Paul Cleave - The Laughterhouse

“Is that true?” Katy asks. “Are you going to really let my dad go?”

“It’s true,” he tells her. “Listen,” he says, the car still idling against the curb, “I’m going to need you to take these for me,” he says, and reaches into his pocket.

“What are they?”

“Sleeping pills.”

“I don’t want to sleep.”

“You need to,” he says, “because I don’t want you talking to your dad again before this is over.”

“Over?”

He nods. “Take these, and when you wake back up you’ll be with your dad again and everything will be fine,” he tells her, and he feels much worse about lying than he thought he would.

He shakes the juice box Octavia was drinking from before and there’s maybe a mouthful left inside. Katy uses it to wash down two of the pills, and then he hands her a third. It’ll keep her knocked out for about twelve hours, he figures. Nothing will wake her.

There are some drops of rain on the windshield but not enough to worry about as he begins to drive. He drives into New Brighton, a beach suburb that he knows reasonably well because he used to have a flat here when he was in his early twenties. This was where he was living when he met Lara. It was his flatmate’s birthday and Lara came along with one of her friends. Caleb had met her and chatted with her for a few minutes, then didn’t think of her again until he ran into her a week later at the cinema. This time they chatted longer and he wondered what it was about her that he saw this time that he hadn’t seen the first time. He never did figure it out. Two years after meeting her they were living in the nice house that he no longer owns.

He drives with the window down and can smell the salt air from the ocean. The rain picks up for a few seconds, a sudden violent pummeling of it against the car, then just as quickly dies off before he can reach the button to close the window. His right arm is soaked. He can hear the waves breaking against the shore. He hasn’t seen the ocean in a long time. He drives parallel to the sand dunes. Part of him wants to park the car and climb them and stare out at the moon hanging over the water before the cloud cover conceals it. Instead he keeps driving. He makes a right turn and half a block away he finds the house Adam told him about. A real estate sign has been pounded into the ground in the middle of the front lawn. Open House-Saturday 1:00-1:30. The words are below a picture of a smiling man trying to look like he could be your best friend.

Katy has fallen asleep, her chin resting on her chest. He pops the trunk. He hauls Stanton over the edge of the trunk until the balance is on his side of it, then he lets him go so he piles onto the ground. He bends down and gets one of Stanton’s arms around his neck and manages to stand up, then he walks him toward the house. He can barely hold on to him his joints are aching so much, but he deals with it, the same way he’s dealt with everything over the years, only it’s easier this time because he knows he doesn’t have to put up with the pain for much longer. Stanton is semiawake and manages to contribute some steps but not all. He rests him on the steps before trying the door. It’s locked. He puts the blade of the knife beneath the bathroom window and levers it upward until the latch strips out of the wood. He climbs through and loops around to the back door. He drags Stanton inside. The carpet in the house is new and spongy, making it harder to drag Stanton to the bedroom furthest from the street. He puts a fresh set of plastic ties around Stanton’s feet and leaves him on the floor.

He flicks on the bathroom light for a brief second to make sure the house has power. Enough light spills into the hallway and two bedrooms to see the furniture is all modern, that there are nice prints on the wall too, everything in its place to make an empty house feel like a home, an illusion that will help the owner fetch more money when it sells. He brings Katy inside, lifts back the showroom covers, and puts her in the showroom bed, placing the showroom pillow beneath her cute little head. He tucks her in.

There’s a nice looking LCD TV in the living room, which he carries down to a different bedroom, worried the glow in the living room would alert the neighbors. It’s amazing how much lighter TVs are since he last owned one. And flatter. He watches the news. His picture comes up, taken the day he was booked for murder fifteen years ago. Then there’s a photograph of him standing next to Lara, Jessica between them, taken when Jessica was six. They had taken her to a costume party for one of Jessica’s friends. Lara had worked all week to make an outfit for her because for the week prior to the party Jessica had kept coming home saying she wanted to go as a bat. Lara had made the outfit in secret, promising Jessica it would be ready on the day, which it was, and it looked great, with its wings and pointy ears, made from gray bedsheets Lara had specially bought. When Jessica saw it, she had asked what it was. They told her it was a bat. Jessica told them it wasn’t. But it doesn’t even look like a cricket bat, Jessica had said, and that’s when the problem revealed itself. Jessica had cried at first, but with some coaxing had agreed to wear the outfit. An ice cream later, she was smiling enough for the photograph. Later that night when Jessica was asleep, Caleb and Lara had shared a bottle of wine on the porch outside and laughed about the misunderstanding.

The photograph disappears, replaced by one of James Whitby, and then there are pictures of the people he’s killed over the last four days. Then his mug shot. Next to it is an illustration of how he looks now.

A lot has happened to that man.

The reporter telling the story is standing outside the police station. The front is lit up, the walls stained with the exhaust fumes of years of passing cars, stained with bird shit and probably stained with all the bullshit too from the reporters being so close. There is movement off to the side of the camera; other media outlets are hanging around the scene. He guesses it’s a good day for them. It is this reporter’s certain understanding from inside sources, so the reporter tells him, that the police have Judge Latham and Mrs. Whitby under guard, along with others involved with the case fifteen years ago. She goes on to say that Dr. Stanton and his two youngest daughters are still being held captive, and that Melanie Stanton was found earlier today and is undergoing a battery of tests. When asked by the anchorwoman whether Melanie Stanton was sexually assaulted, the reporter says it’s too soon for the police to release that information.

He throws the remote control at the TV. His aim is off and it hits the wall, the back cover popping off and the batteries disappearing into different corners of the room. The TV is still going. He rips the power cord from the wall. What the hell is wrong with people?

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.”