The Laughterhouse (38 page)

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 fucking 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 fucked 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.”

Tabitha Jenkins has her wrists tied behind her, her feet bound, and duct tape across her mouth. Her eyes are closed. She looks dead, except for the slight rise and fall of her chest. On the floor next to the bed is a baby that looks like Octavia, though I’ve found that except for my own daughter, all one-year-olds look the same. She is strapped into a car seat. Her eyes are wide open and she’s staring right at me with a very confused look on her face. There is tomato sauce all over the front of her one-piece pajama outfit.

The knife is no longer down by my side. Instead it’s in front of my body. My heart is racing and I want to rush into the room. I want to scoop Octavia up and shout out with excitement. I keep hold of those desires and stay calm and move in slowly, looking left and right, waiting for Caleb to appear like he did earlier today. Only he doesn’t, and I reach Octavia and crouch down next to her and give her a big smile.

“Hello, Octavia,” I tell her. “My name is Theo.”

“Hello-zies,” she says, smiling back.

“Is there anybody else here?” I ask her, knowing I could probably get more information from the seat she’s strapped into than from her.

“Bufwiffy,” she says, then her face scrunches up into a tight little ball and she turns red for a few seconds before relaxing, sending out a stench that makes my eyes water.

“Jesus,” I say, standing back up.

I shake Tabitha and she stirs but only a little. I cut her bindings and remove the duct tape, then make my way back through the house, checking the same rooms, the hallway, the living room, back the way I came in and passing the tomato sauce on the floor that now makes sense. Caleb has faked killing Octavia. I check to make sure the doors are locked and I secure the dead bolts. When I’m satisfied we’re alone, I head back down to the bedroom. I pick Tabitha up. She’s heavier than I thought she would be for somebody so slim, or maybe I’m just a lot weaker than I remember. My leg hurts from the dog bites as I walk down to the bathroom and my back threatens to slip a disc as I lower her into the shower. Her eyes open a little wider and her body flinches when I turn on the water. It’s cold for ten seconds before warming up. I stand back, not wanting to get wet. Her hair is pasted to her face and her clothes cling to her skin and she has her face pointing at the floor. Slowly she raises her head a little and puts her hands over her face.

“I’m awake,” Tabitha says, but she doesn’t sound it.

“Tabitha, my name is Detective Inspector Theodore Tate,” I say, talking loudly to be heard over the shower. “Can you understand me?”

“Understand me,” she repeats, the water splashing off her face.

“Tabitha? Where is Caleb?”

“Caleb,” she says, “he’s not a bad man.”

“How long ago was he here?”

“He’s just doing bad things,” she says, blinking heavily.

“Tabitha? When was he here?”

“Don’t know.”

“Is he coming back?”

“Don’t know,” she says, and she focuses on me for the first time. “Who are you? A cop?”

“Yes. My name is Theodore Tate.”

“It was an accident,” she says. “I didn’t mean it.”

She rests her head against the wall of the shower and holds her hands above her eyes like a visor, shielding them from water. She wraps her arms around her legs and rests her chin on her knees.

“Tabitha,” I say, and she looks up at me. “Is Caleb coming back? Do you know where he is?”

“No,” she says, staring at her feet. “He didn’t say.”

I step into the hallway. I check on Octavia and think about opening a window to help with the smell, but don’t want to give Caleb an outlet to sneak inside, not that I think he’s coming back. Octavia is okay and seems to be enjoying the smell as much as she seems to enjoy staring at her fingers, which in this case is a lot. I grab my cell phone and call Schroder.

“I’ve found Octavia Stanton,” I tell him.

“You what? Where?”

“At Tabitha Jenkins’s house.”

“What? You . . . what? What are you doing there? Is the girl okay? What about the others? What about Cole?”

I update him, telling him I wanted to speak to Tabitha on the chance that Cole had approached her, not mentioning the real reason, and Schroder is happy to believe it.

“So it was a lucky break,” I tell him, “nothing more.”

“You have a thing with lucky breaks, Theo. That’s great you’ve found her, it really is,” he says, and I get the sense he’s shaking his head or nodding, or maybe even fist-pumping the air. “Two girls safe and sound,” he says. “We’re doing this,” he adds. “We’re going to nail this guy and we’re going to get everybody back. I can feel it. I’ll get some backup sent right away.”

“Wait,” I tell him. “Don’t send backup.”

“What?”

“Just come here with a couple of other people, and that’s all,” I tell him, “and make sure one of them is a paramedic to check Tabitha out—she was drugged. She doesn’t know if Cole is coming back, and if he is we can use this place to ambush him. And if he isn’t coming back, he’s already long gone, so there’s no point in sending every available officer.”

“Yeah, yeah, good thinking. There’s no way you’re not going to be one of the team again, Tate. This is great stuff. Great stuff! Okay. We’ll see you in a few minutes.”

I hang up. Tabitha has reached up and turned off the shower. She gets to her feet and leans against the shower walls.

“You said you were a policeman?” she asks.

I pass her a towel and then show her my badge. She doesn’t look at the badge and buries her face in the towel.

“I’m looking for Cole,” I tell her.

“What?” she asks, pulling the towel away.

“Caleb Cole. I’m looking for him.”

“Give me a minute,” she says.

I leave her in the bathroom and head into the kitchen. I switch on the kettle but flick it off before boiling point, then make a strong coffee. It’s ready and sitting on the coffee table on a coaster when Tabitha comes into the lounge. She’s dried off and changed into dry clothes: a pair of jeans and a fleece jacket into the pockets of which she has her hands buried deep.

“Drink this,” I say, and I hand the coffee over to her. “It’s not too hot.”

Tabitha drinks half of it in one gulp, then hands me back the cup. “I feel sick,” she says, and she moves quickly into the kitchen and throws up into the sink. She turns on the faucet hard enough for the water to splash back at her. She rinses the sink, then eases the pressure and lowers her face beneath the tap. She takes in a mouthful of water and spits it out, then another and another. When she’s finished, she turns around and
leans against the wall, the front of her fleece sprinkled with beads of water.

“That has to be the worst review I’ve ever had for coffee I’ve made,” I tell her.

She smiles. “I hate coffee. I’m a tea drinker.”

I smile back. “You’re feeling okay? You don’t need to sit down?”

“I’m fine,” she says. “Just light-headed is all.”

“How long ago did Caleb Cole leave?”

She picks up a tea towel and wipes her face with it. In the process she moves her hair behind her ear, revealing a scar pale against her tan.

“What’s the time now?” she asks.

“Ten thirty.”

“Then an hour ago.”

“He tell you where he was going?”

She balls up the tea towel and tosses it into the sink. “No.”

“Is he coming back?”

“No.”

I put the half-drunken coffee down on the bench. “Listen, there’s something I need to tell you before the police get here.”

Her face changes at the change of tone in my voice. “What kind of something?”

“I know about Victoria Brown.”

“What?”

“I know it was you that hurt her.”

“Oh Jesus,” she says, and looks down.

“Listen to me,” I say, and I put a hand on her forearm. “Nobody else needs to know. It’s going to be okay, but you need to trust me. I want to find Caleb Cole before he hurts anybody else, that’s all.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt her that badly. I wasn’t even thinking about hurting her at all. I just came out of the stall and there she was, just standing in front of me. I don’t even remember thinking about it.”

“It’s okay,” I tell her. “It’s going to be okay.”

“It . . . it just happened,” she says, and she reaches back for the tea towel and dabs it at the bottom of her eyes. “I ran. I left her there and I ran and maybe if I had gone for help the doctors could have done more for her.”

“I know you feel bad about it,” I tell her, “and I’m glad you do. You should feel bad, and that’s what makes you a good person. But your life will be ruined if the police find out.”

“That’s what he said,” she says, “Caleb, back when I went to see him in jail.”

“And he was right. Tabitha, why did Caleb come here? Why did he tie you up? Why did he leave Octavia here? Did he hurt you?”

Before she can answer any of my questions, there’s a soft knocking from the back door.

“Your visit with Caleb, you told him about Victoria Brown,” I tell her.

“Oh,” she says.

“Don’t let it get any further, because you’ll end up in jail,” I add, and I open up the door and let Schroder and the others inside. He has a phone to his ear, and a stunned look on his face. He comes inside, nods a few times, says
okay
a few times, then hangs up.

“Jesus,” he says, “you’re not going to believe this. But I’m off the case. I’ve just been suspended.”

The paramedic looks over Tabitha and gives her the all clear. He suggests a visit to the hospital for observation, a suggestion that Tabitha disagrees with.

“What would I know,” the paramedic says, “I’m only the expert,” he says, then walks off to the living room and sits down, putting his feet up on the coffee table. He pulls out a cell phone and starts playing on it.

Me and Schroder sit in the living room with the TV on while Tabitha volunteers to change Octavia’s diaper in the bedroom. Detectives Hutton and Kent have shown up, along with two officers, one of whom was the guy who first approached me at the retirement home when we went to visit the late Herbert Poole. The other is a guy I haven’t seen before. The four of them hang out in the kitchen. There are other officers in unmarked cars sitting at various points in a four-block radius. On the TV is footage from Lakeview Homes. It’s shaky but clear, shot from somebody’s camera, either by one of the residents or by a family member who was there at the time. There is footage of a
windowsill, a curtain, then the lens focuses past the window and to the first of the minivan cabs. It comes to a stop, the door slides open, and detective after detective steps out of it. It’s like watching clowns at a circus climbing out of a small car, only these clowns are drunk, racing off into the fields and watering the trees before trying to figure out who killed the ringmaster.