Melissa Foster - Chasing Amanda

Molly’s energy was draining. She felt queasy, as though she’d been telling tales that should not be revealed—as if, by voicing them, she were making them real. She knew she had to push herself to continue, replaying for them the evil that overtook her as she’d run down White Ground Road. She swallowed the bile that rose in her throat and continued to describe the image of the girl she’d seen in the flowered dress, the girl who walked happily into the cornfield next to the church, only to be swallowed whole and never seen again. Mike and Sal took notes but did not say a word. Molly thought they were afraid to speak, afraid she might stop divulging her secrets.

Molly’s breathing had become shallow. She had one vision left to describe. She took a deep breath, finally, and told them of the sensation of the large palms against her own at the cellar doors of the Perkinson House.

Molly leaned onto the table for support, her visions splayed out before them like a bad dream. Molly’s head felt heavy and ill fit. She lowered her face into her hands as unexpected tears streamed down her cheeks, leaving her empty, and feeling as though she’d somehow betrayed her own mind—rendering her depleted, sad. She barely registered Sal’s strong, even voice as he spoke to Mike.

“Get a warrant.”

Pastor Lett sat on the rear deck of her home, gripping her warm mug of coffee, looking upon the lake but thinking of the past. She thought of the days before Rodney’s beating, before she had taken the course of deception. She remembered fishing at the lake with Rodney, when Rodney was just a boy, the way his feet dangled over the dock, his toes wriggling in the water, and the way he had pulled them out quickly, worried that fish would bite them. No matter how many times she’d tell Rodney that he was scaring the fish away, he’d continue with his toe-wriggling game. They never caught a single fish. Yet every Saturday morning, before the mist would rise off of the lake, before the birds would leave their nests in search of food, she and Rodney would make their way to the docks, dressed in full fishing garb: tan vests with multiple pockets and lures attached, rubber boots that they’d discard as soon as they hit the docks, and tan and brown floppy fisherman hats, which Rodney called “fish heads.” The memory brought a smile to her lips.

She watched the flurry of activity across the lake—the officers’ cars arriving, police dogs on leashes. She shouldn’t have been surprised, she knew what lay ahead; nevertheless, her hand began to shake. A splash of coffee spilled onto the deck, and she watched it spread like a horrible lie. She thought of Molly and the long talks they’d had, the intimate details of Molly’s depression they’d discussed, and felt the weight of sadness in Molly’s sudden mistrust.

She stood and walked inside, looking around, for what, she wasn’t sure. Hints of who lay in wait at the Perkinson House? There were no visible hints in her home—except for the sole legal paper, hidden in the locked metal box on the top shelf in her den. The key, tucked behind her shirt, suddenly felt cold against her chest. Nerves . She moved methodically, retrieving her heavy coat from the closet and setting it on the small maple table near the front door.

As a car pulled into the driveway, she rushed upstairs, taking the photo of Rodney down from the mantel in her bedroom—the photo of Rodney sitting on the living room floor of their childhood home, playing with a wooden train and smiling at the camera. She would carry the innocence of that photo with her as things became more difficult to handle. She said a small prayer and promised to keep Rodney safe, no matter what happened to her. There was a loud knock at the door. Pastor Lett held the photo to her chest for one last second, placed it carefully back on the mantel, aligning it with the other knickknacks, and walked calmly down the stairs.

“I’m coming, just a minute,” the tranquility of her own voice startled her.

On her front stoop stood an officer of the law.

Sergeant Moeler briefly introduced himself. “Pastor Lett,” he began, “we have a search warrant for the Perkinson property.” He handed several papers to Pastor Lett, who took them with a trembling hand—suddenly too nervous and angry to read them, much less decipher them.

“We would like to gain access to the premises now, please.”

Pastor Lett drew in a long breath, thinking of Hannah and Newton. “No problem at all,” she said. She walked to the French doors, using each measured step to compose herself. She locked the doors and, on her way back toward the front door, paused to straighten a magazine. Thoughts of the kid ran painfully through her mind as she put on her coat and went out.

“What exactly will you be looking for?” she asked as they walked toward Sergeant Moeler’s car.

“Rodney Lett, ma’am,” Sergeant Moeler answered.

Molly found Pastor Lett standing on the Perkinson driveway, watching the war-like scene before them unfold.

“Good Lord,” said Pastor Lett. Heavily-armed police officers moved in and out of the woods, search dogs in tow. She watched the house that she had so carefully boarded up be ripped open and invaded by strangers and lowered her face into her hands, “What have I done?”

“Is someone in there?” Molly asked, urgently.

Pastor Lett shook her head without looking at Molly. “I take care of that house! That is my responsibility! And now…just look! It’s being taken over, people are walking all over it, shouting, mussing up the floors, disturbing the balance!” She paced, the grief in her face undeniable; wrinkles settled in around her eyes, her mouth, drawing her face downward.

Molly watched the ensuing commotion, listening to the sounds of disruption and envisioning the dogs running from room to room, scratching the floors with their nails, closets being thrown open. A few scattered voices rang through the thick, stressed air, “Clear! Here!” Her senses were overwhelmed. The unmistakable smell of Pastor Lett, Ivory soap and sweet perfume, mixed with the fresh scent of the cool outdoors.

Twenty minutes later, Sergeant Moeler came down the hill.

“Good, you got my call,” he said to Molly. He turned to Pastor Lett, “You’ve got a rodent issue in the cellar.”

Molly watched the two of them. Their efforts to avoid looking at one another were painful for her to witness. Their distrust was blatant, her guilt, distressing.

“The house was clear,” Mike said, turning to Molly with an annoyed look.

“Clear?” Molly asked. Mike nodded. She turned to Pastor Lett. “If Rodney is alive, he might be able to help find Tracey Porter,” she pleaded, knowing full well that if she’d hidden her brother for that many years, she was not going to give him up easily.

“Molly,” she said confidently. She covered her eyes with her index finger and thumb, drew in a deep breath, and said, “Rodney can’t help you.”

“Molly, the house was clear. Leave the poor woman alone,” Mike said firmly. He shook Pastor Lett’s hand and went to join the search team as they descended the hill.

Molly pursued Pastor Lett, “This girl has one chance, like Kate Plummer did.” she watched the muscles in her jaw tense. “The police made a mistake the first time. Kate may have been found if Rodney hadn’t been fingered as a suspect, and then…well…”

“They cost him his life, Molly,” she said, heatedly. “His life!” She turned away.

Molly called out to her again, “Think of the little girl. Think of Tracey.”

“Think of Rodney,” she spat back. “Think of his family.” Pastor Lett stared at Molly. The silence drew them together, linking them in an uncomfortable moment. Sergeant Moeler’s voice broke the silence. “Molly! I told you to back off. If Rodney is alive, we’ll find him.” “But—” she said.