Chasing Amanda

by Melissa Foster

  Newton was one of the original founders of the Boyds Civic Association, single-handedly saved the Boyds Marc Train Station from sure closure, and could certainly be credited as the most-informed local historian in the county. Newton had lived on White Ground Road in one of the famous Painted Ladies for his entire life. Acres of sweeping fields provided privacy from the road. The separate garage, which mirrored the color and style of the Victorian home, was stacked with boxes and binders. The binders detailed every event that had ever happened in Boyds, to Boyds residents, or had affected Boyds in some way. He kept those binders current and was probably the only person to also have each of these facts etched in his memory. The man was the equivalent of a walking encyclopedia about Boyds, and yet he was humble, downplaying the significance of the records he kept.

  As the sun set, Newton stood in the grass before the one-room schoolhouse, built on an undeveloped stretch of White Ground Road, and historically known as the Boyds Negro School. It felt desolate in the cool evening. Twelve residents, most of whom were over the age of sixty, listened intently as Newton spoke of the topic for the evening’s discussion: The Hidden Treasures of Boyds. Newton wore his usual dress clothes: tan chinos and a striped sweater. He paced while he spoke and said “um” a few too many times, which Molly found endearing. Molly was excited to learn more about the area where she’d lived for so many years. Like many railroad towns, Boyds had developed around a small nucleus of buildings: the railroad station, the post office, and the country store. Just beyond these, on either side of the railroad tracks, lay the beautiful Painted Ladies of the Victorian era and the Boyds Presbyterian Church, surrounded by incredible shade trees that must have been just barely saplings a hundred years ago. Rippling out from this historic core, the farms were valiantly trying to fight the suburbia that had spread northward from D.C. over the past twenty years.

  Molly thought about Newton, and the fact that she was sure that he held the secrets of the town within his own mind, though she was just as sure that he would never reveal any of them. Newton described Pleasant Springs Farm Bed and Breakfast, “Featuring a private cottage of log and frame construction, circa 1768, and listed on the National Register of Historical Places.

  “Surrounded by thirty acres of gardens, woods, meadows, um,” he looked from his fidgeting hands to just above the heads of his guests, then back at his hands again, “springs, streams, and a farm pond make this, um, well, the uh, the little house is in a world of its own. It’s an eighteenth century paradise of peace and solitude,” he continued, enthusiastically.

  Molly smiled, squeezing Cole’s hand. He turned and winked, his thinking obvious, When can we go?

  “Hand-ironed sheets, farm-made soap, fresh flowers, and attention to all details make this B and B unique,” Newton continued, sounding a little like a marketing pitch.

  Molly’s mind wandered as Newton began a tangent about the acreage. Her mind drifted from the bed and breakfast to gardens and, eventually, to the woods, Pastor Lett, and, finally, to Rodney. She was pained by the knowledge that he had been beaten to death. She tried to picture Pastor Lett walking in and finding her brother—her ability to hear Newton had dissolved, replaced by the images that engulfed her thoughts. She wondered if that was why Pastor Lett moved out of the manse. Did being a pastor somehow ready a person for those types of life-altering situations—giving strength and the ability to carry on through faith, maybe? Just as she began questioning her own faith in God, her bandaged hand felt hot, and it was getting hotter. She brought her mind back to the present, hearing Newton say, “...the old Perkinson House. Um, it was originally built as a hotel, and remains on the historic registry. Yes, yes, the Winderber Hotel, I believe, back when Boyds was a vacation area consisting of three hotels, a few homes, and a railroad station.”

  The gash in her hand felt as though it were burning. She grabbed her wrist with the other hand and cringed.

  Cole reached for her, whispered, “What is it? What’s the matter?”

  Fresh tears sprang to Molly’s eyes, “My cut. It burns so badly.” She shook her bandaged hand, rocking in pain. “I can’t stand it,” she hissed, trying to keep from crying out.

  Newton noticed Molly’s red face, the tears streaming down her cheeks, “Molly, are you okay?”

  Molly looked up to see thirteen sets of eyes trained on her. She could not stop rocking, the pain shooting up her wrist felt as if it traveled through her veins. Cole was on his feet, helping Molly up.

  “I…I have a cut,” she said, trying to sound calm. “I think I have to go.”

  Cole was calm, guiding Molly to the car and assuring the others that she was going to be fine.

  Molly turned suddenly out of his arms and faced Newton, holding her bandaged arm up with her strong one. “Newton,” she said through the pain, “where is the Perkinson House?”

  Newton stood silently, dumbfounded by the pain in Molly’s eyes. It took him a moment to figure out what she was referring to. “Oh!” he said, suddenly remembering his discussion. “It’s just up the dirt road next to the lake, but you can’t go up there. No, no.” He shook his head, watching Cole trying to coax Molly toward the car. “Pastor Lett, who is caring for the home, has strict orders not to let anyone up that road, much less to the house.” Newton walked a few steps in either direction, as if he were looking for something.

  Molly nodded in confirmation and turned to go.

  The relief in Cole’s eyes was evident. He turned to Newton and said quickly, “Thank you, Newton. Great discussion. I’m sorry we have to leave.” He ushered Molly into the car.

  Molly collapsed into her seat, doubling over and holding in her screams.

  Cole grabbed Molly’s hand and unwrapped the bandage. Molly turned away, afraid to look.

  “How is it?” she asked. When Cole didn’t answer right away, she asked again, “What? What does it look like?” The words tumbled out of her mouth unstoppable and unsteady.

  “Mol, what happened?” he asked, his eyes wide.

  Molly looked at her hand. The gash was bright red and swollen, the letter T stared back at her, accusing—or pleading—she wasn’t sure which but felt the signal with each pulsating pain.

  “It wasn’t like that this morning, I swear,” she said. “What happened?”

  In the space of a breath, the pain receded into numbness, the swelling shrank, the redness faded as if it had never been there. The numbness passed into oblivion—gone.

  “What the hell?” Cole demanded.

  “I have no idea.” Molly panicked. “The pain is gone. Gone! My God, Cole, what’s happening?”

  Twelve

  Hours had passed, and Tracey felt like a limp rag doll. She opened her eyes and found her captor sitting on an upended log, the handle of an old pocket knife in her left hand and a partially-whittled wooden bird in her right.

  “Mummy doesn’t like bad girls,” her captor sneered.

  Tracey had become numb to the pains that tore through her limbs and shoulder, numb to the treachery of her situation.

  “I have to put you in the bad spot now,” Mummy said, irritated at the inconvenience. “I have no choice but to put you there.”

  Tracey shook her head, whispered, “No.” She was too exhausted to fight. Her eyes pleaded with her captor.

  “You give me no choice, young lady.” Her arms rested on her knees. “It will hurt me more than it will hurt you.”

  Tracey watched flakes of wood peel from the block and glide toward the dirt floor. She glanced from the knife in her captor’s hand to the other wooden birds lined up along the edge of the wall where her captor slept and wondered if each bird represented a child she had stolen. Her eyes drifted back to the knife and settled there.

  Mummy sat silently shaking her head, whittling the head of the bird. When the beak was complete and the head distinct, she stood, turned, and set the bird down carefully on the log. The knife remained in her hand as she turned to face Tracey.

  Tracey gritted her t
eeth, swallowing any sounds that might have tried to escape. Her eyes remained trained on the knife.

  Mummy walked toward Tracey, gripping the knife in her left hand. She reached for Tracey with both arms. Tracey leaned back, closing her eyes. Mummy lifted Tracey gently to her feet, then laughed. “What is this?” she mumbled. Tracey snatched a quick glance at Mummy and saw her staring at the knife.

  Tracey’s entire body shook. She leaned back, as far away from her captor’s body as she was able while being held by the shoulders in a crushing grip. She turned her face away from the cold, sharp knife. Her captor removed her left hand from Tracey’s shoulder and raised the knife to her own eye-level. She looked it over, turning it in her hand. Her eyebrows furrowed, as she closely inspected the weapon. Then she let out a hmph, shrugged her shoulders, and tossed the tool toward the upended log. She looked down at Tracey and released her grip.

  “Let’s go,” she said in a bored and tired voice.

  Tracey let out her breath in a rush of relief. Breathing hard and fast, she followed her captor as she removed the plywood from the opening and headed down the dingy passageway. They neared the entrance to where the bad spot was; Tracey’s legs failed her. She couldn’t walk toward that awful place. Paralyzed with fear, she breathed in rapid, noisy breaths. Her captor turned to face her, rolled her eyes, and yanked Tracey’s arm toward the wretched room.

  “No!” Tracey screamed, blinded by her own tears. “I won’t do it again! I promise! I’ll be good!” she begged to deaf ears. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please, don’t put me in the bad spot. Please!”

  Mummy began to pray, which scared Tracey even more than the bad spot did. “Hosea 9:7. The days of punishment are coming, the days of reckoning are at hand. Let Israel know this. Because your sins are so many and your hostility so great, the prophet is considered a fool, the inspired man a maniac.”

  The rancid smell of urine, dead rodents, and fear pervaded the air of the dark room like rainwater seeping into the cracks of an old foundation. Tracey stood straight as a soldier, petrified. She felt a hand grasp her upper arm. Her captor’s fingers wrapped all the way around Tracey’s slim arm and squeezed—hard. Her other hand pushed against Tracey’s back, forcing her forward.

  Tracey’s feet reluctantly disobeyed her desire to run away. The light from the lantern cast menacing shadows across the floor. Loose dirt, littered with rocks and pebbles, receded into a dark hole in the earth—the bad spot. Despite her best efforts not to, Tracey began to sob, “Please! Please! I’ll be good!”

  Her captor pushed her forward, “You don’t appreciate anything!” Her words were robotic, as if scripted. “You’re a spoiled little brat, and you are going to learn to appreciate the things I give you!” Her entire body shook. “I saved you!” she said nastily, thrusting Tracey forward with such force that Tracey fell to the ground, just inches from the hole. Tracey tried to scramble away, clawing at the unforgiving dirt, struggling to move away from the hole, fruitlessly digging into the ground with knees and toes.

  Her captor put her foot on the back of Tracey’s calf, successfully trapping her. Her captor yelled, “I saved you from being part of that horrible world! Part of the ‘people who don’t care’!”

  Tracey wriggled and sobbed beneath her.

  Her anger chillingly eased. “I’ll save you. You will be happy.” Just as quickly, her voice became terrifying, “You will learn to appreciate what you are given,” her final word was emphasized by her bearing down on Tracey’s already throbbing leg. Tracey yelped in pain.

  In one quick motion, her captor removed her foot from Tracey’s leg, yanked Tracey several inches off of the ground, and dropped her into the hole. Tracey landed hard on her feet—her knees buckled and she sank down, her back up against the cold dirt. The narrowness of the cavity forced her knees against her chest, hindering her breathing. She looked up just in time to see the grate—made out of rough branches and leaves—placed over the top of the hole, evoking more tears of helplessness. As the board was eased over the top of the grate, eliminating all but a single beam of dim light, she pulled her legs in tighter to her chest. Tracey focused on the golf-ball-sized hole that was cut in the center of the rotten board. An air hole, Mummy had said. Tracey’s body flinched with each shovelful of dirt as it fell onto the board. She held her breath, afraid the dirt was going to clog the air hole, but too scared to reach up, for fear she’d be sealed in forever. Urine seeped in between her thighs, puddling beneath her. The light faded in and out of the hole. Tracey concentrated on the heavy thumps the dirt made on the board, the sound of random pebbles as they plunked against each other. One...two...three…four…She put her head down on her arms as bits of dirt fell upon her through the air hole. Five…six….seven…..eight…nine. Eventually Tracey was met with darkness, silence. Her pulse throbbed in her ear like an Indian drum. Her fear was so great that she felt as if her heart were actually breaking, piece by piece, torn out of her chest. Her stomach hurt. She was starving, though it felt like a rock was in her belly. Her tears drained the energy right out of her ravaged body, leaving her limp, inert—she gave into the exhaustion. Maybe not waking up, she thought, would be easier than being here.

  Thirteen

  Cole worried that his wife might be falling back into the unsettled place of her past. Tense and baffled, he watched her as they sat in their car in front of the schoolhouse. He rewrapped Molly’s injured hand, then put the car into motion to begin the short drive home. White Ground Road was dark, quiet. With no streetlights and the umbrella of trees blocking the moonlight, Cole drove carefully, his eyes bouncing between Molly and the narrow road that lay ahead.

  Molly’s hands were pressed against her thighs, shaking. She looked as if she were intently focused, staring straight ahead. “Hold on, Mol,” Cole said, silently calculating the time it would take them to get home—or possibly to the hospital.

  “Cole, I don’t feel so great,” she said, nervously.

  “We’re almost home,” he said, squeezing her thigh.

  “Cole,” Molly said, fiddling with her hands, “Cole!”

  The alarm in her voice caught Cole’s attention. He pulled over just beyond the Hoyles Mill Trail. Molly was holding her hands in front of her face, turning them, touching one with the other, as if she were making sure they were actually there.

  “Oh my God! Cole!” Tears sprang from Molly’s eyes as she frantically grasped at her face, the dashboard. “I can’t see. I can’t see anything!” she screamed.

  Cole instantly reverted to doctor mode. He reached for Molly’s face, placing his warm hands firmly on her cheeks and tilting her head up so he could look into her eyes. “Molly!” he said, sternly. “Can you see me at all? What do you see?”

  “I can hear you, but I think…I’m going…”

  Cole watched her eyes begin to roll up into her head. “Molly! Stay with me, Mol!” he demanded.

  “Can’t...feel—” Molly’s head fell back against the headrest.

  Cole jumped into action. He ran to the trunk and rummaged frantically through the boxes and medical reference books. “Damn it!” he swore as he dug through the mounds of other insignificant crap in his trunk. “Yes!” he found his first-aid kit and ripped the plastic top open. He rushed to Molly’s door and flung it open. Molly’s body was shuddering, as if she were having convulsions. “Molly! Can you hear me, Molly?” he yelled. Cole tore open the smelling salt package and broke the ampule in half under Molly’s nose.

  Molly’s head jerked backward. “My hand,” Molly’s voice was almost a whisper. Then suddenly she grabbed her wrist and screamed, “Cole! Fuck! It’s burning!” Just as quickly, her body shuddered, then went limp.

  “Molly!” Cole yelled again, slapping her cheeks and instinctively taking her pulse. She was breathing, but her pulse was elevated. Cole raced to the driver’s side and threw himself into the seat. He slammed the car into Drive and sped off toward help.

  Molly’s breathing hitched. “Molly!” Cole yell
ed, reaching over and holding her head back against the headrest. She lifted her legs off of the seat and curled up into in a fetal position. “Hang on, baby, hang on,” Cole urged. He gunned the engine up around the corner, turning fast into Hannah Slate’s driveway. He threw the gear into Park and turned to Molly, whose eyes were closed, but her breathing had become normal once again.

  “Mol?” Cole’s words were laden with concern.

  Molly opened her eyes. He grabbed her arm and looked over her bandage—he gasped. “Molly?” He reached up and pushed her bangs off of her head—no fever. He held up his finger in front of Molly’s eyes. She stared at it as if in a daze. As he moved his finger from right to left she moved her head to follow. He placed his hand firmly on the top of Molly’s head, “Follow, Molly,” he directed, in full physician mode. “Follow my finger with only your eyes.”

  Molly closed her eyes. “Cole?” she said.

  He sensed her need acutely. “I’m right here, Mol,” he said, glad she could not see the tears forming in his eyes. He wiped his eyes with his free hand, “Molly, open your eyes.”

  She did.

  “Track my finger,” he insisted.

  She did.

  He put his arms around her and held her tight.

  “My legs, Cole,” she began, “they were like ice, but they’re normal now.” She wiggled her fingers and looked at the bandage on her right palm. The letter T was singed into the gauze. She thrust her hand in his direction.

  Cole looked angry, although his anger was at the unknown, not Molly. He turned away, clenching his jaw and breathing out of his nose. What the hell is going on? He turned back to Molly and hastily unwrapped the bandage. Her wound was pink, healing.