Chasing Amanda Read online

  “A record?” Molly gave a little laugh and told them about her journal, “But I can tell you what I’ve seen. I’ve got most of it right here.” She pointed to her head.

  Sal nodded.

  Molly was torn between trust and deceit, “Sal, I have no trouble talking about it, but I want to make sure of something first.”

  Mike looked at her questioningly.

  “Officer Brown basically said I was a suspect. If that’s why you’re talking with me, I want to know up front. I don’t play games, and I won’t be party to any, either. If I’m a suspect, come out and tell me, and I’ll get a lawyer, and then we can talk,” she spoke confidently, almost defiantly.

  “I didn’t realize that Officer Brown thought you were a suspect.” He looked at Mike.

  Mike chimed in, “Don’t look at me. He never directly conveyed that to me.”

  “Regardless,” Sal interrupted, “right now, you are not considered a suspect. You have my word on that, but obviously someone wants to convey things to you, whether it’s someone who is involved or knows who might be.”

  “The notes,” Mike said.

  “I’m interested in what you know that might help us find Tracey—and hopefully find her alive and quickly.”

  “Okay, good.” Molly surveyed the surrounding booths, making sure that there was no one she knew within earshot. She stared out the window, trying to figure out how, or what, to tell them.

  “Molly,” Sal touched her arm, “are you okay?”

  She sighed, “I’m fine. It’s just that…well....sometimes, it’s not easy describing visions. There are many parts to them, some that will make no sense at all, others that, in the end, will have nothing do to with the vision itself.” She squeezed lemon into her water and added a little Sweet ’n Low, making lemonade. Mike and Sal watched with questioning eyes. “This is my caffeine,” she smiled.

  Molly steeled herself for disbelief, then she began to describe the images she’d seen of a man being beaten, the three men hovering above him, the pain and the overpowering sadness that she’d felt. She stopped several times to collect her thoughts and figure out how to describe the depth of what she’d felt, the horrible sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach returning. Mike and Sal’s slack jaws and incredulous looks made Molly feel as if she were speaking obscenities. Her voice faded to a near whisper.

  At Mike’s urging, she went on to describe the apple candy taste, which brought saliva to her mouth as she spoke. She detailed the cold, dark, cavernous holes and passageways that she’d seen, the image of Tracey and the dark-haired woman on their knees, praying in front of many candles, and the peaceful feeling that Tracey emitted, the sheer lack of fear that Molly had recently felt coming from her, the strange calm which had seemed out of place and, somehow, wrong.

  Molly’s energy was draining. She felt queasy, as though she’d been telling tales that should not be revealed—as if, by voicing them, she were making them real. She knew she had to push herself to continue, replaying for them the evil that overtook her as she’d run down White Ground Road. She swallowed the bile that rose in her throat and continued to describe the image of the girl she’d seen in the flowered dress, the girl who walked happily into the cornfield next to the church, only to be swallowed whole and never seen again. Mike and Sal took notes but did not say a word. Molly thought they were afraid to speak, afraid she might stop divulging her secrets.

  Molly’s breathing had become shallow. She had one vision left to describe. She took a deep breath, finally, and told them of the sensation of the large palms against her own at the cellar doors of the Perkinson House.

  Molly leaned onto the table for support, her visions splayed out before them like a bad dream. Molly’s head felt heavy and ill fit. She lowered her face into her hands as unexpected tears streamed down her cheeks, leaving her empty, and feeling as though she’d somehow betrayed her own mind—rendering her depleted, sad. She barely registered Sal’s strong, even voice as he spoke to Mike.

  “Get a warrant.”

  Pastor Lett sat on the rear deck of her home, gripping her warm mug of coffee, looking upon the lake but thinking of the past. She thought of the days before Rodney’s beating, before she had taken the course of deception. She remembered fishing at the lake with Rodney, when Rodney was just a boy, the way his feet dangled over the dock, his toes wriggling in the water, and the way he had pulled them out quickly, worried that fish would bite them. No matter how many times she’d tell Rodney that he was scaring the fish away, he’d continue with his toe-wriggling game. They never caught a single fish. Yet every Saturday morning, before the mist would rise off of the lake, before the birds would leave their nests in search of food, she and Rodney would make their way to the docks, dressed in full fishing garb: tan vests with multiple pockets and lures attached, rubber boots that they’d discard as soon as they hit the docks, and tan and brown floppy fisherman hats, which Rodney called “fish heads.” The memory brought a smile to her lips.

  She watched the flurry of activity across the lake—the officers’ cars arriving, police dogs on leashes. She shouldn’t have been surprised, she knew what lay ahead; nevertheless, her hand began to shake. A splash of coffee spilled onto the deck, and she watched it spread like a horrible lie. She thought of Molly and the long talks they’d had, the intimate details of Molly’s depression they’d discussed, and felt the weight of sadness in Molly’s sudden mistrust.

  She stood and walked inside, looking around, for what, she wasn’t sure. Hints of who lay in wait at the Perkinson House? There were no visible hints in her home—except for the sole legal paper, hidden in the locked metal box on the top shelf in her den. The key, tucked behind her shirt, suddenly felt cold against her chest. Nerves. She moved methodically, retrieving her heavy coat from the closet and setting it on the small maple table near the front door.

  As a car pulled into the driveway, she rushed upstairs, taking the photo of Rodney down from the mantel in her bedroom—the photo of Rodney sitting on the living room floor of their childhood home, playing with a wooden train and smiling at the camera. She would carry the innocence of that photo with her as things became more difficult to handle. She said a small prayer and promised to keep Rodney safe, no matter what happened to her. There was a loud knock at the door. Pastor Lett held the photo to her chest for one last second, placed it carefully back on the mantel, aligning it with the other knickknacks, and walked calmly down the stairs.

  “I’m coming, just a minute,” the tranquility of her own voice startled her.

  On her front stoop stood an officer of the law.

  Sergeant Moeler briefly introduced himself. “Pastor Lett,” he began, “we have a search warrant for the Perkinson property.” He handed several papers to Pastor Lett, who took them with a trembling hand—suddenly too nervous and angry to read them, much less decipher them.

  “We would like to gain access to the premises now, please.”

  Pastor Lett drew in a long breath, thinking of Hannah and Newton. “No problem at all,” she said. She walked to the French doors, using each measured step to compose herself. She locked the doors and, on her way back toward the front door, paused to straighten a magazine. Thoughts of the kid ran painfully through her mind as she put on her coat and went out.

  “What exactly will you be looking for?” she asked as they walked toward Sergeant Moeler’s car.

  “Rodney Lett, ma’am,” Sergeant Moeler answered.

  Molly found Pastor Lett standing on the Perkinson driveway, watching the war-like scene before them unfold.

  “Good Lord,” said Pastor Lett. Heavily-armed police officers moved in and out of the woods, search dogs in tow. She watched the house that she had so carefully boarded up be ripped open and invaded by strangers and lowered her face into her hands, “What have I done?”

  “Is someone in there?” Molly asked, urgently.

  Pastor Lett shook her head without looking at Molly. “I take care of that house! That is my res
ponsibility! And now…just look! It’s being taken over, people are walking all over it, shouting, mussing up the floors, disturbing the balance!” She paced, the grief in her face undeniable; wrinkles settled in around her eyes, her mouth, drawing her face downward.

  Molly watched the ensuing commotion, listening to the sounds of disruption and envisioning the dogs running from room to room, scratching the floors with their nails, closets being thrown open. A few scattered voices rang through the thick, stressed air, “Clear! Here!” Her senses were overwhelmed. The unmistakable smell of Pastor Lett, Ivory soap and sweet perfume, mixed with the fresh scent of the cool outdoors.

  Twenty minutes later, Sergeant Moeler came down the hill.

  “Good, you got my call,” he said to Molly. He turned to Pastor Lett, “You’ve got a rodent issue in the cellar.”

  Molly watched the two of them. Their efforts to avoid looking at one another were painful for her to witness. Their distrust was blatant, her guilt, distressing.

  “The house was clear,” Mike said, turning to Molly with an annoyed look.

  “Clear?” Molly asked. Mike nodded. She turned to Pastor Lett. “If Rodney is alive, he might be able to help find Tracey Porter,” she pleaded, knowing full well that if she’d hidden her brother for that many years, she was not going to give him up easily.

  “Molly,” she said confidently. She covered her eyes with her index finger and thumb, drew in a deep breath, and said, “Rodney can’t help you.”

  “Molly, the house was clear. Leave the poor woman alone,” Mike said firmly. He shook Pastor Lett’s hand and went to join the search team as they descended the hill.

  Molly pursued Pastor Lett, “This girl has one chance, like Kate Plummer did.” she watched the muscles in her jaw tense. “The police made a mistake the first time. Kate may have been found if Rodney hadn’t been fingered as a suspect, and then…well…”

  “They cost him his life, Molly,” she said, heatedly. “His life!” She turned away.

  Molly called out to her again, “Think of the little girl. Think of Tracey.”

  “Think of Rodney,” she spat back. “Think of his family.”

  Pastor Lett stared at Molly. The silence drew them together, linking them in an uncomfortable moment.

  Sergeant Moeler’s voice broke the silence. “Molly! I told you to back off. If Rodney is alive, we’ll find him.”

  “But—” she said.

  Pastor Lett interrupted, “Sergeant Moeler, my brother was killed, murdered, because he was a suspect, because he knew things. Not because he hurt Kate Plummer! Not because he killed Kate Plummer! He was murdered because of insecure people in our little town, the town that I have served for over twenty-five damned years—the town that I have given my heart and soul to—the town that I thought I could trust with my own flesh and blood.”

  Molly stood between the two of them—the chasm between them impassable. She felt torn, “I’m sorry!” She raised her eyes to Pastor Lett’s and was struck by her venomous look. “Pastor Lett, I am truly sorry. It’s just…” her voice broke off, shaking. “It’s just that if we can save Tracey, we need to. You need to.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Molly,” she said. “He needs to.” She pointed to Sergeant Moeler, who stood ready to take the heat. “He needs to find Tracey. It’s certainly not your job, or my job, or, for heaven’s sake, Rodney’s job. It’s his job. The police need to find Tracey!”

  Mike walked toward her and said, “You are absolutely right, Pastor Lett. It is our job to find Tracey Porter. It was our job to find Kate Plummer, though I was not part of that investigation, but if Rodney is alive, it is imperative that we find him and speak to him. It does not mean that he would be placed under investigation for Tracey’s disappearance. We just want to talk to him.”

  “Do you know what happened when my brother was questioned by the police, Sergeant Moeler? Do you have any idea what it is like to come home and find that your brother has been beaten?” her face reddened, her arms flailed wildly with her angry words. “To walk into a room and find your own family member lying on the floor, not moving, barely breathing, covered in his own blood? Do you have any idea the pain one endures experiencing such a spectacle?”

  Sergeant Moeler fumed, “Yes, Pastor Lett, I do know exactly how that feels. My own wife was killed two years ago, and I was the one to find her. I know the pain that doesn’t go away, that follows you when you are awake and permeates your dreams.” He walked to within inches of Pastor Lett, unable to stop the hurt from spewing out. “I know, Pastor Lett. I know just how badly it hurts. I know the rancid taste of it that doesn’t leave your tongue, the taste of death. I know the smell of it, Pastor Lett, the smell of blood and dying flesh.”

  Molly watched, horrified, as Sergeant Moeler, wrought with anger, spat his angry words.

  “I know, Pastor Lett, the loneliness that you live with day after day—the what-ifs. What if I’d been home? What if I hadn’t run out for milk and eggs? What if I had come home earlier?” Tears welled in his eyes, his voice faltered. “I also know, Pastor Lett, that if someone had a chance to stop me from feeling that pain, if someone had an inkling of how to save her, I wish they would have—and believe me, if I’d found out afterward that someone could have helped her, and didn’t, I can’t tell you that I wouldn’t have harmed them for not stepping in.”

  Pastor Lett’s body sagged, as if all the energy had been sucked out of her. A silent moment passed between them—a stand off. When Pastor Lett spoke, she sounded defeated. “Sergeant Moeler, I am the pastor of the church. This is my community. Do you think that I would lie about something so critically important to finding that young girl?” Pastor Lett’s voice was low and surprisingly calm, reassuring. “The Lord once said, ‘The soul who sins is the one who will die. The son will not share the guilt of the father.’”

  Molly tried to decipher what Pastor Lett was saying. Sergeant Moeler turned to join the other officers as they retreated down the hill. Molly felt a pang of guilt as she watched Pastor Lett’s discomfort. “Pastor Lett? I know it seems like I don’t trust you, or that I’m accusing you, but—”

  She cut her off mid sentence, “Molly, you have done nothing wrong. You have been led to believe a lie, and you are simply trying to save Tracey. I understand.” She smiled gently and held out her hands to Molly in supplication, “We’re all in this together—you, me, and the Lord.”

  Molly contritely placed her hands in Pastor Lett’s, beginning to feel as though she might be telling the truth about Rodney. At once her chest grew heavy, her lungs constricted. Through Pastor Lett’s hands, she received an electrifying jolt, hitting her with such force that she almost fell backwards. Her vision wavered, and she heard her name from somewhere far away. She floated above the voice, as if carried by a cloud. An image appeared in her mind—a very large man, huddled in a shadowy room, rocking back and forth. Chanting came from his direction, “Dark tunnel, dark tunnel.” Molly grappled in vain for Pastor Lett’s wrists just as the vision disappeared and her legs failed her. Her body sagged to the ground, her cell phone ringing furiously in her pocket.

  Twenty Five

  Tracey awoke to find Mummy sitting on the edge of her mattress. “I made you some warm milk this morning.” Tracey smiled as the steam rose and warmed her face. “You were quite a trooper last night. Were you scared?” she asked.

  Tracey shrugged. “A little,” she said.

  “Before we start our day today,” she said, “we have to talk to God, Tracey, thank Him for taking care of us last night.” Mummy’s hair brushed across her shoulders as she spoke.

  Tracey thought Mummy looked pretty with her hair swinging like that. She wriggled out from underneath the covers, excited to learn how to talk to God the right way so that she wouldn’t get sick. She took a sip of her milk and set it on the floor next to her mattress. Her happiness faded as she thought of the church dress she’d have to wear. “Mummy,” she put her hand on Mummy’s arm, smiling at
the softness of the brown sweater she wore. “I’m cold today. Can I pray in my regular clothes?” She bit her lower lip, expecting Mummy to get upset.

  Instead, Mummy placed her palm flat against Tracey’s forehead. “No fever.” She pressed her lips against her forehead, “Nope, cool as a cucumber.” She smiled. Then she put her hand under Tracey’s blanket and took hold of her small foot, yanking her hand out quickly. “You are cold! You have ice feet!” she laughed. Tracey giggled. “It’s a good thing I brought warm socks for you today!” She held up the fluffiest socks Tracey had ever seen and placed them in the center of her blanket.

  Tracey scooped them up and brought them to her cheek, “I love them!”

  “Since you were such a good girl yesterday, and you’re like an iceberg today, you can wear your regular clothes to pray.”

  Tracey scooted under the covers and slipped her feet into the new socks. She dressed in the clothes Mummy had given her. The shirt was a little too snug, and the sweatshirt was a little too big and had a stain on it, which looked like ketchup, but Tracey didn’t care—it was red, one of her favorite colors, and she was warm. She pulled on clean panties and corduroy pants that were as brown as Mummy’s sweater. They matched, and Tracey felt a pang of happiness. She reached down and grabbed the mug from the floor, drinking the last of the tepid milk.

  “Maybe we’ll go outside a little today,” Mummy said.

  Tracey’s eyes lit up. “Really?”

  “Really!” she said. “I have to run some errands today, so maybe we’ll go outside for a little while before I do that. I have to get a few things on the outside.”

  “Can I come with you?” Tracey asked.

  “I’m sorry, pumpkin, but I can’t take you with me today. It will be very boring and very tiresome. Besides, I don’t want you exposed to those toxins any more than you have to be. Going outside to play is a worry in and of itself, but I think it’s worth it. I don’t want to risk it for boring old errands.” Mummy moved to the table and set out Tracey’s drawings, papers, and crayons for Tracey to use while she was gone.