Melissa Foster - Chasing Amanda

While Cole showered, she told him about Pastor Lett’s brother, his link to Kate Plummer’s disappearance, and his untimely death. She paused, waiting for a reaction, listening to the sound of the water being shut off, the remaining drips making their way to the shower floor. “She said Rodney knew things about the girl,” she hesitated, “I think he was like me.” She closed her eyes, not sure if she should continue, but could not control her impulse to share her thoughts. “I don’t think he was guilty.”

Steam rose off of Cole’s body, a thick towel tied around his waist, his dark mass of hair sticking out in every direction, “What do you mean, like you, Mol? And what do you mean, not guilty?” he asked with a serious tone.

Molly looked down at the floor. “You know,” she said sheepishly, kicking her foot out and back, off the side of the bed, “like I do? Like with nine-eleven? Remember?” She lifted her eyes and met his, she saw in them his recollection of her visions before the planes had crashed, the fear she’d conveyed, and his disbelief when the event finally occurred.

“Yeah, I remember,” he sighed heavily, and sat down next to Molly. “Baby, why are you doing this? Why are you getting involved?” He put a protective hand on her leg.

“I have to. I don’t know why.” She looked into his eyes, trying to convey her determination, the seriousness of what she was saying, “I dreamed about it, too.” The words rushed out of her before she had time to think about if she should say them or not, “I saw a little girl, curled up on the ground, and these...these...underground caverns or something. I saw a lady on a log.” She turned and opened her nightstand drawer, removing her dream journal. “It’s all in here,” she held the journal out to him. He didn’t move to take it. She pushed it toward him, “Take it! You’ll see.” Cole finally took the journal, looking at her with disbelief. “And look at this, Cole,” she unwrapped the bandages from her hand, “a perfect T.” He continued to look at her, his furrowed brow and his eyes portrayed a certain empathy, as if he felt sorry for Molly. “Cole! I know what you’re thinking,” she pleaded. “Look, it’s a T—like Tracey—T!” she said emphatically.

“It could all be coincidental.” He watched her hopes deflate and suddenly realized how important this was to her. “Okay, okay, so you are serious, and maybe you know some things. Just be careful, okay.” He wrapped his arm around her shoulder, pulling her close against his side, and kissing the top of her head. “You’re what matters to me. Everyone else is just peripheral.” He released her and stood to get dressed. “Let’s go listen to Newton.”

Molly’s stride down the stairs revealed an exhilarated little bounce, happy that maybe Cole was beginning to believe in her, not realizing that he never even opened her journal.

Newton Carr reminded Molly of a schoolboy making his first public appearance. Seventy-seven-year-old Newton’s skin was as dark as chocolate and smooth as butter, in stark contrast to his pale and appropriately-wrinkled wife, Betty. He stood before them, avoiding eye contact with anyone and fumbling with his papers—his hands moving from paper to pocket and back again. His short, thick, gray and white hair, small-framed glasses, and semi-nervous behavior accurately reflected his kind, soft-spoken demeanor. He had kept in relatively good shape for a man of his years by walking his little terrier every day. Although he was the unofficial historian and the keeper of all facts relating to Boyds, one was hard pressed to get an opinion about current events out of the man.

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.