The Laughterhouse A Thriller

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

What was supposed to take one night or possibly two now has the potential to take three. Or even longer.

The doctor is asleep again with the help of more pills, and Caleb is envious. He wishes he could just lie down and get some sleep. His body is exhausted but his mind is buzzing and it’s all, he realizes, just becoming too much for him. He could take pills too, but he needs to stay sharp. His fingers are aching and his right shoulder is hurting like a bitch after all the lifting he’s been doing. He paces the house. It doesn’t feel like a home, it feels like a show house. It’s a shame the nice fridge in the freshly painted kitchen hasn’t been filled with fresh food. He’s not sure why, but he starts thinking about how Octavia felt in his arms. He liked the way she would rest her head on his shoulder, the way her breath would tickle his ear. He’s not sure why he misses her, all he knows is that he does. He doesn’t miss the way she smelled, and that only would have gotten worse unless he bathed her, but it was nice the way she would look at him with eyes that didn’t judge. His own daughter used to look at him the same way.

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 f*cking 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, f*ck 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 f*cking 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 f*cked 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.

“F*ck,” he says at the dark room. “F*ck,” 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.

“F*ck,” 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.