“Molly!”
Molly turned around, relieved to see Pete standing in his dirty jeans and flannel shirt. Pete had boarded his horses at Hannah’s farm for fifteen years. Molly had known him for ten of those years but had never gotten used to his diminutive stature. His smile brightened his dark, weathered face.
“Hi, Pete,” Molly said. “Do you know where I can find Hannah?”
He ambled over slowly, wiping his hands on a towel that hung from his belt. His skin was slick with sweat. He nodded toward the woods, just past the gathered horses. “She went for a walk.”
The walk through the pasture was much further than Molly had anticipated. She leaned against the fence to rest near the four horses. Somewhere from the recesses of her mind, she pulled a memory that horses, like people, have favorite spots where they like to spend their time. As she leaned against the fence, her arms against the prickly wood, she looked down and noticed that the fencing had clear boot markings, as if it had been climbed over in that exact spot for many years. That was not out of place, Molly figured, because Hannah was an avid hiker as well as rider. She had likely climbed over the fence many times. Molly turned to the woods and, sure enough, there was a well-worn path leading into the forest. Molly rubbed the horses and took to the path which was lined with fall flowers, marigolds and blue-stem goldenrod.
The path faded gently, becoming overgrown yet still discernable. The tree branches hovered over the natural trellises. Molly reached up and ran her fingertips through them. She glanced behind her but was unable to see Hannah’s farm or hear the gentle noises of the horses and dogs. All was quiet. No wonder Hannah frequents this path.
She had been lost in thought when a noise disturbed her reverie, and she suddenly realized that the path she thought she had been following had not been a path at all. In fact, the forest around her looked as if it were a maze of overgrown paths. She pushed aside her rush to find Hannah and decided to enjoy her walk instead. She reassuringly touched the bulge in her pocket where the necklace was safely tucked away. She quickened her pace and crossed the rutted pavement of White Ground Road coming to the entrance to the Hoyles Mill Trail. Molly considered returning to Hannah’s, then she briefly wondered where Hannah had gone and why they hadn’t yet crossed paths. She was enjoying the exercise and was not yet ready to relinquish her peaceful escape. She checked the time and decided she’d have enough time to walk to the church and take the main road back to Hannah’s farm.
Molly skipped over rocks, bending down to miss a vine here, a branch there, and when she came to an area that she didn’t recognize, she ventured to the right, hearing Cole’s practical voice echo in her head, It’s a right-handed society. It didn’t worry Molly that she wasn’t quite sure where the path would end up, as Boyds was such a small area that she knew eventually she’d come out either by the church, by the farm just beyond it, or onto one of the country roads that encircled the small town.
The sunlight was beginning to fade as Molly came across a clear fork in the woods. Again, she veered right, and what she saw just beyond the bushes startled her: a man-made clearing surrounded by mature oaks and pines. Two picnic tables, the wood gray with age, splintered and rough, names and dates sloppily carved into the benches, were set about ten feet apart in the center of the clearing. A bird sat atop one of the tables, pecking at sunflower seeds. It flew away when Molly took a step in its direction.
Along the edge of the clearing were four large plywood boxes, with angled, green plywood roofs and bowed, unpainted sides. The roughly-built boxes were layered with cobwebs and ivy. Molly tried to lift the lid of the box nearest her which stood beside a small creek. Its weight surprised her. She peered inside, and a field mouse scurried across the bottom. Molly dropped the heavy lid and jumped back, letting out a meek yelp, the slam echoed in the darkened woods. She sheepishly looked around to see if anyone could have heard her little squeak.
“Jesus Christ,” Molly said, shaking her hands as if flinging off water. She wiped them on her jeans and approached the box again. “I can do this,” she said, and lifted the lid slowly, peeking inside. Cobwebs hung from the corners. A two-by-four shelf ran the length of the box, mouse nests tucked into the corners. In one of the nests, the tiny mouse huddled. Roughly-cut logs were tucked under the shelf. Molly dropped the lid, simultaneously stepping backward and cringing from the loud thud. She took in her surroundings—picnic tables, grates in the ground covering shallow holes—the scene reminded her of childhood camping trips. She smiled at the memory. Molly instantly liked the secluded area.
Darkness began to close in around her, and she started to worry that she may not be able to find her way back to the road after all. She reached for her cell phone, realizing only too late that she had left her backpack in the van—at Hannah’s. Hannah, where in the world are you? Molly worried about Cole, whom she knew would be upset with her if he knew she was lost in the woods. Am I lost? she wondered. She looked around for a path leading out of the clearing. Between two large trees, there was a clear path with…tire marks? She walked toward the clearing and caught sight of a flicker of white and green on the bottom of one of the boxes—out of place in the otherwise clean area. As she neared the box, her senses were assaulted by the sweet taste of candy apples. She rolled her tongue across the roof of her mouth—every drop of saliva carried sweet apple candy.
Molly crouched down near the wooden box, curiously peering at what she recognized as an Airhead candy wrapper. She reached for the shiny piece of trash with her left hand, and instantly her right hand burned.
“Damn it!” she yelped, knowing exactly what she was in for. She backed away from the wrapper, holding her burning palm in her healthy one. “Damn it! I got it, okay? I understand!” she yelled toward the sky. She backed away from the box, shaking her burning palm up and down, trying desperately to cool it off as she retreated up the path and further away from the camp. Her injured palm began to cool. Molly sat down at the crest of a small hill, just outside the cleared area, the ache lingered in her palm. She was not surprised to see the scar reddened and angry. Her hands shook, and guttural, frustrated sounds poured from her mouth. “Tell me already!” she yelled angrily. “Tell me where the hell she is!”
Molly sat for a few minutes, cursing the Knowing and trying to figure out how the signs, the notes, the candy wrappers, and the visions were tied together. She stared down at the clearing, compelled to return to it. It only took one thought to push her past her fear and toward the clearing: Amanda. Her senses heightened as she neared the area, she waited for her palm to burn, but was met with nothing—no heat, no pain, no oppressive feeling around the clearing. She breathed a little easier, dropping to her knees an arm’s length away from the wooden box and the candy wrapper. She reached her left hand out tentatively, snagged the wrapper, and pulled her arm back quickly, holding the playing-card-sized piece of wrapper between her fingers. She shoved it in her pocket with the necklace and patted the lump on her thigh. “I got you guys,” she said. “We’ll find her.” She froze at the sound of a man’s voice.
“Hello!” a deep and concerned voice called out.
At first Molly didn’t respond, she had gone on instant alert.
“Hello? Who’s there?”
Recognition set in, then confusion. “Newton?” Molly yelled.
Over the crest of the hill, where she had just been sitting, came a figure, shrouded in a long dark overcoat, a hat pulled over his eyes.
“Who is that?” he asked.
“Molly Tanner,” she said, unable to make out his face in the dark.
“Molly?” he said. “What in the name of heaven are you doing over here in the dark?”
Molly sighed, relieved. “Newton,” she said, rising to her feet. “I was walking in the woods and kinda got lost.” She motioned with her arms to the clearing.
“I thought I heard someone yelling,” he said, coming down the hill towards her. “Here, I’ve got a flashlight.” He offered his arm to her on he
r way up the hill, handing her the light. Molly accepted the kind gesture.
“It was me,” she laughed. “What is this place, Newton?”
“You, my dear, are, um, in the campsites for the Girl and Boy Scouts. Sometimes the church groups use it or other local nonprofit groups, but it’s mainly for the scouts. It, uh, belongs to the church.”
They made their way down a tire-worn path that cut through the overgrown field. The field to their right was vast, edged by a cornfield. Beyond the field was an old farmhouse and barn. A silo stood tall in the distance. As if her eyes had a mind of their own, they drifted beyond the silo, above the trees, to where the turret of the Perkinson House peered above the treetops like a voyeur. “Where are we, Newton?” Molly asked, curiously.
“At the church, of course.” Newton shone the flashlight beam down the hill, illuminating the grass between the field and the park—the park from which Kate Plummer had disappeared.
They headed down the hill toward Newton’s car, the sole car in the church parking lot. Molly asked when the campsite had last been used.
“I don’t know. Let’s see,” he looked to the sky, his hand fidgeted around his lips, “probably August or so. I think the Girl Scouts have a jamboree around that time.” He turned to her, “Where’s your car, Molly?” he asked.
Molly’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, my gosh! I left it at Hannah’s house,” she said, having completely forgotten. “Would you mind giving me a ride?”
“Of course not—come on.”
Molly slid into the front seat of the old car. There was not a single scratch on the interior. The back seat, however, was littered with writing papers, binders, and loose articles, the floor stacked high with binders.
“Adding to your historical binders?” Molly motioned to the back seat.
“Oh, yeah,” he said, embarrassed. “I like to keep up on things around Boyds.” Newton took a loose article that was on the console between them and looked at it, longingly, “What a shame this whole thing is—what a shame.” He set the article on one of the binders, and Molly quickly glimpsed a photo of Tracey Porter and part of the headline, “Missing Boyds Girl.” Newton started the car, his eyes trained on the road ahead of them, gripping the steering wheel with both hands. The bumps on White Ground Road were difficult for any driver to maneuver around, but Newton appeared to be having a particularly stressful time.
Molly closed her eyes as she felt the oppressive pressure of the Knowing engulfing her, as it had the night before. She gripped the door handle with her right hand, the edge of the seat with her left. Her body began to tremble. “Please,” she said, breathlessly, “can you drive faster?” Molly’s eyes rolled back in her head as the visions hit like pictures projected in an old-fashioned slide show: Tracey, alone in a dirt chamber, staring into the darkness; a wooden plank; a thicket in the woods. Fear shivered across Molly’s skin, and the memories came crashing in. It was Tracey she saw in the vision, her face, her body, her hair, but those cold, dead eyes were Amanda’s, staring accusingly, directly, at Molly.
She could hear Newton calling her name from a distance, but she couldn’t respond. She felt the car accelerate, her body slumped against the door, jerking her mind back into the present. Her body swayed with the turns in the road, first left, then right.
“Molly?” Newton continued to call out to her.
“I feel a little…sick,” she managed. As they neared the intersection at Hannah’s road, Molly’s breathing returned to normal, her sight became clear, and she was able to right her body in the seat.
Newton took the right turn slowly, “Molly, are you okay?” he asked.
“Yeah,” she said, trying to minimize the episode. “I’m fine now, thanks. That part of the road gets to me sometimes,” she waved her hand, dismissively, “a little carsickness, you know?”
Newton let out a sigh of relief, “Me, too. It scares me sometimes. It’s so narrow, and it’s in such poor shape. You’d think the county would do something about it.” He shook his head.
Molly realized with relief that he hadn’t seen her clearly, hadn’t realized the import of her experience.
Newton approached Hannah’s driveway, and Molly turned toward the rear of the car.
“Newton? May I?” she asked, reaching for one of the articles.
“Oh, be my guest,” he said.
She picked up an article. Loosely taped to the back was an old photo. As it fell to the seat, she was able to make out the shape of the grand old house. While the colors had changed and the porches seemed smaller than she had remembered, it looked familiar. “Newton, is this a photo of the Perkinson House?”
Newton spun his head around, nervous, a look of shock and horror on his face. “What? Oh, surely not,” he said as he parked the car and gathered the loose papers, along with the photo, and held them on his lap.
“May I see it?” Molly asked, reaching for the photo.
“Oh, Molly. I’m certain it’s not the Perkinson House.” He clutched the mass of mixed-up papers and the photo to his chest so tightly that Molly could hear the papers crumbling. He laughed, nervously.
“Well, it looked like it might have been the house that you described when you held that discussion the other night. I thought maybe it was one you showed to everyone after I left or something,” she rationalized.
“No, no,” he said, shaking his head. “I didn’t show a photo that night. I, uh, I just talked is all.” Straightening the papers, he slipped the photo in between. “It’s nothing, really, probably an old photo that fell out of one of the old albums.”
“Okay,” Molly stepped out of the car. “Thanks for the ride. I’m not sure what I would have done if you hadn’t come by. I might have curled up in a little ball and slept on a picnic table!” she laughed, turned to her van, and heard Newton’s relieved sigh as she walked away.
Once in her van, she scribbled the visions she’d just had in her notebook. “Where is this child?” she wondered aloud. She put the notebook and her iPod in her backpack and retrieved her phone: seven missed calls. She scanned the numbers: Cole, Hannah, and several from a number marked Private. What now? She clicked on the voicemail icon to retrieve the five new messages.
“Hi, babe, just checking on you. Love you,” Cole’s voice soothed over the recording.
“Molly, it’s Hannah. I just noticed your vehicle in my driveway. Are you out running?” She paused. “Well, I guess I’ll see you sometime soon. Have a good run.”
The next message was garbled with heavy static which continued for almost a full minute. Molly debated hanging up, but curiosity got the best of her, and she remained on the line. Just as she was about to delete the message, a scratchy voice said, “He knows.” More static punctured the air like bullets. Molly pressed the phone harder against her ear, hoping to make out more words, to recognize the voice. When the words finally escaped the static, they made her dizzy. She leaned back in the driver’s seat and pushed the number one on her phone to replay the message. The words, “Save...Tracey,” were just as painful the second time around. Molly’s fingers shook as they hovered over the number nine on her phone, checking it again and again before pushing the number, making sure she was saving the message rather than deleting it. Molly’s heart skipped a beat as the next message began with the same sinister static. She listened intently for three minutes, hoping to hear a few words, a hint of who had called. She was met with the spine-chilling noise of cellular airways unwilling to release the voices that they were paid to carry. Just as she was about to give up, there were two voices in the background—one male and one female. The symphony of their conversation rose and fell—an argument, though what about, Molly could not decipher. The voices were muffled, the words unclear. Her heart pounded in anticipation of a clue, some hint to who had been calling her. The message clicked off, and Molly pulled the phone from her ear.
Tracey awoke frightened and cold. “Mummy?” she called out, hoping she had returned while Tracey had napped. Th
ere was no answer. The candle had gone out, leaving the room pitch black. Tracey rose hesitantly from her mattress and felt her way along the dirt wall to the makeshift table. She fumbled for the matches and nervously fingered the rectangular match box. She didn’t want to get in trouble for lighting the match, but she was terrified of the darkness. She bit her lower lip and withdrew a wooden match. Her fingers felt their way along the thin match, recognizing the bulbous head, and then gripping the opposite end. Tracey trembled as she struck the match along the side of the box, just as her father had showed her the last time they had made a campfire. A tiny spark flittered in the darkness. Tracey released the breath she had unconsciously been holding, and a frustrated, strangled sound followed. She removed another matchstick from the box, again she searched with her fingers for the swollen end. Please, please, she prayed. She instinctively stepped back when the flame came to life, then she lowered it quickly against the candle wick.
Tracey squinted into the lightening room, noting the wooden plank, still in place, the ghostly shadows dancing on the wall behind the candle. She felt a presence behind her and turned slowly, frightened, her body covered with goose bumps. She stood rigid while her eyes adjusted to the darkness. Her gaze dropped to a bulging image that lay on the other side of the room—they hadn’t been there when Mummy had gone—a tall figure loomed beside them. Tracey was not alone.
Nineteen
Molly threw her backpack on the kitchen table, glad the dogs were in the yard and not at her feet. The Washington Post sat folded before her. Cole, she sighed. Tracey’s smiling face covered the upper right quarter of the page, and around her neck, sparkling like a flash of metal at sea, sat the necklace that Molly held in her possession. Molly withdrew her notepad from her backpack with a sigh. She took it into the family room and sat on the couch, exhausted. Her head flopped back onto the soft cushion. She let her eyes fall closed and took a deep, relaxing breath, wondering why she had ever stopped meditating. She thought about how quickly her life had changed. It seemed to her that one day she was trying to keep up with a three-year-old, her every second wrapped around his needs, the days weaving in and out of each other, some blending so smoothly that it was hard to tell when one ended and the next began, some so terribly hard that she couldn’t wait for a reprieve—a little breathing space, a few minutes to think her own thoughts, accomplish her own grown-up tasks. And then her life had been interrupted. There had been Amanda, and the years when functioning became a goal rather than a given—the lost years. Molly sat up and sighed, remembering the therapy, the fights, the fear in Erik’s eyes when he realized that he couldn’t count on his mother for her strength or safety, and the way that look felt like a knife in her gut, initially sinking her further into depression. Eventually, that pain became the catalyst to her lifeline, her reason for pulling herself toward solid ground. And now that she had it all together—direction, confidence, her son’s trust—she was throwing herself right into the heart of an investigation.
Chasing Amanda Page 15