The Laughterhouse A Thriller

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

Schroder opens the door and hands me the cell phone. I get the same view I had on his way in. Mrs. Whitby is slumped in pretty much the same way, looking drunk, only Schroder has scrawled something across her forehead.

“Don’t speak to me,” he says.

“Shoo did the right thing,” I tell him, holding my hand lightly against the side of my head. The gunshot is still rattling around in there.

He gives me a strange look, then shakes his head. “Theo, seriously, just shut the f*ck up, okay? We’re going for a drive and I don’t want to hear a single word from you, is that clear?”

It’s clear. We head out into the street. There are lights on in the neighboring houses, the gunshot having woken people. It’s the first time Schroder has ever killed anybody, and I’m guessing he never thought he’d ever have to, and I know surely he could never have envisioned such a set of circumstances. He’s thinking he killed an innocent woman—but he didn’t. He saved one.

“Keys,” he says, putting his hand out. I hand him his keys and he hands me mine. We get into his car. I don’t ask where we’re going. His cell phone rings and he reaches into his pocket and hangs up without answering it. Then mine rings.

“Don’t answer it,” he says.

I look at the display in case it’s the hospital, but it isn’t. It’s the police station. I kill the call and put the phone back into my pocket. Schroder’s starts ringing again. He flips it over, pops out the battery, and tosses both halves into the backseat. Mine rings again. He looks at it ready to do the same thing. I put it on silent and don’t answer it.

I give it a few minutes, switching between watching Schroder and watching the night slowly lose its battle to the light. The headache is creeping back slowly, the work the pills had done to fight it all falling away over the last few minutes. In the distance the sky is dark blue. In a few hours people will be getting up and heading to work, hitting their stride and being productive. Right now they’re mostly still asleep, they’re in their dream worlds—some are being chased by monsters, some are visiting women they’ve seen on TV, others are flying, others are falling.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“We’re going to arrest Caleb Cole and save Katy Stanton.”

“And how are we going to do that? He didn’t happen to tell you where they all are, did he?”

He nods. “As a matter of fact, he did.”

“What?”

“He gave me his address.”

“You believe him?” I ask, rubbing at my temple.

“I do.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You have no right to ask that,” he says. “When was the last time you came straight to me with something?”

“It’s part of his endgame,” I say. “Whatever he has planned, it’s going to happen when we show up.”

“I know that, Theo. I’m not a f*cking idiot. His endgame is to die, that’s what everybody is saying, but that’s not going to happen. We make sure of that. We get there and we take this bastard alive because it’s the last thing he wants. You get that?”

“No sholem.”

“What?”

“I said ‘no problem.’ ”

“Look, I’m serious, Tate, this f*cker isn’t getting off easy. He’s going back to jail.”

“I said no problem, okay? But . . . shouldn’t we call for backup? Have you forgotten you’ve been suspended?”

“He told us to come alone.”

“This sounds dangerous, Carl. And stupid. You’re blowing any chance you have to shave your job.”

“Shave?”

“What?”

He shakes his head. “I can drop you off here if you want. I won’t hold it against you.”

“Carl, you’re f*cking things up. This isn’t the way to do things. We should call for backup.”

He finally looks over at me. He gives me a five-second stare, which is a long time when the person giving it is also in control of a speeding car. I’m rubbing my temple harder now.

“Jesus, Theo, are you okay?”

“Are you?”

“Look, if it were the other way around, you’d go ahead and do it your way anyway. You’ve always done it your way. Even when you were a cop. It’s always had to be the Tate way. Tate knows best. Tate doesn’t have to play by the rules. Now we’re doing it the Schroder way. Okay?”

“Okay, Goddamn it, okay!”

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I said I was okay,” I snap, rubbing at my head. I’m starting to worry that I’m in the process of filling out the ER doctor’s prescription.

He slows down and starts looking at the street signs, takes a right, and picks up some speed again.

“Just look for the For Sale sign he says. Number ninety-two.”

“Okay,” I say, but all the numbers look blurry. Everything does as the thing inside my head continues to wake up.

Ten seconds later he spots the sign staked into the front lawn. I see it after he’s slowed down. He pulls up outside it. I rub at my eyes and my vision clears a little. I shouldn’t have washed the damn pills down the sink.

“No point in trying to sneak in,” he says, “he’s expecting us.”

“So what do we do?”

“We go up to the front door and we knock. It’s that simple.”

“And then?”

“And then we do it the Schroder way,” he says, and before we get out of the car more cars show up behind us, and the media joins us to come and arrest Caleb Cole.