The Laughterhouse A Thriller

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

“I think I sold it,” Stevens says, his voice coming through clearly on the speakerphone.

Detective Kent is nodding. Detective Hutton is eating part of a chocolate bar he found in his pocket, and Schroder is sitting on the couch still staring at the TV. The two officers are peeking through the curtains. I’m the only one not carrying a gun. There are no cars outside, nobody hiding in the bushes either. We’re hoping Cole is going to come charging back through the door. If he does, there’s nobody to spook him on the way. Tabitha and Octavia have been taken back to the police station along with the letters Mr. Chancellor gave me, minus the last one. The paramedic has been dropped off along the way.

“It was perfect,” I say. Tabitha’s TV is still on and there’s a reporter from the scene recapping into the camera what they were all just told. It’ll be similar across all the channels, reporters excited as the case continues to build. If Cole saw it, then hopefully he’ll be on his way. We could have him in custody within the next ten minutes. This could all be over soon.

“Question now is, will it work?” Stevens asks.

“Let’s hope so,” I say, “because it’s all we have.”

“Well, let’s hope you’re right,” he says. “Listen, Tate, you and Detective Kent have both done good jobs today, but don’t drop the ball now, huh? And I’m sure if I ask if Schroder is there,“ he says, and Schroder looks over at the mention of his name, “you’ll all tell me that he’s gone home for the day?”

“Exactly, sir,” I tell him.

“Good. I’d hate to think you were lying, Tate, because that would put things on the wrong foot. So for the sake of argument, right now I’m going to believe you and not ask one of the others. And if Schroder were to call me from his house in say . . . fifteen minutes, that would help.”

He hangs up. The media is no doubt downstairs at the police station waiting for the next sound bite. Stevens is hoping to be able to provide that to them within the hour. He’s hoping to tell them we have Caleb Cole in custody and that Dr. Stanton and his remaining daughter are safe.

There are six unmarked patrol cars spread in a diameter around us, all parked between four and six blocks away, the drivers all hunched low in the seats, all of them no doubt uncomfortable and keeping an eye out for Stanton’s car. Of course we don’t know if Cole is still using Stanton’s car. The same house lights that were on when I found Tabitha and Octavia earlier are still on. It’s an hour away from midnight and everybody is tired and I never did get around to eating. The packet of cookies Tabitha left out are all gone, Hutton and the two officers having made it their first assignment. I open the fridge hoping to spot some cold pizza or chicken or maybe a chocolate bar and end up finding only fruit and vegetables.

“It’s a lesbian thing,” one of the officers points out, nodding toward the fridge and smiling.

“What?”

“They don’t eat meat.”

I get the joke but don’t feel like laughing, even though his partner does. Detective Kent rolls her eyes and smiles at me. I grab an apple.

“You reckon he saw the news?” Schroder asks, and he looks like he’s just waking up. The question is identical the one we’ve all been asking each other for the last thirty minutes, the only difference is the tense. You reckon he’s going to watch the news? We kept reassuring ourselves that he would to the point where we were convinced of it. On this side of the bulletin it’s all so very different.

“If he didn’t see it, it’ll be online soon enough,” I say, talking with a mouthful of apple. The apple is making me think I should make an effort to eat more apples. Scientists say apples are good for you, but they also say that coffee is bad, so I don’t really want to listen to scientists. I must look like I’m enjoying it because Detective Kent also goes to the fridge and grabs one. “If he is staying up-to-date, then yeah, he’ll see it. Question is when will he see it? And will he take the bait?”

“Stevens was pretty convincing,” Kent says. “He really did make it sound like Cole still had the girl. If Cole is convinced, he might just make an anonymous call to the police with the address.”

But the only convincing thing is how desperate we are to believe what we’re saying. It was always the weakest part of the plan, even though Barlow thinks otherwise. After reading the letters, he’s convinced Cole sees himself as a father figure to Ariel Chancellor. He was the one who told Stevens to use the father-to-father line. He told us there was still enough of a caring father figure inside of Cole to check on the girl himself, to check that he hadn’t hurt her. It will be important for him to come back, he told us, and he will, as long as he saw the bulletin.

“Don’t suppose anybody’s up for splitting some pizzas?” I ask.

Hutton looks like he is, even though he knows I’m only kidding. Only I’m not so sure that I am. The others all ignore me.

My cell phone rings. I look at the caller display. I don’t recognize it. I walk into the hallway and answer it.

“Theo, it’s Carol Hamilton,” she says, her words are urgent and she sounds out of breath and I suddenly feel like I’m going to be sick. I can hear the sounds of traffic in the background. She’s not calling from the nursing home.

“Has something happened to Bridget?”

“I’m on my way there now,” she says, “and I suggest you do the same thing. She’s woken up.”

My body temperature plummets, it touches on freezing point just long enough for my back and neck to break out in a violent shiver. My legs actually wobble and I have to grab hold of the wall. “What?”

“Dr. Forster is on his way too. I’m about ten minutes away.”

“Wait, wait, you said she’s awake?”

“Yes.”

“Bridget is awake.”

“Yes, Theo, she’s awake.”

“I’m . . . I’m on my way,” I say.

I hang up and move into the living room. I feel light-headed. My mouth is dry. I fumble with the phone and actually miss dropping it into my pocket and it hits the floor, then I almost step on it.

“Theo?” Schroder says.

I’m scared Nurse Hamilton is going to call back and tell me she was just joking, I’m excited that for the first time in a long time a life changing phone call is going to be a good thing rather than a bad one. Schroder is looking at me. My hands are shaking.

“Theo?”

I open my mouth to answer him, but it’s so dry that the words just get caught at the back of my throat. I try to build up some moisture.

“Theo? What is it?”

“I have to go.”

“Go? Go where?”

“Bridget—she’s . . . she’s out of her coma.”

“Jesus,” he says, and he stops himself from coming forward and putting his hands on my shoulders. “Theo, that’s . . . that’s fantastic.”

I head for the door.

“Wait,” he says, following me.

“What?”

“Oh Jesus, there’s no way to say this without sounding like a prick, but you can’t leave.”

“What?”

“You can’t compromise the investigation.”

“What?”

“We got headlights,” one of the officers says. He’s crouched behind the living room window. He’s holding the curtain back about an inch. “They’re slowing down,” he says. “Wait, wait, it’s coming to a stop. About three houses away. It’s just sitting there. No movement.”

“He knows you, Theo,” Schroder says to me. “If Cole is on his way, if he sees you walking out that door, or walking down the street, it’ll ruin everything.”

“I have to go,” I tell him.

He nods. “I know,” he says, “I know you do. But you can’t. Not yet. Soon, but not yet.” He puts his hand on my shoulder and I shrug it off.

“I swear, Carl, if you try to stop me, I’ll f*cking hit you.”

“Ladies,” Detective Kent says, also looking through the curtain now and glancing back at us, “the car is still there. It might be showtime.”

“The headlights are still on—I can’t even tell what kind of car it is, and I can’t tell how many people are inside,” the officer says. “Should we send someone out there?”

“I’ll go,” I say.

“No. Not yet,” Schroder says. He turns toward me. “Theo, it’s been three years. I’m just asking you for another few minutes.”

“Do you even know how that sounds?”

“Yes,” he says.

“Carl, right now I don’t care about Caleb Cole, I don’t care about the case, all I care about is seeing Bridget.”

“Think of Katy Stanton,” he says, and I do, and it works.

“Five minutes,” I tell him. “And if that isn’t Cole out there now, there’s no way you can stop me from leaving.”

He nods, but I’m pretty sure he thinks between the five of them they can stop me from doing anything. I don’t think they can.

“Let’s just go out there,” I say.

“I don’t want to spook him, and we don’t even know if it is Cole. Could be he’s sent somebody else, another pizza boy even,” Schroder says, and then he gets on the radio and tells two of the unmarked cars to move in a few blocks. “If he takes off, we’ll still get him,” he says.

“Whoever it is,” Detective Kent says, “they’re still in there. If it were a neighbor they’d just go up the driveway. If it’s a friend they’d have gotten out by now.”

“I agree,” I say to Schroder. “We can go out there, sneak up from behind and—”

“Hang on,” the officer says. “The lights just switched off. Still no movement though. It looks similar to the doctor’s car but it looks similar to about a thousand cars. Damn it, I can’t tell from here, but I can see a partial plate. I don’t think it’s a match.”

The comment seems to take the tension out of the room.

“Do you see that?” Kent asks.

“Yeah I do.”

“What?” Schroder asks.

“The door has just opened, just the driver’s door,” Kent says. “One person inside. Male. Caucasian. Can’t get a good look at him. Could be our suspect.”

“Who else could it be?” Hutton asks.

“He’s getting out,” the officer says. “Now he’s standing by the side of the car looking at the house. He’s just closed the door.”

The tension comes back.

“Make sure he doesn’t see you,” Schroder says.

“He’s not moving anywhere. Now he’s turning a full circle, looking at the other houses. Now he’s coming forward,” he says, his voice getting quicker with excitement. “He’s coming this way, walking slowly. Jesus, my grandmother can walk faster than this guy.”

“Is it him?” I ask.

“I don’t know.”

“I’m going out there,” I say to Schroder.

“Just wait,” he says. “Stick with the plan, Tate. Let him come to us,” he says, and he’s right but that doesn’t dull the desire to rush out there. “We have to be careful. If Stanton and his daughter aren’t in the car, then they’re somewhere else, and we need Cole to give up their location. If Tabitha is right about Cole wanting to die and we go running out there, for all we know he might jam a knife into his own throat.”

I nod. I get his point.

“He’s coming straight for us,” the officer says.

“You and you,” Schroder says, pointing to the other officer and Detective Kent, “circle out the back door and around the side of the yard but don’t approach the suspect. Just be ready to cut off his escape route. Tate, get ready, the moment he reaches the doorstep we’re on him, okay? Not before then. Let’s—”

“We’ve got another vehicle,” the officer says. “The guy is still coming toward us. The other car isn’t worrying him. Shit, we’ve got two more vehicles. They’re both slowing down. Our suspect is pausing, he’s looking back but not going anywhere. They’re not cars, they’re vans.”

“What the hell is going on?” Schroder asks.

“They’re parking right outside. Shit, our suspect is heading back to his car.”

“We have to go,” I say.

“Go, go, go,” Schroder shouts, and we all rush toward the door while the two who went out the back rush around the side of the yard. All we can hear is footsteps as our feet pound into the floor. The door is already unlocked and I’m the first one through it.

We all converge on the man at the same time. People are getting out of their vans. They’re holding lights and cameras. Shit. Schroder is the first to reach Caleb Cole, who is now looking at us without an ounce of surprise on his face and, who, it turns out, isn’t Caleb Cole at all.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Schroder asks, grabbing him by the collar.

“I saw the news, Detectives,” Jonas Jones says, looking from Schroder to me, all of it caught under the harsh glare of the camera lights. Schroder glances at the cameras and lets go of the front of Jonas’s shirt.

Jonas takes a step back, then straightens it, then runs a hand over his hair, making sure it’s all in place. “I know how much Octavia Stanton needs her medication,” he says. “I knew it before it was even on the news. The thing is, Detectives,” he says, adjusting his shirt one more time, “this is where Jessica Cole told me I would find her.”