The Laughterhouse

by Paul Cleave

  My hands shake on the way to see John Morgan, and I’m not sure what from. The excitement of hope, or that spooky feeling I got when I saw Bridget staring out the window like a ghost, or because I need a coffee fix, or because of the case. It’s five o’clock when I finally get to John Morgan’s house. I can’t stop thinking of Bridget’s face as she stared down at the cars. I could swear it looked like she was focusing on them and not through them.

  Or maybe that’s just what I’m hoping I saw.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The doctor has a nice house and if Caleb could stay here he would. He’d love to be able to head out and kill the last few people on his list, then come back and deal with the good doctor and his family in comfort. He could spend the night. Make himself a big breakfast. Relax on the big soft couch downstairs and watch some TV. Only the doctor’s house isn’t the location he has in mind for the end.

  His eyes are getting heavy as he slams down the trunk on Dr. Stanton and moves around to the driver’s seat. His body is sore. It’s the beatings. Jail broke him. Over the years his left leg has been broken four times, his right leg only once, as if the men who hurt him learned early on they had an aversion to symmetry. His left arm has been broken twice, and his right arm never broken at all. Most of his fingers have been crushed and snapped and he can’t make a fist in his right hand without agony. In his former life, he used to be a math teacher. He knew a lot about statistics. One statistic was that there are two hundred and eight bones in the human body and eighteen of his had been broken.

  The beatings in jail came about because the inmates were told he’d raped and killed his daughter. The cops told them that. It was because Caleb had killed a cop. He took what they gave, and the more they gave the more he died inside, and he let that happen. They stripped away his humanity, and when you take that away from a man you’re unleashing a world of possibilities.

  He has loaded up on blankets and has filled a bag of food from the fridge and pantry. He spent a few minutes reading news articles on the Internet with his phone, seeing what was already being written about him, only they’re not about him, not specifically. The media is calling him the Gran Reaper on account of the first two victims being old. They mention victim number three, but not by name. No mention of victim number four.

  Victim number three. Caleb had strayed from the list and that was a mistake. What if the guy hadn’t been alone? What if there had been kids there? What if one of them had come into the garage? Would he have walked away?

  He goes upstairs. Katy and Melanie are in the same bedroom, where he made them wait with the assistance of duct tape and plastic ties. Before tying them up he made them change into warmer clothes, both girls selecting jeans and shirts and jackets. Melanie, a little over two years older than Katy, hasn’t stopped complaining. She has the same hair and the same eyes as her sister, but her face is rounder and meaner.

  “This is stupid,” Melanie says. “My hands hurt and the police are going to come and arrest you. And I’m tired.”

  “You can sleep later,” he tells her. “But the police aren’t coming.”

  “I want to sleep now, and yes they are. And who are you again? You didn’t say.”

  “His name is Caleb,” Katy says.

  “Don’t be dumb,” Melanie says, looking at her sister. “That’s not what I meant. I meant, who is he exactly.”

  “Oh,” Katy says.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” he tells them.

  “You already have,” Melanie says. “My dad would say you’re deluded. He uses words like that to describe people like you all the time.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Deluded,” she repeats. “You see that, Katy? I struck a nerve.”

  He pulls out the duct tape.

  “Don’t make him mad,” Katy says, and starts to cry. “Please don’t hurt us.”

  He rips off some tape and puts it across Melanie’s mouth as she twists her head and tries to avoid it. He does the same for Katy too, not prepared to risk her screaming on the way out to the car. He carries them downstairs one at a time and puts them into the backseat.

  Then he gets Octavia.

  The bedroom has been painted pink, there is a mobile hanging from the ceiling with pictures of unicorns and princesses on it. The baby is asleep. He picks her up and she murmurs. He rests her on his chest so her head is over his shoulder, and bounces her up and down a few times, shushing her and she stops making noises. He carries her gently downstairs. He has taken the car seat out of Stanton’s car and put it into the passenger seat of his own, turning it around so she is facing the seat and not the windshield. He tucks a blanket around her.

  The car won’t start.

  He keeps turning the key, the engine whining but failing to turn over, making less of an effort with every try. He pushes his foot on the accelerator, he throws his weight backward and forward as if rocking the car will help, but none of it does, and after thirty seconds the only sound the engine makes when he turns the key is a small click.

  It’s closing in on five in the morning. Soon the birds will be awake.

  Octavia starts to cry.

  “Shush,” he says, slowly rocking the seat, but she won’t shush, instead she just cries louder. “Goddamn it,” he says, “I said shush.”

  The two girls in the back start fidgeting around. He climbs out of the car, undoes the car seat, carries it inside with the baby still attached, and rests her in the hall. He brings the other two girls inside.

  “What’s wrong with her?” he asks. “She hungry?”

  The girls don’t answer. They can’t, because of the duct tape.

  Damn it. He’s running out of time. He drags the girls into the living room so they don’t have to see their father, which he then hauls out of the trunk a minute later and takes through to the garage. He jams him into the trunk of his own car. He gets the girls into the car too, then grabs a jar of baby food from the kitchen.

  “Here,” he says, and shoves a spoonful of food at Octavia’s mouth. She twists her head away, still crying. “Come on,” he tells her, “eat this or I’m going to leave you here,” he says, but of course Octavia is crying too loudly to hear him, and wouldn’t understand him even if she could. He uses his other hand to hold her head, then jams the spoon into her mouth. She sucks at the food, chews at it, then swallows, then cries again. He looks at the duct tape, wondering if it wouldn’t be an easier way of keeping her quiet, and decides that it would be. He peels off a strip but just then the baby burps and goes quiet. She smiles, closes her eyes, then drifts off to sleep all in the space of ten seconds.

  He gets her settled into the doctor’s car, then heads back out to his own. He leans in and releases the hand brake. It’s simple to push as the car rolls down the driveway, then becomes difficult when it levels out. He stands inside the driver’s door and twists the wheel and pushes as hard as he can, his knees and hips aching madly, his shoulder sore, but he pushes hard, needing to get it done. The car starts to move. It’s slow but steady, and he pushes it past one house, then another, and the momentum builds and two minutes later he’s put half a dozen homes between his car and the doctor’s place. He doesn’t have the strength or the time to push anymore. A couple of the houses have lights on inside now, but nobody else is on the street. He wipes down the surfaces he’s touched. He’s never been in the backseat but wipes it down anyway. He wants the police to find him, but not yet, and his car breaking down like this complicates things.

  He walks back to the garage. Pushes the door opener button and drives out with the nuclear family, minus mom, all jammed into the back of the car. Christ, it’s already after five o’clock, and he’s becoming more certain things are going to take two nights now instead of the one. He starts rubbing his knees, the left one is worse than the right, and as he massages it his hand hurts too. The road is blurrier than it was earlier. The world loses all the sharp edges as the two lanes seem to merge into one, and rubbing at his eyes doesn’t help
that much. He’s driving toward the judge’s house. Kill him, then Mrs. Whitby, then head on out to the slaughterhouse to finish it.

  He pulls over. Yawns. And closes his eyes for a few seconds, leaning his forehead on the steering wheel. It was always going to be a tough task finishing everything in one night. Impossible even. Ten years ago he would have had the strength. But not now. It’s disappointing, but he always knew it was a possibility. It won’t change the end result, and it’s why he’s killing in the order he chose. The police can’t make the connection. He’s spent hours Googling his victims and doing his homework, and the three he’s killed that matter, none of them ever appear in the same story. After all, it was seventeen years ago-back then the news wasn’t as available online as it is now. Back then there wasn’t even much of an online to begin with. He knows the cops will be working with more than just Internet search engines, they’ll have criminal records and courts transcripts, but all of it is useless until they know where to start looking. James Whitby’s mother-once Caleb cuts her to pieces, that’s when they’ll figure it out.

  Hell, maybe it’s even better this way. This way he has tomorrow to decide what he’s going to do about Ariel Chancellor. He can still see her standing on the street corner, her dress short, the car pulling up beside her. .

  He changes direction, heading away from the judge’s house and going north. He turns on the radio and listens to the news. The fourth body has been found but no name has been released. That’s good. The longer they keep that information to themselves, the less chance there is of somebody from seventeen years ago figuring it out. Twice he finds himself nodding off, the first time falling asleep for less than a second and veering toward a lamppost, the second time for a little longer and almost hitting a tree. Then there is a sudden stench from the baby that doesn’t disappear, even when he winds down the window. It helps keep him awake.

  It takes twenty minutes to get to the slaughterhouse. It’s been fifteen years since he came here. The night is wrapped tightly around it, letting go only where the headlights wash across the front of the building. He parks outside what used to be the office door. He has to step carefully to avoid twisting an ankle. He unloads the bag first, taking it deep inside where his footfalls echo through the rooms. It’s colder in here than outside. He lays down the blankets in the corner of one of the offices, then heads back out to the car. The air has that wet early morning feel to it that you get in April. Every day for the next few weeks can either remind you of summer or remind you of winter.

  “There’s your bathroom,” he tells Melanie, cutting her binds and nodding toward the edge of the driveway where Melanie can choose from one of dozens of trees, “and make sure you don’t get lost. The forest is a week’s walk in every direction,” he says, not that it’s true. “And if you get lost I’ll end up punishing your family.”

  She reaches up and pulls the duct tape off her mouth. “How am I supposed to see anything?”

  He hands her a flashlight.

  “Why can’t I use one of the bathrooms inside?”

  “They don’t work.”

  “There’s no. .” her voice catches in her throat, then she manages to get herself under control. “There’s no toilet paper,” she tells him, her voice firm. “You think of that too?”

  “You’ll have to do without it.”

  “But that’s gross.”

  “No, what’s gross is what might happen later if you don’t go now. This is going to be your last chance for a while.”

  “Are you going to watch?”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “I don’t know, maybe because you’re some kind of perv. That’s why you got us tied up right? For that kind of thing and worse.”

  He shakes his head, wondering, What the hell is wrong with people these days? “Just hurry up before I lose my patience.”

  She points the flashlight ahead and rushes over to the trees and behind one. It takes her two minutes and then she returns. He leads her inside and hands her the blankets.

  “Make yourself comfortable,” he says.

  “What? On the floor? You have to be kidding.”

  “Just hurry up.”

  “No.”

  “What?”

  “I’m not sleeping on the floor.”

  “There’s nowhere else.”

  “Yes there is. There’s my house. Take us back there,” she says, frowning. “And what happened to your face? Why’s it all gross?”

  “Tell you what, Mel, do you mind if I call you Mel?” he asks, and he shows her the knife. “I know you’re a brave girl, and I think you understand things are quite bad for you and your family right now. I know you’re trying to be tough, and I respect that. The thing is, if you don’t shut up I’m going to hurt Katy. You get me?”

  Melanie’s frown disappears and her mouth sags at the edges. “You wouldn’t,” she says, but she doesn’t sound sure.

  Caleb nods. “Of course I would,” he says, annoyed at her, “and it’ll be your fault. The floor,” he says, “get yourself comfortable.”

  She gets bedded down, and then he secures her with plastic ties and puts duct tape over her mouth. He goes back to the car and frees Katy. He tells her the same things and she asks the same questions and they come to the same understanding, the only difference is her face is covered in tears. She goes to the same tree and is gone a similar amount of time, and when she comes back her face is covered in flecks of dirt. He hands her her teddy bear, then puts fresh duct tape over her mouth. Her eyes are wide and both girls are looking scared and still there is nothing, no humanity, only the memory of Jessica, his daughter, bloody and torn on the same floor these girls are lying on.

  “Don’t try to escape,” he tells them. “It will only make things worse.”

  They can’t answer him, only with their tears. He leaves them a battery-powered camping lantern, the light turned low enough to make the edges of the room dark.

  He goes out to the car and picks up Octavia. He twists his face and holds her away from him at arm’s length and carries her inside. She has woken up and is smiling and laughing.

  “What’s so funny?” he asks her.

  “Hello,” she says.

  “Why are you laughing?”

  “Hello, hello,” she says.

  “Hello,” he answers. “Do you know how to be quiet, Octavia?”

  “Hello-zies.”

  He leaves her on the floor and goes back for the car seat, and when he comes back she’s bum-hopped herself to the other side of the room and is playing with a rusty nail. He snatches it off her and throws it deeper into the slaughterhouse.

  “Goddamn it,” he says to the other girls. “Why the hell would you let her play with that?”

  The girls can’t answer, and of course it’s not their fault. They couldn’t have stopped Octavia playing. He should have left one of them untied to look after her. He looks down at the baby, who’s starting to cry.

  “Don’t,” he tells her, but it does no good. “Great,” he says, and then lays her down on the blanket.

  God, it’s been ages since he’s done this.

  He holds his breath, looks away, and undoes her diaper. Changing his own daughter’s diaper was bad enough, but changing somebody else’s. . he sees what’s in her diaper, gags, then looks away. He gags again, then has to jump to his feet. He makes it to the door to the office, leans out, retches once, twice, then throws up into the dark. He should have gotten one of the sisters to do it. Next time he will. When he comes back he can’t even look at Octavia. He pulls the diaper away and stuffs it into a plastic bag, then uses some wipes to clean her up while looking in the opposite direction. She stops crying.

  “I should have stayed in jail,” he says, then stuffs the wipes into the plastic bag with the diaper. He swings it around and knots it, then throws it in the same direction he threw the nail, decides it’s not far enough, then goes and retrieves it. He puts it outside instead.

  He puts a fresh diaper o
n Octavia, pulls her pajama bottoms back up, then sets her back in the car seat and clips the straps into place.

  He puts her between her sisters. “Hello,” she says again.

  He gets the duct tape and cuts a strip for her mouth and finds he can’t bring himself to place it.

  “Bufwiffy,” she says, then giggles. If she doesn’t fall asleep soon, he’ll have to duct tape her. Then her little face scrunches up, turns red, and then she smiles again. The room smells.

  “Goddamn it,” he says.

  “Bufwiffy.”

  He reaches into the bag and grabs another diaper along with the duct tape.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  John Morgan is awake and has a coffee ready for me in his lounge. The smell perks me up a little, which is a bit of a surprise because I hadn’t realized I was starting to fade. I apologize for having to interview him so early, but he doesn’t seem to mind. We sit down in opposite couches with a coffee table between us with magazines squared up in a pile in the center, a mixture of fashion and architecture topped off with a TV Guide, which has recently been used as a coaster. His wife is in bed, either asleep or trying to fall asleep. The coffee is hot and pretty good and couldn’t be any more appreciated. Morgan’s salt-and-pepper hair is sticking up on one side from hours buried in a pillow and his right sideburn is bushier than his left for that same reason. He’s wearing a robe with pajamas underneath.

  “Brad was, well, he was a great accountant,” John says, “and will be hard to replace. You heard about Edward Hunter?”

  Edward Hunter was an accountant whose family was killed, and who wasn’t happy to let the police find justice for him. Instead he found it himself, and now he’s in jail for it. He’s the man Brad’s wife mentioned earlier.

  “I’ve met him,” I say.