to keep moving.”
Paquin drove faster. In the back of the car, Sheila flipped open the pre-paid phone card and began punching code numbers into the cell phone to redeem her air minutes.
“We need to feed my horses,” she said.
“What do you mean?” Pam asked. “The horses at the farm? Where the cops are?”
“Yes.”
“But they’ll feed the horses. They’re right there. They’ve got to.”
Sheila began to cry. This show of emotion took the women aback. “No! They don’t know how to take care of horses. They can’t get to me, so they’ll let them starve. Or worse! We have to rescue them.”
“How are we freaking going to do that?” Charpentier blurted out.
Sheila stopped crying. “We need to take care of a few things first.”
Paquin prepared to point the car east, back along Route 101 from Manchester to Epping. She stopped at a gas station to fuel up and they all got out to stretch their legs and buy some hot dogs for lunch. When the three women with loud voices tumbled out of the silver sedan, heads turned. The other people pumping gas stared. Sheila defiantly met their gazes.
“Oh, yeah. That’s right. You know who I am,” she said. Although at this point her name had only been mentioned in passing in connection with Kenneth Countie’s disappearance and her picture had yet to be broadcast, she acted like everyone recognized her. “That’s right. It’s me. And I’m innocent.”
Before Pam Paquin, Sandy Charpentier and Sheila LaBarre arrived in Epping, they stopped in the town of Raymond. They looked for a bank in hopes of finding a notary. Sheila directed Pam to pull into a supermarket on their right. She said it had a small bank window near the checkout. She chose not to go to the full-sized, full-service bank that was on the other side of the street.
A young bank employee dressed in a clean blue shirt and necktie was the only male working among a handful of female tellers. They were busy giving away water bottles and fanny packs in an effort to drum up business for their line of checking products. The guy spotted them walking through the automatic doors.
“I need someone to notarize this document for me,” the lady with the blonde hair and Southern accent said. It was handwritten on one sheet of lined paper. Its words and phrases were mysteries to Paquin and Charpentier, but the two were endlessly impressed that Sheila could compose such a thing off the top of her head.
The top read “State of New Hampshire, Rental Management Agreement.” It listed the addresses of three apartments Sheila owned in Somersworth and gave authority to Sandra Charpentier to manage them and collect rent. Like the other quasi-legal documents Sheila drew up in her life, it was over the top and interspersed with pointed personal notations:
…it is agreed that Sandra will manage these two properties to rent by Tenancy At Will, 30 day notice either party no reason require, pro bono, as a favor to her friend Sheila….Keys are inside green 1995 pickup truck in Barn at 70 Red Oak Hill Lane, Epping, NH. Sandra is also to receive any other keys inside farmhouse to cars, trucks, anything belonging to Sheila LaBarre.
It was also noted that the agreement was revocable in written form by Sheila. It was a document she knew would be read and challenged, just like the bill of sale for the horses she presented Paquin.
They made one more stop before heading to the farm. Sheila’s nerves had turned into a full-blown case of diarrhea.
The three took back roads through Epping, winding their way toward the LaBarre farm. Paquin and Charpentier weren’t sure what they were going to do when they pulled up to the yellow taped gate they had seen on TV. It occurred to Paquin (who was beginning to feel like a fugitive herself) that this visit to the farm seemed like a risky move. Perhaps Sheila wasn’t thinking clearly anymore. She’s nervous as hell. Are we going to get there and they pull their guns out on us? I don’t want to get shot for this woman!
Sheila said there were five horses on the farm. The Shetland ponies were named Shehasta and Whinny. The caramel-colored gelding, quite appropriately named St. Serious, was quiet and smart. Truth, a dark brown standardbred female, was the prettiest of the herd. The oldest had been on the farm for as long as Sheila had been living there. Caldonia, a huge draft horse that her late husband Bill LaBarre had bought at auction, was now scared and gimpy. The chiropractor always massaged and manipulated the horse to relieve her pain. He used to say the horses were proof that chiropractic techniques were real medicine, for with horses the placebo effect is eliminated.
Being with the 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?”
