Night Corridor (12 page)

"I saw a flash of purple in the bushes," the man said, clearly distraught at finding a dead woman in his path. "I moved in for a closer look, and that's when I realized it was a person lying there. I ran back to the house and called 911. Brought the wife back with me in case I was seeing things."

The purple turned out to be her polyester slacks. "Beat hell out of her, the crazy bastard," the man said. "Blood in her hair."

Red hair, O'Neal noted.

"Poor woman," his wife said, her voice trembly, her own face under her knitted blue and white stocking hat, drained of color. "It's that killer, isn't it? No one's safe. Why can't you people catch him and lock him up before anyone else is murdered?"

"Now, now, Elsie, they're doing their best," the man said, and patted her shoulder.

"Your husband's right, we are, Ma'am," Detective Aiken said. "And we'll get him. Just a matter of time." Looking around, he noticed just a few yards from where they stood, fresh tire tracks. They'd get a cast. Maybe this was the break they were hoping for.

A missing person's report had been filed that morning by the victim's husband, a Lawrence Grannan, who went by Larry. The officer who took the report said the husband had been beside him with worry about his wife.

Her I.D. was in her purse, leaving no doubt that she was the missing woman. As his partner had, Glen noted the red hair. Maybe darker than its natural shade, which might have been close to his own, but red just the same, borne out by the eyebrows.

No cop enjoyed delivering bad news to loved ones. While you didn't know, hope lived.

Twenty-One

The trunk called to Caroline in the night. She switched on the lamp, slipped into her robe, and resigned herself to answering.

Picking up a family album, she opened it to a photo of her father as a young man, a half-smile, boyish, wearing a soft felt hat. The photos were held in with corner brackets. He looked smaller in the photo than in her memory of him. Not so fierce as she remembered. Yet he had been fierce and without mercy. All for the good of my soul.

Much of her rage was gone now though, like a lanced abscess, talked and cried out in endless sessions in Doctor Rosen's office. It was still there, only quieter now. Almost an echo of itself. An old wound that still seeped blood.

She turned to the next page in the album. Looked into the faces of the two people in the black and white photograph. How could you? How could you give your own granddaughter away to strangers? There was no answer of course. None that would satisfy.

Her parents looked not so much happily married as settled somehow. They were a perfect match. She submissive, he with a need to reign supreme in his own home.

In fairness to her mother, she could see that her father was quite nice looking, and certainly charming. They'd often entertained their church friends at home. He was well thought of in his circle. He sold insurance for a living, so had the power of persuasion.

A sudden sense memory let her feel the weight of his hand on her head, its gentleness, the love that came through his touch.
No. He was never nice to you
. She closed the book with a snap. She must have dreamed that memory, she told herself. A false memory, they called it at the hospital. Yes, that was it. He was horrid. He ruined my life.

And then she heard Dr. Rosen's voice, calm and reasoning. 'People are more than just one thing, Caroline. We are like prisms, reflecting different sides of our nature, each depending on the slant of light.'

The piano man had begun to play again, and she lifted her eyes to the ceiling as the notes spilled over her, like a soothing balm. Something lighter now, chasing the dark memories back into their corners, something familiar she couldn't name. She knew little about classical music, but enjoyed hearing him play. His music spoke to her, in a different way from Billie Holiday's, but as meaningful.

He must not be able to sleep, either.

She imagined him sitting at his keyboard, from the back of course, since she had not yet seen his face. Only his dark blond hair curling at the collar of his shirt. She sat on the bed, holding the fringed runner in her hands, letting the play of silk run through her fingers like water, letting it and the music still her mind and lull her senses.

Too soon, the playing stopped. But Caroline still couldn't sleep, so she turned on the TV with the volume down low, and learned another woman had been murdered.

Twenty-Two

The man who opened the door to Detectives Tom O'Leary and Glen Aiken, was bleary-eyed, unshaven, looked like he hadn't slept in days. Larry Grannan was of average build, with thinning hair, a slight paunch. He drove truck for a living. By his expression, he knew they had found her, and that she wasn't coming home, not ever.

"May we come inside?" Tom asked gently.

He nodded and moved away from the door.

He preceded them into the living room, a clean, modestly furnished room. Browns and beiges, a few plants. He moved like a very tired old man.

"You've found her." A statement, not a question.

"I'm afraid so. I'm very sorry." Tom briefly outlined the circumstances in which they'd found her. "Her purse was with her," Tom said. "Her ID, but we'll still need you to make a positive identification."

He nodded, then sagged down on the sofa. "Pearl was everything to me. We've been together since we were kids. I don't want to live without her."

Larry Grannan had already told the officer who filed the missing person's report, that she'd gone shopping and never returned. Now he repeated it. "I phoned all her friends," he repeated. "Drove around looking for her. Then I phoned you guys. Pearl didn't drive, always used the bus system."

"Is there anyone we can call to be with you, sir. Do you have grown children?" Glen asked.

"We got one daughter, but she lives at the other end of the country. Oh, God, I need to call Adele before she hears it on the news. No, no, there's no one."

They left him there, weeping, and saw themselves out.

Tom was sliding into the driver's seat and noticed Glen eyeing the blue Ford truck parked in the driveway. He was checking out the tire treads. Tom thought again of the victim's red hair. Older than the others, too.

Twenty-Three

It was Sunday, just past noon, sunny with blue skies, a lovely autumn day. Dressed in her new outfit, armed with a bag of peanuts for the squirrels and her new book, Caroline left for the park. There wouldn't be too many more days when she could sit in the park, and she planned to take advantage of this one.

The hallway was empty. From behind one of the doors, a TV was playing, and she recognized the voice of Pastor Jacob Warren, Sunday Morning Church of the Air. Some of the patients at the hospital had watched the program faithfully, but Caroline had had enough of preaching, thank you very much.

Without pause, no longer feeling as if she were about to step out of an airplane, she walked downstairs like any normal person, and out into the bright day, a little chillier than it looked from her window, and felt a gladness inside herself. She knew she had come far since her release. Doctor Rosen would be proud of her.

Stepping onto the sidewalk, she saw Mr. Mason, her upstairs neighbor, heading in her direction, clutching a newspaper. Seeing her, he tipped his tweed cap, wished her a good day and went into the building.

She had met most of the tenants. It was strange that she had not yet seen the face of the piano man. He was a mystery in a way.

Mr. Mason wasn't the sort who would play the piano, she thought idly, as she went on up the street toward the park. More like a man who might build a ship in a bottle. Or collect stamps. Or add up numbers, something in him satisfied to see them add up, which made sense considering Mrs. Bannister had told her he was an accountant.

She was sorry that his wife had taken their children and left him. She wondered if Mr. Mason had been mean to his wife like Martha Blizzard's husband had been to her? Though she saw no meanness in Mr. Mason's face, nothing dark there to make a woman fearful, but you never knew about people.

Think of pleasant things, she told herself.

She envisioned her favorite bench, shiny green in the sunlight, the cooing doves, the bluejays and chickadees, with the lovely fountain babbling in the background. She hoped no one had taken her bench.

Hurrying along the sidewalk, her fingers were already anticipating turning the pages of her new copy of Great Expectations by Charles Dickens.

Though she had no interest in attending church, there was something about the sound of the church bells that struck a deep chord within her. Almost as though they rang just for her.

The church bells meant nothing to Buddy. He was aware only of the young woman who had just come out of her building. Caroline. Such a lovely old- fashioned name.

He'd been standing in the alley across from her building, and now let her get a safe distance away, so she wouldn't spot him. Adjusting the brown knit touque over his longish hair and flipping his coat collar up, he followed her, taking care to appear nonchalant, keeping a sure, easy stride. A man on his way to somewhere.

It was not the first time he had followed her. Once, he even walked right past her in the park, but she was so into her book she didn't even look up. Like he was invisible. He didn't like feeling invisible except when it suited his purpose.

But it was just a matter of time until he would have her full attention. In the end, she would be glad of his persistence, his patience.

More than anything, he wanted this to be true. But if she disappointed him, as the others had, then she would die, too. But that wasn't going to happen; he had chosen well this time. His heart filled with joy at the thought of what this meant. There was no mistake. His heart swelled with the rightness of it.

He had seen the softness of her face as she beckoned the squirrels to her, scattering food for them, smiling her sweet, serene smile. Goodness flowed from her. He knew her destiny was intertwined with his.

Still, he wanted to be very sure this time. No more mistakes. Not that he felt any regret at killing those women. They were nothing to him. He felt more remorse killing the buzzing, filthy flies in his mother's kitchen.

She was at the corner now, crossing on a green light. He picked up his pace until he was close enough to see the little tassel on her hat swaying to her rhythm, hear the soft fall of her shoes on the pavement.

Yes, he thought again, she was perfect.

Twenty-Four

Lynne Addison had abandoned her husband Joe the last few days to stay with her mother and try to figure out what to do. At the moment, she was standing at the refrigerator with the door open, checking out the packages in the frozen section.

"Mom, what you like for supper? How about a baked piece of haddock? I'll put a couple of potatoes in the oven first. Sound good?"

Her mom was standing at the window, looking out at what exactly, Lynne didn't know. And then she turned from the window, looked at her with those faraway eyes.

"What about your dad, dear? Is there enough fish for Walter? He's very fond of haddock."

Turning away, Lynne pretended to check the freezer while her heart broke into a few more pieces. Her father was dead six years now. Heart attack on his way upstairs to bed. Just collapsed on the stairs. He was seventy-two, four years older than mom. Every time she told her mother he was gone, she would start crying again, just as if it was the first time she'd heard the terrible news. Lynne sighed. "He's working late, mom." She took out the fish. Two pieces.

For the most part, mom lived in the present. But then she would drift back. When she returned to the present as if waking from a long sleep, she would say, "Dad's gone, isn't he?" But there would be the confusion, a hesitation in her speech as she tried to remember when or how it had happened.

"Thank you, Lynne," she said now. "I'm so lucky to have such a wonderful daughter. But don't you have to…"

Her voice trailed away and she frowned in that way she had, deep, intense, and Lynne saw her mental struggle. She's unsure if I'm married, or working or still in school, home for lunch. She probably doesn't remember Joe right now, though they'd become great friends over the years.

But she always remembers me. As soon as she saw me at the door today, she said, "Lynne, dear, I'm so glad you're here." Lynne feared the day she would look at her as if she were a stranger.

But today she knows me. She knows something is happening to her mind, and is terrified. That was the worst part; her knowing, feeling helpless and afraid. Unable to change the course she was on. Her mother had been so strong, so in control of things. She was Lynne's rock, growing up, always there for her. Now Lynne wanted to be there for her mother.