Caroline rinsed the cups in the small sink in the bathroom, returned them to their brown, plastic tray on the little table. Danny still had his eyes closed. She had a flash of him waking and finding her gone, then smashing through the office door in a rage and killing the desk clerk. No, you have to think positive. You have to believe that's not going to happen. She went over her flimsy plan in her mind. You'll stop long enough to tell him Danny is a crazed killer, to lock the door and phone the police, and then you'll run, and keep on running till you put a safe distance between yourself and Danny Babineau. Just like you planned.
Caroline set her boots and socks on the floor by the bed, draped her outer-clothing over a chair within easy reach, and set her bag on the chair. Then she slipped into bed and pulled the blanket over herself.
As she listened for his even breathing that would let her know he was asleep, it occurred to her he'd not been the least surprised to hear that she'd been a patient at Bayshore. So he already knew. Harold must have told him. It was Harold who first bought Danny into her life. Not that she blamed him. He didn't know. How could he?
Suddenly the lamp went out.
"Good night, Caroline," came the disembodied voice from the darkness.
Sixty-Eight
The call came in from the dispatcher relating that a female gas station attendant had called the police department in Montreal a couple of hours ago to report a man identified as Danny Babineau gassing up at her station. "Grey Mustang," Detective O'Neal said. "She confirmed the license number, and is positive the woman with him was Caroline Hill. She had just finished putting the flyer in her window when they drove up."
"Did Babineau catch that she made him? Did he see the flyer?" his partner asked.
"She's pretty sure he didn't. She stayed cool, said the woman in the car refused to look at her, just kept staring straight ahead, but she looked very frightened."
Attuned to his partner, Detective Glen Aiken stepped on the gas and the car shot forward. It was beyond dusk now, and Glen switched on the headlights. Coming up on a mini-van, he hit the siren.
"Maybe we can still get lucky," Tom said.
"If Danny filled up the gas tank, Maybe he's planning on driving straight through to Toronto," Lynne said from the back seat.
"Maybe. But I wouldn't count on it," Tom replied.
Sixty-Nine
Caroline had one advantage over him. She'd been able to sleep in the car, and he had looked exhausted. Even so, it was 1:37 a.m. by the glowing red numbers of the clock on the night table, before she finally heard his soft snores from across the room.
Slowly, Caroline reached a hand across to the chair and felt for her clothes. She dressed in the dark, trying not to make a sound. She eased her feet in her stockings and boots. She could see nothing in the darkness of the room but she knew where the door was, and the lock in the door, and the chain. She would have to be very quiet. Not a sound. Not a breath.
She sat on the edge of the bed for a good five minutes, afraid to get up, afraid there would be a squeaking or some other sound from the bed, when she did. Suddenly, hearing an abrupt change in the rhythm of his snores, her heart knocked against her ribcage. She didn't move. When his breathing returned to normal sleep sounds, gradually her heart settled down.
Satisfied he had not wakened, she got slowly to her feet. The bed did not betray her, but remained silent. Dizziness assailed her and she came dangerously close to falling back down on the bed. The dizziness passed. It's just the long tension, she thought, taking a deep breath, letting it out without sound.
Her blood thudded in her ears as she crossed to the door. Her fingers felt for the lock, found it. She realized that when she turned it, there would be a click and he would hear it. Undo the chain first.
Slowly, slowly, she released the chain, taking care not to make a sound. Despite her best effort, she heard a soft, metallic creak and froze there in the darkness, her throat closing. She tried to still her breathing, certain he could hear it. But there was no stirring behind her. Sweat was slick on her brow, her hands were damp.
The door would relock when she closed it behind her, giving her a few seconds head start. But now she knew there would be no time to warn the desk clerk. Barely enough to make her escape. With luck, he'd already have seen their pictures on TV and phoned the police. Get ready. Okay… unlock, open, run…
She eased the door open. Ironically, it was not Caroline who wakened Danny, but the sudden clunk, wheeze and rattle of the air-conditioning kicking in.
In a blind panic, she tried to run, but there was time only to feel the cool air on her face as his hand clamped over her mouth and he dragged her back into the room, the heels of her boots raking over the carpeting. Just as her heart had begun to rejoice in the anticipation of freedom, it was over.
He turned the lamp back on.
"I—I couldn't sleep," she stammered when he took his hand away from her mouth. "The man said he had today's paper. I thought I'd read…" But her voice held no conviction, only pleas that fell on deaf ears. Transparent excuses for her betrayal.
He stared at her, disappointment etched on his face. "You're lying." He didn't look angry, just sad. "You want to take love away, just like the others. But I can't let you do that, you see." Tears sprung to his eyes. "You are the right one, Caroline, I was not wrong this time. You just refuse to accept it. I don't want to punish you, though you deserve to be punished. But you understand that I can't trust you anymore not to run away?"
"I wasn't going to run away. I was…"
"Stop it," he growled. "Do you think I'm a fool?" The tears dried quickly. "Well, I'll just have to make sure it doesn't happen again." This he said more to himself than to her and she felt a terrible sense of dread at his words. Before she could even wonder what he would do next, he rushed into the washroom and came out with a washcloth which he stuffed into her mouth so quickly she had no chance to protest, or cry out for help. Then he threw her down on the bed, and bound her hands and feet with duct tape. She flailed and kicked, but she was no match for him; she might have been a rag doll he was handling.
"You'll be fine. I won't hurt you," he said, as he wound the duct tape around her neck, securing the other end to the bedpost.
Seeing he had run out of duct tape, he looked momentarily surprised. Frustrated, he tossed the empty roll in the waste basket. Glancing around the room, his eye stopped at the curtain tie-backs hanging loose beside the closed drapes. Seconds later, he was using it to secure the gag in her mouth. He knotted the length of cloth at the back of her head. She cried out, but her voice was a muffled moan, barely audible, except inside her own head.
"I need to get some sleep," he said. "You be a good girl."
But he didn't sleep. For only a moment did he go back to the chair, springing out of it almost instantly, and walking the length of the floor and back again, mumbling to himself, running his hand through his hair. Once, he stopped and looked down at her and Caroline wondered if he was deciding it might be best to save himself a lot of trouble and get rid of her. But he turned away abruptly and left the room. Seconds later, she heard the car's motor running. The backlights shone through the heavy drapes into the room.
Was he going to leave her here?
The answer came swiftly as he burst back in and immediately wrapped her in the faded rose chenille spread she lay on. "This is your own doing, Caroline," he said. "You need a lesson. And I don't need to be worrying about you taking off again."
He carried her outside and deposited her in the open trunk, closing it with a satisfying thunk on her muffled scream…mmmph…mmmph…
He smiled and straightened. Then looked quickly around, suddenly edgy, thinking someone might be watching, but all was silent.
The lights were dimmed in the office. It looked to be locked up. He shivered in the cold air. A few lights glowed faintly from behind curtains of other motel rooms, but there was no sound and gradually the tension eased from his muscles. There was a rightness to his miss
ion; everything was back on track now. Soon they would see Earl, and everything would be good again, and they would all laugh about Caroline's resistance to her own destiny, as they sipped their hot chocolates with the tiny marshmallows on top.
He had chosen right this time. She was perfect, even if she didn't know it yet. Danny had known from the instant he'd stepped into her room holding one end of a trunk, that she was the one. Maybe he even knew it when Harold told him about her. She was the one who would complete his family.
You thought the other girls were right too. And then you killed them.
He clapped his hands over his ears to keep out the voices. Shut up! Shut up!
Soon the journey would end. Earl would be so happy to see him again. He'd be overjoyed that Danny had never forgotten him, indeed had searched and searched until he found him. Earl would ruffle his hair, tell him he did good. Well done, little Buddy.
He was just testing me, Danny thought, and felt proud that he had passed the tests. He slid into the driver's seat and without turning the headlights on, drove the car around back, which turned out to be not much more than a vacant lot.
He got out of the car and scooped up a handful of dirt and smeared it over the license plates. The cops were on the lookout for a Mustang with a man and a woman inside. There'd be just him now. Maybe this had happened for a reason.
She was rolling about in there, making a racket but there was no one to hear her. She'll tire soon enough, he thought. Leaving her there, he made his way back to the room on foot, staying close to the building in deep shadow.
He needed some shut-eye. His eyes burned and he was sweating through his clothes. As he walked, the sweat cooled in the frigid night air and he shivered.
When the trunk lid closed on Caroline, throwing her into complete darkness, it was like being shut up in a coffin. Terror rose in her throat, but she made no effort to scream, knowing it would be futile. She sensed the silence and isolation around her, and knew from the short distance he'd driven, that he'd taken the car around back of the motel as she had suggested, though she hadn't meant with herself inside the trunk. But at least she was still alive. She wondered for how long. She tried to calmly assess her situation, and figure a way out of it, which, at the moment, seemed impossible. Wrapped in the bedspread, she could barely move, nor could she dislodge the cloth he'd stuffed in her mouth, that threatened to strangle her, making her gorge rise again and again. Panicking just made it worse.
Despite her best efforts, a tear ran down her cheek, and then another, threatening to become a flood. Don't. It just makes it harder to breathe. The tears under control, she began humming an old hymn remembered from Sunday School—Jesus loves me this I know, for the Bible tells me so—filtered through the gag, the tune sounded more like the keening of an animal in pain then it did a song, and she stopped and the tears came again, making her nose run and her breathing shallow. She gagged on the cloth in her mouth, and took a few deep breaths through her nose.
She grew acutely aware of the knot from the strip of cloth that held the gag in place, digging into the back of her head. By turning her head from side to side, then working it up and down, it finally slipped down toward her neck. She thrust her tongue against the washcloth, and pushed it out. It fell away and she gratefully gasped in air.
She lay quietly for several minutes.
She needed to get free of this blanket. Her knees were bent, with no room to straighten them. With her feet pressed against the metal, she could feel the cold seeping in, even through the soles of her boots. She began a rocking motion, back and forth, back and forth, as much as was possible in the small space. If she could just get her wrists free, she might be able to find a way to get out of here. At least he had taped her wrists in front of her. But that wouldn't help unless she could free herself from this bedspread, which was like a straight-jacket, something she'd managed to avoid in all her years in Bayshore.
Did he go back to the room? Or simply walked away into the night, looking for another car to steal. A different woman to fit into his bizarre plan.
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.
Night Corridor Page 23
