by Paul Cleave
“Is that something we can use?” I ask.
“We’re contacting other psychics. We’re on it. And we’ll keep an eye on Jonas in case he’s a target. What do you think is going to happen to Schroder?” she asks.
“I don’t know,” I say, and right now I’m just way too tired to look that far into the future. Maybe she should ask Jonas Jones.
“You think he’ll lose his job?” she asks.
“I don’t know.”
“I hope not,” she says.
“I gotta go,” I tell her.
“Listen,” she says, and in that moment she sounds like Schroder, good ol’ Schroder, who starts half of his sentences with either a look or a listen. “He wanted me to give you a message when you called. He said nobody was going to hold it against you if you didn’t show up here for a few days. He said with what you’ve done, Stevens is impressed. He’s not going to renege on his offer of letting you back on the force because you’re staying with your wife, and he doubts Stevens will hold it against you for lying earlier to protect him.”
“Okay. Thanks, Detective.”
“Rebecca,” she says. “And I’m glad your wife is okay. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
I pace the room a few more times until my sore leg suggests sitting is the way to go. I hold my head in my hands and stare down at the floor until my head suggests looking down isn’t the best of angles because it makes my brain feel like it’s pressing against the back of my eyes. On the other side of the door Bridget is fighting for her life. Or the doctors are fighting for it. A nurse comes by and offers me some coffee and I tell her that would be great, but she never shows up with it. After an hour a doctor walks out of the operating room. He walks toward me and I stand up and wobble for a few seconds in front of him, and in those seconds are a world of possibilities. This is the moment where my life changes, just like it has done for all the others who have stood here before me.
“Your wife is fine,” he tells me, and everything is okay in the world. I almost hug him. I cry. And then I do hug him. He pats me on the back and pushes me away after a few seconds.
“We’ve stabilized her,” he says. “We’ll have to keep her for a few days, and I know Dr. Forster will want to run some tests and try to figure out what happened.”
“What did happen?” I ask.
He gives a small shake of the head. “Honestly, we don’t know. All we know is that her vitals crashed and for a while there it was touch and go.”
“And the coma?”
He holds my gaze and doesn’t flinch. “She’s unconscious,” he says, “but when she was with us she was unresponsive. I’m sorry,” he says, “but I can’t tell you anything more than that.”
“But it has to be a good thing, right? Her waking up like that?”
“Brain injuries are tricky things,” he says. “I’ve seen plenty of them over the years and in some ways they’re like fingerprints—no two are identical.”
“Can I see her?”
“We’ll move her into a room soon, and you can see her then for a few minutes,” he says. “We should know more tomorrow.”
He turns and heads back into the room, and I collapse into the chair. Bridget is fine. Everything that’s gone on, she’s going to be fine. I lean back and my head touches the wall and immediately the room starts to sway. I’m hit with an overwhelming sense of exhaustion. The ceiling gets blurry, it swims in and out of focus for the next fifteen minutes until a nurse comes and gets me and takes me through to my wife.
CHAPTER FIFTY
Caleb Cole stares at the ceiling, then closes his eyes for a few seconds and stares at the ceiling again. The view between the two doesn’t change much. He thinks about Jonas Jones. Whether or not the psychic is a fraud it doesn’t matter. Jones is in custody. He’s as impossible to get to as Mrs. Whitby.
He thinks about Mrs. Whitby, about how satisfying it would be to cut her into a thousand pieces. It’s an idea he often falls asleep having.
Most of all he’s thinking about the man from the cemetery—Theodore Tate. An idea is starting to come to him. An exciting idea that came from his conversation with Tabitha earlier when he suggested that she kill Mrs. Whitby for him.
He gets off the bed and walks to the kitchen, this end of the house getting some of the street light so he can see better. He fills a glass of water and sits in the living room and uses his cell phone to quickly go online. If the police didn’t have his number before, they will have it after he phoned in for the pizzas. It’s amazing how much technology can fit into one small phone, but it is a pain to use.
He looks up Theodore Tate. They were in prison at the same time—four months they were in the same complex, but Caleb doesn’t remember ever seeing him. They must have been in different wings. An ex-cop, he would have been put into a section of jail where he didn’t have the life kicked out of him every day. It would have been a good gig for him. At least comparatively. It meant he never would have had the real prison experience. Caleb is envious of that.
Three years ago Tate lost his daughter in an accident. A drunk driver ran her down, along with her mother, when they were walking out of a movie theater through a public parking lot. The mother survived, if that’s what you could call it. The man who hit them was released on bail and went missing. He skipped the country, so the articles say.
Caleb keeps reading. There’s the Burial Killer case from last year, where a psychopath was replacing interred corpses in a cemetery with fresh victims. Then there’s the case from earlier this year where some whack job was kidnapping people and taking them to Grover Hills, the same institution James Whitby was taken to, only Grover Hills closed down a few years ago.
Theodore Tate. Ex-policeman turned private investigator, turned inmate, turned private investigator again, turned police consultant, and somewhere in there a killer of bad men.
The more he reads, the more he begins to relate, and the more he relates, the more his excitement builds. This is working out better than he hoped. Theodore Tate—husband and father, but so much more, perhaps even a man with his very own monster who hunted down the man who killed his daughter.
Yes. Theodore Tate will do quite nicely for what he has planned.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
I drive through town, reaching intersections and having moments where I have no recollection of even driving there. I get caught for ten minutes in boy-racer traffic but I just don’t care. Cars are tooting and cars are weaving in and out of the flow of traffic. My eyes are half-closed and all I want to do is get home and fall into bed. My head is hurting a little and massaging it isn’t really helping. Schroder’s car is an automatic and thank God it is, because if I had to spend mental energy on changing gears I’d break down and cry. When I do make it home I leave Schroder’s car in the driveway.
I still have my keys, other than my car key, which is somewhere with my car back at the station. I fumble my way inside and the only food I can find is a loaf of bread in the freezer that has been there since last year. I make a few slices of toast and eat it while staring out the back window toward the spot in the ground where I had to bury my cat after some psycho killed it the day after I got out of jail. I force the toast into my body to stem the hunger pains. It’s too late for coffee, too complicated to make it anyway, so I settle for water. I reach into my pocket for the painkillers the nurse gave me for the dog bite. I take two of them and tip the rest down the sink, not wanting to risk another addiction, not wanting to hide the symptoms in case there is something wrong inside of me. I can see my reflection in the window, I can still see the hospital room, I can still see my wife wired up to medical equipment like something in a science fiction movie the same way she was three years ago. I sat by her side and held her hand for the five minutes I was allowed, waiting for her eyes to open knowing they wouldn’t—and they didn’t. I finish the toast and head to the bedroom.
I climb into bed. I switch off the lamp and close my eyes and wait for the pills to take effect,
feeling the absence of Bridget strongly tonight. The medical equipment, the tubes, all that science keeping her alive. Close—she was so close to being back. What’s the next step?
Sleep. That’s the next step. Tomorrow I’ll figure out the rest.
I hear the footsteps outside the front door before the knocking. I look at the alarm clock and see that I’ve been in bed for two minutes. I close my eyes and wonder if I can just ignore it, then decide that I can’t, even though I give it a good try. I pull the pillow over my head but the knocking doesn’t stop. It’s like I have a woodpecker inside my skull. I guess at quarter to three in the morning, it must be important. Then the idea hits me that it could be a reporter or, worse, a psychic. The woodpecker confirms whoever it is they won’t be ignored. I throw on some clothes and head into the hallway, dragging my feet and almost tripping over them. I can barely keep my eyes open. The knocking stops when I turn on the outside light. I’ve only been in the dark for two minutes but the light hurts. I put one hand against the wall to stay balanced.
“Who is it?” I ask.
“Theodore Tate?” a voice asks, and I recognize that voice, and my first thought is it’s somebody from the hospital, that they’ve come to tell me in person what they should have told me over the phone. Only I get the feeling that’s not where I know the voice from.
And it’s a bad feeling.
“Yeah?” I ask, a little more awake now, but not too much more.
“It’s Caleb Cole,” the voice says, and the response makes my stomach clench and I take my hand off the wall and straighten up. “If you don’t open the door in the next five seconds I’m going to dump a dead girl on your doorstep for you to deal with.”
My cell phone is still in the bedroom. I don’t have a weapon. All I have are two arms that I can barely hold up and eyes that blink open for split seconds rather than blinking closed.
“I mean it,” he says.
I reach out and unlock the door. I swing it inward and, like he suggested, he’s holding on to Katy Stanton. He’s also holding on to a knife. The view wakes me up.
I take a few steps into the hallway and he follows. No matter what happens, it’s time I moved and got an unlisted address—over the last year serial killers, madmen, lawyers, reporters, and also my parents have been showing up at my door. He kicks back with his foot and closes the door behind him. He doesn’t give it quite enough power and it doesn’t latch, and it swings back open an inch.
“I wish I’d never helped you with your car,” I tell him. By helping him I helped him move on to his next victim. I helped him make his way to kidnapping Stanton and his kids.
He opens his mouth to say something, but he can’t seem to figure out what that should be. He closes it, and gives a small acknowledging nod. “Turn on the light,” he says.
I reach out and flick at the light switch. The hallway comes to life.
“Now what?” I ask.
“You have somewhere to sit down?”
I nod. “This way,” I tell him, and I turn around and start walking.
“Don’t try—”
“Yeah, I know,” I tell him. “You said already.” I lead him through to the dining room. “Here okay?” I ask him.
“Sure. Sit down at the opposite side of the table.”
“You don’t have to keep holding the knife against her,” I say, looking at the blade that has taken so much from so many over the last few days. “I’m not going to try anything.”
“Sit down,” he repeats, “and we’ll see what happens.”
“Have you drugged her? Or is she asleep?” I ask, taking a seat.
“She’s fine,” he says, also sitting down. He rests her across his lap. “You’re the one who found Octavia?”
I nod.
“How?” he asks.
“I went there to talk to Tabitha and she didn’t answer the door.”
“So you broke in?”
“Listen, Caleb, I’m way too tired and not in the best of moods, so how about you just tell me what you want?”
“You’re not the only one who’s tired.”
“Yeah, but I’m the only one not holding a knife to a girl. What do you want?”
“Right now I want you to tell me why you went there.”
“Because you sent Ariel Chancellor a letter saying that Tabitha was the one who put Victoria Brown into a coma.”
He thinks about this, nodding slowly the entire time. “That was stupid of me,” he says.
“You’re right,” I tell him. “And not just that, but this,” I say, spreading my arms, “all of this is stupid. You’re hurting all the wrong people.”
“No. I’m hurting the right people. So far nobody innocent has died.”
“What in the hell is wrong with you? Four people have died,” I tell him. “Three of them were only doing their jobs, and the fourth—you didn’t even know him.”
“Well, they shouldn’t have done their jobs as well as they did,” he says. “And that other asshole should have kept his dick in his pants. What is going to happen to Tabitha now that you know what she did?”
I shrug. “It’s out of my hands,” I tell him.
“Do you want her to go to prison?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because it wouldn’t serve any purpose,” I tell him. “What she did was—”
“Illegal,” he says. “She almost killed that woman. In a way, she did. And you want her to get away with it because it’s revenge.”
“That’s not it at all,” I say.
“Isn’t it? Then why?”
I don’t have an answer.
“It’s the same with the others,” he says. “For me. It’s the same kind of revenge.”
“What about Brad Hayward? What about his children. They deserve your revenge too?”
He doesn’t have an answer.
“There’s nobody left in my life,” he eventually says.
“And her?” I ask, nodding toward Katy. “You’ll hurt her for revenge?”
“If I have to. But if you help me out that won’t have to happen.”
“Help you how?”
“Did you kill the man who killed your daughter?”
“He fled the country.”
“Did you kill him?”
“No.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I don’t care what you believe.”
“You’ve killed three people,” he tells me. “I’ve killed five. They were all bad.”
“I’ve killed one,” I tell him, though technically it’s four. “You’ve killed six. One of them was a police officer. He was a good man.”
“I know,” he says, “and I regret that. I really do, and I’ve paid for it. We’re not that different, you know. People who do bad things, we make them pay.”
“Lower the knife,” I tell him. “We’re sitting at opposite ends of the table.”
He lowers the knife.
“We are different,” I tell him, not liking the comparison. “Very different.”
“Maybe. Maybe not,” he says. “If it’d been your daughter, you’d have done the same thing to James Whitby.”
I don’t give him any indication either way, but yeah, of course I would have. Only I’d have found a different way of doing it. Nobody else would have suffered. Nobody would ever know what had happened.
“It wasn’t just James Whitby who killed Jessica,” he says. “It was all of them.”
“So what do you want from me?” I ask, knowing there’s no point in arguing.
“You know what was done to James Whitby as a child? It’s all in the transcripts from his court case after Tabitha Jenkins.”
“I know his mother fucked him up,” I say. “I know James Whitby never had a chance in life because of her. I know she’s a candidate for worst mother of the century and that you want to kill her.”
“Not anymore.”
It’s not the answer I’m expecting. “No?”
“No,
” he says. “I don’t want to kill her. I want you to do it for me.”
I almost laugh at the suggestion, but of course he’s being serious. “Come on, Caleb, there’s nothing in your file to say you’re nuts. Why would you think I would do that?” I ask, and I look at Katy as I ask the question, and at the knife, and I have a pretty good idea about what’s coming up, and it’s bad.
“You want to do it because Mrs. Whitby’s as responsible as anybody,” he says. “You can’t tell me with all that’s happened that she deserves to be walking around free? That she gets a get-out-of-jail-free card? That’s not fair. It’s not fucking fair!” he says, and he slams his hand down on the table. Katy doesn’t move. “I was hoping you’d see it from my point of view. I was hoping it wasn’t going to come to this,” he says, and he puts the knife back against Katy’s throat.
“Caleb—”
“Phones these days, they are amazing things,” he says, confusing me with his change in direction. “You can do so much with them. Here,” he says, and he slides a phone across the table toward me. “It belongs to the doctor. I want you to have it.”
“I already have a phone.”
“Is it like that one?” Cole asks.
I look at the phone. No, mine is nothing like it. “Mine makes calls,” I tell him, “not much more.”
“Does it make video calls?”
I shake my head.
“Then take the phone,” he says. “You have thirty minutes. That gives you time to drive to Mrs. Whitby’s house and kill her, and when you do it,” he says, “I want to see it happen. I’ll call you in thirty minutes and you can show me on that phone what you’ve done, and it better be real, because if it isn’t, if I think she’s really still alive, I’m going to kill this little girl.”