David Jackson - The Helper

‘Now? Do you know what time it is? Can’t this wait till the morning?’

‘No. Please. It’s urgent. It won’t take long.’

Hiss over the intercom. Then: ‘All right. Keep it brief, okay?’

She admits him, and he runs up the stairs to the second floor. The door to 2B is already open. Tabitha standing there, belting up her robe. Her eyelids looking like they want to slide down to her mouth.

‘Get inside,’ he says.

The command seems to shock her awake. ‘What? Who do you think-’

‘Inside. Now!’

He pushes her into the living room and follows her.

He says, ‘Get dressed. Pack a few things. You’re leaving.’

‘No. What are you talking about? You can’t just come in here like this-’

‘Tabitha, listen to me. Your life is in danger. We’ve had some information. The guy who killed Helena, we think he’s gonna try to kill you too. You have to leave here.’

She blinks. Confused. Scared.

‘No. I don’t. . I mean, I don’t understand. Who wants to kill me? How do you know all this?’

Inside, Doyle twists and turns about what he can tell her. Without at least some honesty she’s not going to believe him. And that means she won’t save herself.

‘All right, I’m gonna tell you something. Nobody else knows this. Not the press. Not the families of the other victims. Nobody.’ He pauses to let this sink in. ‘He calls us. The murderer. When he’s killed somebody, he calls the cops to taunt us for not catching him. Tonight I took the call. He did his usual thing, making fun of us. Calling us clowns. Only this time he said we were idiots for not preventing the death of Tabitha Peyton.’

Her face seems to drain of blood. She shakes her head. ‘No. What do you mean? Are you saying he made a mistake? That Helena was a mistake ?’

Put like that, it makes Helena’s death sound even more of a waste than it was already. All that Doyle can say is, ‘I’m sorry.’

She pushes her hands through her hair and looks around the room, as if searching for an escape route from this bad dream she must be having.

‘I can’t do this. I can’t take any more. Why would somebody want to kill me? I haven’t done anything.’

‘Please, Tabitha. We can talk about it in the car. Right now, I just have to get you somewhere safe. Go into your bedroom and get dressed. I’ll be waiting right here. Hurry!’

As she walks away he wants to weep for her. She’s been through enough. First her parents get ripped from her, then her best friend, and now she’s in danger of losing her own life. How much disastrous luck can be crammed into such a youthful existence?

He steps to the window and parts the curtains slightly. Peers down onto the street below, even though he doesn’t know what he’s looking for. Then he goes over and sits on the sofa. He finds himself tapping his feet in impatience and constantly checking his watch.

He thinks, Jesus, how long is she gonna take in there? I coulda had a three course meal by now.

When she reappears she is wearing jeans, leather boots and a gray coat, belted at the waist. She carries a heavy-looking overnight bag.

‘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.