David Jackson - The Helper

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.

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?