Night Corridor

by Joan Hall Hovey

  Twenty-Eight

  Caroline took the bus home, glad to be off her feet, and warm. Ethel said she'd be back washing dishes tomorrow, but as soon as there was an opening she'd put her out in the restaurant full time.

  She changed into her yellow robe and curled up on the sofa, feet tucked under her. She surveyed her surroundings, always pleased at the coziness of her little room. At the homey touches she'd added since moving in. She looked up at the wall, where she'd hung a few family pictures she unpacked from the trunk. One a black and white photo of her grandparents, taken in front of their old house. It gave her a sense of connection having their pictures where she could see them. She'd also hung a photo of her parents, herself between them at around three years old. They each held one of her small hands, and she was smiling into the camera, at whoever held it. A child who felt loved. And she had loved them back.

  "Your father made a bad judgment in forcing you to give your child away," Doctor Rosen had said. "I believe he came to regret his decision. Had you been of a different nature, who knows? It might have been the right one."

  She flicked on the TV. The newscaster was talking about the murders. Women were afraid, he said, and cautioned those who lived alone to keep their doors locked. At first they were warning only young women, but now they were telling everyone to be careful, to always be aware of their surroundings. "If you have to go out at night, don't go alone."

  Locksmiths were doing a thriving business, he said. Dog adoptions from shelters were at an all time high. Baseball bats stood in corners, knives hidden under pillows. Who would be next? People wondered.

  Caroline wondered too. She wouldn't be going back to the park, that was sure, not until they caught the killer. She no longer felt safe there. Mrs. Bannister said she was being silly, it was perfectly safe in the daytime, but Caroline remembered the man in the park, and wasn't so sure. Not that it mattered now with the days growing colder.

  She couldn't get the man in the park out of her mind. Had he really been watching her? If he was, and she was more and more convinced that he was, did he know where she lived?

  Mrs. Bannister tried to convince her that no one but the tenants could gain access to this building, but Caroline knew if someone really wanted to get in, they would find a way.

  "You could just come in with someone else, say you lost your key, or forgot it in your room," she told the landlady. "You could pretend you were delivering flowers to someone in the building. Or visiting someone. Or selling magazines." These were some of the things the customers and other waitresses were saying about their own residences and their words had given Caroline shivers.

  Twenty-Nine

  It would have surprised Caroline to know how much her words had upset the landlady. Greta could recall another monster that preyed on women living alone. She was just a girl when the Boston Strangler had terrified an entire city, but she would never forget that awful time. Albert DeSalvo murdered those women in their flats. He obviously used some ruse to get inside their homes, something of the sort Caroline had suggested. How else could you explain why all those women willingly opened their doors to him. But this killer didn't murder women in their homes, did he? she reminded herself.

  Who's to stay he won't start? Certainly not the cops. They haven't a clue.

  She moved from the window, and went out to the kitchen where she was thawing hamburger for supper. Cheeseburgers were a particular favorite of Harold's. She'd make them just the way he liked them, sliced tomato and dill pickle. Maybe it would cheer him up. Poor Harold, he was so smitten with Caroline. At his aunt's suggestion, he'd asked her to a movie but she turned him down and Greta felt bad about that. She shouldn't have made the suggestion. Poor Harold didn't need another rejection. She was a meddling old woman and should have minded her own business.

  Thirty

  "No time for daydreaming, Carrie, me lass," Mike said, grabbing some plates off the shelf. He lowered his voice, said in her ear, "What's the problem, got your period. Gotta get the lead out of that cute little ass. Dishes are piling up."

  Her face flamed at his insulting words, tears prickling behind her eyelids. She was never behind on her dishes, and wasn't now. While he was criticizing her work, he was also letting her know he would call her by any name he chose, say anything to her he wanted, and there was nothing she could do about it.

  Was he right? Was she just another version of her mother? Weak, unable to stand up for herself.

  'Act strong,' Dr. Rosen said. 'And you will be.'

  Gathering all her nerve, she turned and faced him squarely. "If you insult me again, I shall call you Michelle—like a girl." It was the best she could do.

  His eyes shot open with surprise that she would dare to answer him back, and then they darkened with fury as he muttered, just loud enough for her to hear, "Freakin' mental case."

  From then on, her problems with Mike grew even beyond what they had been, and she wished with all that was in her that she had not challenged him. He launched an all-out campaign to make her life as miserable as he could. Once helpful and friendly, or so she had perceived him, now he was her tormentor, and there was no letting up. Every chance he got, he touched her, coming close enough so that she could smell the hair gel he used, and his sweat. He whispered ugly things in her ear that she tried not to hear, comments that made her feel small and dirty and ashamed. And he always made sure no one else saw or heard him. His words followed her home, and replayed in her mind even as she sat alone in her little room, which had itself lost its charm for her, turning as shabby as she felt inside.

  She began to sleep poorly, even with her little white pill, her hard-won confidence crumbling like so much sand. Her nerves were frayed and she was always on the verge of tears. As much as she had enjoyed her job before, now she dreaded going in to work. She fought getting out of bed, wanting only to pull the covers over her head and retreat into a womb of darkness, where nothing could hurt her.

  Mrs. Bannister stopped her on her way out the door one morning and asked her if anything was wrong, but she lied and said no, thinking no one would believe her about Mike. They would say she was paranoid. If she told anyone at work about him, she would be stamped a troublemaker and sent away. But to where?

  No. The known was preferable to the unknown, so she didn't complain about Mike Handratty.

  But she also knew she didn't want to crawl back inside herself again, though it was already happening. She could feel herself slipping, and it frightened her more than Mike did. She had to fight against it. I won't go back there, she vowed to the pale woman in the mirror, as she got ready for another day at work. I won't disappear from the world again. She'd have to fight him.

  She hadn't expected the fight to come so soon. It was shortly after the breakfast rush and Caroline was sliding the clean knives into the butcher's block when she felt a hot breath on the back of her neck and an increasingly familiar hand squeeze her left buttock. At his touch, something snapped in her and she spun around, completely forgetting that she was still clutching a large butcher's knife in her hand, not noticing the way it flashed evilly under the fluorescent light. "Keep your hands off me," she heard herself say loudly. "Leave me alone."

  Seeing him back away from her, eyes wide, surprised her even more than her own outburst. But she wasn't finished yet. Her resentment had built up to such fever pitch over these past weeks, now it spilled over like a burst dam.

  "Don't you touch me again, don't you speak to me."

  A dark flush crawled up Mike's neck and face and the kitchen fell silent. All eyes were on them. Caroline felt the heat rise to her own cheeks. She was shaking inside.

  "I never touched you, you crazy bitch. You gonna stab me now, you nut case." His eyes darted around at the silent faces, searching out allies. "I never touched her. I ain't workin' with her anymore. That's it. She didn't even know how to operate the goddamn dishwasher when she came here; I had to show her how. Look at her; she's a basket case."

  It was only
then that Caroline became aware of the knife in her hand, and dropped it as if it was on fire, letting it clatter to the floor. Her eyes spilling with over with tears, she grabbed her coat off the rack and ran out of the restaurant.

  She ran half a block before she slowed her step. Not knowing where else to go, and not wanting to go home and chance running into the landlady, Caroline slipped into Mr. Goldman's bookstore. He gave a surprised smile at seeing her, then frowned, and she realized she was crying in earnest now. Embarrassed, she wiped her eyes with the sleeves of her coat, like a child. Mr. Goldman turned away, pretending not to notice as Caroline made her way through the shelves of books, to the back of the store. Once there, she simply stood not knowing what to do next.

  Suddenly, Mr. Goldman was there, beside her. "You're off early today. Sit, sit, my dear," the elderly man said. "I have a wonderful book for you. A little present for my good customer." He handed her the book; it had a maroon cover with the title written in silver, but she could make it out. Stone Angel by Margaret Laurence. "It'll make you appreciate your youth."

  He wanted to make her feel better, Caroline thought. There were good people in the world. Mr. Goldman was one of them. She had known it instinctively; it was why she had come here.

  "Would you like to talk about what happened?" he said now. "I'm told I'm a good listener."

  It was all the encouragement she needed. It all spilled out of her. To Mr. Goldman, a stranger, yet not a stranger. "No one ever saw him do anything," she said. "So it's just my word against his. And I'm the one who was holding a knife, though I certainly wouldn't have used it on him. But no one will believe that. I'm the one who was in the mental hospital."

  "But you weren't in there for killing anyone, were you?"

  "No. No." Her answer came with something between a laugh and a sob.

  They both turned as the door opened and a customer entered the shop.

  "Well then. There you are." He smiled at her. "You sit awhile, read your book. Everything will be fine, my dear. Have a little faith."

  He left her alone and went to wait on the customer. She sat for a few minutes, turning pages in the book, then rose and left the store, relieved that Mr. Goldman was still busy with his customer. She had to admit, she felt better having told Mr. Goldman about Mike, even if it didn't change anything.

  Thirty-One

  It had begun to snow while she was inside the bookstore, heavy fat flakes that fell straight down, quickly turning the streets white. Nothing to do now but go back to her room. She would buy a newspaper on the way and check the want ads. But she would need a reference?

  She must have looked like such a crazy woman to everyone, standing there with that knife in her hand. Who would hire her now? She forgot about the newspaper. At least she still had a little money in the bank, so she wouldn't starve and she could pay her rent for a while. Unless she was arrested for threatening someone with a deadly weapon.

  She arrived at her building just as Ethel Crookshank pulled up alongside her. in a battered red Volkswagen. "Are you okay, Caroline?" she asked, getting out of the car.

  "Ethel. Yes, I—I guess so. I'm sorry I caused so much trouble. I…"

  "You didn't cause the trouble, dear. I know what's been going on. You were merely standing up for yourself. And about time, too. Don't you worry. I talked to Frank and Mike's services will no longer be required. Frank wants you to come back. You're a good little worker, Caroline. Everyone likes you. We're also putting you out in the restaurant full time. We've got a new dishwasher starting tomorrow."

  She felt both stunned and overwhelmed with gratitude and this unexpected kindness. At the same time, she didn't want to be responsible for someone getting fired.

  "But Mike didn't really hurt me, he…"

  "Stop that. Of course he did. It hurts a lot to be constantly embarrassed and humiliated. And it was obviously having an effect on you. Anyway, you're not the first young woman he's gone after. Just so you know."

  "I'm really sorry. I…"

  "Stop apologizing, Caroline. But keep an eye out for him. Mike doesn't like to be crossed."

  Thirty-Two

  In mid December, people's minds turned happily from murder to Christmas. Phone calls to the department had trickled to a stop. All leads in the case had gone nowhere. Detective Tom O'Neal was in his office, going to the files yet again. More fine-tooth combing. Looking for a clue they might have missed.

  Parents of both victims called often, and Tom had nothing new to tell them, which depressed him. Lorraine Winters' mother's voice was familiar enough that he now recognized it when she said hello, detective. Rosalind Gibbs' mother didn't call as often, mainly because she didn't expect to find closure. Or maybe there couldn't be any anyway, because no matter what happened, her daughter, who had wanted to be a nurse since she was a little girl, wasn't coming back. People grieved differently. It was obvious though that she didn't believe Rosalind's boyfriend was guilty. Actually, neither did he nor Glen. His alibi checked out and he was devastated by his loss. So much for Tom's promises to find the killer and bring him to justice. And the more time that passed, the less likely it was that that would happen.

  Jeffrey Denton was still in his radar, however. He had no prior convictions, but that could just mean he never got caught at anything. They were keeping an eye on him.

  Pearl Grannan's murder was another story. They were waiting for a match of the tires and tracks, and it was a good bet they'd be filing charges against her husband for first degree murder. It appeared from the evidence, and his own strange behavior, that Fred Grannan had used the recent killings to try to cover his own crime against his wife. After Fred Grannan killed her in a fit of rage, he'd transported her body in the trunk of his van, dumping it where it was found by the hiker. With the help of luminal, the trunk revealed more than traces of her blood, though Grannan had obviously tried to clean it up.

  But Denton might be good for the other two. He knew Winters, even went to her funeral. Other than teaching kids piano, he was pretty much a loner, white, mid-thirties, fitting the profile of many serial killers. Which could mean Caroline Hill was in danger, living downstairs from him.

  "Never knew a musician who was a murderer," his partner said, rationalizing that musicians released their frustrations and tensions, through their music. Tom reminded him that Charles Manson was pretty damn good on the guitar. Wrote a lot of his own stuff, in fact.

  Tom's office door was partly open and he could see one of the secretaries hanging a sparkling blue star on the wall, taping branches of cedar on either side. The smell wafted in to him.

  Everyone needed a break, and Christmas provided it. No one wanted to think about a murderer running loose at this time of year; they wanted to think of decorating, cooking, school pageants, shopping.

  Even though plagued with darker thoughts because his job demanded it, Tom was no exception. He wondered about what to get his kids this Christmas. Money would probably be most welcomed. He didn't see them often enough to know what they might like. Mary had always looked after Christmas. Maybe that was part of the problem, why he was alone at Christmas. Well, no sense crying over what he couldn't change. He hoped she was happy with the dentist. No, he didn't. Yeah, a part of him really did. Mary deserved to be happy.

  Like most people in St. Simeon, he too needed to turn his face to the light. But rather than sugarplums and fairies, to Tom, that meant he needed to hear and see the ocean. The ocean made you feel small and insignificant in the scheme of things. He needed to run on the beach with his dog, and let all the ugliness of the world wash out to sea. Even if it did wash back in and roll over you as soon as you took your eyes away.

  Thirty-Three

  This would be Caroline's first Christmas celebrated in her own little corner of the world.

  She was on her way home from work, admiring the bright decorations in storefront windows, the twinkling lights and garlands of red and green. With the lights reflecting on the snowy sidewalk, and Carols pipe
d out into the street, window-shoppers were enticed inside.

  She let herself be enticed into Natalie's Boutique where she purchased a periwinkle blue wool scarf for Ethel, and was treated by the shopkeeper to a glass of hot, cinnamon-flavored cider. She'd already bought Mrs. Bannister's gift, a fat cookie-jar with the lid the likeness of a cat face.

  Caroline thought of her friends at the hospital. For a moment, she missed singing the Christmas Carols with them while Mrs. Green thundered away on the out-of-tune piano.

  Not that she would really want to be back there. She was enjoying her job as a waitress. Every day was a little easier. What with all the shoppers out in full force, they'd been very busy at the restaurant lately, and would probably get busier as it grew closer to Christmas. Harold was talking to her again, but he was shyer now, and there were no more cookies left outside her door.