Chasing Amanda Page 3

  Small battery-powered lights sat on an abused end table. An unlit candle lay tilted on the floor. Tucked into a nook in the dirt wall was a mattress, a cream comforter thrown haphazardly off the edge. An old, stained sofa sat an angle, inches out from the wall. The chamber was silent—too silent. Pastor Lett’s heart pounded against her ribs. She stared at the black hole behind the sofa, calling out in a sweet voice, “Honey, you in here?”

  Worry grew in her heart as she moved through the empty chambers, then retraced her steps back to the main chamber. She replaced the plywood and shelves, roughly arranging the tins and tools, her face tight with frustration. She left the cellar, locking the heavy chain securely in place.

  Pastor Lett paced the back yard, worrying. She looked up as a shadow moved past the window of one of the upstairs bedrooms. Mumbling under her breath, she fumbled with the keys, unlocking the thick wooden door that led from the back porch into the butlers’ pantry. I’ve got you.

  “Ow, shit!” Molly grimaced at the pain in her palm as she lifted the spaghetti pot from the hot burner.

  “Baby, let me get that,” Cole said as he walked into the kitchen and saw his wife struggling. “What happened to your hand?”

  Molly backed onto a white kitchen chair and laid her arm across her thigh. “Did you lose your pager today?” she asked, annoyed. “I tried to page you all afternoon.”

  “No. It was crazy, seeing patients, doing procedures. I must have forgotten to put it back on.” He set the pan back on the stove and knelt in front of Molly. “I’m sorry, baby. What happened?” He kissed her bandaged palm, “Let me see that hand.” He unwrapped the bandage. “Where are the pups?”

  Molly had almost forgotten about their dogs’ earlier escape. She shrugged, “They jumped the fence again. I’ll get them later.” She sat back in her chair, exasperated, and looked down at the crown of his beautiful dark hair, her frustration beginning to subside. “I had a terrible day,” she sighed, “well, not terrible, but scary and confusing to say the least! Did you see the paper? The story about the little girl who’s missing?”

  Cole quickly glanced up at her, “No time this morning. I was running late, remember?” He fiddled with her bandage, his face grew concerned, “What did you say about a girl?”

  Molly told Cole about Tracey’s disappearance. “I met her parents today and helped with the search. That’s how I cut my palm.”

  “Yeah, your palm,” he said with a sigh, as he inspected her hand. “You could use a stitch or two.”

  Molly snatched back her hand, “What? No! I don’t need a stitch or two. It’ll be just fine!” Molly was petrified of needles—any needles, whether they were aimed at her or anyone else. “Don’t you remember when Erik hit his head on the counter and needed stitches? I nearly passed out at the sight of the needle!” she exclaimed. She’d had to leave the room, and still felt guilty for not being strong enough to be there for him when he’d needed her—neither then, nor for the two years after Amanda’s death. “I don’t think so.” She stubbornly shook her head.

  “Honey, look at the gash! How did you do this?” Cole stood, right hand on his hip, left hand running through his hair—the familiar nervous movement that had toyed with Molly’s heart for the past twenty-one years.

  “I tripped over a log,” she said sheepishly, wrapping her hand back up. She stood and snuggled into the familiarity of him. The smell of his aftershave faded into the unique smell of strength, of man, after a long day’s work. I love your smell, she thought. His once-lanky arms and skinny chest, now full and muscular, held her tight. She wished the last few hours had never happened, that she’d open her eyes and realize it was all a bad dream.

  “Mol, are you sure you’re okay?” he asked.

  She pulled back from him and looked up. The concern in his eyes did her in, and tears that she hadn’t realized she’d been holding poured down her cheeks.

  “Oh, Mol,” he pulled her close again, caressing the back of her hair. “It’s not Amanda, baby. It’s not her. You’re okay.”

  “It’s like reliving my worst nightmare,” Molly said, although that wasn’t really the truth. Her worst nightmare would have been if it were Erik that was missing. She thanked God that Tracey was not her own child and was sure that there was some sort of sin woven into that type of thought—taking comfort that someone else’s pain was not her own.

  Cole gently reminded Molly of her coping mechanisms and that this child was not Amanda. “Mol, it’s probably not safe for you to be involved in the search. The police don’t even know if the abductor is a serial killer, rapist, or something even worse.”

  Molly knew what Cole really meant but was too kind to say: It wasn’t safe because Molly might not be able to control her own emotions. She turned away.

  Cole tried to lighten the mood, joking with Molly about how she was still making up for lost time with Erik, and still slightly over-protective of him. “Didn’t you call him a few nights ago because you had a bad dream about him?” He kissed her cheek and headed into the family room.

  Molly watched Cole leave the room, annoyed with his ease in pushing aside the significance of Tracey’s disappearance. She took a deep breath, told herself to let it go, and hurried into her den, where she sent an email from her Civic Association account to the residents of Boyds about the search for Tracey. She chided herself for not checking her email sooner—there were already three messages about Tracey’s disappearance.

  Five minutes later, she dished the spaghetti onto plates, then went into the family room and ran her hand lightly across Cole’s shoulder, “Come on, dinner’s ready.” The feel of him sent a tingle through her body, reminding her of how lost she’d been in his arms the evening before. With Erik away at college, they’d rekindled their sensuality like love-sick teenagers.

  “I’m coming.” He sauntered into the kitchen and sat at the table, “So, what else?” He picked up his fork and looked at Molly, “I assume you’re not going to get a stitch, right?”

  Molly pursed her lips into a crooked smile and tilted her head in answer. “What do you mean, ‘What else?’?”

  “There’s more to this. It seems so…” he hesitated, running his hand through his hair and looking away. Molly waited, nervously. She knew where he was headed. “It’s Amanda, isn’t it?”

  Molly twirled her spaghetti and stared intently into the little chunks of tomato in the sauce. Anytime she appeared worried or showed the littlest bit of apprehension in her confidence, Cole drew a connection to Amanda. She hated hearing the accusation in his words but knew she could not divulge the truth. The guilt ate at her so deeply it burned. “I just had a feeling, that’s all.” She couldn’t tell him about the pressure as she had entered the woods or the visions that had engulfed her while she was running. Cole had never fully believed that she experienced visions, and she worried about how he’d immediately categorize her, as he had with her visions of Amanda, like a patient. As a physician, he believed in facts, tangible data—not paranormal episodes.

  “Is that all? Nothing else?” he asked.

  “No,” she said, swallowing the desire to tell him everything. The need to keep her thoughts to herself saddened her. “I need to call Erik.” She abruptly got up from the table, set her full plate onto the counter, and left the kitchen before the truth could escape.

  “Of course you do.”

  Molly heard the rustle of the newspaper and the clank of fork to plate behind her.

  Upstairs, Molly paced, her desire to call Erik forgotten, replaced with frustration. She knew Cole was right, her emotions were at risk. Her mind retraced the steps of the search, circling back to Hannah’s actions, whose quick retreat nagged at her. She pushed the curtains to the side and looked out the window into the evening at the sunset. Staring into the vast woods beyond her yard, she realized that Stealth and Trigger’s disappearance provided the perfect excuse for her to get out and investigate.

  Her heartbeat picked up momentum as she grabbed her flashl
ight and notepad and stuffed them into her printed fabric backpack. I’ll do this for Amanda, she thought. She threw the duffle over her shoulder and crept downstairs. Hearing the television in the family room, she circled around and grabbed her car keys off of the entrance table. “Honey,” she called out, “I’m going to look for Stealth and Trigger.” As an afterthought, she grabbed their leashes from the hook and hurried out the door.

  Cole heard the door shut and worried about what his wife wasn’t telling him. He remembered the morning of October 12, nine years earlier.

  Molly had been sleeping fitfully toward the morning hours. When she’d finally awakened, she’d been scared and shaking. She’d anxiously relayed a dream she’d had of the little girl she’d seen in a parking lot days before. In the dream, the child screamed and cried, frenzied with terror. He had told her that it was her subconscious working overtime, and he’d gone on with his day. The next morning, she had again been tossing and turning. When she’d awakened, she’d stared straight ahead, tears streamed from her eyes. As if in a trance, she’d described her nightmare, the searing pain that ripped through the little girl’s body, the stale smell of alcohol and sweat pouring off of the man’s body as he climbed off of the damaged child, the knife being drawn from its sheath, glistening as it plunged through the air and into the child’s chest. Again, he’d rationalized. It was just her subconscious fears—she’d seen a stressful scene between father and daughter, and her mind had run with it.

  He had gone about his morning routine, and Molly had been furious, accusing him of not caring, not believing in her. It wasn’t until two hours later, when he’d picked up the newspaper and seen the headline, “Body of Amanda Curtis Found,” that finally, after all of those years of his wife professing that she had some strange type of sixth sense, he pondered, truly considered, the possibility that she was empowered, or hindered, with some sort of ESP that he could not comprehend.

  Cole stuffed the memory into his subconscious, not wanting to revisit the tumultuous years that almost tore their family apart—or to think about the “T” emblazoned on his wife’s palm.

  Four

  Tracey sat on a large rock, shivering and scared. The air around her was musty and cold. Her breathing was shallow, her clothes torn. She tried to be quiet as she eyed the tall woman who stood at the other side of the dirt chamber. Tracey’s body trembled in fear. I hope Daddy finds me. What if he’s mad at me and doesn’t look for me? Tears welled in her eyes.

  The stranger smiled, sending a chill down Tracey’s back. Her body stiffened, her eyes grew wide. Her abductor walked closer, the friendly smile remained on her face. She took long strides, her strong arms readied at her side.

  Tracey curled herself into a ball, backing her quivering body further onto the rock and into the dark corner. She looked around the menacing cave for someplace to hide, an escape route. The candles illuminated the small room just enough for Tracey to see the small table and the dirty mattress she had slept on the night before, casting shadows across the earth floor. Tracey’s heart beat frantically as the woman reached for her hand.

  “It’s time to pray, Tracey,” she said in a calm, gentle voice. “Let’s put on your church clothes for Mummy.” Her voice was low, husky.

  Just as her large calloused hand touched Tracey’s, Tracey pushed off the rock, tugging her hand away from her captor and crying out.

  “Now, now, Tracey, crying will do you no good. There’s no one coming for you. No one can hear you.” Her voice became hard, cold, “Put these clothes on—now.” Her smile morphed into an angry sneer.

  Tracey reached her spindly, shaking arm out slowly, snatching the dress and pulling it to her chest. She looked down at the ground to avoid the woman’s piercing eyes as she backed into the corner of the tiny cell-like chamber. You’re not my mommy! I want to go home!

  Facing the dirt wall, Tracey could feel the woman’s eyes trained on her back. She trembled in fear.

  Her captor turned, took a photograph from a shelf, and stared at it. Tracey heard her say, in almost a whisper, “I did it, Mother. I saved her!”

  Tracey pulled her soiled clothes off of her petite body quickly, crossing her thin arms to cover her nakedness as best she could. Her soiled panties stuck to her bottom. She tried to ignore the smell of dried urine that permeated the air around her. She pulled the stiff, dirty dress over her head. The mildew smell wafted up and mixed with the putrid smell of the cave. She crinkled her nose and breathed through her mouth. It repulsed her senses, and she had to stifle a gag. Her teeth chattered, and her body shook. I hate it here! I want to go home! she silently screamed.

  “That’s Mummy’s girl,” the lady purred.

  Her smile appeared friendly, though Tracey wasn’t falling for that again. Friendly people didn’t take you away from your family.

  “You don’t need help, do you?” the woman asked.

  Tracey’s eyes grew wide, and she vehemently shook her head.

  Mummy approached her. Instinctively, Tracey crossed her arms over her chest again, huddling deeper into the corner. No! No! Don’t touch me!

  The lady reached over and grabbed Tracey’s shoulder lightly, turning her to face the wall. She zipped Tracey’s dress.

  The feel of her rough, cold knuckles made Tracey want to scream. She bit down hard on her lower lip to quell the urge, knowing that a scream would bring a punishment, and Tracey had already spent time in the bad spot. She wasn’t sure she could endure it again. Tracey closed her eyes tight and tried to calm herself. Her heart felt as though it were lodged in her throat.

  The woman spun Tracey around, and Tracey took in a deep breath. Her heartbeat chased the bile in her throat, surging it into her mouth. She swallowed hard. The sound of fear escaped her lips softly, a withered mew. She tried to keep a courageous face, but her lower lip failed her. It jutted out, and tears sprang from her eyes. Don’t cry! Don’t cry! She tried not to whimper, remembering the early hours of the night before. There is no place in this world for crybabies, her captor had said, just before putting her in the bad spot.

  The woman looked into Tracey’s tearing eyes. “Crying,” Mummy said. “You’ll stop that soon enough!” The woman placed her strong hands on Tracey’s back and prodded her toward one of the endless dark tunnels. “Stop that now and make Mummy proud.”

  You’re not my mummy! I hate you! Tracey kept her thoughts locked inside. Please don’t hurt me. She tried to stop crying. Her fear was too big. Had it not been for the lady pushing her, she hadn’t thought she’d be able to continue walking. The dark, rancid tunnel went on forever. She silently prayed her parents would find her, and rued the lies Mummy had told her about the fun place where she lived—where girls could play for hours with no rules—but mostly, she hated what Mummy had told her once they were in the tunnel—that her mother didn’t love her as much as she loved Emma, and that she would be glad to be rid of Tracey. Liar! My mom loves me! Tracey’s anger grew, tamping down her fear, but not overtaking it.

  Tracey reached up and touched the indentation just between her collar bones, as she’d done unconsciously so many times before, the very spot where the cold metal of her necklace used to sit—the necklace with the heart-shaped charm that her first grade teacher, Mrs. Tate, had given her on the last day of school. Fresh tears pooled in her eyes.

  Mummy pushed Tracey deeper into the dark passageways. Tracey’s heart pounded faster, fresh goose bumps riddled her skin. She could still feel Mummy’s large body as it had slid in against her side while she had lain in the grass playing hide and seek with her mother and little sister, Emma. She could still see Mummy’s smiling face when she had held her necklace like a prize in her enormous palm, luring her in. Tracey had believed Mummy’s promises of giving back her necklace and even letting Tracey try on her special diamond ring. As Mummy pushed Tracey through the dark tunnel, Tracey silently scolded herself for not listening to her parents’ warnings about strangers, but Mummy wasn’t really a stranger to Tracey. She had
played with her many times in the park when Tracey’s own mother had been busy with Emma.

  Five

  The night was cool with few stars in the sky. Molly parked by the Adventure Park, hitched her pack over her shoulder and tried to talk herself out of turning back and going home—the evening cast an eerie glow around the playground equipment. She hoped her dark clothes would keep her from being seen and couldn’t help but wonder if the abductor had pondered a similar thought. The abductor. Amanda’s abductor had never been caught. His face, his scraggly brown beard, his unruly, thick dark hair, and his cold eyes, still haunted Molly. Most of the time she could replace the image with one of happier thoughts, as her therapist had taught her, but now, in the dark, his face came back to her. She trembled, desperately trying to push away his cold stare, his rough voice. She didn’t get the dolly she wanted, he’d said from the vehicle. I should have known! Molly berated herself. I should have fucking done something, anything! She jogged along the grass, trying to outrun the memory, and headed toward the woods. Molly thought she must be crazy to be out alone at night, looking for god knows what, but she had to do it. She wasn’t going to let Tracey down. She prayed the Knowing would give her a sign, guide her, yet it had not given her anything more than the terrifying image of Tracey she had seen earlier—and it hadn’t been enough to save Amanda. Her foot caught in a rut. “Damn!” She looked around to make sure no one heard or saw her. She found her footing and continued past the playground equipment to the crest of the field where it fell away into the woods. The forest looked completely different in the dark—intimidating, villainous. Molly crouched down and removed her flashlight from her sack. She did not turn it on for fear of calling attention to herself, but it made her feel more secure just having it in her hand. She forged forward, momentarily flinching from the pinch in her ankle. “It’s now or never,” she whispered to herself. As she lifted her leg to step into the woods, she once again felt pressure against her chest. She gritted her teeth, pinched her eyes closed, and pushed her slight frame through the strange energy field, fighting her way into the depths of the forest. Her vision began to blur, her heart raced against her ribcage so hard she was afraid she might pass out. The Knowing was upon her. She concentrated on moving forward, holding onto branches as if they were lifelines. She squeezed the flashlight in her hand so hard that it hurt. Each inch she gained was a struggle. Her surroundings closed in on her, fading quickly to black. She fell to the ground—a vision of a baby girl seared into her mind. She could smell the infant’s milky-gray skin, wet with birthing fluids. The baby’s body lay rigid, dead.