And she knew why.
She’d fallen for him. Unlike Darryl or Gregory, Ray exuded charisma, which had drawn her toward his magnetic presence. I was an idiot.
Four trials in three and one-half years jumbled together in her head—lawyers, cops, judges, families of victims, and juries made up of her peers with faces too numerous and nondescript to remember. The worst part was finding herself on death row, a fate her legal team genuinely believed they could avoid. Pamela recalled four judges separately sentencing her to death, her own stunned reaction and that of her lawyers. She heard guards whispering among themselves over newspaper accounts: Pamela Watts is the sixth woman on death row in Missouri and the first in Nebraska. A very elite group, she reflected sarcastically. Her legal team made numerous appeals, giving her a sliver of optimism. And then the appeals ran out. There was still a minute chance the Missouri governor would grant a last-minute reprieve, but she wasn’t just a heinous murderer, Pamela Watts was a child killer.
The authorities in Nebraska had decided to try her for the murders of Gregory and the children at the same time. Her legal advisors were blunt. You are the most vilified woman in the country, Pamela. Don’t expect a miracle; people want to see you pay for your sins. She rolled her stiff shoulders against the wall. None of this would have happened if Gregory hadn’t been hell-bent on being a savior in Africa. He completely upended my plan. Insisting missionary work would strengthen our marriage. Didn’t even fucking ask me. He was suddenly the “head of the household.” Said I couldn’t question his authority. Bullshit. I should have recognized he was becoming an arrogant prick and left sooner. A frustrated sigh emerged from deep within her lungs.
Her attention roamed to Jacob and Elizabeth. If Gregory had just died as she’d intended, she would simply have left the children sleeping in their beds. But Jacob woke to find his father stumbling over packing boxes. When she slammed the wooden baseball bat repeatedly against her husband’s skull, the blood splattered over the floor and walls; her son had witnessed it all. Why is Daddy bleeding? She threw a blanket over Gregory’s body. Daddy’s just resting, sweetheart.
She had to think fast, so she had mixed crushed Ambien into chocolate milk for both children as a special treat. She remembered waiting for their breathing to grow labored and then, under the muted glow of a full moon, finished digging their graves in the garden. She could never accept them as her blood and bone anyway.
Her shoulders slumped further against the cool cement wall. During the prior three days, prison guards had observed her every move in the sparsely furnished cell containing a mattress, a toilet, a sink, and a Bible, which she’d stuffed under the mattress. When she was issued a special dark prison jumpsuit, she had thought, An outfit to die for. That thought almost made her laugh out loud.
Three hours prior to the execution, she had ordered her last meal from the prison menu. When it arrived, she had little appetite for it. She was allowed to watch TV and tried focusing on the programs. Oprah and some PBS documentary distracted Pamela for a while, but her mind kept wandering over the mistakes that had led her here. I should have let Ray overdose. But no, I couldn’t resist his passion. She was permitted to talk with her legal team but declined. There was nothing left to say, unless the governor called. I’d rather spend these last aware moments in silence, making everyone try and guess what I’m thinking. They won’t have a clue.
There was one tiny, positive action that she had managed to keep secret. The DA in Minneapolis had decided not to press charges in the deaths of her adoptive parents—due to lack of evidence. A smirk curled her lips. There was satisfaction in knowing that the ignorant, fat couple who loved calling her “our precious adopted daughter Pammy” had died by her hand. I hated them. They always had to include the word “adopted,” like they were my redeemers. The fire had been a tragic accident. No one will ever know the truth.
She twisted white curls around her fingers and sneered. Linda Turner, that fucking cop from Nebraska who wouldn’t quit searching for her, testified at every trial. Pamela sat stiffly forward, still twisting her hair. She’ll no doubt be present to view my final moments, and that damn Detective Johnson, too. During one of the trials, Pamela thought she’d overheard chatter that the two had gotten married. To hell with them.
The entrance to her cell buzzed, the steel door gliding open. In less than fifteen minutes, I’ll be dead. The humiliation of enduring a cavity search for contraband would be her last, making death almost a reprieve. Her hands cuffed in front of her torso, three guards escorted her to the death chamber, walls the color of urine. Pamela was strapped to cotton-padded planks, arms splayed outward like Jesus on the cross. She closed her eyes, trying not to visibly laugh at the irony. Needles pricked both her arms as the first intravenous solution dripped into her veins. I wonder if Ray will be here to say a last good-bye.
A curtain rose in front of a Plexiglas window, exposing unfamiliar faces. Most of them she knew were reporters, documenting this momentous occasion. No sign of Ray. Maybe he wasn’t invited. Too bad. At least he would have prayed for me. She recognized two or three witnesses from their trial testimony, and a few others who had read victim impact statements. The prison chaplain, attired in a collar and black clothing, inquired, “Do you have any last words, Ms. Watts?”
The movement of her shaking head was deliberate against the board. I’m not saying another fucking word. Her gaze returned to the assembled group, landing on Linda Turner’s expressionless features, the captain’s blue eyes almost boring into her. Detective Johnson stood close by. Pamela focused her gaze directly on Linda’s face.
The first drug, an anesthetic, was meant to relax her. She forced her eyes to stay wide open. Within minutes, her muscles grew rigid and paralyzed; her heartbeat waned. The yellow room began fading from Pamela’s view, her lips curved into a lifeless smile.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I first began transforming Salvation Station from a screenplay into a novel with the assistance of Margo Dill in her WOW! Women On Writing course, “Writing a Novel with a Writing Coach.” She helped me shape what became a first draft, and then skillfully edited it. I am grateful for her ongoing support and friendship as we work together on new projects.
I also wish to thank Georges Ugeux, who provided a valuable and friendly critique of my manuscript in 2017. From our meeting in New York City that fall, I was able to view the work with fresh eyes. I took the book in a slightly different direction, strengthening Linda’s story and cutting 25,000 words. Revision truly is the heart of writing.
I am also indebted to Chris Olsen and Stef Tschida, who have encouraged and supported me throughout this process. When I began questioning myself, they were my cheerleading squad, rallying me to overcome obstacles and move forward.
Finally, I am thankful for She Writes Press and their commitment to creating and nurturing a community of women writers.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
© Grupa Portrait Studio
Kathryn Schleich has been a writer for thirty years. Her most recent publications include the short story “Reckless Acts” featured in After Effects: A Zimbell House Anthology in August 2017, and her story “Grand Slam” published in the Acentos Review in May 2017. She is the author of two editions of the book Hollywood and Catholic Women: Virgins, Whores, Mothers, and Other Images, which evolved from her master’s thesis. Her guest posts have been featured on the Women On Writing blog, The Muffin, and she writes for the Amherst H. Wilder Foundation’s volunteer newsletter.
When she’s not writing, Kathryn is likely volunteering in the education and arts communities in the Twin Cities where she lives. Friends, family, good food, wine, and traveling fill her life. Salvation Station is her first novel.
SELECTED TITLES FROM SHE WRITES PRESS
She Writes Press is an independent publishing company founded to serve women writers everywhere. Visit us at www.shewritespress.com.
Last Seen by J. L. Doucette $16.95, 978-1-63152-202-4
When a traumatized reporter goes missing in the Wyoming wilderness, the therapist who knows her secrets is drawn into the investigation—and she comes face-to-face with terrifying answers regarding her own difficult past.
On a Quiet Street: A Dr. Pepper Hunt Mystery by J. L. Doucette $16.95, 978-1-63152-537-7
A funeral takes the place of a wedding when a woman is strangled just days before her wedding to a district attorney—and Pepper, whose former patient happens to be the brother of the victim, is soon drawn into the investigation.
Cut: An Organ Transplant Murder Mystery by Amy S. Peele $16.95, 978-1631521843
When Sarah Golden, a well-respected transplant nurse, and her best friend, Jackie, get tangled up in the corrupt world of organ transplants, they find themselves on a sometimes fun, sometimes dangerous roller coaster ride through lifestyles of the rich and famous . . . one from which they may not escape with their lives.
Murder Under The Bridge: A Palestine Mystery by Kate Raphael $16.95, 978-1-63152-960-3
Rania, a Palestinian police detective with a young son, meets cheeky Jewish-American feminist Chloe at an Israeli checkpoint—and soon becomes embroiled in a murder case that implicates te highest echelons of the Israeli military.
Water On the Moon by Jean P. Moore $16.95, 978-1-938314-61-2
When her home is destroyed in a freak accident, Lidia Raven, a divorced mother of two, is plunged into a mystery that involves her entire family.
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