The Laughterhouse A Thriller

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Caleb jerks awake in the car outside the slaughterhouse listening to the radio. Shit. He was only planning on closing his eyes for a few seconds, maybe five minutes at the most, but a quick look at his watch tells him he’s been asleep in the driver’s seat for three hours. The warmth from the sun combined with his exhaustion has knocked him out. He straightens up in the seat, his neck is sore from the angle he’s slept on it. The midday news is on. There are many reports, except the reports don’t have much detail. It seems the reporters don’t know anything but that isn’t stopping them from reporting it. He tries using the cell phone but the signal is too weak for the Internet to connect.

He steps out of the car and leans against it. The sun is still surrounded by blue sky, but it looks overcast toward town. The ground is still wet, but only in the shade. There are birds hanging about. He bends down and picks up a stone and starts throwing it up and catching it, not high, just to about the top of his head, over and over. The first time he came out here was fifteen years ago with James Whitby. People died that day. First there was the policeman. He didn’t mean for that to happen. He knows that’s why the cops told the inmates Caleb had raped and murdered his own daughter. It set him up for years of torture, and that made the cops happy and, in a way, he can’t blame them for doing it.

Fifteen years ago. Christ, he can’t believe it’s really been that long. It’s almost one-third of his life. His daughter has been dead for more years than she was alive. Can it really be that way?

Fifteen years. Crazy. There was still crime scene tape out here when he came that day. It was easy to find which room his daughter had died in. Just look for the blood. The entire place was so f*cking cold he thought he’d lose his toes on the walk from the car to the doorway. He had a head start on the police but he was sure they would know who had taken Whitby, where he was going, just as he’s sure that they’ll come out here again once they realize who they’re dealing with. It’s all about symmetry. But he had to back then—there were rumors that Whitby was going to get away with what he had done because the confession had been beaten out of him—he couldn’t allow that to happen. It was hard not to blame the police for that mistake, even though the police had beaten the confession out of Whitby in the hopes of finding Jessica alive. So Caleb had done their job for them.

James Whitby was unconscious in the backseat when he came here last. When Caleb closes his eyes he can still feel the moment, can remember the day. He can remember the long sleepless night earlier, holding his wife, the tears and the anger burning right through to a morning that didn’t feel any better. The day started with rain washing at the snow. There had been no blue sky, no sun. He said goodbye to his wife and when he saw her again he had killed two men.

When he got to the slaughterhouse with Whitby, he didn’t even turn off the engine. He was sure he only had a few minutes at the most before the police arrived, and he didn’t want to waste them. It turned out he had longer. It turned out the police didn’t figure it out until after they’d arrested him at home.

He dragged Whitby through the mushy snow into the building. He got him into the same room and laid him down in his daughter’s blood and started slapping him until he woke up. Caleb tried to stay calm, he tried to ask why Whitby had hurt his little girl, but he did none of that. He couldn’t control himself.

The cutting started right away. It didn’t bring his daughter back, but it did stop other young girls from being killed. For that Caleb would spend fifteen years in jail. His wife would kill herself, she would kill their unborn baby, and for that James Whitby could no longer be punished.

He throws the stone toward the slaughterhouse, aiming for one of the few windows that has defied the odds by not being broken over the years, but misses—it hits the wall a few feet beneath it and bounces into the weeds.

It won’t be dark for another five or six hours, and he doesn’t want to risk carrying on his work until then. He’ll go and see Ariel Chancellor. That’s what he was going to do when he came out here earlier. He still doesn’t know what he’s going to say to her. Or do. First he’ll go and see another psychic. Why not—he has all day to kill.

And speaking of killing—there is still the judge, there is still Mrs. Whitby, and then it’s time to come back here. That’s when the blood is really going to hit the floor.

Tonight at the slaughterhouse it’s all going to come to an end.