Melissa Foster - Chasing Amanda

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, s he 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.