Night Corridor

by Joan Hall Hovey

  "Who…who said I'd be here?"

  "Harold. He tells me everything about you. I knew that first day you moved in you'd been in Bayshore. Anyway, I just followed your bus. You haven't been quite true, have you, Caroline? But at least I know you haven't laid with him."

  "Who? I don't know what you're talking about." She tried to keep the waver from her voice.

  "Don't lie. I saw you kissing him before you both went inside the building. I followed you in. I was outside your door last night and I heard you send him away. That was very lucky for you. Not so lucky for him. I didn't come to your rescue just so you could defile yourself with another."

  Her heart thumped in her chest. Jeffrey. What had he done to Jeffrey? Oh, God. "How did you get a key to the building?"

  She heard only a trace of French accent in his words. She had heard it that night he put Mike Handratty in the hospital, but it hadn't registered. He spoke English well, but the rhythm was there.

  "Easy," he said. "Harold always hangs his jacket in the staffroom, the key in his pocket. I had a copy made."

  He was bragging, thinking she would be impressed at his cleverness.

  "I had planned for us to go last night at midnight. But you ruined that." Anger flared in his eyes like a dark flame fanned. The flame went out. "But what does that matter now? We're together, and that's all that matters."

  She remembered that Harold had called him Danny. She didn't remember his last name, only that it was French.

  "Yes," she half-whispered. The floating memory snapped into place and a vision of the men at Bayshore shuffling about in the yard below her barred window flashed at the forefront of her mind, like a movie frame. That was where she had first seen him. At Bayshore mental institution. Down in the yard with the other male patients. He didn't shuffle like the others, though, but strode when he walked, shoulders thrust forward, a man with purpose, yet going nowhere. Like a speared bull looking for the source of its torment.

  Those weren't her words, but little Martha Blizzard's. Martha had a different way of seeing things and people. Just like she saw her husband waving goodbye to her after she struck him in the head with the baseball bat. Danny wasn't a particularly big man, but his very presence was fierce and enormous and terrifying. She tried not to let her fear show.

  The man who stood before her had been an inmate, just like herself. Why was he here? Even as she asked herself the question, cold fear like spread in the hollow of her stomach, like melting ice. The small voice in her head was urging her to run. But how? Where? He was blocking her path to the stairs. The window was behind her.

  She should not have come here alone. She wished she had taken Mrs. Bannister up on her offer to go with her, but too late now for second thoughts.

  "All is forgiven, Caroline," he said, moving toward her. She recoiled instinctively, and he stopped, looking hurt. She could see him fighting his natural bent to rage. Slowly, the clenched fists relaxed and he smiled, a chilling smile. "It's my fault, I know. I shouldn't have waited so long, but I couldn't come for you until the time was right. You can see that, can't you? Did you like your Christmas gift, Caroline? I saw you admiring it in the store."

  He'd been looking in the store window, watching her. He killed Natalie Breen and took the pin because he thought she wanted it. Oh, God. He was insane, a murderer. She had doomed that lovely woman to a terrible fate the instant she walked into her store.

  He read her thoughts and his face darkened "She was giving your name out to strangers. I couldn't allow that."

  "I understand. Please. I have to go now." She took a step to go past him, but he blocked her way.

  "Don't make me angry at you, Caroline. I don't want to be angry with you. Believe me, you don't want me to be. Now listen to me. Those other women…I thought they were the right ones too, but I was wrong. They lied. They wanted to take love away, see, so I treated them like the whores they were. And I made sure they told no more lies. They deserved to die. My mother was a whore, you know."

  He said this so matter-of-factly, he might have been telling her his mother knitted socks. She said nothing.

  And then, suddenly, he slipped a hand under his jacket and withdrew a large knife from a sheath attached to his belt, and the saliva dried up in her throat and mouth. The curved blade gleamed in the cold milky light from the window and froze any words she might have uttered.

  "You're not like that, are you, Caroline?" he asked in a deadly soft voice. "You wouldn't take love away."

  "No, no, I wouldn't," she said, her voice a strangled whisper. She had no idea what he was talking about, but she knew he was a killer and that she had to be very careful of what she said and how she said it. But it was so hard to think with this din inside her skull, when everything in her wanted to run, screaming. But she knew she wouldn't get far before he plunged that knife into her.

  "Good, Caroline. I knew you weren't like the others."

  For some reason, she was remembering Harold telling her he was from some little place where the population was largely French. Information that might be helpful to her at some point, though she couldn't imagine how. She thought of William, who'd also been French. A man who'd been good and caring, and would never intentionally hurt anyone. This man before her was a monster. What had happened to him to twist him into this dark, fiendish creature who killed so easily.

  Poor Natalie Breen. How frightened she must have been before he killed her. As frightened as I am now.

  He had mentioned his mother, a woman for whom he held only disdain. What could she say that might connect with him? Yet she knew from experience it was possible to turn against one's parents. Maybe she would learn something that would save her. The knife gleamed dangerously in his hand.

  She had to try.

  "Does your mother still live in Petit Ridge?" she said, her mind suddenly throwing out the name of the place. It was merely a stall for time, time in which someone might come to her aid. But the hope was small.

  At her question, a frown crossed his broad forehead. "How did you …? Ah, Harold. Of course. Well, never mind about my mother. Do you think I don't know what game you're playing, Caroline? You think you can outsmart me? Don't waste your time trying. I've had my head shrunk by the best of them. You're disappointing me. I thought you'd be different. I thought you'd understand."

  "Really, it's not a game. You said she was a—a whore. Is that why you hate her?" She made her voice soft and caring, in the way that Lynne had so often spoken to her. If she could keep him talking, someone could still show up here, the owner or one of the workers. She let that small hope get bigger.

  "My mother is dead. We have to go now, Caroline. Earl is waiting."

  "Earl?" Who was Earl?

  "Enough questions. The car is out front." He stepped aside to let her pass. "You go first. Don't try to run. If you do, you'll be sorry. Go on now. Walk ahead of me. And walk normally. Smile and talk as if we were old friends. Which we are, you know? We're destined to be together. You and me and Earl. A real family."

  Fifty-Eight

  Lynne drove slowly up Glendon Street, searching the houses for the one Caroline grew up in. She looked for number 264. There. There it is. She pulled up at the curb. Caroline shouldn't be alone to do this.

  Seconds before, Lynne passed a grey Mustang going in the opposite direction, but had no way of knowing Caroline, who Danny had ordered to lie down in the seat, was in it and paid the car little attention. Mrs. Bannister gave her the address readily, even describing the place to her. She was concerned about Caroline, she said. She gone to exorcize old demons. The landlady was concerned about her. She wasn't alone.

  Looking up at the house with its brown trim and gingerbread decoration, Lynne thought it had a definite charm. She noted the For Sale sign on the lawn. Caroline had come here to exorcize old demons. It was a good sign. But was she ready for the emotional impact stepping into the past would have on her? She'll handle it, Lynne told herself, but was glad she'd come just in case she need
ed moral support. Caroline was strong, but this would be tough for anyone who'd gone through what she had.

  Lynne had a surprise for Caroline, her reason for dropping in on her this morning. She'd located the family that adopted Elizabeth. Oddly enough, they lived not that far from here. Being a psychiatric nurse gave her access to a couple of friends in important places. Not that she planned to do anything with the information, other than to tell Caroline that her daughter was well loved, and happy. She deserved that much, she thought, as she parked the car and got out.

  Assuming Caroline had gotten permission from a real estate agent to go through the house, Lynne walked up to the front door. She rapped once and was about to knock again when the door creaked swung open. Strange.

  She went inside. "Hello?" she called out, her voice creating a hollow sound the came back to her. She took another step and her eye caught the woman's leather glove on the foyer floor, palm up, slightly curled like a disembodied hand.

  She bent down and picked it up, recognizing it at once as part of the pair she'd given Caroline for Christmas. She felt its buttery softness in her hand, looked inside to confirm the designer's name on the tag, along with the color midnight blue.

  The silence of the house screamed at her. Caroline had grown up within these walls. How difficult it must have been for her to stand here, where I am now. All those memories must have come flooding back like a great tsunami.

  Lynne went through to the kitchen, boots clicking hollowly on the floors. She felt the blast of cool air even before she noticed that the window was wide open. Who would leave a window open in January? Especially considering they were renovating.

  A bad feeling began to niggle at her, just beneath her breastbone. She went into the living room. At the foot of the stairs, Lynne called up, "Caroline?" But only the echo of her voice in the empty house, answered.

  She looked down at the two sets of damp footprints on the stairs. The smaller prints were quite clear, some covered by a larger set. Both coming and going. Had someone followed her here?

  There were footprints in the foyer, too, but they could be anyone's. Obviously men had been working in here, and they might even have showed the house to prospective buyers while Caroline was here. But the niggling beneath her breastbone was becoming a very real fear.

  She still held the glove in her hand and now she shoved it in her bag. The dropped glove was no small thing. It was a damn cold day and Caroline wouldn't have gotten far before realizing she had dropped it somewhere. She would have come back here to find it. She'd dropped it deliberately, hoping to provide a clue. The best she could do in her situation. What situation? came the ominous question. You're getting ahead of yourself. Quit it! She's probably home by now.

  She remembered seeing a store on the corner. She drove back and phoned Caroline's number. The phone rang and rang. She finally hung up, thanked the clerk and left.

  Lynne Addison sped through the streets of St. Simeon, heading for the police station. At the same time Art Lawrence, assistant baker at Big Bakery stood in the parking lot behind the old red brick building that had been there for fifty years, staring with a sick feeling at the empty space where his pride and joy, the '77 dark grey Mustang had been parked while he was away on Christmas vacation, in Hawaii.

  Fifty-Nine

  "You say this friend of yours, Marilyn …?"

  "Caroline," she snapped at the policeman behind the desk. He had a blond crew cut and looked twelve. "Caroline Hill."

  He raised an eyebrow at the sharpness of her tone. "Sorry. She's been missing for—less than an hour." He almost grinned at her and Lynne had to rein in her fury, and the urge to smack him, which wasn't likely to help her cause. She made herself calm down. She had broken all speeding records getting here, expecting to hear sirens behind her at any second. She was sweating under her coat, despite the cold day.

  "Listen, please, officer," she said evenly. "My name is Lynne Addison. I'm a psychiatric nurse. I worked at Bayshore Mental Institution for more than twenty years. For nine of those years, Caroline was a patient under my care."

  She had his attention. "So what are you saying? You think she ran away…?"

  "No. Please hear me out. I've reason to think she is in terrible danger. Two of your detectives have already interviewed her about the murder of the shopkeeper, Natalie Breen. One of the other victims lived in Caroline's building, right across the hall."

  All trace of amusement gone from his face, he grabbed up pen and paper. "Go on."

  "Thank you. I think someone's been stalking her," she said, her tone softer now that he was listening. "Apparently, the police think so too, or they wouldn't be watching the building." As Lynne was leaving, she'd seen them drive by and slow down.

  "Caroline took the bus to her old house on Gleneton, the house where she grew up, and I think he followed her in a car. I believe he has her now." She fought back a rush of panic as she said, "We have to find her. Before it's too late."

  The officer was on the phone with someone in charge of the case when Caroline was drawn by a commotion across the room. A man was talking at two cops, hands gesturing wildly as he ranted about someone stealing his Mustang right out of his parking place at his job. Noticing his jacket bearing the logo BB. Big Bakery. Lynne recalled Caroline telling her that the landlady's nephew worked there. Before she could think further on this coincidence, (or maybe not so coincidental) the young policeman hung up the phone, and gestured behind him. "Right down that hall, third door to your left, Ma'am. Detective O'Neal's waiting for you."

  Sixty

  Caroline sat beside her abductor in terrified silence as they drove through small villages and towns, past beauty shops, gas stations, stores festooned with Christmas decorations, a small library built of sandstone. She read Halston Library above the big doors before they sped past the building. They drove past a woman walking a beautiful taffy-colored Collie. A few blocks on some kids were playing street hockey and had to scramble onto the sidewalk to escape getting hit. Caroline let out a breath when the last one, a little boy of about nine in a red knit hat, was safely out of harm's way. The kids stared wide-eyed after them. He was speeding and just as she had the thought that he might alert the attention of the police, he apparently had the same thought, and slowed down.

  They'd been on the road a couple of hours now. The motor hummed smoothly. She glanced at the driver, at his big hands gripping the wheel. At least he wasn't driving in jerky fits and starts as he had been when they started out, giving Caroline the distinct impression the car wasn't his. He must have stolen it. Either that, or he'd just learned to drive. Maybe both. Her thoughts went back to Jeffrey and she had to fight tears. Was he dead?

  "You're very quiet," he said beside her, his voice startling her after the long silence, striking a new chord of fear in her. Though his voice held no immediate threat, she knew if she did not get away from him, she would die. Of that much she was very sure.

  "Enjoying the ride? I thought you would. Nice car, eh? It's a good day for driving, the roads aren't too bad either. We should be in Toronto tomorrow by supper. We'll rest up at a motel tonight. No need to hurry, eh?" He smiled at her, talking as if they were any ordinary couple and heading for Toronto was the most normal thing in the world to be doing. Wary of drawing out the monster she knew lay just beneath the surface of this reasonable, pleasant demeanor, she said that sounded fine. In reality, just driving in this car with him was terrifying. She had no idea what he might do. Maybe change his mind and drive to some isolated spot and rape and kill her there, as he had the others. All except Natalie. He killed her for a silly brooch Caroline didn't even like. Or did he kill her because she could identify him? But why with such viciousness? The papers said she had been beaten before being strangled to death. Is that how she would die too? Not if she could help it.

  He was carrying on with his small talk, and Caroline did her best to give normal, matter-of-fact responses, tried with everything in her to tamp down the mounting panic.
She wondered why the people they passed couldn't feel her terror. Why couldn't they hear her silent screams for help? But no one turned around and looked back at the grey car that had just passed them. No one would call the police.

  She didn't know why she had thought it would help to drop that glove. No one would connect it to her. The glove could belong to anyone. Only Lynne would know, and there was no reason for her to be at the house.

  Ethel will miss me at work tomorrow, she thought, and phone the house. There would be no answer, of course. Will she phone the landlady then? Maybe. Maybe not. It would probably be too late anyway.

  Who was Earl? she wondered again.

  Tears pressed behind her lids again. I'm just starting to get my life back, to find joy again. Please, God. I don't want to die.