by Paul Cleave
“I promise,” he says, and it’s a lie but it’s for the greater good. One day Adam will understand. “To both things.”
“Don’t make me regret it,” Adam says, and gives him the address, then hangs up.
Caleb switches off the phone. He starts the car and all the cats scatter.
“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.”
“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 so
me 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.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
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.
