“Wonderful and mature.”
“That’s good.” My attention was drawn to the computer screen again.
“There is one thing, though.”
I looked at him.
“He said Sharon has been calling the station trying to reach him.”
My hands fell to my side, and I felt as if I were hit with a board. “Sharon?”
“He said her messages were for him to stay away from you. How do you feel about that?”
“I feel like it is an invasion of my privacy.”
“But you wanted to find her. There she is. It’s simple …” He paused. “Isn’t it?”
“No, it’s not. The more I think about it, the more I look back … the more I am frightened by the prospect of Sharon resurfacing in my life.”
“That makes sense,” Dr. Andrews said. “Any reason why you think she would want to stop your son from seeing you?”
“Jealousy, I don’t know.” I shrugged. “She always envied my life. Sure, she was beautiful and men enjoyed her, but she wasn’t loved. Of course Richie loved her, so I heard. But it all makes perfect sense. All of it.”
“What does?” he asked.
“Sharon being the one who killed my children and the others.”
“I’m … I’m sorry, the others? You think Sharon has killed other people.”
“Oh, yeah, I’m positive. “ I pulled the stack of research to him and set it in front of him. “Here.”
Dr. Andrews lifted the sheets and flipped through, merely flipped through. “What’s the connection to her and these people?”
I had his answer, and I gave it to him in one simple word. “Richie.”
Chapter Twenty-One – Desmond Andrews
No, no, no, no, no.
God!
What is wrong with me?
I am a professional. I pride myself on helping others, I have helped others, but I can’t control my one demon that haunts me, comes back to be battled and exorcised.
The things that have worked for me are aversion therapy and conditioning. They have worked in replacing the Celexa.
There is no access to pornography sites on my computer, none. I had James set a password that I didn’t know for parental controls. Yes, there are places to get it other than the internet, but the net is the most accessible.
I also removed myself from physical contact. The physical stimulus along with a visual maintained a certain control. I conditioned myself to believe a handshake was not erotic.
But to understand my deviate nature, one has to understand that my obsessions and the things I find erotic are out of the norm.
These are things that often times, when I lose control, will send me into an aroused frenzy, and seeking the nearest closet, the solitude of a bathroom I could find, to self-release.
Unfortunately, many of my triggers are in my line of work.
Other paraphiliacs arouse me, because I wonder what they are thinking. Women who are dangerous, women who suffer from severe depression, a crying woman, elderly men, catatonic and vulnerable women.
Typically, I can feel the wave banging on my door. Saying that it’s back. It’s a warning and I heed it, seeking out James and taking a quick fix pill.
But this time, it was like an unexpected tsunami.
The simple touch of my hand on hers. That innocent touch barreled me over.
It wasn’t because she was vulnerable; it was because touching Pam brought back my earlier obsession with her.
I engrossed myself with her case so much so that I volunteered to monitor her sleep study when the night nurses said she had been calling out in her sleep. It wasn’t just any patient that night, it was Pam.
It was while she slept that she was inviting, each turn of her body exposed her skin. I found myself fantasizing that I went into her sleep study room, lifted her sheet, and planted my face between her legs.
It was so overwhelming; I literally could see myself in the monitors. It got so strong, I didn’t think twice about undoing my pants and pleasuring myself at that desk. Wrapped up in my moment, I never saw a soul walk in.
And it was happening again.
I felt the wave hit me when I touched her. I moved back, turned the conversation, but it was too late. I was triggered.
The moment her leg innocently brushed against mind, I stopped hearing her speak; I only saw her dropping to her knees before me, undoing my jeans and devouring me while the college girl watched from the distance, giving the most awkward thumbs up.
When I realized I was spending more time in fantasy than reality, I quickly excused myself and said I would see her the next day.
The last I wanted to do was self indulge. An orgasm would feed my fire over my fantasy obsession with Pam.
So I rushed out, thinking other thoughts, trying to contain myself. Pam was officially my patient and an expulsion of ‘feel good’ while thinking of her would only cause more harm than good.
I drove to a section of town that I knew would work for me, would feed another erotic obsession. There, for ten minutes and fifty bucks, I found relief.
It was dirty; it was quick. It got the job done, and I didn’t think of Pam.
Chapter Twenty-Two – Sharon
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, acting as if he didn’t know who I was. I got angry and he promised he would call the ministry 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. She 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, even 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 was 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 receptionist at the sign-in desk was lukewarm 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 frequ
ently.
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 wheelchair 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, Mom’s gone. She’s been gone a while.”
“I know.” His head dropped. “No matter what,” he 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, rubbing 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 an 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. But there was nothing I could do but leave.
I had one more stop to make.
Chapter Twenty-Three – Pam
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 houses 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, mine 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 overgrown 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. It 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 was 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 onto that front porch. I was surprised how vivid 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 swung 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 was 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. No 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 wouldn’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 clothes too tight, too much makeup, and looking perfectly beautiful.
She faced me with a stony 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 that. 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.” Sharon 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, “to 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 words 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 maddened look. Suddenly I had an overwhelming fear. Not about finding the killer, but protecting my son.
Something wasn’t right about Sharon.
Chapter Twenty-Four - Desmond Andrews
Pam Page 8