Chasing Amanda

by Melissa Foster

  Molly spun around, “Well, let’s hope that you are not investigating a murder,” she said, emphatically.

  “Of course,” he said casually, and he turned to walk out of the woods, hesitating a moment later. “Molly,” he said with his back to her, “let me know if you find anything here, will ya?” he continued walking away.

  “Officer Brown!” Molly called after him.

  He turned.

  “Were you following me, Office Brown?” she asked with a hint of concern. “How did you know I was here?”

  “Actually, I wanted to catch up to you, but you had driven away. So,” he paused, motioned around with his right hand, “I suppose, yes, I followed you.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  He stared blankly at her, puzzled.

  “I mean, why did you want to catch up to me after I was at the station?” she asked.

  “Oh!” he said jovially. “I wanted to let you know that I looked into the Rodney Lett thing, and sure enough, he was buried in Delaware, so there’s no chance that he’s part of this. There’s no correlation between the two.” He looked pleased with the news.

  Molly nodded, processing the information. She couldn’t help herself, she felt compelled to throw it back at him, “Well, I wasn’t really concerned that Rodney Lett was the one who took Tracey. I was more concerned that whoever took Kate might have also taken Tracey.”

  “I told you, Molly, Rodney Lett is dead and buried.”

  This is a positive journey I’m on, Pastor Lett reminded herself as she drove toward the Porters’ home. She realized that she’d been reminding herself of her role quite often recently. The events of late were reminiscent of her own journey, years ago—like opening an old wound. Celia is hurting, scared, and probably feels to blame, she thought to herself. It’s my job as her pastor to ease that pain and to relieve that guilt.

  Anger grew within her as she thought of the procedures the police used to try and find Tracey Porter. The systems currently in place were the same lame checks and balances, in her opinion, as they had been twenty years earlier when they had investigated the disappearance of Kate Plummer. She grasped the steering wheel until her knuckles turned from white to red. Her mind turned to Rodney. How could anyone have looked at that big lug and thought he could hurt a child? She clenched her jaw and pulled the car to the side of the road, tears clouding her vision. She remembered Rodney’s face contorting with fear and pain for Kate when she had told him she was missing.

  Rodney had sobbed. She remembered his pudgy, fisted hands, rubbing his tears away like a child might have done, but it had been Rodney’s reaction to the photo of Kate that had rocked Pastor Lett to her core. He had gone still as a statue. He had taken the photo out of Pastor Lett’s hand and had stared into the innocent eyes of Kate Plummer, as if he had, at that moment, through the image on the photo paper, connected with her. Rodney had said, “Girl in dark place.” Just like that—without explanation, without thought, or so it had seemed at the time. Those four words had terrified Pastor Lett.

  She hadn’t wanted to leave Rodney that evening, but she had an obligation to the church. She had to complete her work, and then, she had promised herself, then she would focus on Rodney and try to understand those words—but it had been too late.

  The phone call from the police had sent Pastor Lett rushing to the police station, chiding herself for having left Rodney at home alone. She had been taken to the interrogation room and had found Rodney sitting at that awful metal table, looking like a child caught sneaking a piece of candy from his favorite store—remorseful for an act he didn’t quite understand. The look he had given Pastor Lett when she had arrived—those big dark eyes pleading with fear—had filled her with remorse. Pastor Lett had gone to him, held him, and Rodney had sobbed on her shoulder. “Girl in dark place,” he had repeated. Pastor Lett stiffened at the words, having known full well why the police had brought Rodney in for questioning. Pastor Lett had thought, had hoped, that Officer Katan, a past member of the church who had known Rodney well and had been to their home for dinner, would protect her brother—but she was wrong.

  The questioning, which had been futile at best, had left the police with little to go on.

  “Rodney,” Officer Katan had asked, looking at Pastor Lett with an expression of apology, “do you know Kate Plummer?”

  Rodney had rocked in his seat, a motion Pastor Lett had known too well—a motion that brought Rodney deeper into his own mind. Rodney had replied, “Girl in dark place. Girl in dark place.”

  Again, Katan asked, “Rodney, do you know Kate Plummer?” He had taken Rodney’s rocking as affirmation of his knowledge.

  “Wait!” Pastor Lett had pleaded. “He doesn’t know the girl. He’s only seen a picture of her!” she insisted. “Katan, he doesn’t know her!” Pastor Lett had turned frantically to Rodney, imploring him, “Rodney, tell them the truth. Tell them you don’t know Kate!” she had pleaded, but it had been like pleading with a child who knew he was right and didn’t understand the parental confusion.

  Rodney had rocked harder, stating adamantly, “Girl in dark place!”

  Then Katan had asked, “Rodney, where did you put her? Is she alive?”

  Pastor Lett had stood abruptly, fisting her hands and breathing heavily. Rodney stopped rocking. He seemed to crawl inside his head for a moment, swimming around and coming out with a deep breath and an answer, “No pain. She’s with mommy,” Rodney had said.

  Katan had hovered angrily over Rodney, yelling at him, “Mommy? Kate’s mother is not dead, Rodney. She has cancer, but she’s not dead! What the hell did you do, you big fool?”

  Pastor Lett had stepped in between Rodney and Katan protectively. “Don’t you dare accuse him, Katan,” she had said sternly.

  Rodney, confused by the anger, stood up, towering over Katan. Katan had squared his shoulders, staring at the large man’s thick chest. “Sit down, Rodney,” he commanded.

  Rodney had looked down at him and said emphatically, “With mommy. Not in pain. No pain!”

  Katan had taken that to mean that he had killed her.

  Pastor Lett swooped into action—wrapping her arms around Rodney and allowing Rodney to cling to her, like a child fearing a stranger. Pastor Lett put her hand to the back of Rodney’s head, as if shielding him from Officer Katan. “Rodney, don’t say what you don’t know. You’re confusing Officer Katan.” She looked at Officer Katan and said, “He doesn’t know what he’s saying. Surely you see that.”

  Rodney watched Officer Katan out of the corner of his eyes. “Carla, Rodney not bad!” he said, tears striping his cheeks.

  “No, no, Rodney’s not bad.” Pastor Lett had assured him. The tears she had been holding back broke free.

  “Girl in dark place—with mommy,” Rodney whispered.

  Pastor Lett had grasped for an explanation, her heart beat hard against Rodney’s cheek. “Look, Katan. You know Rodney. He didn’t do this. He…” she hesitated, her chest tight with fear, “he knows things sometimes.” She had tried to explain, knowing full well that Officer Katan might think she was crazy or perhaps arrest them both, but counting on Officer Katan’s compassion and his history of knowing Rodney. “He knows things that happen,” she said sheepishly, “sometimes before and sometimes after the event—but…it’s real.”

  “What the hell?” Katan had said, throwing his arms up and pacing around the room. “Carla, this is not good. What the hell do you want me to do here, Carla? We have protocols. You know, I could arrest him here and now—probably for murder.”

  “Murder?” Pastor Lett was in Katan’s face again. “You know Rodney would never hurt anyone, much less a child.”

  As the ruckus in the room grew, Rodney had moved to the corner, huddling on his heels like a cowering chipmunk being preyed upon by a vicious hawk. He rocked, mumbling, “Girl in dark place. Girl in dark place.”

  Pastor Lett turned to him. She knelt down, rested her hands on his knees. “Rodney, honey, you have to stop
this. They think you hurt Kate. Please, stop saying that. Tell them you don’t know her.”

  Rodney gazed up with wide innocent eyes. He continued to rock, fidgeting with his fingers. He shook his head no.

  “Rodney, honey,” Pastor Lett put her fingers to the bridge of her nose, breathing deeply and closing her eyes. “Sweetie,” she said, “you have to tell them. This is not good. This is bad. They think you hurt Kate.”

  Rodney shook his head. “Rodney no hurt. Girl in no pain. Girl with mommy. Girl in dark place,” he said.

  Officer Katan stared down at them, shaking his head in disbelief. “Carla,” he started, “I’m going to let you take him home. Do not,” he said as he looked around the empty, cold room, “I repeat, do not let him out of your sight. I may have to bring him back in tonight or tomorrow morning.” He turned his back to them. “This is…unusual. I know Rodney, but…” He shook his head, began to raise his arms, then let them fall in defeat.

  On the ride home from the station, Rodney had been a mess—rocking and shaking uncontrollably. Pastor Lett had begged Rodney to tell her what he knew about Kate, to show her where Kate was, but Rodney repeated the same things he had told Officer Katan. He seemed as sure of those things as Pastor Lett was about there being a God—but Pastor Lett also knew that, to others, Rodney’s words were the ramblings of a crazy person—one who just might be crazy enough to kill a child.

  Pastor Lett remained in her car, staring out the window at the passing traffic, and ruing the memories of that awful night. She covered her eyes with her hand, leaned back against the cold leather seat, and gave in to the crushing memories of Rodney’s last excruciating moments.

  The living room, which had once offered comfort and warmth, suddenly felt as if it were a holding room. Pastor Lett had drawn the curtains and sat next to Rodney on the floor where Rodney had pulled into his own world. He was unresponsive to his sister’s touch, his eyes trained on a speck on the cold wooden floor, traumatized. Pastor Lett had told him how brave he had been to speak to the police. She told him he had been a good boy and that he had done nothing wrong. Pastor Lett’s heart was heavy with inadequacy as she watched her brother pull further into his own silent world. Had she led Rodney astray? Had she not been there enough for him? Guilt clouded her judgment, obscuring her eyes with tears, and rendering her unable to see the path ahead, the right thing to do. She had lifted her head toward the ceiling and prayed, Rodney rocking at her side. She could still recall the feel of Rodney’s warm hand as it had unexpectedly grasped her arm. She could still hear Rodney’s child-like voice when he had asked, “God? God there?” pointing to the ceiling—and she remembered her own reply, “Yes, God is there. God hears Carla.”

  Pastor Lett pursed her lips and pounded her fist on the steering wheel, wishing she could have changed what had happened next. Wishing she hadn’t taken the phone call.

  She had trembled as she had lifted the receiver, fearing it had been Katan telling her to bring Rodney back and not certain that she would be able to will herself to do so—but it hadn’t been Katan on the phone that dreadful night. It had been a man with a deep, scratchy voice who had said that he needed to speak to Pastor Lett immediately and confidentially. He had said it had to do with Kate Plummer. A rush of hope had swept through Pastor Lett as she agreed to meet the man at the church across the street from her home. She had fretted about leaving Rodney, but, in his current state, taking him along had not been an option. His rounded, thick shoulders hunched over as he held onto his favorite toy, a matted and stained stuffed brown rabbit. It had been the one possession that he had saved after they had left their parents’ home in Delaware to come to Boyds.

  Pastor Lett had spoken slowly and deliberately to Rodney before she had left. She made sure that Rodney understood three things: that he must stay inside, he must not answer the phone, and that he was, no matter what the police thought, a good person. Rodney had looked up at her with his trusting eyes, pulling himself out of his altered state, if only for a moment, and repeated back to Pastor Lett, “Rodney understand. Rodney good boy. No outside.”

  A feeling of relief swept through Pastor Lett as she had approached the darkened church. Though she could not shake the burden of her own guilt—guilt of lying to the police about staying with Rodney—she had hoped that the man she was meeting might be the abductor wanting to confess, or perhaps someone who had a lead and had found out that Rodney had been wrongly accused. She had waited at the church for over an hour, pacing, sweating despite the cool evening, and watching the perimeter of her own home through the small glass window in the front of the church. Eventually, she had decided that whoever had called had gotten cold feet and was not going to show up. She stepped back into that awful gray, stale night, and went in the front door, in case Rodney had fallen asleep in the parlor at the rear of the home where she had left him.

  “Rodney?” she had said, listening intently to the suffocating silence. There was no rush of excitement, no gleeful giggle, no “Carla home!” She had rushed into the parlor, nearly collapsing at the sight of her motionless brother, lying on the blood-splattered floor. Her legs had failed her as she’d gasped for breath and fallen to her knees. The sight of her brother’s blood-soaked flannel shirt and couch and the smell of sweat sent her mind spinning. “No!” she had screamed, crawling to her brother’s side and cradling his lifeless head. “No! Rodney, no!” Tears had fallen onto Rodney’s unseeing eyes. His bunny’s ear, torn off and speckled with blood, lay within his hand. Pastor Lett pulled her brother’s heavy body into her chest, emptying her soul via the salty water of her tears. Her next actions were robotic—without thought—her body pumped with adrenaline, her mind a blank slate, in shock. She had quickly called upon Newton, and with his fast and efficient help, they’d laid Rodney in the back seat, covered him with a blanket, and rushed back inside. She took the stairs two at a time, threw open her drawers, and stuffed a few pieces of clothing into a suitcase. She flew back down the stairs and scooped up Rodney’s torn bunny. She hurried to the kitchen, saw the broken window, the muddy prints layering the floor like stale accusations, and her panic grew. Without picking up the phone, she had fled, escaping through the back door and leaving it wide open. What she had of value had been beaten to a pulp and was going with her to Delaware. They were going home, where their lives had started, and where her brother’s life would end.

  Pastor Lett threw the car door open and placed her feet on the shoulder of the road. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve, pushed her hair out of her face, clasped her hands together, and pushed them into her forehead, clenching her eyes closed. She tried to erase the image of Rodney’s ravaged body from her mind, to chase the horrid thoughts that came roaring into her head like a bullet train—hatred, pure and evil. She knew she must parlay those thoughts into forgiveness. She wanted to forgive, but the terrifying visceral thoughts would not leave her. She wanted to hate, to take revenge. Didn’t they know he had a family, someone who loved him and would miss him? she futilely thought for the millionth time. Forgive me, Father, rolled through her mind immediately after the wretched thoughts. She took a deep breath and tried to quiet the voice she did not like. I have to be there for Celia and Mark, she thought. The pain I felt must not be felt by others. She yanked the handkerchief from her purse and wiped her eyes, bringing her long legs back into the car and pulling the door shut. She blew her nose. A guttural laugh slipped from her throat. “I’ll show them,” she said. “No one will take this kid away from me.”

  Molly hurried back to the site of the confrontation with Officer Brown, cursing her own stupidity for leaving her bag behind, and spotted her pack tangled in a bush where she had tossed it earlier. She fumbled with the thorny, tentacle-like branches, breaking loose a few that dropped to the center of the spiny mess, and freed her bag. A sparkle in the tangles of the broken limbs caught her eye as she hoisted the pack over her shoulder. Molly reached for the shiny gold chain that
glimmered before her. She gently untangled the treasure, ignoring the burning sensation in her palm. As she released the necklace from the last twig, the pain became unbearable. She grabbed her wrist with her other hand and cursed, dropping the necklace to the ground. The T on her palm burned, red and angry, bulging from her skin. The pain brought her to her knees. She shrugged her pack from her shoulder and thrust her left hand into the bag, feeling frantically for the bottle of water she carried. She moaned in pain as she wildly withdrew the bottle and brought it to her mouth—twisting off the top with her teeth—and poured the water directly on the burning T. The water warmed in her palm. “Shit!” she screamed and shook the water to the ground. She grabbed her pack and backed away, anxiously eyeing the necklace, not wanting to leave it behind. The further away she got from the necklace, the less severe her pain, until it subsided completely.

  Molly sank to the ground, breathing heavily. She was determined to get the necklace, sure that there was a connection to Tracey. She steeled herself for a battle with an unknown entity. You can do this, she told herself. She walked back toward the necklace, her neck muscles tight, her body alert to every feeling, every sound around her. The burning did not return. She neared the necklace and reached for a fallen branch with twigs at the end, like frail little fingers. Extending the branch, she hooked the golden thread for one hopeful second, then the necklace dropped to the ground—even further away. Molly blew the breath she had been holding and tried again—to no avail. Frustrated, she crouched down on her heels, “Come on, you bastard, come on!” she said through clenched teeth. Maneuvering the branch with her left hand was far more difficult than she had expected. The branch hovered above the necklace. She lowered it slowly, easing the longest twig under the chain, and pushed it forward, then quickly edged it up. The necklace hung precariously off the tip of the wavering twig. Molly raised the branch toward the sky, resting the edge on her belly for balance. The gold glistened in the sun, the darkness of the trees creating a perfectly serene backdrop for the tiny heart charm that hung from the end of the necklace, stuck, unable to drop past the hook of the chain. Molly smiled. Warmth spread through her body. As sure as the burning had scarred her palm, she knew the necklace belonged to Tracey. Excitement rushed through her. She turned slowly to her left and took baby steps on her toes to a clearing about fifteen feet away. She lowered the end of the twig and let the necklace slip into the cushion of the leaves. She was unable to slow the smile that sneaked across her cheeks. She scanned the woods again, unable to believe her luck—or was it something else? She scooped the necklace up in her hand. Instantly, the T on her palm went cold. She closed her hand around the necklace, wallowing in the cool, healing feeling. She closed her eyes and whispered, “I know, Tracey.” Molly slid the necklace into the front pocket of her jeans.