems primordial to him. As it was at the beginning, so is it at the end. The cosmos is taking him back.

He wants to cry out. Something profound. Something befitting the moment.

But even if he had the words, he does not have the ability to broadcast them.

And so he remains silent. Watching the world rush up to meet him. Feeling that his heart is about to burst open. Listening to the roaring in his ears. Trying to rise above the absurdity of it all.

A man bound to a typist’s chair with duct tape. His mouth also sealed with tape. Plummeting from the twenty-eighth floor of his apartment building.

Falling, falling.

Until the rope around his neck becomes taut, and the man’s head is ripped from his shoulders, while body and chair smash onto the roof of the adjacent brownstone.

The man who has just wheeled Andrew Vasey across his hardwood floor and through his own window moves quickly now. He steps over broken glass, smoothes down his hair that has been ruffled by the cool air now blowing into the open-plan living area.

He leaves the apartment and walks swiftly along the hallway. He summons the elevator, which arrives almost immediately, then gets in and presses the button for the lobby. When the doors eventually swish open again, he steps out and looks around. The place is deserted. He glances toward the door of the small back office where the doorman keeps his possessions, makes himself the occasional cup of coffee, that kind of thing. He can be found there now. Dead, of course.

The man regrets the death of the doorman. He didn’t need helping. Not to the man’s knowledge, anyway. But Vasey did need help. And getting to Vasey meant removing the doorman. It was a matter of expediency, pure and simple. Poor guy.

He steps out onto the street. Starts walking toward his car. Casually. Without too much haste that might attract attention. He looks around him, expecting to see very little out of the ordinary. A window breaking twenty-eight stories up is just a tinkle when set against the background noise and frenzy of a city like New York. Even a subsequent thud five stories up is difficult to pinpoint and identify, especially when most of the passers-by at this time of night are comfortably ensconced in cars. Now if Vasey had come crashing down onto the sidewalk here, chair and headless body flattening and splattering across the slabs, then that might have been noticed. That might have caused one or two citizens to break stride for a moment, to be a little delayed in taking the next bite out of their Big Macs.

But as it was, the presence of the brownstone directly below Vasey’s window proved hugely convenient. An ideal landing pad for a decapitated body flying a typist’s chair. Not that it was fortuitous, of course. Things like that cannot be left to chance. It was all in the plan. All factored into the scenario. And everything went just as it was supposed to.

Except. .

That guy.

Across the street. Looking up at the hole left by Vasey in his window. Talking animatedly into his cellphone.

Now he is noteworthy.

Not just because he is aware of what just happened way up there. There was always the possibility that somebody might see or hear something. That was anticipated. It was accounted for.

No, this man is significant for other reasons.

Turning his face away in case the man should look across and see him, the killer quickens his pace toward the corner of the block.

What bothers him is that he has seen that onlooker before. And at almost exactly the same spot.

A nerdy-looking redhead like that is not easily forgotten.

Doyle is beginning to wish he never had a cellphone. It seems that almost every time it rings it brings him trouble. He expects this call to be no exception.

‘D-Detective. It’s m-me. Oh my gosh. Oh my g-g-gosh.’

‘Steady, Gonzo. Calm down. What is it?’

‘I’m here again. I was trying to help. I just thought I could keep watch for you. You know, like I said. Because of you not having the m-manpower. And so I came here. But now I don’t know what to-’

‘Gonzo! Take a deep breath. Okay? Now, nice and slow, where are you?’

‘Outside Vasey’s building. Watching him for you.’

Doyle rolls his eyes. Oh brother, he thinks. What is it with him?

‘All right, Gonzo. You don’t need to watch him every night, okay? Now what’s got you so worked up?’

‘I think. . I think. .’

Doyle can hear his rasping breath. He sounds like he’s on the verge of an asthma attack.

‘What do you think?’

‘I think he’s dead.’

Tired though he is, Doyle is instantly alert. He is glad that Rachel is in the shower, so that he doesn’t have to sneak off to the bedroom again to continue his conversation.

‘Who? Vasey? Are you talking about Vasey? What makes you think he’s dead?’

‘I. . I just saw him. At least I think it was him. Oh my God.’

‘Gonzo, where did you see Vasey? Outside his apartment building?’

‘No. Well, yes. But not in the way you mean. I think it was him. . but I’m not sure. Maybe it wasn’t him. I couldn’t see too well. It’s dark, and it was high up. I dunno. Maybe I’m wrong. But it was somebody. It was definitely somebody-’

‘Gonzo! For Pete’s sake, tell me what the hell is going on!’

There is a pause. Gonzo trying to compose himself, presumably.

‘He came out of the window. Whoever it was. But I think it was Vasey because he lives in apartment 28A, and this looks about the right height to me. He came out of the window. Smashed right through it. And he was tied to a chair. And then. . and then. .’