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Authors: Terra Little

BOOK: Running From Mercy
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FOUR
Was he angry? Hell yes he was angry, and why shouldn't he be? Time had somehow gotten away from him and in the space of thirty minutes, he lost all the ground he'd gained in eighteen years. In stepped Pam and out went his self-control.
Since he was being honest with himself, Chad admitted that his anger had been simmering just below the surface all day. Pam had taken her time about coming home, and when she finally did, she chose to hide out like a thief instead of helping him and Nikki with everything that needed to be done. She acted like she was attending the funeral of a distant associate rather than that of her only sister. And then there was Nikki, falling all over Pam and pleading with her to stay, like Pam was visiting royalty. Like she couldn't see that Pam was itching to be on the next flight, leaving Mercy in the dust again.
It galled Chad that Pam acted like she was the only one grieving over Paris's death. Hell, the whole town was in shock. Nikki had been prescribed pills to help her sleep, and he was having to dole them out one by one on a nightly basis for fear she'd do something stupid like overdose. Meanwhile, he was desperately searching for ways to reconcile himself with his own sorrow and guilt.
For him it wasn't a question of worrying about who would take care of him and see to his needs. His marriage was never like that, and he was never that kind of husband. Paris's death didn't leave him scrambling to learn how to iron or how to boil water. They had lived together for fifteen years and basically taken care of themselves the entire time. Neither of them had been partial to leaning on each other excessively, so they had each simply stood. He thought what he and Paris had shared was a little like having a roommate. A kind and generous roommate, but a roommate nonetheless.
Nikki was already two years old when Chad finally worked up the nerve to ask Paris to marry him. He was going into his junior year at Georgia State University and she her freshman year the day he glanced up from the campus newspaper he was perusing and saw her taking long strides toward the Student Affairs Center. It never occurred to him to notice the way she walked or the anxious expression on her face. Seeing her had stopped his heart and then started it to pounding in anticipation. As he ran to meet her, he called out to her and then tried to keep his smile in place when she turned and he saw that she wasn't Pam, but Paris. For a minute, he was sure that Pam had changed her mind and decided against leaving Georgia after all. But she was gone and Paris was there.
Paris was studying social work and he was studying education, so they found themselves in a few of the same elective courses. They studied for exams together and fell into the habit of hanging out before and after classes, just as they'd done years ago as part of a slightly larger group. Paris was easy to talk to and funny in her own way. Just when you thought her mind was off in space somewhere, she'd interject a witty comment with such bull's-eye accuracy you knew she had only been pretending to be distracted. He began to look forward to talking with her, and somewhere along the way, the evenings they spent together began to take shape and resemble dates.
He thought it began when, after six months or so, Paris brought him home with her to her apartment to retrieve a book she'd forgotten. She lived off campus in a spacious studio apartment, which occupied the entire third floor of a three-story house on the south side of the city. Nikki was six months old then, chubby and dimpled everywhere, with a happy disposition that had instantly sucked him into her tiny universe. If he had occasionally caught himself staring into eyes that he found eerily familiar and kissing little lips that curved just as his mother's did when she was being coy, he never dwelled on it. He told himself that he was drawn to the child by the sheer force of his genuine affection for children.
Chad never pressed Paris for the details of Nikki's birth, thinking that it wasn't his place to ask, but naturally he was curious about the child's father. He wondered how she managed to support herself and an infant on the stipend she received as part of her scholarship from the university. Her apartment was comfortably furnished, and she was never without money the way most struggling college students were. He was curious to know how she made ends meet, but he never pried.
He was given his first peek into Paris's private life when she revealed to him that Pam helped her with household expenses. That in itself didn't strike Chad as odd, since he assumed that though Pam had moved away, they were still as close as they'd ever been. At the time, Pam was just starting to make a name for herself in the music industry. He'd caught a few of her songs on the radio, and Paris had mentioned that Pam also supplemented her income by singing commercial jingles. Until then he hadn't realized that it was Pam's voice he was hearing in his head as he picked one can of soup or box of cereal over another, though he shouldn't have been surprised to find that he was still under her spell.
Chad didn't really question the fact that Paris had given birth to a child and was no longer with the man who'd made her pregnant. But, he did question the arguments he sometimes overheard between Paris and Pam during their frequent phone calls back and forth. Paris would leave the room to take a call and come back pretending she hadn't been screaming and crying, just minutes before. Yet his own feelings where Pam was concerned were ambivalent enough that he was content to let Paris keep her secrets and to mind his own business. He pretended he hadn't heard anything, reminded Paris what page they'd left off on, and kept studying.
Paris was never much of a drinker, though, and she tended to ramble after she drank more than two glasses of anything stronger than beer. The night Chad finally learned the truth, she was well and truly drunk. It was Nikki's second birthday and Paris had given her a birthday party and invited several of the single parents she knew from school. The party was a success, but Paris was a wreck. No sooner had she seen the last of her guests out of the apartment than she was gulping wine like it was water and crying into her glass. He did what he could to comfort her, but theirs wasn't an intimate relationship. He had never even kissed her or held her hand in a romantic way, so he patted her back awkwardly and said all the things men usually said to crying women when they wanted them to stop.
She was drunk and it was difficult to follow everything she said, but he got the gist of it fairly quickly. She was angry with Pam because she hadn't come to Nikki's birthday party. She said Pam was letting Nikki grow up without taking the time to witness any of the significant events in the child's life. They had talked about things like this, important things, and made a pact. Pam had promised she would be a part of everything, not just send money and silly gifts. Paris told him the money Pam sent was more than enough and that she didn't mind doing anything she did, really she didn't, but it was so unfair to Nikki. Then she had apologized to Chad for losing control of herself and offered him something to drink.
But by then Chad was damn near catatonic, and accepting something to drink was the last thing on his mind. He walked over to the bed where Nikki lay sleeping and stared down at the child, his mind clicking so fast he could barely keep up with his thoughts. Paris had said it was unfair to Nikki, but what about him? Was any of what he was beginning to suspect fair to him?
All these years later, Chad still remembered the feeling of his gut clenching as he turned to look at Paris. He remembered the confusion on her face, the questions in her eyes like it was yesterday.
“Nikki is Pam's child?” he asked softly. Paris nodded hesitantly and he understood that she hadn't meant to tell him. It was a secret between her and her twin sister, something no one was ever supposed to know.
Chad took a week off from classes and went after Pam. He found her address in Paris's phone book and flew to California to confront her. He stood outside the modest apartment building where she lived and waited for her to come out so he could pounce on her. He envisioned himself wrapping his hands around her neck and squeezing until she understood what it felt like to be lied to and cheated the way she had cheated him. He waited for her to show her deceitful face, but she never did. When he finally entered the building and knocked on her door, a neighbor spotted him and informed him that Pam was in New York, auditioning for a small part in a sitcom pilot. He thought about following her to New York and tracking her down, but the idea of spending the rest of his natural life in prison brought his bounty-hunting trip to a screeching halt.
He returned to Georgia and did the one thing still in his power to hurt Pam. He married Paris and gave his daughter his name. Pam was obviously going on with her life, and he needed to go on with his. He banked his rage and considered himself lucky that, even if he couldn't have Pam, he would at least have Nikki.
Chad finished up in the bathroom and padded across his bedroom to climb into bed. Now that Pam was back, so was his anger, and he didn't have the foggiest idea how he was going to keep himself from killing her now.
Dear Diary,
 
I'm so glad Aunt Pam is here. She makes me not miss Mom so much. I mean, I'll always miss Mom, but having Aunt Pam here helps me not to feel so bad, you know? I think it's because they're twins and looking at her is kind of like looking at Mom. Their voices sound different and they talk differently, but if I close my ears I can pretend, can't I?
Aunt Pam is like a movie star to me. She has the coolest clothes and makeup. And how many kids do you know who have famous relatives? I think I want to do what she does when I'm grown. I might have to take some singing lessons though, because I can't sing a lick and I know it. Maybe she'll help me with that.
When I was little and Mom and I would visit, Pam cuddled me on her lap and sang to me. Silly little songs to make me laugh, but she always added her own touches to them and made them sound like grownup songs. I would stare into her mouth and wonder if she had a magic box in her throat that made her sound so beautiful. I never realize how much I love and miss Aunt Pam until I see her again. I want to wrap my arms around her and make her stay here with me forever. Mom is gone (sigh) but as long as Aunt Pam is here I don't feel so alone. Dad tries to comfort me, but he's a man and you know how they are (smile). I'm going to make Aunt Pam stay as long as I can.
I hope she'll want to spend time with me. I want us to do stuff together like me and Mom used to do. In California, we went shopping and to the beach, but we can't do that stuff here, so I hope she won't be bored if we spend time just talking and getting to know each other. I wonder why she always seems so distracted and lost in thought? I think I'll ask her about that. I want to be closer to her, like she and Mom were, and I hope she wants that, too.
I'm going to bed now, but I'll try to remember to write tomorrow night.
 
Nikki
 
PS: I wonder what Aunt Pam and my dad were arguing about the other night?
FIVE
Miles stayed awake late into Monday night, pulling together his notes and conducting last minute research on Pamela and Paris Mayes. By the time he was finished, his eyes were dry and gritty and he had developed a heightened sense of respect for the Internet. The power of the World Wide Web, combined with the spyware he'd spent thousands of dollars on, had given him an auspicious start on the way to where he needed to be. Plus, there was something to be said for the friendliness of small towns. People talked too much without even realizing what they were saying, and paid even less attention to who they were saying it to. So far, all he'd had to do was put himself in the right places at the right times, open his ears, and keep his mouth shut.
He calculated the time in New York as he showered and then made a few phone calls while he was toweling himself dry. If things kept going the way they were, he might not have to stay in Mercy as long as he'd originally planned. As things stood, the first half of his book could pretty much write itself.
It was public knowledge that Pam and Paris were born two minutes apart at a nearby private hospital. Immediately after birth, they were signed over to the state in anticipation of an adoption that never happened. Mercy was a small town full of working-class families barely scraping by, and no one was in too big of a hurry to adopt two additional mouths to feed. Their birth records were sealed and they were placed in Angels of Mercy Children's Home, where they lived until they were eighteen and no longer the responsibility of the state.
It was interesting that the nightshift workers at the home had fought for the right to name the babies and won. They'd each chosen pairs of names, put them in a hat, and pulled out Pamela Anne and Paris Marie. One of the workers had claimed a distant relation to the late great Willie Mayes, and they decided as a group that's what the babies' last names would be. Not exactly conventional, Miles thought, but whatever.
According to the locals, the girls were inseparable. Like night and day, someone told Miles. Paris was quiet and book smart, while Pam was loud and brash. She hadn't especially endeared anyone to her plight with her flippant manner and who-gives-a-shit attitude. A review of her school records had revealed that she was a mediocre student, with no particular proclivity toward mastery of any one subject over another. She had apparently done what was required to get by and spent the remainder of her time brawling or sitting in detention. Notes made by various teachers told him that she was opinionated and combative when challenged, and unconcerned and unmotivated when left to her own devices. Of the two, she was the one who was literally passing time and waiting for childhood to be over.
None of this information particularly interested Miles since he was just about the same in school and he could probably name a hundred other people with similar reports. Pam's grades remained steady in the
B
and
C
range throughout elementary and junior high school. Nothing surprising there.
Toward the end of Pam's high school career was where things started to get more interesting to Miles. She surprised him by earning a 1500 on her SAT, but she hadn't applied to any colleges. Paris applied and was accepted at Georgia State on a full scholarship, but Pam had put forth zero effort in that area. Even with the sharp plummet in her grades three quarters of the way through her senior year, she should've been able to get into college somewhere. Instead, she had skipped graduation all together and hopped on a bus just a week later. Something was missing, something important, and Miles would pay hard-earned money to find out what that something was.
Miles glanced at his watch and shook himself. As if on cue, his stomach growled and he knew just where he would go to feed it. Since she'd arrived in town, Pam had taken nearly all of her meals at the little bed and breakfast on the outskirts of town, where she was staying. He decided to skip the greasy spoon he usually ate in and join her there. It was time to officially make her acquaintance.
On his way there, he spotted a stalled car on the side of the road, about a mile before the turn-off for the B&B. He slowed his own car to see what the problem was. As he came closer, he saw her sitting on the rear bumper facing the opposite direction with a lit cigarette dangling from her fingers. The grin that took over his face was triumphant.
Miles swerved across the two-lane road, came to a stop in front of her car, and climbed out. She heard him coming and turned to watch his approach from over her shoulder. She brought the cigarette to her mouth for a drag as she watched him stroll casually in her direction.
Her eyes dropped to his expensive loafers and crawled up his body to his face slowly. She took in his neatly pressed khakis and polo shirt and the Tag watch on his wrist. “You don't look like a serial killer,” she said finally.
“That's because I'm not. What does a serial killer look like anyway?” He propped his hands on his hips and waited for her answer.
Pam stared at him as she thought about the question. Whoever he was, he was tall and fit, with clear brown eyes and professionally trimmed brown hair. His freckled porcelain skin was just starting to tan under the sun, which told her he hadn't been in town long. She thought maybe she'd seen him at Paris's funeral, standing apart from the crowd and looking solemn throughout the entire ordeal, but she hadn't recognized him then and she didn't now.
“A serial killer looks like someone who doesn't look like a serial killer,” she said.
Miles chuckled despite himself. Up close and without all the makeup, Pam had a pixie-ish look, with her slightly upturned nose and plump lips. Her eyes were serious looking, but the corners of her lips were toying with a grin. “Did they teach you that in school?”
“Right after they taught us never to get in cars with strangers.”
“So you're planning on staying out here all day and night, smoking yourself into oblivion?” He reminded himself to make a note that she smoked cigarettes.
“That wouldn't be such a bad idea if I wasn't down to my last two cigarettes. What's your name?”
“David.” David was his middle name, so it wasn't exactly a lie.
“David is a serial killer's name. It's right up there with Sam.” She dropped her half-smoked cigarette and brushed off the seat of her jeans as she stood. “You know anything about cars, David?”
“A little. Do you have gas in the tank?” She nodded. “Oil in the motor?” Another nod, this one a little less nice. “What about the radiator? Was it smoking or anything when the car stopped?”
“Nope. But it's a Ford, so it doesn't really need an excuse to be a piece of shit, does it? You know what they say FORD stands for, right? Forever on the road dead.”
“Hey,” Miles barked, pointing behind them to his car. It was a late model Ford 500. A rental, but still.
Pam leaned around him, looked at the car and giggled. “Sorry.”
“I suggest you watch your mouth if you think you want a ride into town. That's where you're going, isn't it?”
“Yeah, I can call a tow truck from town. Right after I buy more cigarettes.”
“Aren't you worried that smoking will ruin your singing voice?” His tone was smoothly casual, as if picking up stranded celebrities on the side of the road was all in a day's work. She threw him a surprised look, but didn't say anything. He watched her round her car and pull the driver's door open. She ducked inside and backed out with her purse and a small Gucci traveling bag. “What? Don't tell me you didn't think I'd recognize you?”
“Wishful thinking, I guess.”
“You don't like the attention you get from your fans?”
“Are you a fan?”
He thought about lying and then decided against it. “I'm partial to classical music myself.”
“Well then what kind of attention will I get from you? If you're not a fan you probably don't want my autograph, so what do you want in exchange for a ride into town?”
“I could probably get a pretty penny for your autograph,” Miles smiled at her across the roof of the car. He relaxed a little when she smiled back.
“Fifty years after I'm gone, maybe. But right now I wouldn't bet on it. Did we establish that you were taking me into town or not? It's hot out here.”
He fished his keychain from his pocket and hit a button to unlock the doors. Pam folded herself into the passenger seat and stacked her purse and carryall on her lap. “You can put that stuff on the backseat if you want to,” Miles told her.
“I have a pistol in my bag, so I'd better keep it handy.” She slid him a look. “Just in case.”
They rode in silence for several minutes, during which Miles felt his opportunity slipping through his fingers. He cleared his throat and adjusted the rearview mirror. “You grew up here,” he said, hoping to lead her into a conversation about the town. More specifically, her feelings about the town.
“You read the tabloids,” Pam came back, just as evenly.
“It's not a secret, is it?”
“No, it's not a secret, and yes, I grew up here. I figured out about ten miles back that you aren't from Georgia, so why are you here?”
“Visiting.”
“Visiting who? Or is that a secret?”
“I'll bet your fans would be very interested in knowing that you have a sharp tongue.”
“You're not one of them, so what do you care?” She fished around in her purse and came out with her dark glasses. After she slid them over her nose, she went back in and produced a king-size candy bar. She was chewing aggressively when she saw him glance at her snack for the third time. Wordlessly, she removed the wrapper and extended the opposite end of the candy bar to him.
Miles stuffed the candy in his mouth and chewed slowly. “Thanks, I'm starving. Haven't had lunch yet.”
“Makes two of us, and no, I don't care if my fans know that I eat three meals a day.” She let him twist off another hunk and then slipped the rest of the candy in her mouth. Around a mouth full of chocolate she said, “Tell me who you're visiting.”
He licked a string of caramel from his front teeth and swallowed. “Moira Tobias. You know her?” He knew very well she did. Moira was his preliminary source of information, though she hadn't agreed to the task and wasn't aware of his intent. The mere fact that she resided in Mercy was the perfect cover for his being there.
Pam's eyes went soft. “Of course I know Moira. Everybody knows Moira. She's been in Mercy forever and a day. You want some gum?”
He looked at the pack of spearmint gum she held out and shook his head. “I'm still finding nuts, but thanks.” She dropped the pack back in her purse and zipped it closed. He waited to make sure the next thing she pulled out wasn't a pistol. “Moira was my stepmother. She was married to my father a long time ago.”
“I think I remember that she was married something like three times,” Pam told him. “Lots of head shaking and tsk-tsking about that, as I recall.”
“My father was husband number two. He died ten years ago.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“I was sorry to hear about your sister.”
She softened even more. “Me too. Thanks.”
Silence descended again and they rode into Mercy a short time later. Pam opened her mouth to give him directions to Paris's house and noticed that he was turning off in the opposite direction.
“Where the hell are you taking me, David the serial killer?”
He pulled into a parking space on a McDonald's parking lot and shut the car off. “I don't know about you, but that candy bar didn't do much more than make me mad. I'm hungry, and judging by the sounds coming from your stomach, you are, too.”
She looked at him long and hard, trying to determine what he was up to. She still hadn't come to any conclusions when she reached for the door handle and stepped out of the car. But she was starving and a burger didn't sound like a bad idea. Besides that, he was Moira's stepson, a fact she would verify soon enough, so how bad could he be?
“I'm partial to the burgers at Hayden's Diner myself,” Pam informed him on her way to the door.
Miles stepped around her and opened the door to the restaurant for her. He caught her eyes as she sailed past him like the diva she was. “We'll go there next time,” he said easily.

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