It would explain a lot of things, though, wouldn’t it, Doyle?
‘You okay, Cal?’
‘Uh. . yeah. Just thinking about Gonzo. Weird kid, ain’t he? That voice of his. .’
Adelman laughs again. ‘I know what you mean. Sounds a little like. .’
Marge Simpson, thinks Doyle. Say Marge Simpson.
‘Cary Grant,’ says Adelman. ‘Doesn’t go with his image at all, does it? Talk to him on the phone and you’d swear he looked like a movie star or a corporate executive. Maybe he should go into the voice-over business. He could even-’
But Doyle is already diving into the nearest elevator. ‘I gotta go, Lonnie. Thanks again.’
He doesn’t hear what Adelman calls to him after that. Doesn’t hear what the other occupants of the elevator are saying to each other. He hears only one voice: that of his mysterious phone caller. And the only picture in his head is that of Gonzo.
He finds it impossible to marry the two together.
And that’s what makes it the neatest trick of all. Cleverer than any of the clues given to him about the victims.
It fooled him completely.
He can hear the music from the hallway. A heavy, pounding bass that must drive the neighbors crazy. Doyle stands outside the door to Apartment 32 and pauses. He still doesn’t fully understand what’s been going on. Doesn’t know who Gonzo is anymore, or what he’s capable of.
What he does know is that he mustn’t underestimate the man inside this apartment. He’s not what he seems. Not by a long way.
And so Doyle slides his Glock from its holster and mentally prepares himself to use it on the nerdy kid he thought had become a friend.
Slowly, he raises his left hand. The hand containing the key he has just persuaded the building superintendent to hand over. As quietly as he can, he inserts the key into the lock. When it’s fully home, he takes a deep breath. In one fluid movement he twists the key, pushes open the door and steps inside.
His heart seems to stop beating when a voice screams at him, then revs up again when he realizes it’s just the rock group on the hi-fi. Most of the words are indecipherable. The only one he can make out is ‘hellfire’.
The place looks deserted, but he wishes the so-called music wasn’t depriving him of one of his senses.
And then a shape looms into view. Entering the room from the kitchen area. A male. Holding something in his hand.
Doyle swings his gun onto the target. When he sees Doyle and the gun aimed at his chest, the figure jumps and releases what he’s holding. The plate of waffles crashes to the floor, almost unheard above the music.
Doyle and the other occupant of the room stare at each other. In unison they yell the same question:
‘Who the fuck are you?’
It’s not Gonzo. Not even in disguise could this be Gonzo. He’s about forty pounds heavier, has a center parting in his lank brown hair, sports a wispy attempt at a moustache, and wears a T-shirt that says ‘Life, but not as we know it’. Another heavy-metal-loving nerd, to be sure, but definitely not Gonzo.
‘Turn the music down,’ Doyle shouts.
‘What?’
Doyle gestures toward the sound system. ‘The music. Shut it off.’
The young man holds his palms up as if pleading not to be shot. Not taking his eyes off Doyle and his gun, he sidles over to the hi-fi rack and powers off the amplifier.
The silence that greets Doyle is eerie after the cacophony.
‘Who are you?’ he asks.
‘M-Michael.’
‘Michael what?’
‘Michael Rowson.’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I. . I live here.’
‘What do you mean, you live here? Since when?’
‘I. . I’ve lived here for about a year.’
Doyle glances at the doors to the bedroom and the bathroom.
‘Where is he?’
‘Who? What? Are you sure you’re in the right place?’
‘Turn around.’
‘What?’
Doyle reaches into his pocket and takes out his wallet. He flips it open to display his gold shield.
‘I’m a cop, Michael. Now turn around and put your hands on the wall.’
Michael does as he is told. Doyle frisks him, but finds nothing.
‘Don’t move a muscle.’
While Michael strains to maintain his position, Doyle checks out the other rooms. Still nothing. It’s as if Gonzo never existed.
‘All right, Michael, start talking. What the fuck is going on here?’
‘Can I lower my arms now?’
‘No. Not until I get an explanation. You don’t live here, Michael. I’ve been here. I’ve been in this room. You weren’t here. There was no sign of you. So cut the bullshit before I get really pissed.’
Michael pauses, thinking something over. ‘All right. I think I know what this is about. But I didn’t do nothing. I mean nothing illegal, okay? I was just. . finding stuff out. That’s not a crime, is it?’
‘Michael, what the fuck are you talking about?’
‘The hackers’ convention. In Seattle. I’ve been there for a week. Isn’t that. . isn’t that why you’re here? Did somebody rat on me?’
Doyle senses he’s telling the truth. He really does live here, and Gonzo doesn’t. Which means that he doesn’t know where the hell Gonzo is. Unless. .
‘Michael, do you know a kid called Gonzo?’
‘Gonzo? What’s he got to do with this?’
‘You know him?’
‘Sure I know him. He’s the one who told me about this apartment when I was looking for a place. I asked him to water my plants while I was away. Wait a minute — is that what this is? Has Gonzo done something wrong?’
‘Listen to me, Michael. This is important. Do you know Gonzo’s address?’
‘Are you kidding me?’
‘Why would I be kidding you? Do you know it or don’t you?’
‘Sure I do.’ He nods down at Doyle’s shoes. Doyle looks down too, wondering what the hell he’s supposed to see. And then it dawns on him.
‘Downstairs?’
Michael nods. ‘Apartment 22.’
Doyle continues to stare at the carpet, as if doing so could allow him to see straight into Gonzo’s apartment. And then he’s heading for the door.
‘Hey,’ Michael calls after him. ‘Can I lower my arms now?’
Doyle takes the stairs two at a time. He wonders how thin the ceilings are here. Gonzo must have heard the music being abruptly cut off. Did he hear any of the yelling too? Does he know that Doyle is here?
As Doyle reaches door 22, another question occurs to him. Why did Gonzo go to all the trouble of using Michael’s apartment when Doyle asked him to look after Tabitha? Why not simply use his own?
When Doyle leaps at the door and kicks it open, he gets his answer.
There are no sofas or armchairs here. No dining table or bookcases. No television. No normality. Gonzo could not have invited anyone in here without revealing that he was not simply the amusing social misfit or the endearing eccentric. He has gone way beyond that.
A better description might be ‘unhinged’.
Because this place is like a shrine. A shrine to technology.
Arranged in a large circle is a set of desks. There are over a dozen of them. And on each desk there is a computer, facing inwards. All of the monitors are blank, but the computer towers hum softly and their tiny lights wink at Doyle. He gets the strange feeling that they’re talking about him.
He pushes the door closed behind him. Keeping his gun at the ready, he steps through a narrow gap in the circle of desks. When he reaches the center of the arena, he turns slowly, looking at all these computers. Wondering what they’re for.
And then he hears it.
It’s behind him.
The silky-smooth voice of his helper.
‘Hello again, Cal.’
THIRTY-TWO
Doyle whirls. He raises his gun. Li
nes up its sights with the bridge of Gonzo’s spectacles.
Okay, he thinks. What are you going to do now, Doyle? Put bullet holes in a damn machine?
The image on the monitor smiles. ‘Sorry, Cal. Did I scare you?’ He pauses for a second, and when he next speaks, his words are in the high-pitched squawk of the Gonzo that Doyle has come to know and like: ‘Would you prefer it if I talked like this? Is that better, Detective?’
Doyle doesn’t know why, but he keeps his gun trained on the screen. He’s never trusted computers.
‘Where are you, Gonzo?’
Gonzo shifts back to his normal voice, the one that Doyle still finds hard to believe belongs to this man. It feels like he’s watching a ventriloquist act. Any second now the real perp will appear with his hand up Gonzo’s ass.
‘I think I’ll stick with this voice, if you don’t mind. The other one gets pretty tiring after a while. You don’t know how much of a struggle it was to maintain it in front of Tabitha for all that time. I had to keep the conversations to a minimum. Which is a shame, because she was so pretty and intelligent, it would have been nice to have a serious chat with her.’
‘I said, where are you?’
‘Not there, Cal. Not at the apartment, if that’s what’s worrying you. No, I’m long gone from there. I knew you’d figure out my part in all this eventually. Took you a while, but I’d say you were above average as far as the cops of this city go. I know that’s not saying much, but you can take it as a compliment if you like.’
This new Gonzo is so calm, so self-assured. Nothing like the gauche young man he now seems to have discarded, like a snake shedding its skin.
‘How’d you do it, Gonzo? How’d you pull it off?’
‘Pull what off?’
‘The homicides. How’d you get Everett to kill all those people for you?’
Gonzo puts a finger to his chest and raises his eyebrows in surprise. ‘Moi? No, you’ve got it all wrong. He didn’t do it for me. He did it for himself. He did it because it was his way of helping people. I told you what it was all about in our phone conversations. Helping. Everett helped his victims, I helped you. It’s what makes the world go around.’
‘You helped Everett too, though, didn’t you?’
Gonzo shrugs. ‘I guess I can’t stop myself. It must be in my genes.’
‘Why? What was he to you? How’d you even know he’d be willing to do this shit?’
Gonzo smiles. ‘Take a look behind you, Cal.’
Doyle whirls again. Another monitor has come alive. The image is dark and fuzzy. Doyle moves toward it, squinting to make sense of it.
He sees a bed, with someone lying in it. An old woman. There are tubes snaking out of her. A hospital?
‘I don’t-’ Doyle begins, but then there’s movement on the screen. A figure of a man comes into shot. He moves away from the camera and over to the bed. He leans over the old woman, takes her hand, says something to her. When he’s done talking, he walks around the bed, pulling the sheets out from below the mattress and then tucking them back in again. Smoothing them down. Getting them all nice and neat. When he walks away from the bed, there is sadness on his face and in the slump of his shoulders.
The man is Everett.
He disappears from view. The light goes out and the picture turns black.
‘Nice movie,’ says Doyle, ‘although a little Ingmar Bergman for my tastes. You got anything more upbeat?’
Gonzo says, ‘If it’s drama you want. .’
The same monitor flares back into life. Same image of the old lady. Everett appears again, does the same walk, the same talk. Circles the bed again, untucks, tucks. Gingerly slides the pillow from beneath the lady’s head, plumps it up a little, places it over her face. .
What?
Doyle finds himself being drawn closer to the monitor. He cannot believe what he’s seeing. Thinks, I’m watching a murder. As it happened. Jesus Christ!
The picture fades again.
Doyle turns. ‘The woman. Who the hell was she?’
‘His mother. She had cancer. Terminal. Everett’s view was that he was doing her a favor. It’s how he got started.’
‘Where was that? A hospital?’
‘Not a hospital. Everett’s house. He was her carer.’
‘His house? He filmed this shit? Jesus. How did you-’
‘Watch. There’s more.’
Doyle turns once again. We’re back in the room. No old lady this time. Instead, an attractive young one, sitting on the bed. Everett is on the bed too, next to her. They have drinks in their hands. The girl appears to be enjoying herself. She sways gently as she giggles.
And then she keels over.
Collapses unconscious on the bed. A little something extra in her drink, Doyle guesses.
Everett leans over her and examines her face. He puts two fingers to her neck to check her pulse. Then he gets up from the bed and moves out of shot.
A minute later he’s back again, a tumbler of water and a medicine bottle in his hands. He puts them down on the nightstand while he sits the girl up. She’s limp and unresponsive. He slaps her face a couple of times and she comes round just a little. Just enough to sit there unaided and stare blankly at him.
He takes the bottle and shakes a couple of tablets into his hand. He pops them into the girl’s mouth, then picks up the tumbler and puts it to her lips. He has to tip her backwards to make it go down. He repeats the maneuver. More tablets, more water. Then again. The girl just sits there, taking it. Not aware of what’s happening to her. Not knowing she’s being murdered.
Everett loses his patience. He picks up the bottle again, but instead of shaking a couple of pills out onto his hand, he simply puts the bottle to her lips and tries to pour its contents down her throat. He grabs her by the hair, pulls back her head, forces the whole fucking bottle into her mouth. .
The screen goes blank, and Doyle is glad of it. When he faces the disembodied head of Gonzo again, he can feel himself trembling.
‘She was the second,’ says Gonzo.
‘Don’t tell me. She once took an overdose. Or maybe she just thought about it. Because that seems to be enough for you sick motherfuckers. The slightest excuse. That’s all you need. How’d you find her, anyway?’
‘I didn’t. This was way before Everett even knew I existed. There were two others like this before I came on the scene. He established the pattern himself. I just made it easier for him to continue.’
‘Then how did you know he was doing this stuff? How’d you get hold of the home movie?’
Gonzo laughs. ‘You really haven’t figured it out yet, have you? I’m amazed. It’s really quite simple.’
Doyle waits for the explanation, but Gonzo isn’t forthcoming. The two stare at each other, even though they are not physically in the same room. Doyle has to keep reminding himself that he’s alone here. Just him and numerous boxes formed from metal and plastic. And yet he’s never felt so much the focus of attention.
The voice that breaks the silence also breaks his heart. It shouldn’t be heard here. Not amongst all this death and violence.
‘Whatcha doin’, hon?’ is all the voice says.
It’s the voice of Rachel. Doyle’s wife.
A different monitor this time. Doyle races over to it. He sees a close-up image of Rachel, staring right back at him. It’s like she’s been abducted from the real world and converted to a stream of bits that has been imprisoned in this machine.
‘Rachel!’ he says. ‘RACHEL!’
Gonzo says, ‘She can’t hear you, Cal.’
Rachel turns her head slightly. She’s listening to another voice. That’s when Doyle realizes she wasn’t talking to him. She was talking to their daughter.
He doesn’t quite catch what Amy says, but Rachel replies with, ‘No, don’t wear that one. Wear the blue one.’
When Amy responds with a whine, Rachel rolls her eyes and moves away from the camera. Doyle watches her go. Watches her walk right out of th
e room. He knows that room.
It’s their living room.
It’s where he lives. He’s looking straight into their apartment. How the hell can he-
And then he figures it out. It’s the point of view. It tells him exactly where the camera is in his home. It’s where the computer sits on its desk.
The computer with a webcam.
The realization stuns Doyle. He never knew such things were possible.
‘You’ve taken control of our computer. You can see everything we do in that room. You can hear everything we say. That’s. . that’s how you know so much about me. And those movies of Everett. You got those in the same way, didn’t you?’
‘That’s right, Cal. He kept a computer in the spare bedroom where he looked after his poor sick mother. It’s how I found him. It’s how I found all of them.’
‘All of them?’
Gonzo smiles again, and another voice cuts in. Doyle turns to see Cindy Mellish in profile. She’s in her nightdress, and she’s talking on the phone. She’s crying as she tells her ex-boyfriend how she’s planning to cut her wrists.
Three desks along, another monitor flashes on. Lorna Bonnow. Sitting up in bed with her lover. Telling him the story that Alex later told Doyle, about how she wanted to jump out in front of that ambulance.
From behind Doyle, another voice. Doyle looks round to see Vasey. He’s sitting in his office chair, listening and nodding. The voice he’s listening to belongs to Sean Hanrahan, and he’s talking about how close he came to putting his service weapon in his mouth.
On yet another monitor, Vasey again. At his desk, but on the phone this time. He’s pleading with his wife. Telling her how he doesn’t think he can manage without her. Doesn’t know what he might do when he gets home. He’s even thought about ending his own life. .
Then there’s Tabitha. Curled up on a sofa. Tears running down her cheeks. Sitting alongside her, stroking her hand, is old Mrs Serafinowicz. Tabitha is telling her about her trip to the Brooklyn Bridge.
And to top it all, there’s a moment of fame in the collection for poor old Mrs Sachs too. Not her image. Not even her voice. What makes this hardest of all to watch is that it’s Doyle himself, telling his wife the story of the sad, wizened lady who once made the mistake of wishing she could swap places with her terrified daughter. It’s Doyle himself who is sounding the death knell for Mrs Sachs.
The Helper cd-2 Page 30
