The Laughterhouse A Thriller

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Caleb’s hands hurt. Wrapping them around that man’s throat, Jesus, his fingers are so sore he could swear the pain would be easier to deal with if he just chopped them off. And the running—another dozen steps and he’d have dropped dead. His right hip feels like it’s swiveling on glass, both legs feel like metal spikes have been driven through the balls of his feet into his shins. He has to control the pain, otherwise he’s going to have a hard time killing the judge.

He has no idea who the man is. If he’s been followed, then . . . but no, he wasn’t followed, the man was at Ariel’s house first. So he has to be a cop, and if so, then the police have made the connection. But what about the cemetery last night? A coincidence?

The man referred to him by name.

He reaches the doctor’s car. The day is getting darker. Katy is asleep in the back, and Octavia is in the front in the car seat with a blanket pulled tightly from the headrest to the floor, acting like a tent over her seat. Last thing he needed was somebody seeing her and calling the police. He puts a small piece of duct tape over the little girl’s mouth to keep her quiet. Katy is also covered by a blanket, but the pills he ground up into her drink are keeping her from complaining. More cops will be on the way. He starts the car and pulls calmly from the curb, careful not to draw attention to himself even though every instinct is telling him to put his foot down and get the hell out of here. He switches on the lights. Where are the cops? He doesn’t see them and he keeps turning corners so he won’t have to, putting distance between him and the house. He leaves the suburb and heads toward town, having to stop and wait at three green lights where intersections are jammed to a halt with brightly colored Japanese cars, all of them being driven by young men listening to loud music.

Still no cops.

He’s not a monster, and when this is over, people will see that. He’s a man trying to bring balance to the world. What about the next child rapist to be treated and released by Dr. Stanton? What of the next baby killer to be defended by Victoria Brown to be released on the world, their punishment no greater than a slap on the wrist? No, he’s not the monster, they are—they are monsters of this world for defending those people, and they must learn there are consequences for their actions.

The judge signed off on the entire thing, the judge was happy to sentence James Whitby to no more than two years in a mental hospital and never follow it up. The judge was happy to wash his hands clean of the entire affair, damn the consequences, and move on to the next case. So right now those consequences are going to come back and damn him.

If the police know him by name, is it possible they know who the rest of his targets are? He is two blocks from the judge’s house when he decides it isn’t just possible, but extremely likely.

He needs a different car, but he has no idea how to get one. He would hear stories in jail about how to steal one. It sounded difficult. Some would say you had to touch certain wires. Others said you just jam a flathead screwdriver as far as you can into the ignition until you break the lock, turning the screwdriver into a key. Even if he could figure that shit out he doesn’t think his fingers would be nimble enough to do the work. He could always pull a knife on somebody, carjack them, but he can’t see that scenario going well. He sees police chases and people getting hurt needlessly. Like the cop back at Ariel’s house—he could have choked him, or left him to that dog, but he wasn’t to blame for any of this. Cops were the ones that had tried to help him fifteen years ago. Cops were the ones who tried to put James Whitby away two years before that.

It’s five fifteen and the streetlights come on. He drives around the block and parks one street over outside the same number house as the judge. He sits in the car and watches the evening getting darker. He switches on his phone. Over the weeks since being out of jail, he’s eaten pizza at least every second night. It was his favorite food before being sent away, and he’s been making up for not having a slice in fifteen years. He calls the number from memory and he orders three pizzas along with garlic bread and fries, and says he’ll pay by cash. The person repeats the order back to him, and then he gives the judge’s address. The person tells him it’ll be there within thirty minutes, otherwise his next order will be free. In some movies he’s seen on TV over the last few weeks the police can track a cell phone signal in a matter of a minute; other times they have to use different cell towers in the area to try and triangulate it. Caleb doesn’t know how difficult it really is, but Caleb switches the phone off, not wanting to take the risk, unsure of how the police would have his number anyway. He keeps the blankets over the girls, neither of them show any sign of waking. When Jessica was small and couldn’t sleep, he’d put her in the car and drive around the block over and over until she drifted off, then he’d drive around the block once more for good measure, then slowly pull back into the driveway and sneak her into her room. He would have done that a hundred times over a few years, but they all merge into one memory, one that he smiles at as he climbs out of the car fifteen minutes after making the call.

It’s a nice neighborhood. Dr. Stanton’s car doesn’t stand out here. Nice homes, nice gardens, probably nice people who would give you the time of day if you asked. It means he has to be more careful. There are still other cars occasionally going by, people coming home from work. Nice people tend to phone the police if they see strange men hanging around their nice neighbors’ nice homes. He looks at every window in view to make sure nobody is watching him, and when there are no other cars in sight, he runs onto the front yard of a two-storey house with large windows with curtains pulled across each of them. There are lights on inside, but there are lights on in all the homes and he has no choice but to try.

He reaches over the side gate and is able to unlatch it. It opens quietly. He listens for any signs or life, especially a dog, but there is nothing. The backyard has some light on it near the windows, but nothing near the fence line, and that’s where he heads, sticking near the bushes and making his way to the tree in the corner. He steps behind it. Something a few feet away moves through the leaves and he pauses, and even though it’s only a hedgehog or a cat, there is a moment, a brief moment, when he thinks a flashlight is going to light him up before a police baton knocks him down.

The hedgehog scurries off. Caleb scales the fence. He can see down the side of the neighbor’s yard and out into the street and the judge’s house is one house down on the opposite side of the road. Not a bad guess. He stays on the fence and waits. It’s dark outside and the temperature has dropped. He balances himself so he can rub his hands. Two minutes later a car slows down outside. It comes to a stop. Caleb stops rubbing and fixes his attention on the driver as the interior light comes on. The driver spends five seconds checking something, probably the address, before getting out. He carries the pizzas and only makes it halfway to the door before two people jump out of a nearby car, and at the same time somebody races out from the front door of the house. They close in on the pizza delivery boy, who drops the pizzas.

Caleb doesn’t hang around to watch anymore. The judge isn’t there, and even if he was, there would be no way to get to him. Whitby’s mother will be the same.

He walks back to the car, slowly shaking his head. He switches on the radio and listens to the news as he drives. The police have been to the slaughterhouse. They’ve found Melanie Stanton alive and well.

He punches the steering wheel. Octavia wakes up. He can hear her moaning through the duct tape. Caleb drives with no idea where to go next.