She loved Christmas.
Harold was getting a new bike, Mrs. Bannister had confided to her. He'd be happy about that, though he wouldn't be able to use it until spring. Caroline's Christmas gift to Harold was a model airplane he could put together, or hang it from the ceiling, the man in the shop told her, or just set it on shelf. His aunt had told her that Harold like putting models together. It relaxed him.
At the sound of footsteps behind her, all thoughts of Christmas and airplanes fled Caroline's mind and fear took their place. It struck her that she was walking alone on a dark street, something everyone, including the landlady and Ethel Crookshank had warned her against. She had known better herself. But for a little while, caught up in the joy of the season, she had forgotten about the murdered women, and about the man in the park, watching her.
She remembered now.
Afraid to turn around, heart thumping in her chest, she picked up her pace. She was very close to home, not far now. It's just another shopper on their way home, she told herself. Then: No, not a shopper.
To her horror, the footsteps behind quickened in keeping with hers. He was following her, quickly catching up to her. And she knew instinctively that it was a he. The killer?
She was about to break into a run when a strong hand gripped her arm. "Hey, what's your hurry, little girl?"
Caroline whirled around, startled, and at the same time almost relieved to see Mike Handratty standing there, leering at her. She tried to yank her arm from his grasp but he was too strong. "Let me go."
His coat was open, the shirt beneath it askew. You'd think he'd be freezing. She guessed the liquor was keeping him warm. He reeked of it.
Ethel had told her to keep an eye out for him, that 'Mike didn't like to be crossed', but enough time had passed that Caroline was able to put Mike Handratty, and what had occurred between them, out of her mind. Clearly, it didn't work both ways. He'd been just waiting his chance to get her alone. He must be very angry with her.
"Hello, Mike," she said, forcing a friendly tone into her voice. "How are you?"
He gave a harsh laugh and squeezed her arm tighter, hurting her. "How do you think I am, sweetheart? It's Christmas and because of you, I ain't got no freaking job."
"I'm really sorry. I didn't want that to happen. Please let go of my arm. You're hurting me."
Ignoring her, he said, "Didn't you? Well, what the hell. No big deal. I was sick of the place, anyway, I'll get another job."
He was on his way to drunk, slurring his words, but not quite there. She grabbed at the straw he offered. "Yes, yes you will. You're a very good cook and someone will hire you."
"Yeah. Ya think so." The grinned became something dirty, ugly then. "That ain't all I'm good at, Carrie, me love." His hand was still gripping her arm, refusing to let her go. "You know I like you, don't you, Carrie. I like that cute little ass of yours, those big blue eyes. You really turn me on, kiddo. Why don't we just let bygones be bygones and you and me get to know one another a little better."
He had backed her against the wall of a building, and the icy cold of the brick seeped through her coat. His body was pressed against hers and she could feel his arousal as he breathed his boozy breath into her face. A terrifying thought occurred to her; maybe Mike was the predator who raped and murdered those women. Panic and fear filled her and she managed to yank her arm from his grasp, but he quickly made a trap of his arms, setting his palms flat against the building's wall, encircling her. She could feel the edge of a brick digging into her back.
She realized he'd deliberately chosen this particular pool of darkness, in the stretch between two streetlights, waiting until she arrived at this spot, to accost her.
"Please, let me go. I have to go home now."
"Oh, I don't think so. You owe me, baby, and you're gonna pay up." His hand moved up under her coat and she tried to push it away. "Stop it. Please…"
"Is this man bothering you, Ma'am?" a friendly soft voice said out of the darkness. A whispery voice that froze Mike's hand near her breast. She sensed his surprise at the voice that came so sudden out of the blue. She herself felt only great relief. She couldn't see the stranger's face, which seemed to have some kind of hood drawn over it, concealing his features. He was merely a dark shape against the lighter night.
"Yes, yes, he is. Thank you."
Mike took his hand away and Caroline drew her coat tighter about her, fighting tears.
"Take off, Mac," Mike said. "I'm talkin' to my girlfriend here. We're just having a friendly disagreement. Right, Carrie." But she thought he sounded a little nervous, the bravado feigned.
"No. I'm not his girlfriend. He attacked me. I just want to go home."
"Go ahead, then," the whispery voice said. "You're safe now, Caroline. He won't be bothering you anymore."
The voice seemed to be trying to disguise itself in whispers. He had called her by name. Caroline. Who was he? Someone she knew?
Mike had released his hold on her and she intuited a trickling away of his earlier cockiness, replaced by the same fear he'd instilled in her not a moment ago. Not letting herself dwell on any of it, she escaped the scene where the two men stood on the sidewalk, her shopping bags slapping against her hip as she ran.
Behind her, the ominous, frightening sounds of body blows and grunts of pain were hard to listen to, so she blocked them from her mind and didn't stop running until she was inside her building, the door locked behind her.
Upstairs in her room, she stood gasping for breath, until the liquid thumping of her heart slowed to normal. Then she put her packages away. And tried not to think about what had just happened.
But her efforts at pretending that nothing happened really weren't working, and she spent a sleepless night reliving the frightening attack and wondering about the man who came on the scene so suddenly, so unexpectedly. Who was he? How did he know her name?
***
Sometime in the small hours, she got up and examined her upper arm in the mirror. It was still sore where Mike had gripped it and she could see the bruises reflected in the glass, made by his cruel fingers. But she still didn't want to be the cause of him being badly hurt, or worse. All her good spirits had drained away, replaced by angst and fear throughout the night, and she was glad when morning dawned.
On her way to work, she passed the place where Mike had accosted her. A scene she'd fled minutes later, leaving him in the hands of her rescuer. There was no sign at all that anything ugly had happened here last night, as if the experience was no more than a bad dream.
That notion was quickly dispelled when she arrived at work to find everyone talking about Mike Handratty getting beat up last night. Ethel told her he was in the hospital. "He told the cops he was walking along minding his own business and these three guys came out of nowhere and jumped him," Ethel said. "He's in pretty rough shape, jaw wired together, broken nose. But he'll live, apparently, according to the news."
Caroline was sorry he was in the hospital, but glad that his injuries would heal and that he'd be okay. But she couldn't say she was sorry the stranger had come along when he did. No, she couldn't say that and be truthful about it.
"Scrambled eggs, bacon," the cook, Ron Graham called out, setting Caroline's order on the counter. "Last I heard his wife divorced him and he moved in with his widowed mother, so no doubt she'll take care of him. I'm surprised someone didn't beat the crap out of Mike long ago." He gave Caroline a wink and her stomach flipped over. Did he know something? She turned away before he could see the question on her face, and sailed back through the doors with her order of bacon and eggs.
Why hadn't she told them the truth about what happened? That Mike attacked her on the way home and a man interceded on her behalf. One man, not three, as Mike had claimed. A stranger who appeared out of the darkness likes a guardian angel. A stranger who whispered her name. She might have ended up dead like those other women, for all she knew. Like Lorraine Winters who'd once lived right across the hall from her.
Last night, she had thought it possible. But despite what he'd done, somehow, in the light of day, she didn't think Mike was the killer.
She should call the police. Then why didn't she? She knew why. Because she was afraid. Afraid they wouldn't believe her. Or maybe even blame her.
Caroline was finished her day and getting ready to leave when Ethel came up to her, drying her hands on a paper towel. "Mike's been cruisin' for a bruisin' for some time now, Caroline. It's got nothing to do with you. You mustn’t feel sorry for him." She tossed the paper towel in the garbage can.
"I don't. Why would I blame myself?" She busied herself putting on her winter boots. What was Ethel asking? Should I tell her what really happened?
When she stood up, Ethel was standing there looking curiously at her. "I didn't say you blamed yourself. As you say, why would you? I said you shouldn't feel sorry for him. You just look—so sad."
"I just, well—it's Christmas. I hope he'll be okay."
"He will. Yeah, I'm glad he's gonna live, too. You okay, Caroline?"
She could only nod. And then she was out the door.
Thirty-Six
When next Detectives Tom O'Neal and Glen Aiken called on Fred Grannan, they had a search warrant. As they were walking up the walkway, Tom saw the curtain move, then fall back into place. Grannan looked a sight worse than he had when they first saw him, haunted and he'd lost weight. There were bags under his eyes as if he hadn't slept in weeks.
"Why aren't you out there catching that killer that murdered, Pearl?" he demanded of them. "Why you hassling me?"
His demeanor had changed considerably now that he was feeling cornered. There was a wariness in his eyes, along with a certain cunning Tom hadn't observed on the first visit. He had no choice but to let them in but this time didn't ask them to sit down. All pretense at hospitality was gone. "I already told you everything I know. She went shopping and didn't come back. I tried to find her, phoned all her friends. That's it. I don't know what you think you'll find going through my stuff," he yelled as they made their way upstairs to the bedrooms. I've got nothing to hide."
That wasn't true, though. No, not by a long shot.
He had a feeling Fred Grannan just might be spending Christmas behind bars, and a number of Christmases after that.
As for him, he'd be taking his kids out for Chinese on Boxing Day, and he was looking forward to that. So he was trying his best to salvage a little of the spirit of Christmas within himself. Not easy to hang onto in this job.
Thirty-Seven
It was Christmas Eve, seven minutes before closing time at Natalie's Boutique on this special eve, when the little bell above the door jangled lightly and a man entered. He pushed the hood of his jacket back off his head and clapped his hands together in their leather gloves. "Cold night."
Natalie Breen was returning several dresses a customer had tried on and not bought, back on their hangers.
"Sure is," she smiled. "Help yourself to the cider, it'll warm you up. I'll just be a minute."
"Take your time. I know what I want." Accepting the offer of cider, he poured a little from the crockery jug on the festively decorated table, into one of the clear plastic glasses provided. He had taken only a sip when she was at his side.
"Yes, sir. Merry Christmas. What can I do for you? You said you already know what you want?"
"I do. I'd like that gold pin in the window." He walked over and pointed it out. "That one. Sorry for the trouble, I realize you're about to close."
"No trouble at all," she said, still smiling, reaching in and taking the brooch out of the window. "I usually take the higher priced items out of the window before I close up anyway. This is one of my favorites. The teardrop. Fourteen Karat gold." She handed it to him. "Lovely piece of jewelry."
"Yes, it is. I've been admiring it."
"I know. I saw you outside looking in at it."
In a way, he was sorry she'd said that. He hadn't quite made up his mind about killing her. But now it was clear she had seen him. He didn't like hurting people for no reason. He wasn't a monster he told himself again, as one newspaper reporter had dubbed him.
The price tag said $219.99. Not that it mattered; he wouldn't be paying for it. "Would you mind gift-wrapping it for me?" He gave her an easy grin. "I'm lucky no one grabbed it before me. By the way, there was a woman in here trying on a dress at the time I was admiring this. She was apparently considering it…?"
"Oh, that was Caroline. Caroline Hill. A very sweet young woman, lives not too far from here. Do you know her?"
"We've met," he said shortly. Anger made the vein pulse in his jaw. She had given Caroline's name so easily; he could have been anyone.
She saw something in his expression that hurried her along. "Oh, I'm sorry. I'm holding us both up," she said, taking his cue. "It's my pleasure to gift-wrap it for you. Mr.."
Not answering, he turned away from her, pretending to look over some angora gloves on a shelf. He could have been anyone, he thought again, like that jerk who was man-handling her when she was on her way home the other night. Lucky he'd been close by at the time, watching out for her.
It was wrong of this woman to give out her name. She should be more careful about protecting her customers' identities. She needed to be punished for her betrayal. He would see to it. No longer having any reluctance about what he was about to do, he looked at his watch. Leaving her wrapping the gift for Caroline, he wandered away. He knew he was overreacting to the situation, in a rage even he didn't understand, but he didn't care. The beast was rising within him.
As Natalie drew a small length of wrapping paper from its roll, she thought again of Caroline and how well this brooch would have gone with that black dress. But never mind, she mused, crimping the silver ribbon and winding it around the blue metallic paper. A sale was a sale, and she needed every nickel she brought in. Gloria would need her financial help for awhile, as well as her moral support. Divorce was tough to get through.
Not looking up, still fussing with the wrapping, she said cheerfully to the back of her customer's head: "Someone's going to be thrilled Christmas morning."
Getting no answer, her thoughts drifted away from her customer to her grandson, David, who would soon turn four. Handsomest kid around. She'd bought him the red pedal car he'd asked Santa for, and could hardly wait to see his face when he opened the box. David was such a joy to her. She wished Jim was here to enjoy him, but her husband had died of a sudden heart attack six years ago, and never had the chance to know his grandson. But in her heart she knew he was looking down on all of them.
She couldn't have been happier that Gloria and David were spending Christmas with her, but secretly wished Eric was with them, that they weren't going through this painful divorce. She'd like to say she didn't like Eric, never had, but it wouldn't be true. He'd been like a son to her. How could he do this? His secretary for God's sake. How cliché. Well, it happens. Gloria will just have to get on with her life. She's still young and attractive with many good years ahead of her. Someone else would come into her life. But right now she was in pain and needed all her support. In the meantime, Natalie determined that the three of them would have a good Christmas. She'd finish up this sale and get on home.
"I'm Natalie Breen, owner of Natalie's Boutique," she said, holding her finger taut on the ribbon as she knotted it, then proceeding to fashion a perfect silver bow. "If you'll give me your name and address, I'd be happy to send you notices of spec…"
At the sound of the lock clicking into place, her head shot up, her words severed. A cold draft brushed her heart as if it already knew something her brain was too frightened to take in. The man was standing at the door, his back to her.
"What are you…?" Her voice caught in her throat as slowly he turned and smiled at her.
"You wanted my name?" His voice was low and friendly, deadly.
"No, uh, it's not necess…"
"Buddy," he said. "I'm Buddy."
Thirty-Eight
&nb
sp; When her mother didn't arrive home by eight o'clock, Gloria Breen-Clark called the store to see what was keeping her. The phone rang and rang but no one answered. Fifteen minutes later, she tried again thinking her mother might have been in the washroom when she called the first time, but there was still no answer. She was starting to worry now. Where could she be? Mom said she'd try to lock up a few minutes early so she could be home before David's bedtime.
"When's Nanna coming home, mommy?" David asked sleepily from the sofa, where Gloria had let him curl up to wait for her. "Is she coming home soon?"
Night Corridor Page 13
