David Jackson - The Helper

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?’