Detective Aiken nodded then braked for a white cat sprinting across the road. Brakes squealed behind him and Lynne braced herself, but there was no impact. "It's the way of the system," he said, stepping on the gas. "On the other hand, if we're placing blame, you people had him in your care for a time, you think you coulda fixed him." He gave her a half-smile in the rearview mirror to soften the words.
"Point taken. But some things, and people, are beyond repair." Lynne consulted her notes again. "Oh, by the way, there was a sister, but she died. Apparently, she drowned in a bathtub. She was three. Her name was Millie."
"Accident?"
"It was ruled accidental. But who knows? Danny would have been six at the time."
"More reason to hate the mother," Detective O'Neal said.
"Possibly, though I don't think he needed more reason. I managed to track down his mother, thinking I might learn more, but she died a year ago in a nursing home.
Sixty-Six
Dolly Parton was singing Coat of Many Colors when they entered the brightly lit city of Montreal. In different circumstances, Caroline, who'd only read and dreamed of places outside St. Simeon might have been excited to be driving through these streets.
Danny snapped the radio off before the song ended. "Makes herself up like a whore," he mumbled, in his man's voice. All the way here, every time a country station faded out he fiddled with the dial until he found another one. Now they sat in silence.
Caroline liked Dolly Parton, especially liked watching her on TV. She was like a beautiful big doll. It made you smile to watch her sing and make jokes, mostly on herself. You knew she was real and had a good heart. And you could tell she was smart too.
Traffic snaked slowly along the highway, then stopped altogether. The car idled, its big engine vibrating. Danny yawned. "Must be an accident up ahead," he said.
Caroline had been considering in the past hour or so telling Buddy where she first saw him, try to establish a report with him. She'd tell him she was at Bayshore Mental Hospital, too. Would he know that? Harold did. Would be have told him? Maybe not. She and Harold were friends, after all. But there were other ways he could have found out things about her.
The urge to jump out of the car and run for all she was worth was overwhelming. They were stopped here in traffic. Why didn't she? Because he would be faster, she answered herself. She wouldn't get one foot out the door and he'd have her. Maybe stab her to death right here. Splatter her blood all over the front seat.
The awful imagery shattered as suddenly the car broke from the line of traffic and veered left onto a narrow side street, throwing her against the door. Straightening again, Caroline glimpsed the police car up ahead, dome light flashing. The policeman appeared to be handing out some sort of flyer to the driver. Then he was gone from her view as they left the scene behind them. She should have tried to get away.
Sometime later, maybe half an hour, she saw a McDonald's coming up on their left on the edge of some small town or village. He glanced at her and as if reading her thoughts, asked, "Hungry?" Or maybe he was hungry himself.
"Yes."
"Good. We'll eat here, then find a motel."
She said nothing. And then they pulled into the line at the McDonald's drive-through. Without giving her a choice, he ordered cheeseburgers, fries and Pepsis for both of them. After he'd given the order, she said, "I need to use the bathroom."
He looked long and hard at her. "Yeah, okay." Hope rose in her. She would tell someone to call the police, that she'd been kidnapped. She would be saved.
She had set one foot on the sidewalk when he grabbed her arm, hard enough to make her wince, hard enough to leave bruises. He kept his voice soft, friendly, as he held her with his riveting eyes. Those strange pale eyes. "You've got two minutes. If you try to talk to anyone or leave a note or do anything else, I'll slit your throat. And I'll kill anyone else who gets in the way. You know I will. Don't try me."
"I won't say anything. I promise."
He let her go. Her arm throbbed where he had gripped it. "Okay, then," he said.
She hurried inside the restaurant, into the warmth and normalness of the environment, and went on through to the washroom. She was shaking. He'd given her a similar warning when they stopped for gas earlier, even though he hadn't let her out of the car then. The attendant, a middle-aged woman wearing an orange baseball cap turned around backwards, had smiled in at her, but Caroline did not smile back nor try to communicate her distress in any way, lest she put the woman in danger. Instead she stared straight ahead, knowing he would do what he said without a second thought.
Finished her business, she now stood in the washroom, with another chance to get away, but afraid to dare. As she washed her hands, she stared at the mirror and thought of writing a note in lipstick, but then immediately imagined him just flinging this door open to check. He would do that. He could think ahead of her, almost like he had supernatural powers. The woman in the mirror looked back at her with large frightened eyes, dark shadows beneath them.
When Caroline came out of the washroom and stepped back into the crowded, noisy restaurant again everything in her wanted to break into a run, or start screaming that she was being held hostage by a madman, but she knew if she did that he would start wielding his knife and people would die. Maybe this nice waitress behind the counter, or the teenage girls sitting and laughing together by the window, dipping their french fries in ketchup, eating them in small bites. Or maybe that little blond boy who sat with his mother, coloring in his book. She would want to die too if that happened.
A horn blatted. She knew it was him. Seconds later, the door opened and there he was in the doorway, head thrust forward, eyes wild, expression grim, and she was out the door, walking past him to the car.
"There was someone in the washroom," she said, regressing to the small obedient child she had been, and tried not to cry. He hadn't checked the washroom after all; she could have written the note on the mirror. He had known she'd be too scared and he'd been right. She would just have to try to get away when they were alone. She would find the courage. Or she would die.
Caroline felt as if she was trapped in some awful movie, with herself cast in the lead role. Or dreaming. Can you get hungry in a dream? She didn't know. She couldn't remember. But she was starving, and the food he'd ordered smelled delicious. She ate every bit of her cheeseburger, the last tiny burnt fry, and drank her pop down to the last drop. She was tired. Terror was exhausting. Her hunger satisfied, she now wanted only to sleep. Even as she drifted off, she could feel his pleasure beside her. He was taking care of her. He was in control. The thought brought a welling of anger. And then it ebbed, like a murky tide as sleep took her in.
***
She woke just as they were pulling into a motel on the outskirts of the city. She saw the VACANCY sign in red neon above the office door. Tony Greer's Inn. She couldn't have said where they were, exactly, but she knew that this was the place where she would try to make her escape. She would be putting no one else at risk. She would open the door to the office just long enough to tell whoever was in there to lock the door and call the police, and then she would run. She had no plan beyond that.
She would wait until he was asleep; he had to sleep sometime. She thought he looked tired. Good. That was good.
He opened the passenger door. "C'mon," he said. "Remember, don't try nothing."
"I won't." He let her precede him into the motel office. Once they were inside, she stepped off to the side and pretended to be interested in the rack of postcards.
The desk clerk was a heavy-set man with thick iron-gray hair, wearing a caramel and beige striped sport shirt that strained over his stomach. He'd been leaning back in a swivel chair watching a hockey game on a small black and white TV set and smoking a cigar, his profile to them. The sweetish smell of cigar smoke was strong in the room. The man stubbed his cigar out in an ashtray beside him and left his game. The chair complained at his leaving. "Evening, folks. How
long you stayin' for?"
"Just tonight."
He nodded and pushed the register at Danny. The pen made a scratching sound on the page as he signed them in. Caroline wondered what names he had used.
"Weatherman calling for snow," the man said. "Supposed to be a big one. You were smart to get off the road." Danny grunted in answer. The man made a second try at small talk, and after receiving another quick, non-answer, he gave it up, but apparently taking no offence. Caroline thought he probably got his share of strange people in here. One night stands. That's probably what he thought about them, if he thought anything.
"That'll be Fifty-five dollars plus tax."
Buddy pushed some bills across at him. Caroline felt the man's eyes on her, but kept her own averted.
"Room Ten," the man said, handing them a key from those hanging on the wall board behind him. He had a gravelly voice and Caroline wondered idly if it was from the cigars. As if her thoughts had transmitted to him, he grinned at her. She managed a weak smile and turned her head away, fearful of Danny…Buddy thinking she was trying to pass him a message.
"One door down," the man said. "There's makings for coffee in the room. If you need anything else, just give a holler. Although all I can provide you with is today's paper. Some postcards." He laughed at his own joke and returned to his game, his latest guests all but forgotten.
Sixty-Seven
Once inside the motel room, Danny flicked the switch on the wall and the light went on, revealing a beige room, two windows with heavy nicotine-colored drapes. The only color was the ash rose bedspread on the bed. Even the carpeting was brown tweed, better to hide the stains. The furniture was dark, two stuffed chairs and a table. A TV facing the bed.
He crossed the room and glanced out the window, then closed the drapes‚ shutting them in.
A painting with a pastoral scene hung above the headboard, jersey cows in a pasture. One of the brown stuffed chairs sat in the corner by a small round table. On it a brown plastic tray held the makings for coffee the clerk had mentioned. Just enough for two cups.
Buddy took off his coat and flung it over a chair. Standing in the middle of the room, taking in his surroundings, his very presence made the room seem even smaller than it was. She could smell him from where she stood, reeking of sour sweat and danger. A rabid animal momentarily calmed. He raked a hand through lank and greasy hair, that was badly in need of a wash. He wore the same faded cords and plaid shirt he'd had on the first time she saw him coming through her door hefting one end of the trunk. The collar of the shirt was frayed, and he looked like he'd lost weight even during the drive, which was not possible. He turned his eyes on her and seeming to read her mind, flicked off the light, leaving only the dim light of a small lamp in the room.
"You want coffee?" She kept her voice friendly, unafraid.
He looked mildly surprised at her offer, her friendliness. She pretended not to notice as she went about making the coffee. Then he smiled. The boy's smile but thankfully not the voice. "Yeah, sure. That's be great."
"There's hot chocolate here."
"No. Coffee's good."
The coffee perked, the put …put …put …reminding her for some reason of oatmeal bubbling in a pot in the kitchen at Bayshore. Soon, the aroma of the coffee filled the room. She poured two cups. "Sugar? Cream? There's just this powdered stuff." She could hear the hockey game faintly through the wall.
"Black's good, thanks." He sat down in the brown, stuffed chair and looked at her. "We need to get an early start in the morning, Caroline. Drink your coffee, then get into bed. I'll just doze off in the chair here. You get a good night's sleep. I know it's been a long day. I want you to look your best when you meet Earl."
She could see that he was very tired. His body had begun to sag into the chair.
"I'd like to take a shower first if that's okay."
She wasn't afraid of him sexually assaulting her. He seemed to have no interest in that direction, for which she was grateful. But he did get up and check out the small bathroom. When he was satisfied there was no window, no means for her to escape, he said, "Yeah, go ahead. I want you to know how much you've pleased me, Caroline. I don't mean to be hard on you, but I know you're scared, and I have to protect you against yourself. I'm starting to feel I can really trust you now though. You get how important this is for all of us, don't you?'
"Yes." She had no idea what he was talking about.
"This is your destiny. Mine too. You can't imagine how excited I am that our journey is nearly at an end. But you do know, don't you. You're excited too; I can tell. We'll all be so happy, Caroline. I promise you."
She smiled at him. "Yes."
She had many questions, but she knew if she started asking them he would change back again. He was lulled for the moment, happy. This was the best she could hope for. And her unanswered questions would just have to remain that. It was not important. She would be gone from here the instant he fell asleep.
Please let him go to sleep.
She quietly locked the bathroom door, then ran the water in the tub as she frantically looked around the small space for something she could use as a weapon if she needed to. Other than a tiny cake of soap she could always wrap in a towel and swing at him, there was nothing. Odd she should think of that now. Anyway, so much for a weapon. She gave herself a quick wash, brushed her hair and went back into the room.
Since she wasn't really worried about him forcing himself on her now, she could only guess that he was saving her for the man named Earl, which while equally frightening, but at least gave her some time to think.
He kept talking about their destiny, and how they would all be happy together.
Had those other women done something to make themselves unfit for …what? His mentor? Someone he knew as a boy, the boy he sometimes became when he spoke to her. She must be careful not to upset him. She feared the child in him almost as much as she did the beast the child had become.
She couldn't pretend to understand it all, but she understood enough to know he was a ticking time bomb that could explode at any moment. She must be very careful.
She could no longer hear the hockey game through the wall; it must be over. Buddy looked at her. He had the TV remote in his hand. A silence hung in the room. She tried to close it up with conversation. "There's a little coffee left. If you don't want it…"
"Go ahead." he said, apparently no longer so set on her going straight to bed.
There was a quarter of a cup left, lukewarm now. But she sipped it anyway. He turned the TV on, ran through a few channels and was about to flick it off when they both froze at the sight of his face filling the screen. It sent a jolt of shock through her, a similar response reflected on Buddy's face.
"…Danny Babineau has a history of mental illness," the newsman was saying, "and is believed to be armed and dangerous." Then they flashed a photo of Caroline below his. One taken at the hospital. They took everyone's photo in case of runaways. They were both ex-patients.
"The woman in the photo is believed to be traveling with Babineau. She was recently released from Bayshore Institution, where Danny Babineau had previously been a patient. Her name is Caroline Hill and police believe she was abducted, although that's not been established. It is unknown whether they knew one another. Babineau is also considered a person of interest in the recent killings of three women in St. Simeon, and possibly others."
A clip followed, showing a scene on a Montreal street where a policeman was handing out flyers to drivers, with their pictures on it. So that's what she'd been looking at when they veered out of the line of stalled traffic.
"…Anyone seeing a grey Mustang with the licen…" He switched the TV off and stood up. The vein in his jaw pulsed dangerously.
He reminded her of a cornered a dog with its hackles raised. "We've got to get out of here. Get your…"
"Wait…" She was about to call him Danny, then thought better of it. This was her chance to gain his trust completely. "Bu
ddy, I think we'll be safer here, don't you?" She kept her voice calm, reassuring. "I don't hear the TV next door anymore so the man must have turned it off. He didn't hear the news. No one else knows we're here."
She saw him thinking, wondering if she was trying to trick him. Deciding she wasn't. Maybe because that's what he wanted to believe. "But the car…"
"It's dark out. Who would see it?" she said, though faint light still bled at the edges of the curtains.
"The cops. They'll be checking all the cars, especially at motels. They have powerful flashlights."
"You could drive the car around back," she said reasonably. "Keep the lights off."
Beads of perspiration had formed on his forehead, darkened the underarms of his already stained shirt. There was a wildness in his eyes, yet he looked ready to collapse. "No. That just might draw someone's attention." He set the remote on the table and sagged back down into the chair. "Let me think about it. Maybe later, when it's darker."
Night Corridor Page 22
