Paul Cleave - The Laughterhouse

I take a look at the photographs I saw here earlier today. The edges have curled over the years, the colors have faded from the memories. I pick up one that has Caleb Cole in it, along with Jessica and Ariel. It can’t have been taken long before James Whitby destroyed all their lives. Ariel looks happy. There is life in her eyes that has since been extinguished. Back then she was a ten-year-old girl who dreamed of ponies and rainbows and watched cartoons on TV. Back then she had a best friend and the world was bright and happy and she was a princess. Then a crazy man made that world dark.

Even at ten Ariel would have understood what happened. At eleven she would have understood it more. By high school it was probably ruining her life. The guilt, the shame, the knowledge she got away and her best friend didn’t. In this photo is a girl that never knew what lay ahead, would never need to know a world of drugs and prostitution, would never need to live in a run-down home with mouse shit on the floor and holes in the ceiling. James Whitby may not have killed her, but he took away her life.

I move through to the bedroom. My cell phone rings. It’s Schroder.

“Got an update for you,” he says.

“You’re at the slaughterhouse?”

“About five minutes away. You spoke to Ariel?”

“Just pulling onto her street now. So what’s the news?”

“It’s pretty moot now,” he says, “but fingerprints found under the hood came back as a match to Caleb Cole. And the court records have arrived. Want to have a guess at who was the jury foreman?”

“Albert McFarlane?”

“Try again.”

“Herbert Poole.”

“Bingo. Victoria Brown said Whitby had the mental age of a ten-year-old and wasn’t responsible for himself. Dr. Stanton was a critical piece of her defense. And, get this, she also had some character witnesses.”

“McFarlane?”

“Exactly. He used to be Whitby’s teacher. He spoke about how much Whitby had changed since the attack that hospitalized him. He told the jury that Whitby was basically a good kid, and everything he did was a result of the abuse.”

“Brad Hayward?”

“No mention of him. Has to be what you said earlier-he was just a random guy Ariel Chancellor worked last night, which must have upset Cole. Listen, we’ve got people sitting on the other jury members making sure they’re safe, along with everybody else listed in the case. We got Cole’s mug shot out to the media-everybody by the end of the day is going to know who Caleb Cole is. We’ll find him soon. Look, I gotta go-we’re pulling up at the slaughterhouse.”

“Good luck,” I tell him, and he hangs up.

I tuck the phone into my pocket and Schroder is right about finding Caleb Cole soon, because when I turn around he’s standing right in front of me. Before I can react, he swings a fist and punches me in the face.

His fist gets me in the side of the jaw and the first thing that happens is one of my headaches explodes into existence. It feels much worse than earlier this year when the glass jar was smashed against my skull. The second thing that happens is I stumble backward. Another fists gets me in the forehead and it’s like somebody has set off a flashbulb inside my head, one of those old press ones that would flash white, then have smoke puff out from around it as it went dark. For two seconds I can’t see a damn thing, but I can hear him coming at me. I lift up my arms but he manages to hit me again. I fall onto the bed and then his face starts to appear from behind the dark clouds and he looks as surprised as I feel. He jumps on top of me.

“Who are you?” he shouts.

The room is spinning. My back is sinking into the mattress.

“Huh? You fucked her as well?” he yells.

He puts his hands around my throat and squeezes. I grab his hands but can’t push them away. Something inside my skull is trying to break free, it’s stomping around and banging at the walls.

“Shaleb. .” I say, and it takes a lot of strength just to say his name, but it sounds different in my head and feels different on my tongue.

He lets go. I grab my throat and rub it. He climbs off me and steps away. “What did you just say?”

I get up onto my elbows. I start to cough, each cough vibrating through my skull. “Shisshen,” I say, my throat ticking, my mind woozy, “Shesh me shelp you.”

He comes in and takes another swing at me, I block it, but he buries his left fist into my stomach. The air rushes out of me. He turns and heads for the door and I get to my feet, half doubled over. My right arm hangs by my side, not working, it flaps around as I race out of the bedroom. By the time I reach the hall he’s already in the kitchen.

“Shate!”

He doesn’t wait. I reach the door and he’s already scaling the back fence. I manage two paces before everything changes angles-the trees, the fence, the house, everything shifting varying degrees and I throw up, first falling to the ground on all fours.

The headache fades a little. Feeling returns to my arm. I press at the sides of my head and get my eyes open and Caleb’s face is staring at me from the other side of the fence as he lowers himself down. Then he’s gone. I get to my feet. My legs take me three steps sideways and one step forward, then two sideways and two forward, and then more forward than sideways until I reach the fence. I hang on to it, suck in some air, and climb. I drop down into the neighbor’s backyard, where the lawn comes up past my ankles. Cole is almost at the opposite fence. The thing inside my head is still banging to be heard, but at least it’s no longer stomping around and setting off distress flares. It’s going to let me get through this and wait for the next opportunity.

I grab my phone and call Schroder. I reach the fence and he hasn’t answered. I drop the phone into my pocket and climb into the next neighbor’s backyard. When I hit the ground Cole is running down the side of the house. I pick my phone back up and it’s gone through to Schroder’s voice mail. I hang up and call the station. I try asking for backup but the words don’t come out. They ask me to repeat myself and I do, but it’s still no good. I reach the road and Caleb has gone right. I follow, but he’s still gaining ground. He turns down an alleyway. I suck in a deep breath and tell the dispatch officer who I am, and that I’m in pursuit of Caleb Cole, and none of the words come out how I want them to. The dispatch officer doesn’t hang up.

“Do you need medical attention?” she asks.

I try asking for backup.

“Are you intoxicated?”

I reach the alleyway and Caleb is already at the end of it. I can barely breathe. Four months in jail followed by two months of eating all the wrong food have me in the worst shape of my life. And getting smacked in the head hasn’t helped. I swing my arms harder and try to pump by legs faster but it’s not working. Caleb goes right. I’m at least ten seconds behind and the distance is increasing with every step. He looks over his shoulder and doesn’t look as convinced as I am that I’m losing the race, so he pushes himself harder. I push myself harder too but there’s nothing there. The legs won’t respond. Then he starts to slow down. He’s been in jail for fifteen years and had to eat that same shit much longer than I had to.

I close the distance. I shave a second off, then another, I close in on him and then I can’t run anymore. I start to pull up, my lungs burning, my energy levels drained. My throat is sore, my head is pulsing, my face feels like it’s going to explode from the heat. I think of the three girls and I keep going. Caleb sees I’ve closed in on him. He turns into the closest house and runs down the side of it. He pushes through a gate into the backyard of a house with run-down cars parked in the driveway. People are staring out the window as I follow him. They’re getting up and coming to the door, already yelling. Caleb scales the fence. The back door of the house opens and a dog races out after me, somebody yelling at it to “rip those fuckers apart.” I reach the fence and the dog grabs my leg and digs its teeth into my calf. I scream out, hug the top of the fence, and kick out with my other foot, connecting with the dog’s head. It doesn’t let go. I kick it again for the same result. I pull myself up higher, the dog coming with me, and Caleb is standing right below me on the other side. He grabs my shirt and pulls me down. I’m the rope in a tug-of-war between man and beast. The dog comes halfway up the fence and comes free when it starts to lever over the top. I hit the ground hard. Caleb kicks me in the stomach, steps back, then comes forward and kicks me again.