Chasing Amanda Read online

  They sat in the living room, and he pet Stealth and made playful sounds toward Trigger. Molly was confused by the relaxed man who sat before her. His personality in stark contrast to the stern look he’d given her in the hallway at the police station.

  “They think anyone is fair game,” Molly attempted small talk.

  “I love animals. I have a Great Dane and a Pomeranian.”

  Molly lifted her eyebrows.

  “I know, strange mix,” he said. “The Dane was mine, and the Pomeranian belonged to a victim. I just couldn’t let it go to the shelter. Anyway, they’re best buds now. Rex, my Dane, thinks Tippy is her puppy. She’s very protective. Cutest thing when they’re curled up together.”

  Molly was surprised by his open and bright demeanor.

  In a more serious tone, he said, “So tell me about these leads.”

  She was no longer on edge from the phone call, relieved to hand over the worries of the day to someone else for a while.

  Molly started to explain about the notes she had received, and Sergeant Moeler cut her off. “I’m interested in the notes, but quite frankly, Mrs. Tanner—”

  “Molly.”

  He nodded, “Molly. Mike,” he smiled again. “You were dead-on in the interrogation room.”

  “But how—” Molly shook her head, then it dawned on her. “Two-way mirror?”

  He shrugged.

  “So Officer Brown sent you over because he thinks I’m crazy? Or party to the crime?” Molly turned away angrily.

  “No,” Sergeant Moeler said, then corrected himself, “maybe, but that’s not my intent. I came because I’m curious. How did you know about the interrogations?”

  Molly stewed in her growing anger. “If you’d like to talk about the anonymous notes I’ve been getting and how they might lead to Tracey, that’s fine, but I’m not going to discuss my visions anymore. I’m not a circus freak. I seriously wanted to help, but I can see that no one at the police station takes me seriously.” She stood, as if ready to walk him to the door.

  He didn’t move.

  She put her hand on her hip, “Sergeant Moeler, I don’t know what you expect to find out about me.”

  He stood, his body relaxed next to Molly’s tension-ridden self. He spoke easily, “Molly, I’m not trying to cast you as a circus freak, and I’m sorry if you felt that way. I’m not curious out of voyeurism. I’m curious because we never know what lead will take us to find the missing girl.”

  Molly questioned his motives, staring silently.

  He handed her a business card, “Look, here’s my number. When you’re ready to talk, I’ll listen,” he paused. “Do you want to show me those notes?”

  Warily, Molly acquiesced. When she returned with the notes, she asked, skeptically, but with a sense of hope, “So what do we do now?”

  “We do nothing. I have to hand this over to the officer in charge.” Sergeant Moeler gathered the notes and stood to leave.

  “Officer Brown?”

  “Do you have a problem with Officer Brown?” he asked, one eyebrow raised.

  “Well,” she hesitated, ran her fingers along the desk as she looked in the distance, “not a problem, really. It’s just that…well, let’s just say that I’m not sure he is really going to take me seriously, and I don’t see him as a go-getter. I get the idea he’s more of a sit-and-let’s-see-what-happens type of guy.”

  Sergeant Moeler laughed, a quiet, confirmatory laugh. “Well, at least you read people well, but there’s more to him than you see. I’ve worked with him for three years, and it never fails to amaze me how it appears he’s doing nothing all day, and then he solves cases,” he snapped his fingers, “just like that. I don’t have a choice, Molly. I have to give him the information. He’ll delegate it, probably, and I’ll try and stay on top of it.”

  Molly fell onto her living room couch, propped up her feet, and questioned her motive for not revealing the phone call, which seemed to have slipped her mind the minute Sergeant Moeler had walked into the house. The dogs panted in Molly’s face. She shooed them away. Reluctantly, they sulked to the other side of the room and lay down.

  Just as she began to relax, her cell phone rang. She debated letting it go to voicemail and begrudgingly pushed herself off of the couch to retrieve her phone; Hannah Slate flashed on the screen.

  “Hello?” she could not hide her irritation.

  “Molly!” Hannah’s voice was overly enthusiastic.

  “Hannah, hi, how are you?” Molly faked levity.

  “I’m just fine, thanks,” she said. “I was just going out for a walk and thought you might enjoy coming with me. I was so sorry to have missed you yesterday.”

  Molly’s first inclination was to decline, but then she reconsidered.

  “Hannah, I hope you know where we’re going,” Molly said, “because I’m totally lost.”

  “Of course I do,” Hannah laughed. “Did you think I’d bring you out in the woods and leave you here to find your way out?”

  When she paused after her strange statement, Molly knew a moment of nervous fear—half wishing she had left a trail of crumbs like Hansel and Gretel.

  “Come on, Molly,” she tugged on Molly’s sleeve. “I’ve been in and out of these woods for over thirty years. We’re nearing Schaeffer Road by now, I would say.”

  “How the heck did we get there without crossing White Ground?” Molly asked, perplexed.

  “We did cross it, at the other end of the stream. You were just too busy to notice,” Hannah stopped to rest.

  Molly set her backpack on the ground and crouched next to a stream that snaked through the woods.

  “This is one of my favorite places,” Hannah said. “Come here a minute. I want to show you something.” She walked up the slight incline, looking carefully at all of the large trees.

  Molly watched Hannah from behind, her ponytail swayed with each step, her body tall and strong. Hannah splayed her hands on a large beech tree, gazed upward.

  “Look here,” Hannah beckoned Molly to come forward.

  Molly looked at the tree curiously.

  Hannah pulled Molly gently to the spot where she had been standing. “Now do you see it?”

  “I see something,” Molly squinted.

  Hannah’s voice grew quiet, and her eyes, introspective. “That, my friend, is a heart that I carved into this tree when I first arrived in Boyds.”

  Molly looked at the bark, where it had curled back from the grooves. “Your and Charlie’s initials?”

  “No. What’s inside that heart is sacred—but it’s not me and Charlie. Some people aren’t meant to be remembered.”

  They crossed another section of road. Molly recognized the one-lane bridge, so small it almost didn’t exist, and the creek bed that grew slender as it passed under the bridge, then widened just beyond. The bridge linked White Ground and Schaeffer Roads. They climbed the grassy bank and headed back into the seclusion of the woods. The roar of several small motors broke into the silence.

  Hannah crinkled her nose and looked up toward the sky, “The model airpark. The bane of my existence.”

  “Boyds has an airpark?” Molly was intrigued.

  “You’re right next to it, Molly.” Hannah blocked the sun with her right hand, and pointed with her left beyond the bushes. “They have limited times that they can run the planes, but when they do, they sure are noisy.”

  Molly had a nagging feeling that she should have known about the airpark.

  They turned away and continued on their hike, eventually reaching the Schaeffer Farm Trail, another place Molly had never seen. “This is beautiful,” she said. “I love Boyds.”

  “There’s a reason I’m still here, you know,” Hannah said.

  Molly listened intently, hoping for what? A confession? Hannah was her friend. She didn’t want Hannah to be guilty of anything, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that Hannah was hiding something.

  They talked about Tracey’s disappearance and how similar it was
to Kate’s. They shared their sadness for Pastor Lett’s loss of her brother, and Molly asked Hannah if she’d thought Rodney had been involved.

  “Don’t be silly. I knew Rodney fairly well. He was kind and gentle, like Carla. I still don’t know what possessed the police to drag him in for questioning. Just like that, they were the catalyst for his murder.” As she spoke, her voice became agitated.

  “What do you think happened to Kate?” Molly asked.

  “I don’t know. Some people say she was taken by someone from out of town. Others say she’s holed up somewhere with a child molester. If she is alive, I just hope she’s okay.” She looked beyond Molly and grew silent. “Shhh, listen,” Hannah whispered.

  Molly listened. Shouts and children’s laughter carried almost inaudibly through the air. The sun, high in the sky, had long ago tipped over the noon time ridge.

  “The Adventure Park,” Hannah said in an annoyed, sharp voice, and pointed beyond Molly. “It’s right over there. I was not pleased when they put the park in. It ruined a perfect setting.”

  They continued in the direction of the Adventure Park, and eventually Molly came to recognize where they were. Hannah walked right over to where Molly had seen her crouched down on the day of the search—to the hot spot. Hannah knelt and patted the ground. Molly watched, stunned. The look on Hannah’s face baffled Molly—she looked as if she might cry. Guilt? Molly pretended not to notice, unsure of how, or if, she should approach her.

  Hannah closed her eyes. Molly turned away, thinking of her biggest regret, the secret she’d kept.

  Hannah stood and walked back the way they’d come, leaving Molly to stare at her back, bewildered.

  Pastor Lett took the keys from around her neck and methodically unlocked the back door, first the padlock, then the deadbolt, and finally, the scratched and rusty doorknob itself. The heavy oak door creaked open, releasing a rush of frigid, stale air. Pastor Lett drew her coat tightly across her chest and stepped onto the worn, wooden floors. Her footsteps echoed in the sparsely-furnished house, giving it an aura of hollowness.

  She ran her fingers along the cracked plaster walls, her mind hovering anxiously between relief and panic. Her fear of exposure grew worse with every passing day. She felt her time with the kid was coming to an end and feared not for what that would mean for her, but for the kid, for Newton, and for Hannah. She moved slowly, trancelike, through the kitchen and into the musty living room. At the bottom of the wide staircase, she knelt down, as if guided there by an unseen will. She clasped her hands over her knee, bent her head, and just before she closed her eyes, she caught a glimpse of the family portrait that hung on the wall next to the staircase.

  “Please, Lord, do not take this kid from me.” She prayed with such devotion that she believed God could not ignore her, unless He did so willfully. “Please do not expose our sins to the world around us. Keep this introduction silent and let us continue to find our way together, as we’ve done for so long.” Shamefully, she continued, “I realize, Lord, that this is selfish, but it is for the best. Please forgive me for what I have done, for how I have done it.”

  She opened her eyes and raised her head, her gaze settling first to the windows next to the stairs, and then higher, to the top of the stairs, where looking down upon her was a woman and a young girl—an apparition. She wiped her eyes, certain she had not seen what she thought she had. She staggered to her feet, her breath caught in her throat. At the top of the stairs, stood Mrs. Perkinson, whom she recognized from the portrait, and a young girl. The figures were transparent, yet discernable. The woman’s eyes locked with Pastor Lett’s, her floor-length dress and light apron, tied around her waist, moved as she beckoned her with her arms—motioning her to come forward. Pastor Lett’s legs felt like lead as she moved toward the stairs. She lifted her foot to the first riser, certain her legs would fail her, and yet they carried her up the long staircase. The little girl clung to her mother’s leg, peering out from behind. Pastor Lett stood three steps from the landing, holding onto the railing, her eyes wide, disbelieving. The woman turned and walked down the hall, toward the far bedroom. The little girl held her hand, looking over her shoulder once, then forward again. Pastor Lett forced herself to continue up the risers, and finally, onto the landing. She watched the tail of the woman’s dress disappear into the bedroom. The silence pressed in on her. She made her way slowly down the hallway, telling herself that what she had seen was not real—that she was exhausted. She forced the lessons that she had been taught, that the spirit lived beyond the heavenly body, to the back of her mind. She stood at the entrance to the bedroom and pushed the heavy wood door all the way open. It creaked and knocked against the wall, startling her. In the center of the room, the little ghostly girl played with a wooden dollhouse, a dollhouse that Pastor Lett had seen many times—an exact replica of the Perkinson House. The figures in the house were set up in various rooms of the tiny diorama. The girl moved them with her transparent fingers. The tiny mother figurine stood in the kitchen, next to a miniaturized stove. The father figure was placed in the study, surrounded by a desk and shelves that were perfectly scaled. The inhabited rooms were on the middle floor of the dollhouse. The top floor of the dollhouse had four rooms, each one equipped with a miniature-sized bed and nightstand, a small figurine of a girl lay on a bed in the center of one of the bedrooms. The first floor of the dollhouse had indistinguishable rooms, just bare open spaces. The last figurine, a boy, was placed in the open space of the first floor, next to a plastic candle. Pastor Lett took those images in quickly; mere seconds had passed.

  The little girl looked up at her and smiled. Pastor Lett blanched, she could barely breathe.

  The girl mouthed, “Thank you.”

  Pastor Lett blinked rapidly and swept her eyes toward a movement at the far end of the room. Mrs. Perkinson stood in front of the boarded-up window. Each board appeared to be an oddly integral part of her body. Her hands were clasped in front of her. She nodded, as if in slow motion. A sudden chill whisked through the room, and the woman and child faded away. Pastor Lett remained still, only the ends of her hair moved with the sudden gust of air. Just as suddenly, the chill was gone, swallowed by the walls.

  Twenty One

  Molly pulled into her driveway to find Steve Moore, the roofing contractor that Cole had hired a few weeks before, sitting in his truck in front of her house. Molly parked her car and walked to the driver’s side door. Steve leaned over his clipboard, cell phone pressed tightly against his ear. He held up one finger to Molly. Molly sifted through her memory trying to recall if Cole had mentioned that he’d forgotten to pay him. A moment later, Steve rolled down his window. Even his large truck seemed too small for his six-foot-five frame. He smiled, a kind, open smile that held no pretense or hidden agenda, simply a welcome greeting.

  “Sorry, Molly,” he said. “Cell phones: you gotta love ’em, you gotta hate ’em.” He waved his phone in his enormous hand.

  Molly smiled, “What’s up, Steve?”

  “I came by the other day to check on a leak. I just wanted to make sure that everything was okay, that there were no issues.”

  Molly told him that they hadn’t had any other leaks and that she appreciated his stopping by. On a whim, she turned back and asked, “Steve, do you know anything about the Perkinson family or their house? The one near the lake?”

  “Sure, I’ve worked around here for so many years that there ain’t much I don’t know. Which is good and bad if you get my drift,” he cracked a wicked little smile. “What do you want to know?”

  “I don’t really know. I just have a funny feeling about the house, that’s all.”

  “It used to be a hotel, and I’ve heard that it has ghosts, too.” He started the engine of his truck.

  “What do you know about the ghosts?” Molly asked excitedly.

  He laughed. “Well, I don’t know them personally, if that’s what you mean. I’ve heard rumors of old Mr. Perkinson walkin’ ’round the house, o
n the grounds, and of the late Mrs. Perkinson sittin’ in a rockin’ chair, knittin’.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, there were a few stories that went around for a while, but I doubt they were true. Oh, you know how these things go, everything from Lizzie Borden to the Amityville Horror.”

  Molly looked intrigued.

  “I’m not sayin’ that it ain’t true, I’m just sayin’ that I’ve heard about a daughter who didn’t really exist, and a son that was born when they were really old, but I ain’t never seen no proof.” He looked away, guffawed, “Stories, they grow like trees around here.”

  “Well, you never know what happened back then.”

  “You know Newton Carr? He never lets things go undocumented,” he rolled his eyes. “He s’posably asked old Chet Perkinson, you know, to validate the facts? Anyway, according to Newton, old Chet Perkinson ain’t as with it as he used to be. Said the child was never born. So who knows where these stories come from.

  “One thing I do know,” his voice grew quiet, “they all died in that house, one by one. They didn’t believe in no hospitals. It’s a wonder old Chet left.” Steve paused, then cheerily said, “Speaking of hospitals, I guess you know about the big indoor yard sale up at the private school to benefit Children’s Hospital. It’s been going on all week. I went up a couple nights ago.”

  Damn! Molly had forgotten all about it. “How was it?”

  “It was great. I saw Newton there. He was picking up a bunch of kids’ stuff, probably for his grandkids, pants, shirts, dresses—even bought toys.”