Chasing Amanda

by Melissa Foster

  “He no dead. He almost dead, still breathing.”

  “What?” Molly said incredulously.

  “He no die,” Edie said.

  “He lived? Rodney is alive?” Molly was in disbelief.

  Edie nodded.

  “He might be able to lead us to Kate’s body,” Molly said anxiously.

  “No!” she said, thumping the table again with her fist. “He no involved!”

  Molly grabbed Edie’s hand. “Edie, you have to help me. If Rodney knew things, maybe you’re right, maybe together we can find Tracey and figure out what happened to Kate.”

  Edie suddenly looked five years older than she did when she had walked into the restaurant. “I don’t know where he is,” she said.

  “Damn it, Edie, come on,” Molly said loudly. “What are you worried about? You must know where he is.”

  Edie shook her head. “If police find him, they arrest him again. Or worse, Rodney beat again,” she hissed.

  “I won’t tell the police, Edie. I promise,” Molly pleaded, her mind raced through the possible outcome: finding Kate’s body.

  Edie looked around the restaurant nervously. Molly urged her again, using Edie’s own thoughts, that together, Molly and Rodney could find Tracey. Finally, Edie conceded. “Very dangerous, you involved, Molly. Very dangerous.” She looked down at her tea once again, “Pastor Lett, she know where to find Rodney. I not see Rodney. I just know he alive.”

  The Perkinson House, Molly thought, remembering the locks on the windows and the sensation of the strong hands upon her own at the cellar doors. Molly knew that she would not keep her promise to Edie. She had to call Sergeant Moeler.

  “Why, why, why?” Pastor Lett sobbed, repeatedly hitting the back of the couch with her fisted hand. She raised her arms toward the ceiling, “Why? Why do I have to go through this again?” She paced, frustrated, saddened once again by the ghost of a brother she once had, once cherished, and still loved. She knew what she had to do. She’d seen Molly in the woods, spying on her. She gathered her store of empty boxes, pulled on her overcoat and gloves, and picked up the phone.

  Hannah’s voice was soft, tired, as if she were on the edge of sleep and had been brought back to wakefulness, “Hannah, it’s Carla. I’m sorry to bother you so late.”

  “What’s wrong, Carla?”

  “We need to talk. Can we meet at your house, right away?” she asked, urgently.

  “Yes, yes, of course. Are you going to call, or shall I?”

  “I will. Just be ready. We need to move fast.” She was thankful for Hannah’s lack of questions. She hung up the phone and dialed again.

  “Newton, it’s Carla. We have an issue. Trouble.”

  “Carla? Okay, yes. Um, where?”

  “Hannah’s house. I’ll meet you there.” She hung up before hearing Newton’s reply.

  As Pastor Lett drove through the empty streets of Boyds, she felt as though she were being watched through the darkened windows of the homes she passed. She went by Molly’s house, and she envisioned her stewing over the whole situation. She couldn’t blame her for wanting to find Tracey. She didn’t like to have harsh feelings towards others, but she was hurt, maddened even—seeing her at her house in the middle of the night, then at the manse. The pastor side of her wondered how she would get past the ill feelings that brewed within her to find her way to forgiveness.

  Newton’s car was already in Hannah’s driveway when she arrived. She rushed up the back steps. The dogs barked as she rapped three times on the door with her gloved hand. Hannah’s tense face greeted her, her dark brown hair piled in a loose bun on her head. She guided her silently to the parlor where Newton sat fidgeting with his keys, his Members Only jacket zipped right up to his chin.

  “Thank you for meeting me,” Pastor Lett said quickly. “We have an issue, or at least, I think we might have an issue. I’m not certain, but just in case, I think we need to move swiftly.” They eyed one another seriously.

  “What is it, Carla? What’s happened?” Hannah folded her hands in her lap.

  “Molly Tanner’s been snooping around,” she paced nervously, “asking about Rodney.” She poured a cup of tea from the silver pot that Hannah had set out for them, and took a slow sip. The warmth of the liquid calmed her nerves.

  “Molly?” asked Hannah. “Why would Molly ask about Rodney? I just don’t understand.” She adjusted her sweatshirt, flustered.

  “Why, she’d have no reason not to trust you,” Newton said, quickly.

  “I don’t think she’s causing trouble, really, but I want to take precautions.”

  “Carla, what exactly are you worried about?” Hannah asked.

  Pastor Lett stood and walked behind Hannah’s Victorian sofa, looking out the window, running her hand through her hair, then down her face, trying to figure out exactly what she was worried about. She returned to the sofa and sat down, bracing her hands on her knees. “I don’t know,” her words were rushed, frustrated. “I’m worried that they’ll search the Perkinson House.” She ejected a sigh of relief. She’d finally said it, after all of those years of hiding behind each other’s glances, behind the safety of their carefully-executed stories. It had been released, laid naked on the table before them.

  “The Perkinson House?” Hannah asked.

  “She saw me, one night, when I had rowed over there.”

  “Oh, Carla,” Newton said, fidgeting with his hands. “This is bad, real bad. What are we going to do? After all these years. The Perkinsons trusted you. We have to do something.” He spoke quickly, as if the taste of the words would cause him pain.

  “I know that, Newton!” Carla said sharply. “We need to go there, to make sure the cellar is secure, and, if they get a search warrant, to make sure there are no….holes for them to find.”

  “Yes, yes, right. We need to go right now.” Newton stood to leave.

  “What should I bring?” Hannah asked.

  “No, Hannah, you stay here. It’s late and cold. I don’t want you out there in this weather. Besides, Carla and I can handle this,” Newton said, protectively.

  “Nonsense, Newton. I’m coming, and that’s that. Now, what do we need?” Her hands on her hips told him that she had made up her mind.

  “I’m really sorry that I got you two involved in this,” Carla said thoughtfully. “It was wrong of me.”

  “Nonsense,” Hannah snapped. “We have to watch out for one another.” She and Newton exchanged a knowing glance.

  Newton lowered his eyes. “Yes, yes we do. Carla, you couldn’t have done this on your own. Why, you had to rely on us.” He picked up the one large box he had been carrying and nervously changed the subject, “Well, um, let’s move on, shall we?”

  Pastor Lett asked Hannah for supplies, “Extra food and water. Anything that you think the kid will need over the next week or so, just in case they watch the house, and we’re unable to get there.” Carla thought of the kid, listening to people rumbling around in the house, fearful of making a sound. “Hannah, do you have a small CD player with earphones? Something to eliminate the noise when, and if, the police come rummaging around?”

  “Just a minute. I might have just the thing.” she hurried from the room.

  They loaded Hannah’s car with supplies, and drove toward the Perkinson house, deciding along the way to park in the Huntington Brothers’ truck yard, which was on the same side of the road as the railroad tracks. They parked Hannah’s car behind the maintenance building and gathered their supplies. The three of them stood at the edge of the dark woods that separated the maintenance yard from the Perkinson property, nervous, but determined. Without a light to guide them, they felt their way through the woods. Hannah headed their trek, advising them, Careful of this branch. To the right, here. Newton, watch your step!

  At the crest of the hill, the house loomed before them. Pastor Lett’s heart ached at the lies that lay within the walls of the magnificent structure.

  Pastor Lett watched Newton with app
reciation and guilt, remembering the long and painful deliberation she’d endured when she’d first brought Newton into the fold of her situation. She’d worried that Newton might not want any part of it, and she wouldn’t have blamed him, either. After a month of consideration and worry, and the date of Carla’s visit back to Delaware at her heels, she finally decided to chance it. She’d asked Newton to visit her at the church one evening and disclosed what she’d been doing, her clandestine meetings, the reasons, and finally, about the kid. Newton had acted pleased. He’d secretly worried, he’d said, about what had happened to the child.

  It was Newton, with his knowledge of tinkering, electricity, and plumbing, things Carla knew nothing about, who installed the commode in the cellar. It had been a long, daunting process. Thank goodness for the dirt floor. Carla had been in awe of Newton’s knowledge, his ability to follow the Do-It-Yourself handbooks. They had worked for a full month of nights, digging trenches for the PVC piping, connecting it to the septic system, and rigging up electricity from the lines at the Huntington Brothers truck site, unbeknownst to them, though Pastor Lett wouldn’t have put it past Newton to have asked permission and made up some story that would sit well, yet cause no concern for inquiries.

  It was one year later, when timing had, once again, become an issue, that they let Hannah in on their secret. They were the two most trustworthy people that Carla had ever known, and she cared for them both a great deal. As she watched them now, she felt guilty for burdening them with her responsibilities, and yet, she couldn’t imagine how she would have made it through this many years without them by her side.

  They crossed the grass and stacked their supplies next to the cellar doors. A cold gust of wind against the sweat on Pastor Lett’s face made her feel alive, alert. She took the key from around her neck and unlocked the substantial metal lock from the heavy chain, and glanced up at her conspirators, who hovered above her, watching her every move. A chill rushed through her body as a fleeting image of the child in the dollhouse danced through her mind. She hefted one door upward, then the other. The chamber below was dark. She lowered herself down the crooked steps, and from behind the shelves, behind the plywood, she heard the kid.

  After the long and tedious job of securing the area was taken care of, they replaced the plywood and shelves, each moving slower than when they’d first arrived, each feeling the weight of the situation, the sadness of it. Newton climbed the cellar stairs last, and before Pastor Lett could close the cellar doors, he threw old pieces of wood, sticks, and leaves onto the cellar floor and steps.

  “This will make it look like the Perkinsons stored wood here.” He gathered more leaves and threw them into the cellar, asking Hannah to hand him the small box that he had left at the top of the cellar stairs. Hannah looked around, found the box, and handed it to him, feeling something scurry inside of it.

  “When you called, I had an idea that we might have to do this. So I took some precautions of my own.” He opened the box, and lifted one live rat by the tail and tossed it gently onto the steps. Then he reached back into the box and withdrew two dead rats, throwing one to the floor and the other on the steps. The stench was so bad that Hannah moved away.

  “Goodness, Newton. Where did you get those?” she asked.

  Carla covered her nose. “Newton, that’s awful!”

  “That’s the point.”

  They locked the heavy metal chain in place and began their long trek back.

  By the time they reached Hannah’s car, it was after two A.M.

  “Carla, you don’t look very good,” Hannah said.

  “I’m just exhausted. This…this whole thing. Sometimes it feels so wrong,” she said.

  “We all wish we had done things differently in our lives,” Hannah said, supportively. “Some things we do because we have to, and other things, we do them because they’re the right thing to do. And sometimes, what starts out feeling right, changes as time passes and lives change,” Hannah leaned against the car, her side touching Pastor Lett’s, “but by then it’s too late. Then it is what it is and we carry on.” She smiled at Carla, and then they climbed back into the car—each lost in her own thoughts, each pretending it was just another normal night.

  Twenty Four

  Weekend mornings always felt like mini-vacations to Molly. No matter how great of a running morning it might appear to be, her body wanted to lie around a little longer, move a little more slowly, and welcome the morning more gracefully. The sun peeked through the curtains in a streak across Cole’s body which was stretched across the bed. She curled around him, feeling as safe and warm as any secret she’d ever held. She suddenly realized how soundly she’d slept. The turmoil of the night before crept into her mind, trying to settle there, but was met with resistance—resistance of wanting a few moments’ peace without the invasion of real life.

  Cole reached around her, drawing her closer, and moving his upper body over hers, his handsome face looking down at her, his eyes smiling, hair tousled.

  “Hi, stranger,” he said, brushing her wavy bangs off of her forehead.

  “Morning,” she said, wrapping her arms around his neck and lifting herself up to kiss his cheek.

  “What time did you get in last night?” he asked, running his index finger down her right shoulder, sending goose bumps down the length of her arm.

  “I don’t know,” she said, trying to keep focused on their conversation and not the warm sensation growing beneath her skin. “Late.”

  “Mmm.” He gently kissed her forehead, her eyes, and then her cheeks.

  Molly lay with her eyes closed, thinking of the feel of Cole’s whiskers tickling her skin, when the sound of the ringing phone slashed through the moment. Cole stretched across her chest, reaching for the phone.

  “Hello?” Cole said with a strained voice. He moved off of Molly, handing her the phone as if it were a dirty diaper. “For you. Mike Moeler.” Cole reached for his book.

  “Hello?”

  “Molly? Mike. Thanks for the call last night.”

  Molly rested her head on Cole’s shoulder. Cole tensed. “You won’t say anything to Edie, will you?” The pit of her stomach hurt when she thought of her betrayal.

  “We’ll talk about that later. They put another officer in charge, Officer Rozutto. He wants to meet you.”

  “Why did they do that?”

  “We get moved around based on other cases that come up. Rozutto’s a fine detective. Can you meet us? Now?”

  Molly heard the urgency in his voice, “Of course.” She sat up and turned to Cole with a look of apology. He rolled his eyes.

  “Panera Bread? Half hour okay?” Mike asked.

  Molly agreed, and hung up the phone.

  Cole shifted his gaze above his book. “Well?” he asked in a disappointed tone.

  Molly snuggled closer to him. “I know this really stinks,” she laid her head on his shoulder, “but I have to meet them. The detective wants to talk to me.”

  “Do you want me to come with you—wherever it is that you’re going…with Mike.” Mike’s name held a quip of annoyance.

  Molly turned to face him. “First of all, Mike is Sergeant Moeler, a cop, and second of all, no, I’ll be fine, but thank you.” She put her arm across his chest.

  “Uh-huh,” Cole said flatly.

  “Cole,” she said, trying to rein in her anxiety over the pending meeting and her ailing marriage, “how can I make it up to you?”

  “That’s a good question,” he said and looked back down at his book.

  Molly shook the outstretched hand of Sal Rozutto, his olive skin and thick dark hair as stereotypically Italian as his name.

  “My pleasure,” he said with a voice smooth as butter and thick with culture. His demeanor was friendly, yet keenly in charge. “I appreciate your meeting with us. It’s people like you that are in tune, shall we say, with things that help to solve these cases.” The smile remained on his lips even as he spoke.

  Molly lifted her
eyebrows, “Well, I don’t know how in tune I am with it, but I’m glad to help.”

  “It’s my understanding,” he said a little quieter, moving closer to her, “that you are very in tune with the issues surrounding this case, that you have seen things.” The way he said it, quiet, like an inside secret between the two of them, touched Molly. She liked this man. “That is very beneficial to us, Mrs. Tanner.”

  He must have noticed the surprise in Molly’s eyes, because he added quickly, “We don’t often use...seers, but, in a case like this, where time is of the essence and a life hangs in the wings,” he paused, thoughtfully, “in a case where we need every available lead to pan out before we lose a child, well, such a case may deem it appropriate, if the…seer…appears to be a safe and sane individual.”

  “But Officer Brown said—”

  “Let me worry about Officer Brown,” Sal said.

  “I don’t know what you’ve been told.”

  “I’ve been told enough to know that you know what you’re talking about.” He glanced at Mike.

  Molly took a deep breath and felt a blush warm her cheeks. Validation. “Well,” Molly began, “I’m not sure what I can tell you. I mean, the things I’ve seen,” she leaned forward, spoke a little softer, and hoped the other patrons would not overhear their conversation, “they haven’t really been that clear, you know?”

  “I don’t know, but I do understand that this is how these things work. Have you kept a record of any of it?”