Night Corridor (27 page)

"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.

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.