Pam (12 page)

My visit to the Colville United Methodist Church was
useless
. I stopped in to see the pastor of the church in hopes that maybe he could get the
Fellowship
director to return my call.

He was polite yet evasive with me
,
a
cting as if he didn’t know who I was. I got angry and he promised he would
call
the m
inistr
y director to get some answers.

I guess that was all I could hope for.

I needed support, friends. Someone to help me though this. I even stopped in the church and prayed.

God answered me
,
you know. With a phone number of a psychiatrist. I called about Justin again and the
secretary
said to me, “A Doctor Desmond Andrews needs to speak to you. He said to tell you he’s a friend of Pam’s.”

Maybe
he wanted to join my cause.

Maybe he was concerned over the reunion of Pam and Justin.

I kept thinking that boy, that poor boy was opening himself to hurt both emotional and physical. He hadn’t a clue what his
mother
was capable of, but I did.

The doctor would be second on my list, but first was Willow Brook.

During the course of that first week my paranoia grew. I worried about Pam being free. Her delusion of innocence and
her
quest to find the killer made me feel she would find a way to point the finger at me.

My only
chance
was to beat her at her own game. To prove that she was guilty of the murders. And no stone would be left unturned. She needed to go back to that mental hospital.

I drove to Willow Brook. It had been a while since I
had
been there. It wasn’t a warm welcome; in fact, no one really wanted to talk to me. I stopped in the town management office to speak to Rose Greer. She had worked there for decades
.
S
he nearly spat at me, called me a baby killer, turned
and
walked away.

I knew what that was about. It was about Justin. When I returned home after his disappearance no one believed I didn’t have a hand in it. I tried to find comfort in
the
support of my old home, only to be turned away and cast out
.
My father had already started to lose his mind and his word
meant
nothing.

There was so much
accusation
that
I didn’t stay long
,
e
ven though my father was taking a turn for the worse.

I headed over to the nursing home, hoping that my father would find clarity and give me some clues. Help
,
maybe
;
perhaps there
w
as something found at the crime scene that was forgotten about.

Maybe he remembered something.

But my father hadn’t been in control of his faculties one hundred percent for a long time.

The receptioni
st at the sign
-
in desk was luke
warm
to me, nodding and seeming nervous. I headed to the dementia ward to see my father.

The aids and nurses politely nodded but no one said anything. I suppose they wondered
why
I was there. It had been a really long time.
I should have visited my father more frequent
ly
.

They said he was in his room
,
so
I went there. They had to give me his room number because he had
been moved
.

His wheel
chair was perched by the window, and he was clad in pajamas. My father looked
much
older than his sixty-
six years. He looked like a man of eighty.

His hair was snow
white;
his face
drooped
and curled with wrinkles. He was thin and had lost a pronounced amount of weight since our last visit.

“Dad
,
” I called out, walking around
the
wheelchair. “Dad?”

He maintained his stare out the window and I walked before him,
crouching
to be at his level. I
placed
my hand on his. “Dad, it’s me. I know it’s been …”

Sob.

A single sob and my father
broke
down. His cry wasn’t normal, it was out of control and whiney.

“Dad.”

“I never thought I’d see you again.” His face scrunched up.

“I’m here, Dad. I’m here. I am so sorry I haven’t been around. So sorry.”

He
nodded
,
his head seemingly out of control.

“Dad.”

“How did you get here?” he asked.

“I drove.”

“You haven’t driven in years. You couldn’t.
They
took away your
license
. Did they give it back?” His words were laced with heavy crying.

“They didn’t take away my
license
, dad. I have always had it.” I
spoke
assuredly.

“I saw your mother last night. I saw her.” He
finally made
eye contact with me. His blue eyes were
pale
and
nearly
gray.

“Dad,
M
om’s
gone
. She’s been gone a while.”

“I know.” His head dropped. “No matter what
,
”
h
e grabbed on to my hand
,
“I am so glad to see you again.”

“Me, too, Dad. Me
,
too. I love you.”

“I love you.
No matter what, I have always loved you.”

I
brought
his hand to my cheek, ru
bb
ing it against my face. My
poor
father, the strength of our town
,
was reduced to a shell of a man. “I’m here.”

“For how long?” he asked. “I’m gonna die. I need to know.”

“You aren’t dying.”

“I am.”

My head hung low.
“
What do you need to
know?
”

He
paused
. “Why?” He
broke
down again. “Why did you do
it?
”

“Do what?”

His eyes
lifted
. “I’ve known. I’ve always know. I did my best to keep
you
safe. I protected you each time. But the
last …
Why?”

“Dad? What are you
talking
about?
”

And then he blasted as loud as any human being could. “Why!”

I slowly stood and the sound of running footsteps caught my attention.

Two
nurse’s
aides
ran in the door.

“
You
have to go
,
” one said. “
Please
, I’m sorry.”

I tried to pull away, but my father held firm.
His nails digging into my hand. “Why?”

It took all I had to pull away
. The nurse’s
aides
were gripping on to him, grabbing his hands and saying, “Lou, let go.
Come on, honey, let go.”

Finally, I was freed and I stepped back.

The aid looked up at me. “I’m sorry. You do have to leave. We can’t have him upset.”

“I understand.” I leaned down and quickly kissed my
father
. “Goodbye, Dad.”

As I stepped away, my father screamed in a
n
eerie possessed way, “Why did you kill them all?”

My entire being shuddered as the nurses aids looked at me. I shook my head. “I
didn’t.”

His words hurt, but I had to remember he was so far out of his mind. I hated to see my father like that, so weak. B
ut there was nothing I could do
but leave.

I had one more stop to make.

Home.

Willow Brook. There was really only one place I wanted to stop. I could have stopped at other places, but I was fearful of people’s reaction to me. After all, they knew me as a killer.

I drove to Montour Street and parked my car six house
s
away from my destination.

4485 Montour Street.

A quaint little three
-
bedroom house that I hadn’t seen in eighteen years. Richie and I bought that house with a two thousand dollar down payment that we got from his father
; he
liked me for some reason
.
He was a nice guy. Too bad Richie wasn’t like his father.

I wondered what ever happened to my father
-
in
-
law. Was he alive? Dead? Maybe that was one of
those
things
I could learn on the internet.

But the house was ours
,
m
ine and Richie’s. After I went away, I often thought of that house. Using memories of our time there to take me away mentally to a better place.
I expected to walk up to the house and see a family living there.

I didn
’t expect to see the house over
grown with trees, the windows boarded up and a sign out front saying, ‘
Private
Property no trespassing.’

It was at the
end
of the dead end street, a double lot.
I
t sat there for eighteen years. I
suppose
the
horror
story behind it made it undesirable.

I stepped past the sign and onto the property.
Immediately my mind flashed back to days of the kids playing in the yard. Running
there.

Now the grass was overgrown and high. To
the right
of the house was that bush.

It
was
no longer four feet tall, it
w
as
a
forest
. That bush was the same that I swore I saw a
figure
behind on that fateful day.

Pulling into the house back then the figure caught my eye.
But no one ever believed me about
it
.

The neighborhood was quiet
,
and no one noticed me there. The gravel driveway was completely grown in and it was hard to find the path to
the house
.

I stood before the porch, looking at the house.
Setting
my eye upon it
immediately brought
back the pain of that day.

Was there something I missed? Some clue? Did I see the killer leave? But all the ifs, ands and buts weren’t bringing back my babies.

I didn’t walk on
to
that front porch. I was
su
rpri
sed
how
vi
vi
d
the
memories
of that day were,
how
they all
flooded back
to me. I
walked
around the side of the
house
,
paused
by the
kitchen
door
,
and moved to the back yard.

Buried beneath the jungle of
yard
was the swing set. An ache filled my chest and I
flashed back
to a better day in my mind. The first day we got the swing set. How
excited
Mandy was, she sw
u
ng so high then fell when she jumped.

I was paranoid from that moment on about that swing set.

Fearful my children would get hurt, so fearful. If anyone really knew me they’d know I’d never in a million years hurt them.

The experience of being there
w
as far too painful. I had hoped that stopping by would jar a
memory
,
but instead it jarred a world of hurt. Turning to leave, I
saw
the figure run by.

Who was running?

I raced forward as fast as I could
.
N
o
sooner
did I round the front of the house,
my heart
dropped to my stomach.

Sharon.

I was conflicted. I didn’t want to see her, but I needed to.
She had answers that I was certain she
w
ouldn’t verbally give, but when she looked at me, there as something going on in her mind.

“Stop
,
” I called out.

She did.
Slowly
she
turned
around
.

She
’d
aged some, but
she
hadn’t changed. Still wearing c
lothes too tight, too much make
up
,
and looking perfectly beautiful.

She faced me with a
ston
y
expression
,
and then the corner of her mouth lifted in a sneaky smile. “Hello
,
Pam.”

I lost all breath and it took me a moment. She stood near the porch.

I cautiously stepped to her.

“I heard they let you out,” she said.

“They tried to get a hold of you,” I told her. “I wanted to speak to you, but they said you weren’t answering.”

“Did it dawn on you that I didn’t want to be found?”

“Yes.”

“So why keep looking?” she asked.

“Because I need to talk to you.”

Sharon laughed. “Are you
still
thinking I know
something?
”

“Yes.” I moved closer. “I need to know what
happened to
my kids.”

“Then I do know. Take a look in the mirror, Pam. You’ll see the killer there.”

“No.” I shook my head. “I didn’t do it.”

“Still maintaining that. Just because they let you out doesn’t mean you’re
innocent
.”

“Why are you here?” I asked hard. “
Huh
? Why?”

“Perhaps the same reason you are,” she said. “Clues about that day. Only I know who the killer is. I’m just looking for a reason to send the
killer
back to prison or …a mental
institute
.”

“I  ...” Strongly I pointed to my chest.
“Did not do th
at
.
Just ...
like I
didn’t
do the other things.”

“What other things?” Sharon asked.

“Connie. Marion Blake. Mrs. Elms …”

Sharon silenced me with a laugh. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“
You
know what I am talking about
,
” I argued. “Did you know they found Connie’s
body?
”

“
That
was your doing?”

“When I left her she was fine.”

“Oh, yeah?”
Sharon
said. “When I left you, you were with her.” She
shrugged
and turned.

“Why are you calling my son?”

Sharon
stopped
. Her head flung back and slowly she faced me again. “Your son? Do you think you deserve to see your son?”

I didn’t answer.

“I’ll tell you. You don’t.”
Sha
ron
pointed. “And I swear to you, with everything I am, that son of yours will be safe from his lunatic killer mother.”

“
We’re
meeting.”

“Good. Enjoy your moment with him. It’ll be short lived.” She leaned slightly forward in her vindictive words. “Because I am going to do everything I can,
anything
…” she emphasized
,
“
t
o make sure you go back to where you belong. Away from society and
away
from
people
you can hurt.”

I was in shock. Not just over her word
s
but
over how vengeful she sounded. She stood there accusing me of being a lunatic, a killer, when she was far more dangerous than I could ever be.

I saw it in her eyes. The madden
ed
look.
Suddenly I had an overwhelming fear. Not about finding the killer, but protecting my son.

Something wasn’t right about Sharon.