The Helper

‘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.

It’s what she said. It’s the trust. When he looks into her eyes it’s like looking into the eyes of Amy, his daughter. There is undiluted trust there. Faith. Belief. Tabitha believes that he is her guardian angel. The white knight, as she put it. He has rescued the damsel in distress and next he will vanquish the dragon, and they will live happily ever after. That’s what she believes.

He’s not sure he’s ready for that responsibility. It makes him wish he wasn’t so trustworthy in her eyes.

Because what if he gets it wrong?

What if, despite his constant assertions to himself and his continued reassurances to her that she is out of danger, she still comes to harm?

It’s an unbearable thought. And that’s why he cannot look her in the eye. Loath though he is to admit it, he needs the emotional detachment. Just in case.

But no! Fuck that sick sonofabitch! He’s not going to get Tabitha Peyton. She is safe now.

The coffee arrives, and he’s glad of the interruption to his mental wrangling. Neither of them adds sugar to their drinks. Both take careful sips from their cups of steaming liquid.

‘Do you like this city?’ she asks.

The question throws Doyle. Not merely for its random nature, but also because it’s something which for him has a lot more depth than it might appear to possess. To Doyle, this city is far more than a collection of buildings and people and vehicles crammed into a few square miles of land. He was brought here at the age of eight from a country with vast open spaces and sheep and cows and an altogether gentler pace of life. The shock of that contrast — the excitement of it — has never left him. Yes, the city can be cruel, can even seem heartless at times,