The Laughterhouse A Thriller

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

He has to find somewhere to go. He can’t go to a hotel. People are looking for him. He’s too sore to sleep in his car. He needs a bed. Somewhere comfortable. He thought Tabitha would help. He’s disappointed in her. He thought about staying there but decided it was too risky. Anybody could come by.

Fifteen years ago when he needed help, he could have asked any of his friends. Any one of them would have helped him kill James Whitby—at least in that moment of asking. When it came down to it, he knew none of them would be able to go through with it. What he did do was go and see his brother-in-law. He asked Adam if he could borrow his truck. Adam didn’t ask why he wanted it. He just handed over the keys and wished Caleb the best of luck. A week later Lara was dead and Adam has never spoken to him again. Now he uses his cell phone to call him. Katy stares at him from the passenger seat, her face wet with tears, but at least she’s sobbing quietly and for that he’s thankful. Out of the three girls, she really does remind him of Jessica the most.

“Hello?”

“Adam?”

“Yeah? Who is this?”

“It’s Caleb.”

There is silence on the other end. Caleb waits it out, waiting for his brother-in-law to hang up, hoping he won’t—and he doesn’t. Instead he comes back with “Hang on, give me a minute.”

Caleb hears a door closing and then footsteps, and thirty seconds later Adam is back on the line. “Jesus, Caleb, how have you been?”

“I’ve had better days,” Caleb says.

“I’ll say. You’re all over the news. You’ve been doing some bad shit. You hurt those girls?”

“I would never do that.”

“That’s what I’ve been telling Marie,” he says, and Caleb wonders what his sister-in-law looks like these days, wonders how much money she is spending on still chasing the Barbie-doll looks she was chasing when he last saw her. “I kept saying as f*cked up as Caleb must be, he’d never hurt any kids. So what do you want, Caleb?”

He stares out the windshield. The street is empty of people but he can count at least a dozen cats wandering about, some of them staring at each other, two of them looking as though they either want to f*ck or fight. He’s aware that Katy is listening to every word he is saying. He will have to drug her again soon.

“I need some help.”

He imagines Adam the same way he was fifteen years ago. The current Adam may be bald, he may have put on a few extra pounds, but the look on his face right now will be the same, a look of pained confusion.

“Geez, Caleb, I can’t do that. Last time I helped you . . . f*ck, you remember.”

“I didn’t know that was going to happen. Any of it.”

“No, because you were only thinking of yourself, and you’re doing the same thing again. I have my own family, Caleb. I can’t get into trouble for you. They’ve spoken to me by the way, the police. They want me to call if I hear from you.”

“Will you?”

“I should. I should hang up and call them right now.”

“But?”

“But it depends on what you have to say.”

The two cats are still stalking each other. They’ve decided on a fight. The other cats are all watching the show. They’re forming the kind of circle where money would start exchanging hands. Or paws.

“On?”

“On what you’re doing with the girls?”

“I’m not hurting them,” he says, staring at Katy who won’t look back at him. She’s also watching the cats, her hands on the window forming a seal between the glass and her face as she tries to get a closer look.

“Then what are you doing?”

“I’ve just let one of them go,” he says. “She’s safe and sound and the police will find her tomorrow. And I promise I’m not going to hurt the other one.”

Katy flinches at the remark but keeps looking out the window. She is starting to hum her cute little song, and he hopes the vocals don’t kick in.

“What about the doctor?”

“He’s going to pay for what he did.” One of the cats runs forward and the second one turns and runs. The first one chases it across a front lawn and up over the fence. The other cats look as though they don’t know what to do now. “Are you still in the furniture-moving business?”

“Yeah. Unfortunately. Though I don’t do the lifting anymore, my back is shot from too many years of it. But I’m not lending you the truck again. Everything else that happened was bad enough, but the final insult was the insurance company wouldn’t cover the damage. It was a write-off, Caleb. I lost my niece, my sister, then I nearly lost my job. It took me years to pay off that loss.”

“I don’t want your truck, Adam.”

“No? What then?”

“You still rent furniture to real estate agents to put in empty houses going on the market?”

There’s a few more seconds of silence. Some of the cats are wandering off and Caleb starts looking at the houses, looking for signs of life. He should be safe. Nobody called the police when his daughter was being abducted—why would they call the police for seeing a man sitting in a car?

“Adam?”

“Why?”

“I need somewhere to stay. I can’t go to a hotel. I need somewhere I can hole up for the night, maybe even two. Somewhere empty you’ve filled with furniture would be perfect.”

“Geez, Caleb, I don’t know.”

“I’m desperate.”

“I know, I know, but you’re also hurting people. I can’t be part of that.”

“I’m only hurting the same people that took away Jessica and Lara.”

“I know, I know that, okay?” Adam says, his voice taking on a whiney tone. “But the thing is, that’s not really what you’re doing.”

“What?”

“You killed Whitby, man, wasn’t that enough?”

“No,” Caleb says, “no it wasn’t.” What the f*ck is wrong with everybody?

“Shit, fifteen years ago when you killed that sack of shit, I was thrilled. You did what anybody would have wanted to do. The difference is you had the balls to do it. That’s why . . . it’s why I can’t blame you for Lara killing herself. I can’t blame you because I’d have done the same thing. I hate you for it, but I don’t blame you for it.”

“Then help me now.”

“What you’re doing is wrong.”

“Help me and the last girl won’t have to be hurt. I promise, I’ll be letting her go soon,” he says, and even though Katy is still watching the cats he can tell she’s more focused on what he’s saying. If he’s not careful, she’ll make a run for it. “If the police find me first, there’ll be a fight. She could get hurt. If I have somewhere to stay for the night, somewhere safe, then she will be safe too.”

“You really let another one of them go?”

“Yes. She’s safe.”

“Then why not let the last one go too?”

“I’m going to—just not yet,” he says. Jesus, is he going to have to go through every detail with anybody he asks for help?

“And her father?”

“I’m going to let him go too.”

“You’re lying.”

“Actually, Adam, I’m not lying. I have no intention of hurting him.”

Katy turns to look at him.

“I don’t understand,” Adam says.

“You don’t need to. You just need to give me somewhere I can go so I can make sure the last girl will be safe. And you have to promise me you won’t call the police, because if you do people are going to be needlessly hurt.”

Adam goes quiet.

“Adam . . .”

“Okay, okay. Let me think a second.”

“Adam . . .”

“Just a second, Caleb, okay? You owe me the chance to think about it.”

Caleb looks at the cell phone, wondering if it can be traced, suddenly wondering if the police are at Adam’s house listening to the conversation. This was a mistake. He should hang up and throw the phone out the window and leave.

“There’s this house, I guess,” Adam says. “We put furniture in it yesterday. Real estate agent is away and won’t be back till the weekend. So that gives you a few days at the most. But if the neighbors get curious and call the police, you sure as hell can’t mention my name, you got that?”

“I appreciate it,” Caleb says, not feeling bad that soon he’ll want the police to find him there.

“No, you have to do more than appreciate it, Caleb. You have to promise me. With the recession, things are tight, okay? If I lose my job, then I lose my house. You’re in and out of there and any mess you leave we put down to a burglar. Okay? And promise me again you’re not going to hurt anybody.”

“I promise,” he says, and it’s a lie but it’s for the greater good. One day Adam will understand. “To both things.”

“Don’t make me regret it,” Adam says, and gives him the address, then hangs up.

Caleb switches off the phone. He starts the car and all the cats scatter.

“Is that true?” Katy asks. “Are you going to really let my dad go?”

“It’s true,” he tells her. “Listen,” he says, the car still idling against the curb, “I’m going to need you to take these for me,” he says, and reaches into his pocket.

“What are they?”

“Sleeping pills.”

“I don’t want to sleep.”

“You need to,” he says, “because I don’t want you talking to your dad again before this is over.”

“Over?”

He nods. “Take these, and when you wake back up you’ll be with your dad again and everything will be fine,” he tells her, and he feels much worse about lying than he thought he would.

He shakes the juice box Octavia was drinking from before and there’s maybe a mouthful left inside. Katy uses it to wash down two of the pills, and then he hands her a third. It’ll keep her knocked out for about twelve hours, he figures. Nothing will wake her.

There are some drops of rain on the windshield but not enough to worry about as he begins to drive. He drives into New Brighton, a beach suburb that he knows reasonably well because he used to have a flat here when he was in his early twenties. This was where he was living when he met Lara. It was his flatmate’s birthday and Lara came along with one of her friends. Caleb had met her and chatted with her for a few minutes, then didn’t think of her again until he ran into her a week later at the cinema. This time they chatted longer and he wondered what it was about her that he saw this time that he hadn’t seen the first time. He never did figure it out. Two years after meeting her they were living in the nice house that he no longer owns.

He drives with the window down and can smell the salt air from the ocean. The rain picks up for a few seconds, a sudden violent pummeling of it against the car, then just as quickly dies off before he can reach the button to close the window. His right arm is soaked. He can hear the waves breaking against the shore. He hasn’t seen the ocean in a long time. He drives parallel to the sand dunes. Part of him wants to park the car and climb them and stare out at the moon hanging over the water before the cloud cover conceals it. Instead he keeps driving. He makes a right turn and half a block away he finds the house Adam told him about. A real estate sign has been pounded into the ground in the middle of the front lawn. Open House—Saturday 1:00–1:30. The words are below a picture of a smiling man trying to look like he could be your best friend.

Katy has fallen asleep, her chin resting on her chest. He pops the trunk. He hauls Stanton over the edge of the trunk until the balance is on his side of it, then he lets him go so he piles onto the ground. He bends down and gets one of Stanton’s arms around his neck and manages to stand up, then he walks him toward the house. He can barely hold on to him his joints are aching so much, but he deals with it, the same way he’s dealt with everything over the years, only it’s easier this time because he knows he doesn’t have to put up with the pain for much longer. Stanton is semiawake and manages to contribute some steps but not all. He rests him on the steps before trying the door. It’s locked. He puts the blade of the knife beneath the bathroom window and levers it upward until the latch strips out of the wood. He climbs through and loops around to the back door. He drags Stanton inside. The carpet in the house is new and spongy, making it harder to drag Stanton to the bedroom furthest from the street. He puts a fresh set of plastic ties around Stanton’s feet and leaves him on the floor.

He flicks on the bathroom light for a brief second to make sure the house has power. Enough light spills into the hallway and two bedrooms to see the furniture is all modern, that there are nice prints on the wall too, everything in its place to make an empty house feel like a home, an illusion that will help the owner fetch more money when it sells. He brings Katy inside, lifts back the showroom covers, and puts her in the showroom bed, placing the showroom pillow beneath her cute little head. He tucks her in.

There’s a nice looking LCD TV in the living room, which he carries down to a different bedroom, worried the glow in the living room would alert the neighbors. It’s amazing how much lighter TVs are since he last owned one. And flatter. He watches the news. His picture comes up, taken the day he was booked for murder fifteen years ago. Then there’s a photograph of him standing next to Lara, Jessica between them, taken when Jessica was six. They had taken her to a costume party for one of Jessica’s friends. Lara had worked all week to make an outfit for her because for the week prior to the party Jessica had kept coming home saying she wanted to go as a bat. Lara had made the outfit in secret, promising Jessica it would be ready on the day, which it was, and it looked great, with its wings and pointy ears, made from gray bedsheets Lara had specially bought. When Jessica saw it, she had asked what it was. They told her it was a bat. Jessica told them it wasn’t. But it doesn’t even look like a cricket bat, Jessica had said, and that’s when the problem revealed itself. Jessica had cried at first, but with some coaxing had agreed to wear the outfit. An ice cream later, she was smiling enough for the photograph. Later that night when Jessica was asleep, Caleb and Lara had shared a bottle of wine on the porch outside and laughed about the misunderstanding.

The photograph disappears, replaced by one of James Whitby, and then there are pictures of the people he’s killed over the last four days. Then his mug shot. Next to it is an illustration of how he looks now.

A lot has happened to that man.

The reporter telling the story is standing outside the police station. The front is lit up, the walls stained with the exhaust fumes of years of passing cars, stained with bird shit and probably stained with all the bullshit too from the reporters being so close. There is movement off to the side of the camera; other media outlets are hanging around the scene. He guesses it’s a good day for them. It is this reporter’s certain understanding from inside sources, so the reporter tells him, that the police have Judge Latham and Mrs. Whitby under guard, along with others involved with the case fifteen years ago. She goes on to say that Dr. Stanton and his two youngest daughters are still being held captive, and that Melanie Stanton was found earlier today and is undergoing a battery of tests. When asked by the anchorwoman whether Melanie Stanton was sexually assaulted, the reporter says it’s too soon for the police to release that information.

He throws the remote control at the TV. His aim is off and it hits the wall, the back cover popping off and the batteries disappearing into different corners of the room. The TV is still going. He rips the power cord from the wall. What the hell is wrong with people?

He goes back through to the bedroom where Stanton is sitting with his eyes wide open. He removes the tape from his mouth, peeling it quickly. The doctor doesn’t flinch.

“Where’s . . . where’s Octavia?” he asks, his voice sounding like a cartoon mouse asking a cartoon cat not to eat him.

“I let her go,” Caleb says.

“Where?”

“I left her with a friend.”

“Is she okay?” Stanton asks, his voice wavering.

Caleb shrugs. “I guess that depends on your definition of okay.”

Stanton starts to cough, then swallows loudly. He sounds out of breath when he talks again. “What does that mean?”

“It means she’s at peace.”

Stanton slowly shakes his head. “Did . . . did you . . . hurt her?”

Caleb shrugs. “I can’t remember.”

“Answer me,” he says quietly, then louder he says, “answer me, you piece of shit.”

“Listen, Doctor, I’m really sorry for what I’ve done, but I’m better now,” Caleb says, turning his palms upward and shrugging a little. “I’m good and want to be part of society once again, so give me some pills that I’ll try to remember to take and half an hour of counseling and I’ll be fine. Isn’t that what I need to say for your forgiveness?”

“Jesus, it isn’t like that! It’s not f*cking like that, Caleb. We work, we try our hardest to make people better.”

Caleb ignores him. “It wasn’t my fault, I was raised wrong, I couldn’t help myself, just give me some antidepressants and I’ll be fine. See? You believe me, right? You believed James Whitby. Would you have believed him if it had been your daughter he f*cked and wanted to kill? Let’s see, I’ve killed one of your daughters, maybe two—I can’t quite remember—”

“You . . . you’ve . . .”

“—because I have a mental problem and get confused real easy. Will you defend me, Doctor? If I turn myself in, will you get up on the witness stand and tell the world it wasn’t my fault?” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. “You’re happy to defend people, aren’t you, when it’s not your family who’s been hurt.”

“Is that . . . is that what all of this is about? You want me to get up on the stand and defend you, to what, to prove that I’m a hypocrite? Because you think that I think it only matters when it’s my family?”

“Doesn’t it?”

“No, of course not.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter anyway, because that’s not what I’m asking. You don’t get to replay that moment from seventeen years ago, Stanton. You get to replay my moment from fifteen years ago.”

“Please, please, don’t hurt my family,” Stanton says, crying again.

“When you let him out, why didn’t you put him in a house on your street?”

“Please . . . please don’t hurt anybody else.”

“Well, it’s late now,” he says, playing with his phone. “And I’m tired, and if I don’t get enough rest I won’t have the strength to deal with your third daughter tomorrow. See this?” he says, holding up the phone. “Cameras have changed a lot since I’ve been in jail. Last time I used a camera I had to take the film into the store to get developed. You always had to pick and choose when you were going to push that button, because every snap cost you money. Now every cell phone has a camera in it, now everybody is a photographer, every camera has a hundred functions, but no matter how you shoot a dead baby it’s always going to look dead.”

He turns the screen toward Stanton so he can see it. The glow lights him up.

“Take a look,” Caleb says, and he grabs Stanton’s hair and twists his head until his face lines up with the screen. The picture is of Octavia lying on the floor facedown, her body surrounded by blood. There’s a bloody knife lying next to her.

“You . . . you stabbed her?”

“Just the once,” he answers, “and I sedated her before she died.” He slips the phone into his pocket, then puts the duct tape back across Stanton’s mouth. “I suggest you get a good night’s sleep—tomorrow is going to be an important day for you. Tomorrow you’re going to have to convince me not to kill Katy because I like her, and you like her too. It’s obvious she’s your favorite because she’s the one you never picked to die. You see, Stanton, all of this, this is just me warming up. The best part . . . ,” he says, “the best part is still to come.”