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.
"That was really great," Danny said, smiling at him, not shy anymore.
Earl took a sip of his beer, turned and nodded. "Thanks. I try, Buddy. Glad you enjoyed it." He went back to his beer.
"I knew you'd remember." Danny batted a tear from his eye, embarrasse
d, but so overcome with emotion he couldn't help himself.
"Hmmm?"
"That you'd remember me. I knew you would."
Earl looked at him for a long moment, then said, "Sure. Sure I do. We did a road trip a couple of years back. What town …?" Earl was small time, but still accustomed to dealing with overly zealous fans. He forced another smile. "You want an autograph? I'm happy as hell to do that. Ya got something I can write on…"
"St. Simeon," Danny said. He heard his voice crack. "That was the town." His happiness flickered like a candle-flame blown by a cold draft. Threatening to go out, and bring the darkness. No, Earl was just teasing. Earl liked to tease. "I'm Buddy." He was shy again, tentative.
"Earl calls everyone Buddy, young fella," said the bartender, whose curiosity had drawn him closer to the conversation, despite his being busy with customers. "Says he's your kid, Earl. Your boy." He wasn't grinning now.
"My kid?" He gave a soft chuckle that sounded mean. "I ain't got no kid."
"That's your story, ain't it, young fella?"
"You lived with me and my mom. Don't you remember?" Now he understood why Earl was acting this way. He was still mad about what happened. He didn't blame him, but it wasn't Danny's fault. He was just a kid when she kicked him out. "I'm sorry she sent you away, Earl. She wasn't no damn good." He remembered Caroline again. He left her in the trunk; she'd be cold. But she'd be okay. They'd go get her together. "I got you a present, Earl. You'll really like it."
"You're freakin' me out, kid. Look, I don't know you, okay? I've never been to the place you mention, as far as I know. Though it's not impossible, I been a lotta places in my time, shacked up with a few mommas, too." He laughed. "Now, I'm trying to get a little break here if it's okay with you. You wanna hang around and listen to the songs, that's good. Otherwise…well…just back off, okay?"
He'd waited so long. All those years, waiting. No, he had to make Earl understand. They were meant to be together, a real family. "You said you'd teach me some chords on the guitar," he said, desperate to jog Earl's memory. "You loved me." Unknown to Danny, his voice had risen to the point where people were turning in their seats to see what was going on. Conversations fell silent.
Curly said quietly, "Hey kid, take it easy. You heard what the man said. Now am I gonna have to ask you to take a hike or are you gonna settle down?" He had this fixation on Earl, nothing else you could call it. This sort of thing happened now and then, but Earl could usually handle it. He'd been his floorshow for three years now and it worked out for both of them. Earl worked for food, beer and a few bucks and also served as a bouncer, a skill he rarely needed and when he did, he usually handled the problem with a hail-fellow, well-met approach. Curly also liked the guy and didn't take well to his being harassed by a customer, nut case or not.
"No, you don't understand. Earl, you know me. I'm Buddy…please." He practically dove at him then, embraced him, spilling Earl's beer in the process. Earl slipped off the stool and backhanded him across the mouth, sending him reeling. "Get the hell away from me, you little faggot."
Danny staggered backwards, stunned. He stared at Earl, his face on fire. No, no, this can't be. A mistake. "You don't mean it. You…"
"I damn well do mean it."
Danny put a hand out, a childish gesture, an apology, a plea for acceptance, and Earl grabbed his hand, whipping it up behind his back, and frog-marched him out the door. A final push sent Danny sprawling onto the snow-covered sidewalk. Then Earl Parker went back inside.
Laughter drifted out to Danny from behind the closed door.
Seventy-Four
Danny sat on the sidewalk, the heavy wet snow mingling with his tears. The cold snow fell on his heart, smashing the dream, obliterating his path to home. Inside his head, the voice was screaming…screaming…he pressed his hands over his ears to block out the sound, but he couldn't.
He took his hands away and at last the screams died away. The snow fell, softly, silently, and for a long time Danny didn't move from the place where he sat on the sidewalk. The snow turned him white, as if he were a sculpted likeness of himself. Pedestrians hurrying past, glanced in his direction then stepped into the gutter to avoid him. At last, his face like stone, eyes glazed with madness, he rose slowly to his feet, his hand reaching inside his coat where the hunting knife with its gleaming curved blade, waited.
No one saw it coming. One woman later told police it reminded her of Norman Bates in Psycho the way he came at poor Earl with that knife.
Earl was sitting with his back to the door when it was flung open and the cold snow blasted in along with a knife wielding man with crazed eyes. A woman screamed, but before Earl could turn around the man flew at him, and with a bone-chilling primal howl, plunged the knife between his shoulder blades.
Earl shot up straight in the chair and arched his back, hand flailing behind him as he tried to reach the source of his pain, so excruciating it was like he'd been kicked by a horse.
Danny's strength was that of the madman he was, and he pulled out the knife as if it were buried in butter, and brought it down again and again and again, until Earl slid from the stool, boneless, and now lay in a heap on the floor, dead. The cries and screams in the room had fallen silent. Curly Burrows, the owner of Curly's, stood frozen behind the counter, not quite believing his own eyes as he watched the life go out of his friend. Patrons looked on in shock. Someone had slipped away and called police. A woman was weeping softly. It had begun and ended in less than a minute.
His rage spent, Danny looked down at what had once been Earl Parker. He cocked his head, looked mildly puzzled, like a dog, listening. Then he turned and left the bar. He was still holding the bloodied knife at his side when he walked back out into the storm.
Like a zombie, he plodded through the snow to where he'd parked the car. When he got to it, he sagged down on the ground with his back against the driver's side, crying, and let the knife fall from his hand. The white swirling world swam through his tears.
"I'm sorry, mommy. I'll be good," the child Danny whimpered into his chest. "Don't let the man hurt me. I won't be bad no more."
Seventy-Five
Sirens wailed through the streets. This was not just another killing in the big bad city of Toronto. This was serial killer, Danny Babineau they were honing in on. Dozens of sightings had been reported of a man walking blindly down the street through the storm, a knife clutched in his hand.
The blood drops from the knife and stopped a short distance from the bar, but the cops were able to follow his boot tracks to the small parking lot off Yonge. They found Danny sitting with his back against the Mustang, now blanketed with snow so you couldn't have told what make it was. A dozen cops leapt from their cars, and scurried behind the open car doors for cover, guns drawn.
"Lie face down and put your hands behind your back," one cop bellowed. "Down. Now!"
A sane part of Danny understood and obeyed. They were on him at once.
Danny was eight years old again, back in his little bed, filled with terror. He could smell the stink of the mattress, the man pushing his face into it, his whiskey breath on his neck. Pain ripped through his small body. No, no, he wailed.
The cop pressed his knee into the small of his back, and roughly grabbed his left wrist to snap on the handcuff, sending a lightning bolt up through Danny's shoulder. Danny's other hand frantically felt in the snow for the hilt of the knife. His hand closed around it and he thrust the blade swiftly behind him, wanting only to stop the pain. To make the man go away. He found flesh. The cop shrieked and fell backwards, clutching his leg.
"Shit, he stabbed me. He's got a knife."
Danny had begun to sit up, still holding the knife. The popping of bullets knocked him back, made his body jerk about on the ground and sent sprays of blood over the pure white snow.
The uniformed men looked down at the still body, silent now. Others came to look, were told to get back. Two cops had their guns still drawn, as if the fallen man might
only be feigning his death and would leap up at any second, wielding his knife.
Three of the faces in the small crowd that was fast growing belonged to Detectives Tom O'Neal, Glen Aiken and Lynne Addison. They were at the police department when the call came in from the bar that a man fitting Babineau's description had just killed Earl Parker.
One of the officers broke from the group and walked over to a cruiser, reached for the microphone inside and spoke into it. Another officer put on a latex glove, picked up the knife and slipped it into an evidence bag. It was then that he heard the faint knocking. He turned head. "What was that?"
Night Corridor Page 24
