Running From Mercy

by Terra Little

  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 h
er 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.
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  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.

  SIX

  Chad was still in the midst of a long-distance relationship with his girlfriend Leslie, whom he was forced to leave when his parents suddenly decided that Georgia was their next destination. His father was in the business of revitalizing failing small businesses and offering his services on a consulting basis when larger ones floundered. The move would make the family’s third since Chad’s fourth birthday.

  Before Georgia, they had lived in Arizona for nearly four years and then in Nevada for six. Chad was just starting to believe they would put down roots in Nevada when his father was summoned to Georgia to try his hand at saving a black-owned communications company from bankruptcy. The company’s main office was located in Atlanta, and the plan was for the family to lease a house in the city so Chad’s father could be close to work. They were still living out of their suitcases in a hotel room when his mother decided to go house hunting, got her directions mixed up, and ended up in the little town of Mercy, Georgia.

  She should have taken a left on Highway 25, but she took a right, and then she exited on the wrong ramp and ended up in College Park. On the drive back to Atlanta she merged onto Highway 205, when she should’ve stayed on Highway 25 and then she took Chad on a sightseeing excursion that led them to Highway 210. There, they stopped for lunch at a dusty little diner and asked for directions back to Atlanta. They were told to keep straight on 210, that it would put them off on 25 and, from there, they’d be less than an hour outside of Atlanta’s city limits. They filled up on gas and set out.