Muddy Creek: A Paranormal Mystery (Taryn's Camera Book 7)

by Rebecca Patrick-Howard

  In the glow of the stark light bulb, Heather Winters loomed above her, her face stamped with anger and hurt. With her wild eyes, disheveled hair standing out in every direction, and bright lipstick smeared across her cheek she looked far from beautiful–she looked insane.

  Taryn scampered to her feet and began backing back towards the door, trying to put distance between her and the woman who raged before her. “Heather, calm down,” she began. “I don’t know what you–”

  “’Calm down?’” Heather screeched.

  Well, Taryn thought, that was clearly the wrong way to start.

  “Calm down!? Do you know what you’re doing to my family and me!”

  Taryn shook her head and held her hands out in defense. “Look, I just talked to the attorney, nobody else. If you go to her then you can talk, tell them what you want them to know. And things might be okay.”

  “I already talked to that woman,” Heather snapped. “She called right after you left. Do you know what kind of state my husband is in? Do you know how hard I’ve worked over the past twenty years, since we were teenagers even? How much I have invested in this? In my family’s life? Do you know what’s going to happen?!”

  “Do you know what’s going to happen,” Taryn countered. “How could you let this stay a secret?”

  She didn’t appear to have any weapons on her, though Taryn knew an angry woman didn’t need more than her words and hands when she was mad enough, so she continued.

  “Heather,” she whispered, “it wasn’t Jamey’s fault. You’ve been a good wife. You’ve done everything you could. But he needs help.”

  “I’ve helped him, haven’t I?” she cried. “I made him a life entirely different from the one he’d had so that he could start over and forget. All those nights he couldn’t sleep, the drinking, the other girls to prove…” Her voice broke then, and it was she who fell to the floor now, crying with her entire body.

  “Do you want it to happen to someone else?”

  “It can’t now,” Heather hiccupped. “Lucy took care of that. At least that’s one thing she did right.”

  Taryn sank to her knees beside her and awkwardly patted Heather on her back. “And my car? Why did you hurt my car?”

  Heather took a momentary reprieve and looked up at Taryn through heavily mascaraed eyes. “I didn’t hurt your car,” she sniffed. “Lou and I had just come from supper; that’s all. We meet once a week. We’re on a committee.”

  “But–”

  “The worst thing I’ve done is the fire.”

  “But,” Taryn said, confused, “Lucy is the one who started the fire.”

  “Not that one. Carmie’s house, Jamey’s mom’s place. He hated that old trailer. It reminded him of everything. She was a hoarder, wouldn’t get rid of crap. She kept everything from his childhood. It was like a tomb in there. Every time he walked inside he’d come back home, broken for weeks. It was a cleansing, getting rid of all of it.” She gave a little sob. “I thought it would let us start over.”

  Taryn nodding, beginning to understand. “Not that much different than what Lucy did.”

  “No, not much,” Heather sniffed again.

  “Heather!”

  Jamey stood in the doorframe, his massive shoulders touching both sides. He looked like he’d been running for a very long time. When he saw his wife collapsed on the floor, he lurched and had her engulfed within his arms in seconds. “Oh sweetie,” he cooed. “I’m so sorry.”

  “I’m sorry,” she cried, wiping her face on his sleeves. “I was just so angry at her. I thought she could take it back, that nobody would know…”

  Taryn looked up at Jamey and bit her lip. “I am so sorry, Jamey. I should have gone to you, first. I was just trying to help Lucy. When I found out…”

  “It’s okay,” he said, “I understand. And, to be honest, it had crossed my mind to say something before. I just didn’t know how. It’s not exactly something you stand on the street corner and blurt out.”

  “But why?” Heather asked. “Why put yourself through that? Because of Lucy? Because of what she did?”

  “Not just for Lucy,” he corrected her. “For all of them.”

  “Is there anything I can do?” Taryn asked. She’d never seen such miserable looking people.

  “Can you be there?” Jamey posed in a small voice. For a second she caught a glimpse of what he must have looked like as a little boy. It only made her only angrier for all of them.

  “For you?” she asked, then immediately wondered how he was able to get so many women to do so many different things for him.

  “No,” he replied, smoothing down the hair on his wife’s head. “For her.”

  Taryn nodded.

  Thirty-One

  “You sure you’re ready for this?”

  Taryn rolled her eyes. “Nobody is going to be ready for this,” she assured Frieda. It did not help that even she, the seasoned reporter from the northeast, looked nervous.

  “Are they going to talk?”

  She allowed Frieda to take her arm and lead her into the courtroom. Heather was waiting for them near the front, a few rows behind Lucy and Roxanne. “The key players,” she assured him. “I don’t know about Lucy yet.”

  Taryn quickly made the introductions between Frieda and Heather. Although she eyed her warily, Heather didn’t seem to have any more fight left in her. She looked beaten. Like she’d been crying for days. Taryn didn’t blame her. She, herself, had been up all night. She wondered if she’d ever sleep again.

  The defense had been making their case for three days. From what Frieda had told her, it hadn’t been going well. “They’ve just given up,” she’d said. “There’s nowhere to go.” The case was as good as closed.

  And then Roxanne dropped her bombshell. “The defense would like to call Mr. Jamey Winters to the stand.”

  The audible gasp was heard throughout the courtroom, but nobody reacted more visibly than Lucy herself. When she turned, her face was stark white. She caught Taryn’s eye and mouthed, “no, no” but Taryn nodded her head in Heather’s direction. Lucy closed her eyes, dropped her head, and turned back around. There was nothing she could do now.

  As far as anyone knew, Lucy and Jamey had no connection outside of their childhood elementary school. They were not friends, did not even run in the same social circles. They had not dated in high school, worked with one another, nor were they related. So when he was sworn in and took the stand, you could have heard a pin drop.

  After a few perfunctory questions, Roxanne turned her back to the witness, made quick eye contact with Taryn, and then took a deep breath. “Mr. Winters,” she began, “did you have any prior indication that Ms. Dawson was going to, in any way, harm Muddy Creek Elementary or the visitors to it?”

  “Yes,” Jamey answered, “I did.”

  Someone in the back of the room gasped then immediately stifled the sound. Taryn saw the prosecutor’s shoulders straighten, ready to pounce if necessary.

  “And what would that entail?”

  “On more than one occasion Ms. Dawson told me that she would like to see the school gone, in whatever fashion that could occur, and that she’d like to see many of its former staff members gone with it,” he replied.

  Taryn leaned forward and held her breath.

  “Was this an off-the-cuff remark, Mr. Winters, or something you took seriously?”

  “Ms. Dawson assured me that, if she had the means, she would ‘wash the sins from the school with fire,’” he said.

  A slight yelp, this one from one row behind her.

  “Do you know why Ms. Dawson wanted to destroy the school?”

  “Objection! Mr. Winters is not a mind reader.”

  “Overruled,” the judge replied, “although I’d be careful where you tread with this. It might not go in your favor. It is your witness, though, Mrs. Martin.”

  “Thank you. Do you know why Ms. Dawson wanted to destroy the school and any of its staff members?”

  Jame
y coughed and straightened his tie. His face was starting to turn red. “Yes, for me.”

  “I’m sorry, can you say that louder?”

  Jamey straightened in his seat and raised his voice. “Yes ma’am, she wanted to do it for me.”

  “Is there a particular reason she wanted anyone dead on your behalf?” Roxanne asked.

  “Objection!” The prosecutor once again rose to his feet. “The victims are not on trial here. They are dead, your honor.”

  “Just bear with me for a moment,” Roxanne pleaded.

  “Okay, but get to your point, Mrs. Martin.”

  Taryn watched the defense attorney take a deep breath and turn to face her witness again. “Why did Ms. Dawson want someone dead for you?”

  And then, in front of the people he’d known his entire life and those who held him in high regards as a pillar of the community, Jamey spoke for the first time in thirty years.

  “Because when I was a child attending Muddy Creek Elementary School, Mr. Everett Scott, our fifth-grade teacher, sexually molested myself and three other young boys in front of my classmates. The sexual abuse continued for a year. And Ms. Dawson was the only one who tried to stop it.”

  And then all hell broke loose.

  Thirty-Two

  Taryn sat on the steps of the old school and, once again, regarded the pictures on her camera. The children throwing the ball at Lucy. The principal’s desk. The smashed pumpkins in the classroom.

  The tall, good-looking teacher standing before the rest of the class, a prepubescent boy on his lap. The child’s shirt off, the teacher’s lips on his neck. The rest of the students trying to ignore what was going on in front of them. Some looking down, some hiding their faces, some struggling not to laugh.

  Little kids not understanding that sometimes the mind and body’s reaction to fright is to laugh, a nervous twitter that didn’t mean anything at all. Someone could have explained that to them. Should have explained that they didn’t need to carry that guilt with them, or any of it with them. But everyone in their lives that knew had looked away. Everyone.

  A principal just a door away, locked in her office, doing nothing to stop what was going on around the corner. And while she might not have heard the sexual activity, she most certainly heard the verbal abuse–the shouting, the objects flying around the room, the racket of an angry and fearful man trying to keep and maintain control.

  Ironically, in the end it hadn’t been the fear that had kept the students from running home and telling their parents what was happening, it was the love. Everett Scott had tried to intimidate with fright. But it had been his ethereal singing voice, almost womanly, his Gulliver’s Travels style tales, his exuberance even, that had made them want to remain in his good graces. He was charismatic in the way that many abusers are. They’d idolized him. Fought to be in his regards. Clamored over one another for his favors. He’d listened to their problems, bought them presents, encouraged their talents, gotten to know them. The attention he showered upon them, the dreams he made them believe they were capable of achieving–they loved him for that. None would risk losing it.

  All except for Lucy.

  She had seen through it. Lucy was a fixer, a child who wanted to help. Perhaps it had been her eye contact with Jamey while he was at the front of the room. It was the reading sessions when it would happen. Once the assignment was doled out, the chair would be dragged to the front of the room and a child, a special one, would be drawn to the front. Maybe one day she’d looked up and had really seen. Or maybe it was something else. But she hadn’t let her adoration stand in the way. And like the child who tried to convince everyone that the emperor was naked, she had spoken out. That had been the start of her own downfall. Everett couldn’t have that, of course. And he wasn’t a real monster, he’d probably convinced himself. He would never do anything to hurt her.

  But he could convince the others to do it.

  Bullying by proxy.

  The clash rang out through the window. Taryn imagined history would continue to repeat itself inside the building. Everyone would soon know what had happened, thanks to the picture Misty had tucked away inside her album, but that didn’t change the past.

  When the sound came again, Taryn rose to her feet. That was no ghost…

  This time she went through the front door. She was in the classroom in a matter of seconds.

  And found herself facing the wrong end of a gun.

  Thirty-Three

  “Okay, okay,” Taryn said, holding her hands up in the air over her head. “Everything’s okay.”

  “How can it be okay,” the other woman spat. “You’ve ruined everything. Everybody knows now. Everybody! Do you know what they’re going to say about those boys? They’ll laugh, that’s what. People don’t want to know about little boys. Can’t even imagine it! What are their daddies going to say!”

  Taryn walked backward until her bottom was up against the chalkboard. She was standing in front of the classroom, Naomi’s gun pointed straight at her face.

  “Naomi, Jamey wanted to talk about it,” she said slowly. “He wanted to help Lucy. Lucy did it for him. She wanted to save him.”

  She hadn’t been able to save the others. Jamey, maybe he had been her last chance.

  “Where was she when my brother Ethan died?” Naomi cried. “I got held back that year. We weren’t even supposed to be in the same classroom. But there we were. Who saved Ethan? Who!”

  “I’m sorry,” Taryn cried in return. “I’m sorry!”

  “You know out father had just died that summer,” Naomi wept erratically. “He died in the mines. An aneurysm. Mr. Scott was good to us. He took us right in, took care of us. We would have had nothing if not for him. He was a good man!”

  “Okay, okay,” Taryn cajoled.

  “And then when it started…” Naomi allowed the gun to shake for a moment, then straightened it. “The kissing, the hugging, the…” She couldn’t finish the sentence.

  “That’s how people like him get victims,” Taryn said. “They look for people, for kids, who need help. Who are going through weak times. They prey on those.”

  “Do you know what it was like to sit there every day? Just sitting there and watching him? He would look at me. Look at me! Like he wanted me to help. And I couldn’t do anything. Nothing! And later he would sing. Sing just for us. It was an apology. Any song we wanted sometimes. It couldn’t be bad when he sang.”

  She was rambling now, but if Taryn could keep her talking…at least she wasn’t shooting when she was talking.

  “Naomi, I am so sorry…”

  “And those other teachers. One walked right in one day with her dog when it was happening, she did! Then she just turned around and left. Like it wasn’t any of her business…”

  Naomi turned and stomped across the room. She stood at the row of windows and looked at the shelf below it.

  “Here,” she pointed. “It was Halloween. We’d all made these pumpkin things. It took us a week, between covering them and painting them and letting them dry. And then, because of Lucy, he destroyed them. Jamey was up front with him. It was almost always Jamey. Ethan didn’t understand. He was as good as Jamey. As smart. As nice. But it was almost always Jamey. He sat there and it was going on and on, and then Lucy interrupted. Just got right up and interrupted.”

  Taryn had to marvel at the young girl’s nerve. She wanted to ask what Lucy had said or done but didn’t think it was the time.

  “He got so angry. He stood up, marched over here to the window, threw them all down to the ground, and stomped every one of them. All of them.” Naomi sniffed. “I cried for a week. It was terrible.”

  Taryn’s heart broke at the fact that the loss of her art project was the only thing that, at the time, her little mind could process as the heartache. She hadn’t been able to wrap her head around the other bad things, so she’d thrown everything into her grief over losing her pumpkin.

  “Always Lucy’s fault.”

  “
It wasn’t Lucy’s fault,” Taryn interjected. “She was a victim, too.”

  Naomi raised the gun high in the air again and aimed it at the middle of the room and released the safety. “She should’ve burned the whole thing down,” she whispered. “She didn’t do it right.”

  At the same time Taryn dove towards Naomi’s feet and tackled her, the gun went off and slid across the floor, but not before clipping Taryn in the side. The pain shot through her searing knife, knocking the wind from her. Doubled over, Taryn tried to pull Naomi back, but Naomi had wrestled out of her grip and scampered away with a shriek. By the time Naomi lifted the gun again and pulled the trigger, Taryn was too late.

  Thirty-Four

  “Hey slugger.” Taryn opened her eyes and saw Jamey standing in her hospital room, a bouquet of flowers in his hands. “How’s it going?”

  “They say I am going to live,” she replied. “Mostly. How are you?”

  “Okay,” he said. “Lucy’s getting a new trial. I think she might be on her way over here to see you, though. I talked to her this morning. She’ll tell you all about it.”

  Matt, who had been napping in a chair he’d pulled up beside her, stood and stretched his arms. “I’m going to head down and find some of that mud they call coffee,” he announced. “Anyone else want anything?”

  When he was gone, Jamey took the seat beside her.

  “I am so sorry about everything that happened,” she began.

  Jamey reached over and patted her on the hand, careful of her IV. “It wasn’t your fault. It was our fault.”

  “You were kids. The adults in your life failed you,” Taryn said.

  “On some things,” he agreed, “but we have to take responsibility for what we did to Lucy. And none of us ever did. We all should have gotten help. I should’ve talked to the police about Lucy. I knew she was going to do something. I'd visited her, you see, just a week before that reunion. When I found out who was coming and what they were doing, I had a meltdown. She was the only one I could talk to. If I hadn’t done that…”