Wicked Intentions. Kevin Flynn
horses, feeding them, brushing them, watering them, always had brought back warm memories of the man who took her in. Tears filled her eyes as she thought about returning home to the animals she loved so much.
The car began to climb the lane. Paquin regarded the farms, the same fields that Assistant Attorney General Peter Odom saw the day before. A city girl herself, she paid no mind to the horse trailers coming the other way. But Sheila leaned forward in her seat, grabbed hold of the door in preparation to spin to the left as the trailer passed them.
“Those are my horses!”
“What?”
“Those sons of bitches! They’re taking my horses! Turn around!”
Paquin and Charpentier looked at each other. Charpentier shrugged her shoulders and Paquin stopped the car. She took five points to make her three point turn, then shot off after the trailer.
“What do we do?” Paquin asked.
“Make them pull over. They can’t take my horses.”
Charpentier asked, “What if they’re cops?”
She paused. “Those are no longer my horses.” There was a lump in her throat. Tears rolled down her cheeks. “They belong to Pam. She’s got a bill of sale.”
Paquin pulled their car alongside the truck pulling the trailer. She honked the horn; Charpentier motioned for the driver to pull over. They all stopped on the side of the road. Sheila waited in the car, crouched down in the backseat.
“Go talk to them,” Sheila said to Paquin.
“I’m not going! She’s going,” she said pointing to Charpentier.
“I’m not going! You’re going!”
“You’re going with me!”
“They’re your horses now, Pammy!”
“Stop it!” Sheila verbally separated them. “You both go. And don’t let them see me.”
Paquin and Charpentier got out of the car and walked back to the truck. Their nervous energy started fueling their courage. “Where are you taking those horses?” Paquin asked the driver.
“They’re going to Stratham, to the SPCA.”
“Those are my horses.” Paquin now was convinced they were hers.
“Are you,” he looked down at a clipboard for a name, “Sheila LaBarre?”
“No. She sold me those horses. I have a bill of sale. They’re mine.”
“You can’t have them.”
“Why not?!” Charpentier joined in. “They’re hers!”
“They’ve been seized by the police. If you want them, you’ve got to go talk to them.”
“Epping Police?” They had both heard Sheila rail against the department and the chief who had it in for her.
“I’ve got to bring the rest of them to the shelter in Stratham. If you talk to the police, I’m sure you can work something out.”
The two women looked at each other, unsure of their next step. They knew Sheila would not want to go to the police station, but she was damn set on getting those horses.
“Are they okay? The horses?”
“They’re old. But I think they’re going to be fine. We’ll give them a checkup, give them some hay and groom them.”
Paquin and Charpentier shuffled back to the car and got in. Sheila remained low behind the backseat bench, waiting for some kind of report. None came.
“What did he say?” she finally blurted.
“If we want the horses, we have to go talk to the police.”
“The police? Why?”
“They’ve seized them. But he thinks if we show them the bill of sale, we might be able to get them back.”
“What do you want us to do, Sheila?”
She thought some more. “You’re going to get those horses. Let’s go.”
The car pulled back into traffic and disappeared down the twisting road. In the cab of the pickup, the animal rescue worker was on his cell phone. The 911 operator had put him in touch with the Epping dispatch center.
“There are two women inside the car. It’s a New Hampshire license plate, number….”
9
Wal -Mart
On the evening of Saturday March 11, two weeks before the police investigation of the Silver Leopard Farm began, Sheila turned up at the Wal-Mart customer service desk with Kenneth Countie. Although it lost its holiday season battle with Chief Dodge over twenty-four-hour service, Wal-Mart was still one of the only businesses open late in Epping.
“I need you!” Sheila was rapping her hand on the counter. The younger of the two women behind the desk approached her, but Sheila put up a hand. “No, you,” she said pointing to the older woman. “I need you!”
“Can I help you?” Brigit Pearson asked. She wore the familiar blue Wal-Mart vest with her first name on a tag. Sheila stood in front of her wearing a fashionable brown leather coat.
“There’s a woman, a customer in this store, who just grabbed him by the arm and pushed him out of the way!”
The anger and determination in the customer’s voice at first took Pearson by surprise. She glanced at the young man standing next to the woman. He was wearing blue jeans and a red sweatshirt. Although he would not return the look, keeping his head down the whole time, Pearson could see there was an age difference between the two customers. She looked closer and could see there were cuts and scratches all over the man’s face.
“She did that?” Pearson asked.
“Yes!” Then Sheila said, “Well, no. This is all from a car accident. A really bad car accident and he was burned on his arm and all up in here.”
Sheila grabbed Kenny’s arm and spun him around. The young man made no attempt to resist. Sheila grabbed his sweatshirt and pulled it up over his head, revealing a large burn on Kenny’s back. Pearson was both shocked and embarrassed, but she noted that there was no blood on the inside of the sweatshirt. Pearson noticed something else while looking at his bare torso: his skin color was odd.
The customer service desk was in the center portion of the enormous store, right in front of the checkout lines. Shoppers passing by started to stare. Kenny did not look up. Pearson wasn’t sure whose gaze he was avoiding: hers or Sheila’s.
“He’s in a lot of pain,” Sheila continued. “I want something done right now! I want the head of security and the manager here now! Do you hear me?”
I’ve got to defuse this situation somehow, Pearson thought. Other employees were gathering at the customer service desk or watching from afar.
“I want that woman thrown out! I want something done now! I have friends who work at Wal-Mart, this Wal-Mart, and I want something done now or I’ll have your job!”
Pearson tried to explain that they did not have a security team at their store. “Would you like to call the police?”
“No. I don’t need the police. I’m a lawyer and I can do it myself.”
Pearson dialed the extension for the management office. One of the store’s co-managers, Dan O’Neil, said he’d be right down. Another associate, who had witnessed the tirade, found co-manager Patsy Lynn on the floor.
“There’s a woman flipping out at the service desk,” he told her.
O’Neil and Lynn both