The Helper (31 page)

‘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.

Sunday morning. Doyle is wending his way to work again. The traffic is light, and it’s going to be another beautiful spring day. It feels to Doyle as though the fingers
of sunlight reaching to him through his windshield should be accompanied by a heavenly choir. He wonders if he’s being told he should be driving to church instead. To seek some forgiveness.
To discover if, even at this late stage, there’s any hope of salvation for him.

Waiting at a stop signal, he glances at the voice recorder sitting on the passenger seat next to him. It also seems to be sending him messages. Trying to entice him. As if it’s saying,
Go on, you know you want to
. Falling prey to temptation he picks it up and switches it on. And that’s why I don’t go to church anymore, he thinks. The priests always said I was
weak. But why the hell not? What’ve I got to lose? Might as well hear what the Lieutenant’s about to hear before he tosses my ass in the slammer and swallows the key.

The music first. Something modern. Doyle knows this song. He’s not good on titles, but the band playing this one sings it time and time again.

Why does it always rain on me?

First clue? Has to be. But it means nothing to Doyle.

Then the killer’s voice breaks in. That damn silky voice that will haunt Doyle forever.

‘Certainly raining a lot on you lately, huh, Cal? If it carries on like this, you’ll need to get yourself a hat. Protect that brain. It’s the only thing that’s going to
get you out of this mess.’

The caller pauses for a moment, raising the music’s volume and then lowering it before he speaks again.

Sonofabitch thinks he’s a damn DJ now.

‘I don’t want you making any mistakes on this one, Cal. You don’t have a good record so far. It must be breaking you up inside. How do you cope with that? All those mistakes?
It must affect your behavior, your relationships. Maybe I should ask your wife. She of all people must sense something is wrong.’

He pauses again while he gives Doyle another blast of the song.

‘What’s the matter, buddy? Nothing you want to say to me? I understand. You must have a lot on your mind right now. As if all these people dying wasn’t enough. You’ve got
the distractions too, right? All that small stuff that just gets in the way. The little irritations that you could do without. It’s all raining down on you, right, Cal?’

The chorus once more. Repeating the title:
Why does it always rain on me?

‘It’s okay. You don’t need to say anything. Save your energy for what’s to come. Just remember that I’m here to help when you need me. Speak to you soon, my friend.
Oh, and by the way, you have until eight o’clock tonight. Eight p.m. Get it right this time, Cal. I’m rooting for you, buddy.’

The call ends then. Doyle shuts off the recorder. What the hell was that all about? There were clues in there? Rain? What fucking rain?

It angers him that he cannot read anything of value into what he’s just heard. Is he really that stupid? Granted, he’s no chess grandmaster, but can’t he at least do something
with what he’s just been given?

Fuck it.

Why am I stressing over this, anyhow? Makes no difference. Not my problem anymore. Let the PD figure it out. Let them decide what to do with me, too.

When he gets to the squadroom, he keeps his hands in his pockets, turning the voice recorder over and over. His mouth is dry. He tries licking his lips, but his tongue rasps on the parched skin.
Through the windows looking into the Lieutenant’s office, there is no sign of Cesario.

Doyle turns to LeBlanc, who is biting into a soggy egg and bacon muffin. ‘The boss not in yet?’

LeBlanc wipes yolk from his mouth with a napkin. ‘He’s at the Big House for a meeting. Could be there for a coupla hours.’

Doyle nods his thanks and moves to his desk. Great, he thinks. It’s like pissing your pants and then being told you have to sit in them for the rest of the day.

He does some paperwork, makes some phone calls, answers a few more calls, but he feels he may as well not be there for all the impact he’s making. If all the cops were as absent from the
planet as he is today, the crooks could go wild.

At just after ten-fifteen his desk-phone rings again. What is it with you people? Don’t you know it’s a Sunday? A day of rest, folks. Go cut your lawns or visit your aged aunts or
jog around the park. Just stop bothering me when I’m on the verge of jumping off the cliff that was my life.

He answers it anyway. Reels off the usual, ‘Eighth Precinct. Detective Doyle.’

‘Detective Doyle? It’s Mrs Sachs here. I hope you don’t mind my bothering you like this, it being a Sunday morning and all.’