Night Corridor (31 page)

As she lay there, she heard a train whistle far in the distance. A lonely sound that somehow made her feel even more helpless and alone. Fight, Caroline. You're a strong woman, you can get yourself out of this. You have to try.

She began moving about again, rolling back and forth, struggling to loosen the spread that wrapped her like a mummy. She managed to push holes in the flimsy cloth with the heels of her boots and make long tears in the fabric. The ripping sound gave her hope. She kept it up, relentless. Then she seized an edge of the blanket with her teeth and folded it back. After what seemed like hours, though she knew it was probably twenty minutes or so the spread finally began to lose its hold on her. She could raise her hands several inches against the fabric, which she now began to tear with fingers.

Seventy

Their photos were on the front page of the morning paper, which arrived at eight a.m. Tony Greer, owner of the motel was on the phone to the police department two minutes after he put the paper down.

"They stayed in room ten, last night," he told the female officer on the phone. "I knew it was them as soon as I saw their pictures." Jesus, freakin' killer in my own place, he thought.

"I figured he looked a little…Tony…Tony Greer," he replied to her question. Then he had to spell his name for her. His impatience spilled over. "Tony Greer's Inn. Yeah, get it? It's a play on words. Listen, I'm trying to tell you, I think the poor woman is dead in there and I'm damned if I'm going in there without a cop."

"What makes you think she's dead, Mr. Greer?" the officer asked him.

"I booked them in. And I saw that son-of-gun drive out of the lot about four this morning, and he was alone…"

She wanted to know if he remembered the make of the car? He might have had a few last night, which was why he fell asleep in the chair, but there was nothing wrong with his memory.

"Course I do. It was a Mustang. Just like the paper reported."

He gave directions to his place for a second time, and hung up. He'd already locked the door, but kept going to the window, scared the guy might return. He was a wreck. Where the hell were the cops?

Five minutes later two cruisers pulled in front of the office, and four cops got out, guns drawn. The sight both unnerved Tony, and at the same time washed relief through him, as he hurried to let them in, feeling as if he'd stumbled onto the set of S.W.A.T. He half-expected to see Robert Urich step out of one of the cruisers.

"He's gone hours ago," he said. "I told your dispatcher he drove out of here at four this morning. The woman wasn't with him. I think she's in the room, dead. I think he killed her."

They re-holstered their guns. "Take it easy, Mr. Greer. How do you know it was Babineau?"

A case of the left hand not knowing what the right hand was doing, Tony thought, but didn't say. "He slapped the front page of the paper on the desk, tapped the photos with a chubby finger. "I recognized the pictures as soon as I saw them. It was them, no question. Like I said, she wasn't with him when he drove out of here. He was alone."

"When he registered, did he say anything, tell you where he might be headed, for example?" a big, red-haired cop said.

"No. He wasn't one for talk, and from what I could gather, she was afraid to open her mouth. Made a pretense of looking at the postcards."

Tony unlocked the door of room ten and stepped off to one side to let the police go in. They told him to stay back, which was fine with him. He wasn't in any hurry to see no dead girl. Though when the door opened, he couldn't resist a look. The first thing he saw was a piece of duct tape hanging off the bedpost. The room was empty, the key on the dresser.

They'd drawn their guns again; he couldn't figure why. He already told them the guy had vamoosed.

After a check in the closet, the older cop, and apparently the guy in charge, put his gun away. The others followed suit. "No one here. Either playing some rough games, or the lady is in trouble."

"Bedspread's gone," Tony said from the doorway.

"People take things, don't they?" a big redheaded cop said.

"Not that old spread; couldn't have stood another wash."

"You sure then, Mr.Greer‚ that it was them."

"Yeah. I'm sure. Ya know, I had a bad feeling about that guy even before I saw the picture in the paper. Woman seemed pleasant enough though, nice looking, quiet, like I said." Tony was beginning to warm to being an important witness in the case. "Maybe he killed her and buried her out back. Ain't nothing back there but an empty lot."

Three of the cops went round to check it out but found no evidence to support his suspicion. While they were gone, the big, red-haired cop bent down near the waste basket, and hooked a finger into an empty roll of duct tape, which he dropped into an evidence bag and sealed closed. Seconds later slid out a woman's leather bag from under the bed. The I.D. inside confirmed that it belonged to Caroline Hill.

Seventy-One

From his latest intelligence, it looked to Detective O'Neal like Caroline Hill's time was running out, if she wasn't already dead. So she was either in the trunk, or Babineau had pulled off the highway somewhere and dumped her body.

The weatherman was calling for heavy snowfall in the Toronto area, which would make their search for the car all the more difficult.

O'Neal fought the tension inside him as the cruiser bulleted through the early morning light. They would be there soon.

Seventy-Two

Toronto is a city of over seven hundred thousand citizens, but Danny, who thought of himself only as Buddy, honed in on the only one he was interested in, Earl Parker, with relative ease. Leaving the car parked in the corner of a small parking lot off Yonge Street, with Caroline in the trunk, Danny went in search of Curly's, found it twenty minutes later, with little trouble.

Curly's was a small, dark hole reeking of booze and cigarette smoke. There was a small adjoining room where two customers were playing billiards. Both looked to be in their twenties, one a black guy with dazzling teeth. The white guy wore a gold earring in his ear.

The man behind the bar was round and bald, apparently inspiring the name of the place. He was wiping a glass with a wad of cheesecloth when Danny slid onto a stool. He smiled and asked if Earl was around.

"Earl don't come in till around nine," he said, in answer to Danny's question. He glanced at his watch. "Probably half hour or so?"

Danny ordered a beer. Looking around, he noticed the small stage with the microphone already set up, in a corner of the room.

This might not be Nashville, or Curly's bar Grand Ole Opry, but as far as Danny was concerned, Earl Parker was a star. Anticipation built inside him, he could barely contain it. His heart was beating double-time, he was so happy. Another twenty minutes or so and he'd be here. The place was already starting to fill up.

Someone put money in the old-fashioned jukebox at the back of the room and Loretta Lynn began to sing her song about being a Coal Miner's Daughter.

"You say he's a friend of yours?" The bartender asked, flipping off the caps on two Moosehead, and sliding them down the counter to a couple of patrons.

Danny's heart swelled. "He's my father." The name was sweet in his mouth and brought a lump to his throat.

"No shit. His son, eh? Earl never mentioned he had kids. He stays over at Seaton House. That's on George Street, not too far from here."

We'll probably go there after, Danny thought, maybe just shoot the breeze, get to know one another again. He smiled. "No, no, that's okay, I'll just wait here."

"Yeah, well, make yourself at home. He won't be long. Beer's on the house, kid. Earl expecting you?"

"No. No, it's a surprise."

The man nodded, grinned, and went to wait on other customers.

Danny sipped his beer, and watched the door for the arrival of his hero, while in the background billiard balls clattered, customers talked and laughed, and Loretta Lynn wailed on about the shabby life of being a coal miner's daughter.

***

Inside the trunk, Caroline slipped in and out of consciousness. When she was awake, it was like being in a dream state. She could no longer think clearly. She could hear traffic, the occasional car horn, but it all seemed so far away. Her cramped body ached and throbbed, yet at the same time seemed a thing apart from her, like the gassy cold air she breathed in. She had peed herself at some point, and the cold, wet seeped through her panties and slacks. Shifting about, she tried to find a less painful position, one that did not catch her legs in a cramp, sending needles into her back.

The bedspread lay in shreds around her. Over the past hours, she had somehow managed to tear the tape off her wrists with her teeth, then undo her ankles. But there was no way out of the trunk. If he had stopped somewhere she would have screamed for help, kicked at the trunk lid to draw attention of anyone nearby. But he didn't stop, and she remembered that he'd filled the car with gas before they left Montreal. She yelled out now, but her voice was raspy and weak, no more than a whisper.

She wondered where she was. Toronto? She had wakened when the car came to a stop and the engine fell silent. Then drifted away again. Now back in her body, all the aches and pains and the cold returned full force, leaving her feeling lost, wretched in spirit. Still, the will to survive was strong, and the small familiar voice urged to her fight to stay alive, to try to save herself. She gave a feeble kick at the trunk and tried to cry out, but then the darkness that filled the tomb-like space around her, moved into her.

And silenced the voices.

Seventy-Three

It was just before nine o'clock when Earl Parker walked through the door of Curly's bar. There was a smattering of clapping and 'Hey, Earls', and he grinned and gave a little wave to his fan club. The man at the bar, and Earl's boss, looked at him with a big secret grin on his face. He opened a beer and set it before the big guy who had slid onto the stool, a couple away from Danny. He removed his well-worn cowboy hat and sat it on the bar.

Curly watched the two men, waiting for the big greeting. Odd, Earl never mentioning he had a kid, Curly thought.

Danny took no notice of the barman; he was too busy drinking in Earl's face, every line, the smile, the crinkles around the eyes. He was older now, hair turned gray, whiskered, gut spilling over his belt, with its fancy copper buckle, but Danny didn't care about any of that. It was Earl right enough. He would know him anywhere. His heart was pounding so hard he was afraid it might just burst out through his shirt. Like Curly, he was waiting for Earl to recognize him, to throw his arms around him in a warm embrace. But Earl seemed the old-fashioned type, and probably would just give his hand a hearty shake, maybe pat him on the back, like they did in the movies and that was okay too.

Once, Earl looked in his direction and looked away again, giving no sign of recognition, and Danny felt his joy slipping just a little, like skidding on an unseen piece of black ice. I've changed, that's all. He kept grinning at Earl, at once shy and at the same time wanting to rush at him and hug him, never let him go. He always knew Millie would still be alive if Earl had been with them then. He would have taken care of them, wouldn't let nothing bad happen to either of them.
I should have saved Millie. But I couldn't…I was afraid…

Why was he thinking bad thoughts? This was the best day of his life.

Danny had just gotten up the courage to speak to him when Earl finished off his beer, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stood up. Curly, a puzzled look on his face, handed him his guitar from behind the bar. There was a chair behind the mic, and Earl Parker walked over and sat down to a scattering of applause. "Evening, folks, how's everybody tonight?"

A chorus of cheerful replies. Earl struck a couple of chords, spoke over them, filling the small room with a voice that was deep and rich, despite too much booze and a hard life. "You folks all know this old favorite," he said, and his voice was exactly as Danny remembered it. Earl acknowledged the smiling faces with a grin of his own and Danny didn't mind sharing him with his fans. He was proud of his father.

"
Together again
," Earl announced, and was rewarded with more applause and a couple of hoots. "This one was written and first recorded by Buck Owens in the sixties," he said

It was obviously a crowd favorite, and Danny, quite naturally, took it as a sign that Earl was singing straight to him, giving the words special meaning, and his eyes stung with tears, his heart swelled with love. He was home. He was finally home.

Earl performed half a dozen songs, all of them made famous in decades past.
Oh, Lonesome me, Crying Again, Release me
. At the end of his set, he returned to his stool at the bar where another beer awaited him.