Night Corridor

by Joan Hall Hovey

And then it occurred to her that stopping at a motel room might not be the worst thing that could happen. It might even provide her with a chance to get away. They had phones in motel offices, and people in washrooms. Maybe she could pass someone a note. She had a pen in her purse. She could write on a paper towel. Anything.

  Suddenly, his hand shot out and clamped down on her wrist causing heart to leap into her throat. She could feel the restrained power in his grip and knew what he was capable of, knew what those evil hands had already done. She glanced down at the back of his hand, matted with black hair, some sprouting from his knuckles.

  "I know what you're thinking," he said calmly, as her heart thumped in her chest. "I always know, Caroline. If you try to get away, you'll be very sorry. I told you that. You know I mean it, don't you."

  "Yes."

  "Good." He smiled at her then, returned his hand to the wheel. Her wrist tingled from his steely grip and she rubbed it lightly, her heart sinking into despair.

  Sixty-One

  Once Lynne talked to Detective O'Neal, things began unfolding quickly. The first thing the detective did was phone Mrs. Bannister and ask to speak with Harold. Harold was at work, the landlady told him. Although she could hear only one side of the conversation, Lynne was able to get the gist of it. He asked the landlady if she'd mind checking to see if her tenant, Jeffrey Denton was at home. He hung up, said to Lynne, "She said she'd call a Mr. Mason who also lives on the top floor. "It's too hard on her climbing those stairs. She'll call back."

  But it was Mr. Mason, who, five minutes later, called back (the landlady was too distraught to talk) to report he'd found Mr. Denton's door unlocked and the man unconscious on the floor, the front of his shirt dark with his blood. He'd already phoned 911. "I thought he was dead," he told him. "He might be by now." Then he said he had to go, the ambulance had arrived.

  This, the detective related quickly to Lynne as he was dialing Big Bakery. Harold was indeed at work as his aunt had said. Detective O'Neal hung up the phone, frowning, eyes narrowed as if working out a very difficult puzzle, which of course he was, Lynne thought, standing quietly on the opposite side of the big, cluttered desk, unable to sit and trying not to pace or tear her hair. Caroline's dark blue glove lay on the desk between them in a transparent sealed bag, like a terrible omen.

  "Then Harold doesn't have her," Lynne said at the same moment Officer Aiken rapped on the door, and stepped inside.

  "Glen, good, you're here." He introduced him to Lynne, filled him in.

  "Harold Bannister doesn't have her," he said, "but one of his co-workers, a Danny Babineau didn't show up for work today and another employee just came in and reported his Mustang stolen from the parking lot."

  There was already an APB out for the Mustang. Detective O'Neal picked up the phone again and gave an update; the driver was holding a female hostage. Approach with caution. Suspect probably armed and dangerous."

  He hung up, said to his partner, "We need to have another talk with Harold Bannister."

  "I'm with you."

  "They might be working in tandem?" Detective O'Neal said, reaching for his jacket hanging on the hall tree. When he stretched, Lynne saw the black, dangerous looking gun in his holster. She knew nothing about guns but she was gratified to see it there if it could keep Caroline alive.

  Danny Babineau. Why did that name seem familiar?

  They were headed out the door when the phone rang. O'Neal listened, said they'd be there shortly, and hung up.

  "Manager at Big Bakery," he told them. "Apparently, Babineau hung around Harold at work. Always chatting him up. Odd since he didn't talk to anyone else. And Harold was a level up; they trusted him with other jobs, even working in the main bakery. Good worker."

  "Any background on this Danny Babineau?" Detective Glen Aiken asked.

  "Nada. Hired him off the street. He mainly cleaned up, swept the warehouse floor, that sort of thing. He worked casual, traded shifts with another guy; they phoned him when they wanted him. Been there a couple of months. He cleaned out his room at the building where he was living so he's obviously not planning to go back there."

  "Seems they did a little investigating on their own," Detective Aiken said.

  "I know the name," Lynne said.

  They both turned to look at her.

  "Who? Babineau?" O'Neal asked with new interest.

  "Yes. Danny Babineau. I think he was a patient at Bayshore. I could be wrong but I don't think so. I didn't work in the male wards, of course. But I'm almost sure I heard his name brought up at meetings. Or maybe Dr. Rosen mentioned him to me. It's been awhile ago, before there was any talk of Bayshore closing down."

  "Let's roll," O'Neal said to Aiken, who was already three steps ahead of him. To Lynne he said, "Do you think you can find out anything else about this guy?" He opened the door so Lynne could precede them.

  "I—I can try. I think so." She still had keys to the files.

  "We'll meet you back here in an hour." And then they were gone, tearing out of the police parking lot on squealing tires.

  Fifteen minutes later, Lynne drove up the winding drive of Bayshore Mental Hospital, which was presently operating with skeleton staff. As she entered through the big oak doors, she put on her most professional face, produced her credentials to the commissionaire at the door, whose face she knew, signed in, then strode through the long hallway to the big room where patient files were kept under lock and key. What she was doing was probably illegal but she'd take her chances.

  She easily found Danny Babineau's file and copied it, slipped it into her briefcase, along with a cassette Dr. Rosen had made. She could have phoned Dr. Rosen for permission, but there wasn't time.

  As she was leaving, the commissionaire gave her a smile and a wave.

  Sixty-Two

  Bringing the aroma of baking bread and pies with him, Harold sat in the back seat of the cruiser, looking pale and worried.

  In reply to Detective Aiken's question, Harold said, "I told him about her the morning after she moved in. I hadn't seen her yet, but Aunt Greta said she was tiny and pretty with blue eyes and dark hair, and that she seemed really nice. Danny said he had a sister that looked like the girl I described, but she ran away from home when she was sixteen. "When my aunt asked me to take the trunk up to Caroline, I asked Danny to give me a hand so he could see if it was really her. He said it wasn't."

  "Did you tell him she'd been at Bayshore?" O'Neal asked.

  He was thoughtful for a long moment, then frowning said, "No, I didn't. But he was always asking me about Caroline, even after he said she wasn't his sister."

  "Did he ask you about her this morning?" Detective Glen Aiken asked.

  "Yeah." Harold dropped his eyes. "He was there when I came out of my building. I told him she was going in the bus to see her old house where she used to live on Gleneton Street."

  "Didn't you wonder what he was doing hanging around your building?"

  "I – I didn't think he was. We just met up. He said he had things to do and would see me later."

  Harold looked angry with himself, and crossed his arms fiercely to keep from crying. Harold knew what had happened. Detective O'Neal still had questions.

  "Did you ever give Danny the key to your house, Harold?"

  He squirmed visibly in the back seat. "No." He swallowed hard. "But I think he knew I kept it in my jacket pocket. He saw it that day he helped me with the trunk." Harold looked miserable. "I shouldn't have told him about Caroline. But Danny asked me."

  'Danny asked me'. He hadn't known how to lie to him or say he didn't know, and Babineau had used him. It didn't matter; he would have seen her get on the bus this morning anyway, and followed her. He must have parked the stolen car around the corner. The detective told this to Harold and it seemed to make him feel better.

  It was not hard to put the pieces together. Danny Babineau had copied the key and used it to gain entry the building and leave Caroline his Christmas gift, the brooch he'd taken from N
atalie Breen's shop after he killed her. She must have gift-wrapped for him, thinking he was just a last minute customer, as men often are, not realizing it would be her last act. Why such brutality though? Where did the rage come from? Maybe Lynne Addison could enlighten them. But that wasn't their first priority.

  "Some of the workers are saying Danny stole Mr. Lawrence's car," Harold said. "Did Danny do…something. Did he hurt Caroline?"

  "We hope not, Harold. Do you know Caroline very well?" Detective Aiken asked gently.

  "Caroline's my friend. She bought me a model plane for Christmas. She thinks I'm smart. Caroline said I could learn a new job if I wanted."

  Harold looked upset and both detectives knew he had nothing at all to do with what had gone down. He was just a nice kid who was a little slow in recognizing the con and danger in a man like Danny Babineau.

  "We think he abducted your friend, Harold. We think he has her now. Do you have any idea where he might have taken her? Did he ever say anything to you?"

  Harold eyes were big and his skin was pale as flour. "No. He had some relatives in Petit Ridge. Or at least that's what he said," he added, his face expressing suspicions that maybe Danny didn't always tell him the truth. Then, as if a light bulb had gone off in his brain, he said, "Danny said he was going to see his father soon. He said he lives in Toronto."

  Sixty-Three

  Lynne was waiting for them when they arrived back at the station. She'd had a chance to scan through the file and listened to the tape in the car. Without preamble, she said, "I'll spare you the psychiatric jargon, Detectives. Enough to know that Danny is caught in a sort of 'time warp' and wants to recreate that time. Like tearing a curtain between present and past worlds, and stepping through. But with certain modifications. Somehow Caroline figures into the picture. I'm a little vague on exactly how. Whatever it is, when his plan doesn't work, he'll kill like her did the others. I want to go with you."

  O'Neal argued against it but she held her ground. "If you find Caroline with that man, I may be able to talk him into letting her go without any need for more violence. Psychiatry is my field. And Danny Babineau is insane, Detective O'Neal. By anyone's definition, legal or otherwise."

  Sixty-Four

  For hours they drove in silence, the car swallowing up miles of mainly narrow roads, past service stations, barber shops, fire stations. More towns and villages swept by, one becoming very like the last one they had just driven through. She guessed he wanted to avoid the main highway. He was worried they were looking for him.

  The clock on the dash said 2:10 P.M. She and Jeffrey would have been at lunch now. She had somehow brought this monster in their lives. Into Jeffrey's life. Oh, God, I'm so sorry.

  Danny must have followed him upstairs. He must have walked very softly, for she heard no footsteps past her door or on the stairs after she closed her door. Nor apparently did Mrs. Bannister.

  He suddenly reached across her and she jumped, her whole body reacting.

  "Just turning on the radio," he said, almost apologetically. "You like country music, Caroline?"

  She said she did, she liked lots of music. She liked blues best. As his fingers found the knobs, she again observed how large his hands were, the dark mat of hair curling on the backs. The tendons in his wrists like ropes. Hands that had beaten and strangled at least three women to death. She banished the horrid images the thought evoked.

  He finally found a country music station. Willie Nelson was singing You Are always On My Mind, his voice filling the small space around them.

  "Good song," he said, and grinned at her.

  "It's nice." He was being pleasant again. She chanced it. "Danny, I have to go to the bathroom."

  "My name's not Danny. It's Buddy." He spoke matter-of-factly, but gave no answer to her request, one way or another, just began singing with Willie, his own voice deep and out of tune. She found no humor in it, but was glad his hands were back on the wheel.

  Willie Nelson's song over, one by Loretta Lynn began to play and he said, "Country music is Earl's favorite, you know."

  An icy chill slid down Caroline's spine, for the words spoken were not in a man's voice, but in a child's, high and thin and laced with excitement. In spite of herself, she snapped a look at him. His profile was set in a childish cast, conflicting with the strong nose with its bump on the bridge, the beetle brows. "Earl sings and plays the guitar," he said, staring straight ahead. "He plays at a place in Toronto called Curly's."

  "Curly's?" she managed, unable to tear her eyes from him.

  "Yep. It's a bar. I think he's going to be discovered soon and he'll be big as Johnny Cash or any of those guys. He knows lots of songs, Folsom prison Blues, Glen Smith's You're the One. My favorite song, though, is You Don't Know Me by Eddie Arnold. Earl's going to be famous just like those guys. "He promised to teach me some chords," the child said, smiling, with something close to joy on his man-child face. "Pretty neat, eh. He calls me Buddy."

  Caroline could neither breathe nor speak. The hairs on the back of her neck rose and her skin felt like things were crawling over it. She forced herself to remain calm. You've seen crazy before. You know crazy. You've lived it. You have to find out who Earl is. Why we're going to Toronto to meet him. If this Earl wanted to be with Danny, why had he needed to search for him?

  She took long, slow breaths --soundless breaths, before she spoke. "He sounds like a very nice man."

  He flashed her a shy smile. A little boy smile, and said, "Earl's my real daddy."

  Sixty-Five

  Across the country, police and the general public had been alerted to be on the lookout for a 1977 grey Mustang, license number BKR-613, with a man and woman inside. A description of Daniel Babineau was released, and a warning that he was armed and dangerous, with a history of violence. Photos of both Babineau and Caroline Hill would make the evening news. The Toronto police had already been alerted to the abduction and informed that Babineau was headed for their neck of the woods.

  Lynne sat in the back of the cruiser, the buff folder containing the copy of Danny's file open on her lap. Glen Aiken drove, while O'Neal rode gunshot.

  "I don't know all the details, of course," she said. "But according to Dr. Rosen's notes," (God, she would have to tell Dr. Rosen she'd taken the file) Danny was terribly abused as a child."

  "Lots of people are abused," O'Neal said, turning around in the seat, facing Lynne. "They don't go around raping and killing."

  "I know. But some abuses are more terrible than you know, Detective. I know you see a lot of the underbelly of the world in your line of work, but so have I in my work over the years. I've seen the results of what that world can do to people. Especially kids."

  Neither detective spoke. The tires hummed over the asphalt. The Mustang would be miles ahead of them by now. Please let her be okay, Lynne prayed.

  "There aren't a lot of specific details in the medical notes," she said, "most abuses implied, both physical and sexual, enough to get a very good sense of his childhood," Lynne continued. " Anyway, apparently this Earl Parker, who is mentioned in the notes, and I'm reading between the lines, was something of a hero to the little boy that Danny was at the time. He made him feel special, loved. I imagine it was the only time in his life Danny experienced that, so when Parker took off on his mother, disappearing from his own life, he was traumatized. It did something to him. And God knows what atrocities happened to him after that. His mother was an alcoholic. And not a mother you would want, according to all accounts. Anyway, Danny hung onto the dream, determined to find Earl one day, and I guess, bring back that brief time in his life when he was happy. For all intents and purposes, he's still that same little boy.

  "You feeling sorry for this creep who has your friend?" Detective Aiken asked, merely puzzled, not angry.

  Lynne bristled at the question. "No, of course not. But I think I understand him. Anyway, that's about it. He apparently has a fixation on this man, as I said. He'd go into a rant in Dr. Rosen's offi
ce about him being his real father and how his mother sent him away. Sent love away." Took hope away, she thought, but didn't say. "But on the admission form his father is listed as unknown. That's probably closer to the truth."

  "Parker's probably the father he was talking about when he mentioned to Harold Bannister that he was going to see him," Detective O'Neal said to his partner. "The guy's a real psycho."

  "Incidentally," Lynne said, "you guys brought him in to Bayshore. Well, not you specifically, Detectives, but the police. He'd beaten a woman within an inch of her life. He didn't know her, just saw her on the street one day and something about her set him off. The judge said he was unfit to stand trial. That was four years ago. He was released last spring. Before that, he was in and out of jail. Somehow he kept being sent back out on the streets."