The Laughterhouse: A Thriller

by Paul Cleave

  He paces the rooms for another minute before settling back down in the bedroom with the TV plugged back in. He watches the stupid news and the stupid presenters making shit up about him. He hates that they can do that, and at the same time he knows they do have their uses—after all, it was the media that warned him earlier he needed to leave the slaughterhouse.

  He stares at the TV but really he’s thinking about Mrs. Whitby. He’s thinking about what he said earlier to Tabitha, about threatening the children and making her help him. Maybe there is something in that. Not with Tabitha, but with the police. He doesn’t have long until the police find him, he knows that. A day or two at the most. He looks at the knife on the bedside table.

  If he wanted to, he could pick that knife up, wake the doctor, and put an end to all of this now. Phone the police, phone the media, get them all here earlier than he wanted. It’s not that bad an idea, not really. He’s tired and can’t sleep. He can’t get the judge. He can’t get Whitby’s evil mother. They’re under guard and getting to them is going to be so fucking difficult, unless he can force somebody to help, or unless he can hide for the amount of days or weeks it would take for the police to let down their guard. So yeah, fuck it, he’s sick of waiting, why not grab that knife and put an end to all of this cutting?

  He picks up the knife.

  He visualizes how it will go—waking up the doctor, showing him the knife, and yeah, by God, he will do it. He’s going to fucking do it right now! He told Tabitha the doctor would be free to go, but it’s not quite that simple and certainly not that accurate.

  The mother, the judge—maybe he’ll get them in another life. If James Whitby is in that next life, he’ll get the bastard there again too. In this life Caleb has been fucked by fate. His car battery dying like that, shit, that’s the reason the judge and the mom didn’t get the ride out to the slaughterhouse along with a guided tour. Okay, that and killing that other guy. He rotates the knife in his hand, studying the handle, the blade, the sharp edge. Fate. Well, it’s not like he shouldn’t have seen it coming. When was the last time fate was any good to him?

  He moves to the door. This is it. He’s really going to go through with it. He’s going to let go of everything—the anger, the hate, the disappointment. He doesn’t know whether to smile or cry or laugh, all he knows is that in ten minutes’ time everything will be okay. He’s going to leave all that shit in this life and move on.

  Weeks ago he put the phone numbers of the reporters he wanted to contact into his phone. He cues up the first one and presses send. It starts to ring. He stands in the doorway staring at the doctor who is still asleep. So is Katy. All three girls will be better off with their dad no longer around.

  “Hello?”

  “Yes, is this . . .” he starts, but he can hear the TV from the next room, and it grabs his attention as the tone of the anchor changes.

  “We have a live, urgent plea from Superintendent Dominic Stevens to Caleb Cole. Let’s cross to him now.”

  “Hello?” the voice says again.

  Caleb hangs up and moves into the bedroom. The camera zooms in on Superintendent Dominic Stevens who is standing in front of a podium. There are other microphones and cameras in the picture. Stevens is gripping the edges of the podium and looking down at some notes.

  He coughs softly into his hands a couple of times and the room goes quiet. He looks up at the camera, straight at the lens, right at Caleb. His stare is so forceful that Caleb actually glances behind himself to make sure nobody is standing behind him.

  “I have a prepared statement,” he begins, “after which I will not take any questions. As you know, we are looking for Caleb Cole, a man we would like to question about four murders over the last two days, along with the abduction of Dr. Stanton and his family. We have an appeal to Caleb and we hope that you are watching. Less than an hour ago we were contacted by Octavia’s family doctor and informed of a heart condition she has had since birth, for which she requires constant observation and medication. Please, Caleb, Octavia is only one year old, she’s scared, and, without her medication, is in considerable risk of heart failure. We beg you to think of just how vulnerable she is. We ask that you turn yourself in so we can help her and Katy. Please, Caleb, if not that, then at least take her to a hospital and drop her off so she can be helped. She takes medication every twelve hours and already missed one very important dose. Check her pulse, check her skin color; is she clammy, is her heart rate slowing? You can’t afford to wait, Caleb, she needs help now. You’re a father, I’m a father, and as a father I’m begging you, don’t let this be your legacy. Don’t become the man who is remembered for killing a one-year-old baby.”

  Stevens picks up his cue cards and taps them square. “Thank you,” he says, and steps away from the podium. A dozen questions all come at once, none of the words distinguishable over any other. Stevens keeps walking.

  Cole turns off the TV. His skin has broken out in goose bumps and his blood feels like it’s turned arctic. Even his mouth is tingling.

  “Fuck,” he says at the dark room. “Fuck,” he repeats, as he stares at the small red standby light on the TV screen.

  He goes through to the other bedroom and shakes Stanton, but the man won’t wake up, and after a few seconds he realizes that’s a good thing. If he were to ask the doctor about his daughter’s medical condition, then he’d be telling him she was still alive. But why the hell hadn’t Stanton mentioned it already? Or the sisters?

  It’s obvious. The police are lying. They’re trying to get him to give up another of the girls—yet that doesn’t make sense either, because they must know the fact he didn’t harm Melanie means he won’t harm the others either.

  So if that doesn’t make sense—then what does? Is it possible with all that’s gone on that the girls, the father, that they’ve simply forgotten to tell him that Octavia has a medical condition?

  “Katy,” he says, looking over at the little girl, “I need you to help me help your sister.”

  But Katy won’t wake up either.

  Easiest solution is to call the police. He starts to tap the number into his phone. He was going to call them anyway, so it’s not that big a deal. Stick with the new plan. Only he can’t. He can’t go to his grave not knowing whether the girl lived or died.

  He has to go back to the house.

  And if the girl is dead? Then he has to see it. He has to put himself through the knowledge of that. Tabitha was right—he has been hurting the children.

  “Fuck,” he says again.

  He can still hear Stevens’s words. You’re a father, I’m a father, and as a father I’m begging you, don’t let this be your legacy.

  He doesn’t care about his legacy, people can say what they want about him, but he doesn’t want to let a baby girl die.

  “I have to go out for a bit,” he tells Katy, but of course Katy doesn’t answer him. He uses the tape and the plastic ties to make sure she’s not going to go anywhere if she wakes up while he’s gone.

  You’re a mean man, she would probably tell him right now if she could. A mean, mean man.

  And he is a mean man. He knows that now. He’s a mean man who may have just killed a one-year-old girl, and God how that hurts, how it makes him feel sick, and if that is what has happened—then what?

  He puts duct tape over Katy’s mouth. He supposes he is hurting her too.

  He heads out the back door to the car, taking his knife with him.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  “I think I sold it,” Stevens says, his voice coming through clearly on the speakerphone.

  Detective Kent is nodding. Detective Hutton is eating part of a chocolate bar he found in his pocket, and Schroder is sitting on the couch still staring at the TV. The two officers are peeking through the curtains. I’m the only one not carrying a gun. There are no cars outside, nobody hiding in the bushes either. We’re hoping Cole is going to come charging back through the door. If he does, there’s nobody to spook him on the
way. Tabitha and Octavia have been taken back to the police station along with the letters Mr. Chancellor gave me, minus the last one. The paramedic has been dropped off along the way.

  “It was perfect,” I say. Tabitha’s TV is still on and there’s a reporter from the scene recapping into the camera what they were all just told. It’ll be similar across all the channels, reporters excited as the case continues to build. If Cole saw it, then hopefully he’ll be on his way. We could have him in custody within the next ten minutes. This could all be over soon.

  “Question now is, will it work?” Stevens asks.

  “Let’s hope so,” I say, “because it’s all we have.”

  “Well, let’s hope you’re right,” he says. “Listen, Tate, you and Detective Kent have both done good jobs today, but don’t drop the ball now, huh? And I’m sure if I ask if Schroder is there,“ he says, and Schroder looks over at the mention of his name, “you’ll all tell me that he’s gone home for the day?”

  “Exactly, sir,” I tell him.

  “Good. I’d hate to think you were lying, Tate, because that would put things on the wrong foot. So for the sake of argument, right now I’m going to believe you and not ask one of the others. And if Schroder were to call me from his house in say . . . fifteen minutes, that would help.”

  He hangs up. The media is no doubt downstairs at the police station waiting for the next sound bite. Stevens is hoping to be able to provide that to them within the hour. He’s hoping to tell them we have Caleb Cole in custody and that Dr. Stanton and his remaining daughter are safe.

  There are six unmarked patrol cars spread in a diameter around us, all parked between four and six blocks away, the drivers all hunched low in the seats, all of them no doubt uncomfortable and keeping an eye out for Stanton’s car. Of course we don’t know if Cole is still using Stanton’s car. The same house lights that were on when I found Tabitha and Octavia earlier are still on. It’s an hour away from midnight and everybody is tired and I never did get around to eating. The packet of cookies Tabitha left out are all gone, Hutton and the two officers having made it their first assignment. I open the fridge hoping to spot some cold pizza or chicken or maybe a chocolate bar and end up finding only fruit and vegetables.

  “It’s a lesbian thing,” one of the officers points out, nodding toward the fridge and smiling.

  “What?”

  “They don’t eat meat.”

  I get the joke but don’t feel like laughing, even though his partner does. Detective Kent rolls her eyes and smiles at me. I grab an apple.

  “You reckon he saw the news?” Schroder asks, and he looks like he’s just waking up. The question is identical the one we’ve all been asking each other for the last thirty minutes, the only difference is the tense. You reckon he’s going to watch the news? We kept reassuring ourselves that he would to the point where we were convinced of it. On this side of the bulletin it’s all so very different.

  “If he didn’t see it, it’ll be online soon enough,” I say, talking with a mouthful of apple. The apple is making me think I should make an effort to eat more apples. Scientists say apples are good for you, but they also say that coffee is bad, so I don’t really want to listen to scientists. I must look like I’m enjoying it because Detective Kent also goes to the fridge and grabs one. “If he is staying up-to-date, then yeah, he’ll see it. Question is when will he see it? And will he take the bait?”

  “Stevens was pretty convincing,” Kent says. “He really did make it sound like Cole still had the girl. If Cole is convinced, he might just make an anonymous call to the police with the address.”

  But the only convincing thing is how desperate we are to believe what we’re saying. It was always the weakest part of the plan, even though Barlow thinks otherwise. After reading the letters, he’s convinced Cole sees himself as a father figure to Ariel Chancellor. He was the one who told Stevens to use the father-to-father line. He told us there was still enough of a caring father figure inside of Cole to check on the girl himself, to check that he hadn’t hurt her. It will be important for him to come back, he told us, and he will, as long as he saw the bulletin.

  “Don’t suppose anybody’s up for splitting some pizzas?” I ask.

  Hutton looks like he is, even though he knows I’m only kidding. Only I’m not so sure that I am. The others all ignore me.

  My cell phone rings. I look at the caller display. I don’t recognize it. I walk into the hallway and answer it.

  “Theo, it’s Carol Hamilton,” she says, her words are urgent and she sounds out of breath and I suddenly feel like I’m going to be sick. I can hear the sounds of traffic in the background. She’s not calling from the nursing home.

  “Has something happened to Bridget?”

  “I’m on my way there now,” she says, “and I suggest you do the same thing. She’s woken up.”

  My body temperature plummets, it touches on freezing point just long enough for my back and neck to break out in a violent shiver. My legs actually wobble and I have to grab hold of the wall. “What?”

  “Dr. Forster is on his way too. I’m about ten minutes away.”

  “Wait, wait, you said she’s awake?”

  “Yes.”

  “Bridget is awake.”

  “Yes, Theo, she’s awake.”

  “I’m . . . I’m on my way,” I say.

  I hang up and move into the living room. I feel light-headed. My mouth is dry. I fumble with the phone and actually miss dropping it into my pocket and it hits the floor, then I almost step on it.

  “Theo?” Schroder says.

  I’m scared Nurse Hamilton is going to call back and tell me she was just joking, I’m excited that for the first time in a long time a life changing phone call is going to be a good thing rather than a bad one. Schroder is looking at me. My hands are shaking.

  “Theo?”

  I open my mouth to answer him, but it’s so dry that the words just get caught at the back of my throat. I try to build up some moisture.

  “Theo? What is it?”

  “I have to go.”

  “Go? Go where?”

  “Bridget—she’s . . . she’s out of her coma.”

  “Jesus,” he says, and he stops himself from coming forward and putting his hands on my shoulders. “Theo, that’s . . . that’s fantastic.”

  I head for the door.

  “Wait,” he says, following me.

  “What?”

  “Oh Jesus, there’s no way to say this without sounding like a prick, but you can’t leave.”

  “What?”

  “You can’t compromise the investigation.”

  “What?”

  “We got headlights,” one of the officers says. He’s crouched behind the living room window. He’s holding the curtain back about an inch. “They’re slowing down,” he says. “Wait, wait, it’s coming to a stop. About three houses away. It’s just sitting there. No movement.”

  “He knows you, Theo,” Schroder says to me. “If Cole is on his way, if he sees you walking out that door, or walking down the street, it’ll ruin everything.”

  “I have to go,” I tell him.

  He nods. “I know,” he says, “I know you do. But you can’t. Not yet. Soon, but not yet.” He puts his hand on my shoulder and I shrug it off.

  “I swear, Carl, if you try to stop me, I’ll fucking hit you.”

  “Ladies,” Detective Kent says, also looking through the curtain now and glancing back at us, “the car is still there. It might be showtime.”

  “The headlights are still on—I can’t even tell what kind of car it is, and I can’t tell how many people are inside,” the officer says. “Should we send someone out there?”

  “I’ll go,” I say.

  “No. Not yet,” Schroder says. He turns toward me. “Theo, it’s been three years. I’m just asking you for another few minutes.”

  “Do you even know how that sounds?”

  “Yes,” he says.

  “Carl, rig
ht now I don’t care about Caleb Cole, I don’t care about the case, all I care about is seeing Bridget.”

  “Think of Katy Stanton,” he says, and I do, and it works.

  “Five minutes,” I tell him. “And if that isn’t Cole out there now, there’s no way you can stop me from leaving.”

  He nods, but I’m pretty sure he thinks between the five of them they can stop me from doing anything. I don’t think they can.

  “Let’s just go out there,” I say.

  “I don’t want to spook him, and we don’t even know if it is Cole. Could be he’s sent somebody else, another pizza boy even,” Schroder says, and then he gets on the radio and tells two of the unmarked cars to move in a few blocks. “If he takes off, we’ll still get him,” he says.

  “Whoever it is,” Detective Kent says, “they’re still in there. If it were a neighbor they’d just go up the driveway. If it’s a friend they’d have gotten out by now.”

  “I agree,” I say to Schroder. “We can go out there, sneak up from behind and—”

  “Hang on,” the officer says. “The lights just switched off. Still no movement though. It looks similar to the doctor’s car but it looks similar to about a thousand cars. Damn it, I can’t tell from here, but I can see a partial plate. I don’t think it’s a match.”

  The comment seems to take the tension out of the room.

  “Do you see that?” Kent asks.

  “Yeah I do.”

  “What?” Schroder asks.

  “The door has just opened, just the driver’s door,” Kent says. “One person inside. Male. Caucasian. Can’t get a good look at him. Could be our suspect.”

  “Who else could it be?” Hutton asks.

  “He’s getting out,” the officer says. “Now he’s standing by the side of the car looking at the house. He’s just closed the door.”

  The tension comes back.

  “Make sure he doesn’t see you,” Schroder says.