Paul Cleave - The Laughterhouse

Finally the phone moves again, and he can see the side of Schroder’s face before his ear fills the screen. Obviously he’s forgotten he’s on speakerphone as well as video.

“What were you saying?”

“There’s a bottle on the nightstand.”

“So?”

“So I want you to pick it up and smash her over the head with it.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“I’m not going to do that.”

“You have to.”

“No. I don’t have to. She’s dead.”

“Then she’s not going to feel it, and she’s not going to mind.”

“No.”

“I need to know she’s dead.”

“Yeah? Then why don’t you come down here yourself and take a Goddamn look at her. I’m not hitting her with the bottle.”

Caleb thinks about it. Nods. Thinks about it a little more. Nods to himself again. He believes the detective. “Do you have a marker?”

“What?”

“A pen. Find a pen.”

“I have a pen.”

“I want you to write on her forehead.”

“I’m not going to do that either.”

“You’re going to do it, Detective, and here’s why-I’m going to tell you where I am.”

A grunt comes down the phone line. “Yeah, sure you are.”

“I am,” he says, looking down at the little girl that he won’t have to ever cut again. “I promise you, you write on her forehead, then you and Theodore Tate can come and take me away. I give you my word. You can save Katy Stanton.”

“What about her father?” Schroder asks.

“I’m still undecided about that.”

“Don’t hurt him, and you have a deal.”

“You write what I want you to write, and I won’t harm either of them. Deal?”

“What do you want me to write?”

“I want you to write I’m an evil bitch. ”

“Why?”

“Because that’s what she was. You know it. We all know it.”

“Then why bother writing it?” the detective asks.

“You going to write it or not? Or does our deal not stand?”

“Hang on.” The footage changes again. He sees Schroder’s shirt and then the bed, and the screen stays on the bed for thirty seconds. Then the phone is on the move again. It’s pointed at Mrs. Whitby’s face. It’s all blurry and out of focus for a few seconds, but then it becomes sharp. The words are on her forehead. The handwriting is neater than his own, nice blocky lettering, but he hasn’t gotten the spacing right and the last few letters have to curve up over her left eye where they get smaller.

“Good,” he says.

“Now where are you?”

“Will you come alone if I tell you? Just you and Tate?” he asks, because that’s what Schroder will be expecting him to ask. He doesn’t care whether Schroder and Tate come alone, or whether they bring a hundred cops with them.

“Yes.”

“How do I know if I can believe you?”

“Enough games, Caleb. Just tell me where you are.”

“Fair enough,” he says. He gives Schroder the address of the house that’s for sale, hangs up, then calls the journalist he was going to call before. He tells him who he is, and he knows the man doubts him, so he takes a photograph of Katy on the phone and sends it to him. Then he makes a few more calls, a radio station, a TV station, and he gives them all the address too. Then he walks back through to Dr. Stanton. He has five minutes, he guesses. Five minutes and then everything will be over.

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 fuck 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 fucking 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 fucker 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 fucking 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?”