Chasing Amanda

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No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

Publishers Note:

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and events are the work of the author’s imagination.

Any resemblance to real persons, places, or events is coincidental.

Melissa Foster ©2011

Chasing Amanda

When the secrets of the past hold the hope of the future.

Written by

Melissa Foster

For Leon, Evelyn, and Sidney Alice Shulman, who will never be forgotten

One

Molly kissed her husband goodbye and closed the front door of her colonial home, listening to the silence that echoed in her ears. It had been eight years since Amanda’s death, eight years since she’d escaped the painful memories of Philadelphia, and moved to the quiet community of Boyds, Maryland. In the stillness of the mornings, Molly found herself missing the incessant background noises of the city, which seemed amplified in the six weeks since her son, Erik, had left for college. Her bare feet lightly slapped the ceramic tile as she padded into the kitchen, stopping in front of the picture window to watch Stealth, her rambunctious Rottweiler, and Trigger, her playful black lab. Molly briefly envied their carefree lives, then turned to look at the calendar that was clipped to the refrigerator with an enormous magnet that read, Dance like nobody’s watching! The calendar was blank, as it had been every day this month, except for the third Thursday, where she had scribbled, Civic Association Meeting. Molly sighed, remembering a time when every day had held a different list of assignments and chores, schedules for Erik, and important meetings for Cole. Eight years ago she had needed a calm, almost boring, lifestyle to save her sanity. Now, she wondered if she hadn’t let it go on that way for too long. She coyly lifted her eyes to the magnet once again, remembering when Erik was young, and they’d danced unabashedly around the kitchen to silly songs from Sesame Street. The edges of her lips curled upward at the memory. That seemed like a lifetime ago. She raised her eyebrows, glancing around the empty kitchen, like a child about to reach into the cookie jar, and suddenly burst into spasmodic movements that did not resemble a dance by any stretch of the imagination. The phone rang, saving her from feeling any more ridiculous. “Yeah, right,” she said to the magnet, and answered the phone.

“Hey, Ma, what’s up?” Erik’s use of “Ma” rather than “Mom” made Molly smile. When Erik was about twelve years old, he’d suddenly started calling Molly “Ma” when he needed her help or was simply in a jovial mood, and he’d used the term “Mom” when he was angry, scared, or upset, just as Molly had called him Erik Michael Tanner when he’d misbehaved as a child. Molly had seen it as a sign of his maturing, testing the waters.

Molly blushed, her lame excuse for a dance fresh on her mind. “Not much. Are you okay?” A shadow of doubt about her mothering skills momentarily gave Molly pause. There had been a time, just before finally moving away from Philadelphia, when she’d been unable to care for herself, much less for Erik. Cole had stepped into the roles of both mother and father while Molly struggled to come to grips with the trauma that had befallen Amanda. Even now, years later, that fleeting trepidation was enough of a reminder to keep Molly on her toes.

“Yeah, ’course. I wanted your opinion. There’s this girl, Jenna? We’ve been hanging out a lot, and, um, well, she used to hang out with this guy down the hall, and—”

“And you’re his friend, and you aren’t sure if you should keep hanging out with her, right?”

Erik breathed a sigh of relief. “Yeah, exactly.”

This was nothing new for Molly. She’d been helping Erik with everything from skinned knees to breakups forever. When Erik was younger, he’d draw Molly outside to discuss matters of the heart, as if the fresh air had somehow made things easier for him to discuss. Molly pictured the way he’d drop his eyes as he spoke, the way he bit his lower lip between thoughts, just as he had since he was four, and the nervous, crooked smile that always accompanied a relieved sigh when he’d heard her thoughts. She pictured that smile while she spoke with him, gently asking about his relationship with the other boy, how much he liked Jenna, and generally getting a feel for his long-term intent, of which, of course, he wasn’t really sure, although he “really liked” her.

“Okay, so basically, I need to decide if I’m good enough friends with this other guy to be worth the pain I’ll cause him if I keep seeing her?” The conflict in Erik’s voice was tangible.

“Yeah, in my opinion, anyway. Is she worth hurting someone else, and are you good enough friends with the guy to care?” Molly thought about how cold the latter sounded, quickly revising, “It’s all about karma, Erik. Would you care if you were him? That’s what you need to think about. Put yourself in his situation. Was it a painful breakup? Were they madly in love, or was it a college fling?”

“Right. Okay.”

Molly knew the meaning behind that particular response, This isn’t easy, so I don’t want to think about it right now. “You’ll figure it out,” she said. “Everything else okay?”

“I guess. Thanks, Ma, for making it a little harder,” he laughed. “I gotta run. I’ve got class in five minutes, and it’s across campus. Love you.”

Before Molly could answer, the line went dead, and Molly longed for a hug from the boy who was no longer little, the boy who was now a young man and only needed to touch base with his mom rather than follow her around, hanging onto her every word. Molly missed those moments, feeling as though mothering a young man came with a whole different set of guidelines than mothering a boy, and accepting a phone dismissal without being hurt was one of the requirements. She missed building school projects and chaperoning field trips, taking pictures at soccer games, and standing at the sidelines, painfully silent, as her son had ordered her to remain because he was embarrassed by her cheering him on, “Go, Erik! That’s my boy!” Molly shook her head, missing the child that he’d never be again, and smirking at the trials and tribulations that accompanied youth—and motherhood—then she headed upstairs to put on her running clothes.

Molly had wondered, recently, if they’d done the right thing when they’d uprooted from Philadelphia and moved to the country. Those thoughts were immediately chased by painful memories of Amanda. Nine years ago, Molly hadn’t been sure she’d make it through each hour, much less each day. After Amanda’s death, she’d spiraled into an abyss of depression, wrapped in the guilt of her silence, paralyzed by the truth—if she’d only spoken up, told somebody besides Cole, then maybe she could have saved her. Memories of that dreadful afternoon haunted her, the nightmares that followed suppressed her only hope of escape from the mental torture. She couldn’t eat, and sleeping was out of the question. Losing her job had come as no surprise, since the commute to and from work, the sounds of the busy streets, had brought constant panic—an obsessive need to search the face of every child, looking for that hint of fear, looking for the deceit in the eyes of adults. Every screeching child had reminded her of Amanda, bringing forth a gut-wrenching visceral reaction, causing parents to guide their children away from the crazy woman who wouldn’t stop asking them, Are you sure this is your parent? Molly remembered the unease she had felt as Amanda’s abduction had unfolded before her.

It had been a cool October evening. Molly had left Walmart with an armful of groceries. She popped open the trunk and threw the bags in, trying to ignore the little girl’s screams coming from the black minivan two cars over. She settled herself into the driver’s seat, and rolled down the window. The deafening screams continued. Molly backed out of her parking space and inched slowly past the van’s rear bumper. The child’s father frantically tried to settle the little girl into the van, the little girl’s arms and legs thrashed wildly. The frustrated father’s eyes shot in Molly’s direction.

“She didn’t get the dolly she wanted,” the man had said through gritted teeth.

Molly hadn’t realized she was staring. Embarrassed, she had driven away. It was three days later, when Molly had seen Amanda’s face on the front page of the newspaper, that Molly put her nightmares and the image of the man together, and realized that it had not been the little girl’s father she’d seen, but Amanda’s abductor, her murderer.

Molly shuddered. It had taken her years to understand the post-traumatic stress she’d been experiencing, to relearn normal reactions, and to retrieve her confidence. In small increments, she’d begun to move forward, to accept her failure. You did the best you could, her therapist had told her, and eventually Molly had found her footing again, slowly moving forward with her life. She pushed the distressing memories aside and reminded herself of how she’d come to grips with the nightmare she’d lived. For years, she had been confident that she would never slip back into that panicked, anxious state, but at times like these, when she remembered, she wasn’t so sure. Determined to remain strong, she employed the coping mechanisms the therapist had taught her, reminding herself how far she’d come, and telling herself, out loud, that Amanda’s death wasn’t her fault. Yes, she thought, moving to Boyds had been the right thing to do. Erik had quickly fallen into favor with the kids at school and neighbors, and Cole had transitioned seamlessly to a nearby practice. Molly liked the close-knit flavor of Boyds, where most of the residents of the small farming community had grown up and still remained. She found safety in knowing who her neighbors were, and that strangers were few and far between in the three thousand acres that made up the small town.

The parking lot of the Boyds Presbyterian Church was empty, save for Pastor Lett’s Corvette, which, it seemed to Molly, was ever present at the church. Molly’s hamstrings burned as she stretched toward the sun, feeling each muscle pulsate as it was drawn to life. She stretched her arms above her head and let out a long sigh, thinking of the day that lay ahead, and wondering what she would do to keep herself busy. She yearned for her morning run, her escape from the mundane errands that barely filled her days.

Molly bent her lean body at the waist one last time to loosen her hips, pulling her head almost between her shins, her long, auburn ponytail flipped toward the ground. A faint clicking sound caught her attention, and she let her gaze move in its direction, but from her upside-down view, she couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary. She turned and faced the aged white clapboard church which loomed behind her. Molly shielded her eyes from the bright sun and watched a blue bird whisk by. Blue bird, blue bird, fly away home. Your wings are signs of peace for none. Molly heard her mother’s gentle voice ring in her head and cringed. Great, she sighed. Throughout her life, Molly’s mother had often made random comments that Molly had later realized were psychically-charged warnings. Her mother had been clairvoyant for as long as Molly could remember, and when Molly had first realized that she had the same ability, she had thought of it as normal. She called the powerful episodes the Knowing, as her mother had. Now, she’d give anything to be able to close her eyes against her ability, wash it away like dirt from a fall. Before Amanda, Molly’s visions had been vague and sporadic, sand under a breaking wave, morphing from one second to the next in unclear shapes and patterns. Amanda’s death had changed every aspect of her life, including the clarity and frequency of her visions. Molly didn’t mark time like most mothers, cherishing each of their child’s milestones. For Molly, there was only life before Amanda and life after Amanda.

Molly caught a glimpse of Pastor Lett standing alone in the shade of the church. Her long arms hung limply at her sides. When Molly had first moved to Boyds, she had thought it very progressive to have a female pastor in such a small town. Now, as Molly watched Pastor Lett crane her neck and look into the cornfields behind her, she couldn’t imagine anyone else taking her place. She was a bit aloof and even slightly mannish, but Molly didn’t find either of those traits unappealing. Molly had quickly confided in Pastor Lett about the tragedy that had befallen her in Philadelphia, and Pastor Lett had been patient and supportive of Molly’s need to visit her at the church several times each month to cleanse the chaos from her mind. That’s what Pastor Lett had called it, Cleansing the chaos. She’d said that everyone had confusion in their minds about things they’d done, or not done, and that one needed to resolve that turmoil in order to move forward with a productive, sane life. Molly smiled as she thought of their visits, which had become less frequent as the years had passed and Molly had come into her own once again.

Molly waved, “Pastor Lett!”

Pastor Lett’s head turned toward Molly. She thrust her hands deep into her pockets, hunched her shoulders and lifted her chin in curt acknowledgment, quickly retreating into the church.

Molly disregarded the slight brush-off, thinking that perhaps she was just in a hurry, distracted. She jogged out of the parking lot toward White Ground Road, a three-mile stretch of secluded rustic road that wound through the historic section of Boyds, Molly’s typical morning run.

She ran at a strong and fast pace for the first half mile, pushing the worried thoughts of Erik and his latest female conflict to the back of her mind and focusing on the sting of the crisp fall air as her lungs expanded with each breath, until the familiar rhythm of her feet pounding the earth lulled her into an easier pace, and she found her groove.

Every morning, her own body surprised her. At forty-two, she was still able to run several miles without issue, but the fact that she could run was not what surprised her the most, it was her desire to run—almost an insatiable need—and the confidence she felt as she ran. Her therapist had wondered, maybe rightfully so, if running was symbolic of Molly running away from her past. Molly had never quite been able to shake the similarity. Before Amanda, Molly had run to stay in shape. After Amanda, running had centered her mind. With the absence of the responsibilities of work, Molly had still been plagued by thoughts of Amanda. She craved the escape that running provided—the escape from her own thoughts.

No sight was more beautiful than the graceful branches of the tall oaks that lined the rural road. She knew every rut and pot hole, the areas that deer favored as their highways, and even where the sun shone through the brightest, up around the bend near Hannah Slate’s farm. She anticipated the shift in her footing as the paved road ended, fading gently into dirt and gravel, and felt her body relax as she inhaled the smell of the bright fall day.

At first, the change in temperature seemed imagined. Molly’s eyebrows furrowed. She sped up her pace and her heartbeat followed. Within seconds, the air around her became cold. Goose bumps rose on her arms and sent a chill down her spine. She swallowed hard. Her calm slipped away, overshadowed by dread and certainty of what was yet to come.

A cold sweat replaced the perspiration she had earned. She swiped at her brow with a shaking hand. Her shorts and tank top clung to her small muscular body. An eerie silence took shelter in her eardrums as her vision dimmed, and an acidic taste settled in her mouth. Each breath became a fight for air. Her feet stopped moving. No! Not now! She closed her eyes and tried to will away the pressure in her head. There was no escape. She clenched her fists and brought them to her forehead, bracing herself for what she knew was happening. A fog enveloped her mind, and her legs became weak beneath her. A passerby, seeing her body shake and thrust, would have thought Molly was having a seizure. A passerby wouldn’t have been able to distinguish between a seizure and the Knowing. Molly could.

She cursed herself for allowing the Knowing to continue to control her, year after year, yet she had no power to stop it. She felt like a puppet on a string. Visions flashed in her mind: A cavern-like room surrounded by shadowy darkness; a young girl huddled in a corner, scared and shivering; the smell of rancid, wet earth.

Molly fell to the ground and cried out in fear and frustration, “No!” She lay there, amidst the dirt and gravel, too spent to move, her mind in turmoil. A war raged within her—a battle of fear and denial—fear for what the Knowing had shown her and her own denial to believe it. She held onto reality by a thin thread, her trachea refused to open, to breathe. She stood on shaking legs and staggered, grasping at her neck and trying desperately to take air into her lungs. She spun around, looking for anyone, anything that might help her. She finally gasped a breath, a tortured inhalation. Molly pushed on, trying to make it out of the secluded area, to the clearing around the corner. Her mind saw flashes of the little girl and instantly replaced the images with one she knew—Amanda. Tears ran down her cheeks, and a familiar weight bore into her gut.

Breathe, breathe, breathe. She stumbled forward. It’s not my fault, echoed in her head. The visions were now part of her. Molly scanned the edges of the forest; the mass of tangled branches and fallen trees were thick, the underbrush unforgiving. She couldn’t maintain her focus. Her mind was too foggy, her body too weak. Nothing made any sense.

She limped up the road in a stumbling jog. As she neared the bend of the road where White Ground ran into Old Bucklodge Lane, she found her footing, pushing forward, faster, trying to make it to Hannah’s before the Knowing disabled her once again.

Adrenaline coursed through her veins, and she ran faster than ever before. She ran up the hill and sprinted the last half mile to the old red farmhouse where Hannah lived. As if she had passed into another universe, the air lightened, birds chirped, horses gamboled in the pasture. Normalcy abounded. Hannah was outside with one of her many hunting dogs, a small beagle with floppy brown ears and a little tuft of brown fur in the center of its white and black body.

“Hey, Molly!” Hannah hollered, waving.

Molly grabbed her left side, kneading a stitch, her renewed energy left her as quickly as it had come. She lifted her arm in a limp wave and lowered herself to the grass of Hannah’s yard, her mind in a bubble of disbelief.

Hannah came running over, “Molly, are you all right? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” She crouched next to Molly, reaching for her hand. “Molly?”

The feel of Hannah’s large calloused hand, hardened from years of farm work, brought comfort to Molly.

“Molly, what happened?” Hannah’s voice was hurried, concerned.

Molly longed to take refuge in Hannah’s arms, to feel the protection of another human being. How could she tell her that she’d reached beyond the tangible? The secret of the Knowing was excruciating. Fear and stress locked inside her like a rabid animal in quarantine, yearning for escape. Yet she would not speak of it. Molly had learned years ago that the Knowing was not something most people possessed, much less understood. They feared her ability to see into the lives of others or simply dismissed her visions and defined Molly as crazy or attention-starved. She’d lived with the ill-defined visions, the ability to be shown just enough details to drive her crazy, since she was a little girl. Some saw her visions as a gift. Molly felt imprisoned by her mind. The psychic ability was as much a part of her as her hazel eyes and the birthmark on her left thigh.

“Hard run,” she managed. In her mind she pleaded for the images to leave her. It was happening again, and she had no way to control it. She silently began her mantra, I’m okay. It’s not my fault.

“My goodness, Molly,” Hannah said, looking over Molly’s dirty legs and shirt.

“I tripped in a pothole,” Molly lied.

Hannah frowned, her brown hair, absent of the typical streaks of gray seen in other sixty-year-olds, swept her shoulders. Molly crawled to her knees, and Hannah helped lift her to her feet. “Molly, why don’t I take you back home? You can’t run in this condition. Is Cole home?”

“My car is at the church,” Molly said, distracted. “Cole’s at work.” Her body felt awkward, too heavy for her legs to carry.

Hannah guided her to her car and settled her in the passenger’s seat. “I’m headed to the church anyway.”

As Hannah drove, Molly could feel the pressure lift from her chest. Slowly, her mind became her own again. Her first rational thought was that Cole could check her out when he arrived home from work. There were definite advantages to being married to a doctor. Her second was that if she were losing her mind again, she didn’t want Cole to know.

When they turned onto White Ground Road, Molly was surprised to see a mass of cars. “What’s going on?” Molly squinted at the traffic jam. “Is there a funeral today?” The question was in contrast to the attire of the gathered crowd, none of whom were dressed to honor the passing of a loved one.

“Oh, Molly, if only. It’s much worse. I thought you knew,” Hannah’s face grew grim. “Celia and Mark Porter’s daughter, Tracey, went missing late yesterday from the Germantown Adventure Park. The community is gathering for a search party today. It’s awful, poor little thing.”

Comprehension hit Molly hard and brought with it a feeling of dread. Amanda. Panic grew in Molly’s chest, the hope she’d had of the visions being flashbacks was now crushed. The Knowing had wrapped its claws around her mind and now prickled her limbs, commanding her attention. Molly was terrified of going down the rabbit hole again, and equally as frightened not to.

Two

Tracey’s small body trembled. She grimaced as she pulled her knees, scraped and bruised, up to her chest. Her red hair, which was normally so carefully coifed, was thick with dirt and stuck to her forehead and cheeks. She tentatively lifted her hand and pushed the sticky strands away from her face—every careful movement a torturous reminder that she was not alone, magnifying her desperation and bringing more tears, which slipped silently over the newly-torn skin on her cheeks, stinging her face. She squeezed her eyes closed in an attempt to keep from making a sound but could not suppress the memory of the terror-filled night that had led her to the tiny chamber where she now huddled, shivering and scared, on a dirty, torn mattress.

She listened carefully to the slow and steady breathing of her captor, barely visible in the dark chamber. Tracey’s gaze shifted to a lone candle, standing sentinel on a crude table and casting scary shadows of jagged shapes across the room. The smell of the dank dirt floor lingered in the air, making her feel sick to her stomach. She suppressed the urge to gag and concentrated on her surroundings. She saw makeshift wooden shelves stocked with canned food, batteries, and something else that she could not identify. Her eyes settled on a warped piece of plywood resting cockeyed against the dirt wall, blocking her only escape—an escape that Tracey knew would be impossible. Even if she could escape the chamber, she could never find her way through the twisted, narrow passageways that had brought her there. Tracey also knew that at seven years old, she could not outrun an adult.

A chill ran through her like ants crawling along her skin. She shivered and drew her legs in tighter, swallowing the sounds of fear that vied for release as she thought about the person who had lured her there with empty promises and lies. Her eyes spilled tears from the pain in her legs and the fear that consumed her. She shifted her body, making a slight scratching sound against the stale mattress. Her heart pounded in her chest, and her hand flew instinctively to cover her mouth—but it was too late. The terrified sound had already escaped her trembling lips.

Her captor stirred.

Three

Molly desperately wanted to talk to Pastor Lett before leaving to help with the search. She needed to flush out her feelings, to feel safe, and Pastor Lett had always managed to help her wash her mind clean of the demons. Pastor Lett was the only one in Boyds who knew about Amanda, and Molly was thankful to have her to lean on. Now she pushed through the crowd and saw Pastor Lett walking toward the cemetery, glancing backward every few minutes. “Pastor Lett!” Molly called out, noticing that her pace had quickened. She jogged up the hill, “Pastor Lett! Wait, I need to talk—”

Pastor Lett had vanished. A moment later, Molly reached the field and spread the dead stalks with her hands, wondering why in October they were still standing. The fields around Boyds were usually harvested by late September. “Pastor Lett?” she yelled. There was no response. The stalks were still, there was no rustling of husks, no crunching of leaves and stalks under hurried feet—just the noise of the crowd in the meadow below.

The grassy fields of the Adventure Park were spotted with volunteers searching for Tracey. The playground equipment stood unused, unnaturally empty, and eerily quiet. Molly knew she was on dangerous ground and hoped she was strong enough to handle the emotions that swirled within her. She turned her thoughts to Celia Porter, shuddering as she remembered the look on Celia’s face as she had told the crowd of volunteers that it was her fault that her daughter, Tracey, was missing.

“Tracey wanted one more chance to play hide and seek. It’s her favorite game. I found Emma right away. I ran to her and she laughed, and we just sort of ran around for a minute. Then we started looking for Tracey. We found her. She was in the tall grass on the other side of the ship. It’s just that…something was wrong. We found her, but she wasn’t herself.” Celia had wiped her nose on her sleeve. “I should have known. I saw that she was quiet and forlorn, but I just thought that she had seen me laughing with Emma and was jealous or something.”

Perplexed, someone had asked, “But you found her? She didn’t go missing at the park after all? Was she hurt when you found her?”

“No,” Celia had said. “She wasn’t hurt. She was just—”

Mark Porter had interrupted, “She was scared shitless. That’s what she was. Something happened in that tall grass, and we have no idea what it was.”

Molly had seen the guilt consume Celia, had seen her shoulders slump.

“Emma and I both asked her what was wrong. She just gave us this look. So I just thought—”

Mark reached out and held her, and she had continued, “After we found Tracey, I said we had to go. We walked to the car. I was talking to the girls about what we were going to do that evening and about what they wanted to be for Halloween, and Emma’s hair got caught in the clasp of her dress, so I was focused on that for a few minutes.” Her husband had pulled her closer, giving her a look that told of years of support. “When we got to the edge of the parking lot, I reached back for Tracey’s hand, and she wasn’t there. I thought she was still upset about me and Emma. I figured that I had made it worse by just ignoring her sulking.” She looked away. “So I started shouting her name.

“I kept calling her and looking everywhere—in the slides, under the ship, inside each of the little playhouses on the opposite side of the castle. I was thinking that she was there, just hiding from me.” Tears streamed down her cheeks, “I called and called for her. A woman had been sitting on the bench when we were playing hide and seek, and she told me that she’d seen Tracey walking toward the long grass. The woman said she asked Tracey if she was alright and Tracey just nodded,” Celia said. “I should have known.” Melting like wax in the sun, Celia’s body collapsed against her husband’s. Celia had looked at the volunteers, pleading, “It’s my fault!” she sobbed, uncontrollably, “I thought she was hiding.”

Her fault! Molly seethed to herself. It’s not her fault! It’s the fault of whatever sick fuck took her! Molly looked for a path, some hint that a little pair of feet had ventured back into the field or beyond. She tried to ignore the growing unease within her, the old feelings rushing back in. She stopped and closed her eyes, taking a deep breath, and reminding herself of how far she’d come, Coping mechanisms. She turned and scanned the volunteers who wore mixed looks of fear and concern. She wondered if one of them was the abductor, acting as if he or she was there to help, but really listening for clues that the police and volunteers had found. Some volunteers carried sticks, batting at piles in the dirt. The thought that they might be looking for a body suddenly occurred to Molly, setting loose anxious thoughts of the past. She turned her thoughts inward, repeating the mantra that what had happened to Amanda was not her fault. Then she reassured herself about Tracey, She’s not dead! I saw her alive.

Every few minutes someone called to Tracey, and each time, the crowd silenced for a moment—a hopeful pause in the midst of the search.

Yellow police tape roped off sections of the field, creating an illusion of a maze. The police hadn’t made public any findings. By simply allowing volunteers to traipse through the field where Tracey had gone missing, Molly assumed they had found it devoid of any clues.

Molly reached the end of the field where it eased into the woods, thorns gnarled with trees and bushes. The density of the forest was forbidding and lonely at the same time.

The voices from the volunteers carried in the cool fall air, leaves crackled under their feet. Molly lifted her right leg cautiously and stepped out of the sunshine into the shadow of the tree line.

The forest summoned her. She took a careful step. A tingling sensation whispered across her skin. An oppressive feeling, like an invisible balloon, pushed hard against her sternum. The air felt warm against her pounding chest, making breathing difficult. She’d never encountered anything like this before, but she somehow knew it was all part of the Knowing, and she was determined to continue on, to find Tracey. She pushed into the aura and was surrounded by the smell of cold dirt and wet rocks, the smell of a creek bed after a storm when the dirt begs to be touched by the sun. Feeling faint, she crouched down and let her head hang low, resting her elbows on her knees.

C’mon, damn it! Be clear, she thought. You’re not doing this to me again! She cursed the malediction that possessed her. Damn it! Give me more or go away! She loathed the obscurity of her visions. Tears of frustration welled in her eyes. She silently urged herself to pay attention, to read the signs that she’d so obviously missed years ago.

Molly lifted her eyes and caught sight of Hannah in the distance. Hannah stooped down slowly, her age showing in this simple motion, and she seemed to be clearing leaves from the ground. She shifted her body, swiftly looking from side to side. She walked forward and turned, dodging tree limbs and bushes with agility that could only come from familiarity. Poking at the ground with a long branch, she stooped again.

A volunteer approached Hannah from behind and tapped her on the shoulder, startling her. She stood too quickly, and her stick fell to the ground. Hannah took a few steps backward, as if to cover the spot where she had been investigating. They talked for a few minutes. The volunteer picked up Hannah’s stick, and together they walked back toward the park, passing Molly on their way.

“Are you going back already?” Molly asked Hannah.

“Some things are better left untouched,” Hannah said.

Confused by Hannah’s comment, Molly turned back toward the forest, and readied herself for the pressure that was sure to come. She moved forward with determination. The pressure waned. She was left feeling little more than uncomfortable and bewildered. She eased deeper into the forest, over broken twigs and branches, pushing through thick, prickly bushes. She caught her foot and tripped, catching herself on a small tree. A pain shot through her palm. Shit! Sucking in air between her clenched teeth she inspected the wound. The gash was deep. Blood dripped down her wrist. The cut formed the letter T.

Pastor Lett plodded up the gated-off, overgrown driveway towards the old Perkinson House, mumbling under her breath, “You better be there. Please, Lord, no trouble this time.” It was just after dusk, the sky gray with few clouds, the brisk air stung her cheeks. The center of the drive, a long mound of earth between two ruts from tires gone by, seemed to go on forever. The grass on either side was knee high. Pastor Lett walked with her head down but keenly aware of her surroundings, making certain she was alone. Her dark hair poked out under a knit cap, the ends making a C that turned out just below her shoulders. Her left hand, shoved deep in her coat pocket, held an open bag of sunflower seeds like a security blanket. She thought about the search that was likely still taking place and ignored the shame that flushed her cheeks. She couldn’t quite calm the guilt that wrapped around her as she thought of Molly. She’d heard her calling her name, even seen her running in her direction, but worried that if she’d stopped to chat—with Molly it was always more than a brief chat—she’d run out of time. I do what I can, she rationalized.

The Perkinson House had been strategically built atop a wooded knoll and expertly camouflaged behind enormous oak and elm trees. Only one turret was visible from the main road, and to see it one would need to be in just the right location when the trees were bare. The private yard sloped gently toward what used to be Ten Mile Creek, until it was dammed and the man-made reservoir had swallowed the valley and the few houses within it. Many residents didn’t even know the home existed, much less that the Perkinson House had been entrusted to Pastor Lett some twenty-seven years ago by Chet Perkinson, the sole living family member, who some say was lucky to have escaped the home’s deadly curse.

Pastor Lett slipped into the thick woods as the driveway curved toward the train tracks and became visible, only momentarily, from the road. Fatigue and regret filled her body, as it always did on her nightly journey.

She approached the Victorian house cautiously, concerned about the possibility of vagrants and curious teens. She stood at the edge of the woods until she was sure she was still alone. She stepped quietly out of the woods and onto the leaf-covered grass, taking note of the hanging shutters, loose boards on the wood siding, and the broken window upstairs on the left which winked mysteriously in the sunlight.

She started toward the ivy-covered stone walkway, sighing deeply at the thought of what lay ahead. The two entrance stairs cried out for repair with cracks in the second riser and a non-existent handrail save for the posts. Dwarfed by the looming trees, she turned, heading down the path that led around the side of the house, and moved swiftly to the rear cellar entrance. The smell of wet leaves hung heavily in the air. She quickly brushed the leaves off of the old wooden doors. The sound of twigs snapping caught her attention. She cocked her head to the side and listened intently. Squirrels.

She knelt close to the familiar wooden doors, her knees sunk into the cold, moist ground. She perspired under the weight of her thick coat. Taking one last look around, she removed a key from around her neck and unlocked the thick chain that held the wooden doors closed.

Cold damp air brushed Pastor Lett’s face as she pulled the doors open. The musty smell hung in the air as she walked down the narrow, stone stairway and into the pitch black cellar. She ignited a lighter, pleased to see that nothing was out of place. The dirt walls of the small chamber sent another rush of culpability through her body. Lord, please forgive me, she prayed.

A claustrophobic pressure engulfed her as she became accustomed to the darkness and silence. She lugged the cheap metal shelving unit from the far end of the chamber into the center of the room, the old tin cans and few tools that were spread on the shelves knocked and clanked against the cold metal. She slid the marred plywood away from the dirt wall and moved it to the side, leaning it against the shelving unit. Sweating despite the cool air and feeling every day as old as her fifty-seven years, Pastor Lett worried about the day that the plywood would become too heavy for her to move alone.

Her body sagged as she tucked her head to her chest and moved slowly through the hand-dug hole and into the next chamber, where she could stand her full height of five feet nine inches.

Small battery-powered lights sat on an abused end table. An unlit candle lay tilted on the floor. Tucked into a nook in the dirt wall was a mattress, a cream comforter thrown haphazardly off the edge. An old, stained sofa sat an angle, inches out from the wall. The chamber was silent—too silent. Pastor Lett’s heart pounded against her ribs. She stared at the black hole behind the sofa, calling out in a sweet voice, “Honey, you in here?”

Worry grew in her heart as she moved through the empty chambers, then retraced her steps back to the main chamber. She replaced the plywood and shelves, roughly arranging the tins and tools, her face tight with frustration. She left the cellar, locking the heavy chain securely in place.

Pastor Lett paced the back yard, worrying. She looked up as a shadow moved past the window of one of the upstairs bedrooms. Mumbling under her breath, she fumbled with the keys, unlocking the thick wooden door that led from the back porch into the butlers’ pantry. I’ve got you.

“Ow, shit!” Molly grimaced at the pain in her palm as she lifted the spaghetti pot from the hot burner.

“Baby, let me get that,” Cole said as he walked into the kitchen and saw his wife struggling. “What happened to your hand?”

Molly backed onto a white kitchen chair and laid her arm across her thigh. “Did you lose your pager today?” she asked, annoyed. “I tried to page you all afternoon.”

“No. It was crazy, seeing patients, doing procedures. I must have forgotten to put it back on.” He set the pan back on the stove and knelt in front of Molly. “I’m sorry, baby. What happened?” He kissed her bandaged palm, “Let me see that hand.” He unwrapped the bandage. “Where are the pups?”

Molly had almost forgotten about their dogs’ earlier escape. She shrugged, “They jumped the fence again. I’ll get them later.” She sat back in her chair, exasperated, and looked down at the crown of his beautiful dark hair, her frustration beginning to subside. “I had a terrible day,” she sighed, “well, not terrible, but scary and confusing to say the least! Did you see the paper? The story about the little girl who’s missing?”

Cole quickly glanced up at her, “No time this morning. I was running late, remember?” He fiddled with her bandage, his face grew concerned, “What did you say about a girl?”

Molly told Cole about Tracey’s disappearance. “I met her parents today and helped with the search. That’s how I cut my palm.”

“Yeah, your palm,” he said with a sigh, as he inspected her hand. “You could use a stitch or two.”

Molly snatched back her hand, “What? No! I don’t need a stitch or two. It’ll be just fine!” Molly was petrified of needles—any needles, whether they were aimed at her or anyone else. “Don’t you remember when Erik hit his head on the counter and needed stitches? I nearly passed out at the sight of the needle!” she exclaimed. She’d had to leave the room, and still felt guilty for not being strong enough to be there for him when he’d needed her—neither then, nor for the two years after Amanda’s death. “I don’t think so.” She stubbornly shook her head.

“Honey, look at the gash! How did you do this?” Cole stood, right hand on his hip, left hand running through his hair—the familiar nervous movement that had toyed with Molly’s heart for the past twenty-one years.

“I tripped over a log,” she said sheepishly, wrapping her hand back up. She stood and snuggled into the familiarity of him. The smell of his aftershave faded into the unique smell of strength, of man, after a long day’s work. I love your smell, she thought. His once-lanky arms and skinny chest, now full and muscular, held her tight. She wished the last few hours had never happened, that she’d open her eyes and realize it was all a bad dream.

“Mol, are you sure you’re okay?” he asked.

She pulled back from him and looked up. The concern in his eyes did her in, and tears that she hadn’t realized she’d been holding poured down her cheeks.

“Oh, Mol,” he pulled her close again, caressing the back of her hair. “It’s not Amanda, baby. It’s not her. You’re okay.”

“It’s like reliving my worst nightmare,” Molly said, although that wasn’t really the truth. Her worst nightmare would have been if it were Erik that was missing. She thanked God that Tracey was not her own child and was sure that there was some sort of sin woven into that type of thought—taking comfort that someone else’s pain was not her own.

Cole gently reminded Molly of her coping mechanisms and that this child was not Amanda. “Mol, it’s probably not safe for you to be involved in the search. The police don’t even know if the abductor is a serial killer, rapist, or something even worse.”

Molly knew what Cole really meant but was too kind to say: It wasn’t safe because Molly might not be able to control her own emotions. She turned away.

Cole tried to lighten the mood, joking with Molly about how she was still making up for lost time with Erik, and still slightly over-protective of him. “Didn’t you call him a few nights ago because you had a bad dream about him?” He kissed her cheek and headed into the family room.

Molly watched Cole leave the room, annoyed with his ease in pushing aside the significance of Tracey’s disappearance. She took a deep breath, told herself to let it go, and hurried into her den, where she sent an email from her Civic Association account to the residents of Boyds about the search for Tracey. She chided herself for not checking her email sooner—there were already three messages about Tracey’s disappearance.

Five minutes later, she dished the spaghetti onto plates, then went into the family room and ran her hand lightly across Cole’s shoulder, “Come on, dinner’s ready.” The feel of him sent a tingle through her body, reminding her of how lost she’d been in his arms the evening before. With Erik away at college, they’d rekindled their sensuality like love-sick teenagers.

“I’m coming.” He sauntered into the kitchen and sat at the table, “So, what else?” He picked up his fork and looked at Molly, “I assume you’re not going to get a stitch, right?”

Molly pursed her lips into a crooked smile and tilted her head in answer. “What do you mean, ‘What else?’?”

“There’s more to this. It seems so…” he hesitated, running his hand through his hair and looking away. Molly waited, nervously. She knew where he was headed. “It’s Amanda, isn’t it?”

Molly twirled her spaghetti and stared intently into the little chunks of tomato in the sauce. Anytime she appeared worried or showed the littlest bit of apprehension in her confidence, Cole drew a connection to Amanda. She hated hearing the accusation in his words but knew she could not divulge the truth. The guilt ate at her so deeply it burned. “I just had a feeling, that’s all.” She couldn’t tell him about the pressure as she had entered the woods or the visions that had engulfed her while she was running. Cole had never fully believed that she experienced visions, and she worried about how he’d immediately categorize her, as he had with her visions of Amanda, like a patient. As a physician, he believed in facts, tangible data—not paranormal episodes.

“Is that all? Nothing else?” he asked.

“No,” she said, swallowing the desire to tell him everything. The need to keep her thoughts to herself saddened her. “I need to call Erik.” She abruptly got up from the table, set her full plate onto the counter, and left the kitchen before the truth could escape.

“Of course you do.”

Molly heard the rustle of the newspaper and the clank of fork to plate behind her.

Upstairs, Molly paced, her desire to call Erik forgotten, replaced with frustration. She knew Cole was right, her emotions were at risk. Her mind retraced the steps of the search, circling back to Hannah’s actions, whose quick retreat nagged at her. She pushed the curtains to the side and looked out the window into the evening at the sunset. Staring into the vast woods beyond her yard, she realized that Stealth and Trigger’s disappearance provided the perfect excuse for her to get out and investigate.

Her heartbeat picked up momentum as she grabbed her flashlight and notepad and stuffed them into her printed fabric backpack. I’ll do this for Amanda, she thought. She threw the duffle over her shoulder and crept downstairs. Hearing the television in the family room, she circled around and grabbed her car keys off of the entrance table. “Honey,” she called out, “I’m going to look for Stealth and Trigger.” As an afterthought, she grabbed their leashes from the hook and hurried out the door.

Cole heard the door shut and worried about what his wife wasn’t telling him. He remembered the morning of October 12, nine years earlier.

Molly had been sleeping fitfully toward the morning hours. When she’d finally awakened, she’d been scared and shaking. She’d anxiously relayed a dream she’d had of the little girl she’d seen in a parking lot days before. In the dream, the child screamed and cried, frenzied with terror. He had told her that it was her subconscious working overtime, and he’d gone on with his day. The next morning, she had again been tossing and turning. When she’d awakened, she’d stared straight ahead, tears streamed from her eyes. As if in a trance, she’d described her nightmare, the searing pain that ripped through the little girl’s body, the stale smell of alcohol and sweat pouring off of the man’s body as he climbed off of the damaged child, the knife being drawn from its sheath, glistening as it plunged through the air and into the child’s chest. Again, he’d rationalized. It was just her subconscious fears—she’d seen a stressful scene between father and daughter, and her mind had run with it.

He had gone about his morning routine, and Molly had been furious, accusing him of not caring, not believing in her. It wasn’t until two hours later, when he’d picked up the newspaper and seen the headline, “Body of Amanda Curtis Found,” that finally, after all of those years of his wife professing that she had some strange type of sixth sense, he pondered, truly considered, the possibility that she was empowered, or hindered, with some sort of ESP that he could not comprehend.

Cole stuffed the memory into his subconscious, not wanting to revisit the tumultuous years that almost tore their family apart—or to think about the “T” emblazoned on his wife’s palm.

Four

Tracey sat on a large rock, shivering and scared. The air around her was musty and cold. Her breathing was shallow, her clothes torn. She tried to be quiet as she eyed the tall woman who stood at the other side of the dirt chamber. Tracey’s body trembled in fear. I hope Daddy finds me. What if he’s mad at me and doesn’t look for me? Tears welled in her eyes.

The stranger smiled, sending a chill down Tracey’s back. Her body stiffened, her eyes grew wide. Her abductor walked closer, the friendly smile remained on her face. She took long strides, her strong arms readied at her side.

Tracey curled herself into a ball, backing her quivering body further onto the rock and into the dark corner. She looked around the menacing cave for someplace to hide, an escape route. The candles illuminated the small room just enough for Tracey to see the small table and the dirty mattress she had slept on the night before, casting shadows across the earth floor. Tracey’s heart beat frantically as the woman reached for her hand.

“It’s time to pray, Tracey,” she said in a calm, gentle voice. “Let’s put on your church clothes for Mummy.” Her voice was low, husky.

Just as her large calloused hand touched Tracey’s, Tracey pushed off the rock, tugging her hand away from her captor and crying out.

“Now, now, Tracey, crying will do you no good. There’s no one coming for you. No one can hear you.” Her voice became hard, cold, “Put these clothes on—now.” Her smile morphed into an angry sneer.

Tracey reached her spindly, shaking arm out slowly, snatching the dress and pulling it to her chest. She looked down at the ground to avoid the woman’s piercing eyes as she backed into the corner of the tiny cell-like chamber. You’re not my mommy! I want to go home!

Facing the dirt wall, Tracey could feel the woman’s eyes trained on her back. She trembled in fear.

Her captor turned, took a photograph from a shelf, and stared at it. Tracey heard her say, in almost a whisper, “I did it, Mother. I saved her!”

Tracey pulled her soiled clothes off of her petite body quickly, crossing her thin arms to cover her nakedness as best she could. Her soiled panties stuck to her bottom. She tried to ignore the smell of dried urine that permeated the air around her. She pulled the stiff, dirty dress over her head. The mildew smell wafted up and mixed with the putrid smell of the cave. She crinkled her nose and breathed through her mouth. It repulsed her senses, and she had to stifle a gag. Her teeth chattered, and her body shook. I hate it here! I want to go home! she silently screamed.

“That’s Mummy’s girl,” the lady purred.

Her smile appeared friendly, though Tracey wasn’t falling for that again. Friendly people didn’t take you away from your family.

“You don’t need help, do you?” the woman asked.

Tracey’s eyes grew wide, and she vehemently shook her head.

Mummy approached her. Instinctively, Tracey crossed her arms over her chest again, huddling deeper into the corner. No! No! Don’t touch me!

The lady reached over and grabbed Tracey’s shoulder lightly, turning her to face the wall. She zipped Tracey’s dress.

The feel of her rough, cold knuckles made Tracey want to scream. She bit down hard on her lower lip to quell the urge, knowing that a scream would bring a punishment, and Tracey had already spent time in the bad spot. She wasn’t sure she could endure it again. Tracey closed her eyes tight and tried to calm herself. Her heart felt as though it were lodged in her throat.

The woman spun Tracey around, and Tracey took in a deep breath. Her heartbeat chased the bile in her throat, surging it into her mouth. She swallowed hard. The sound of fear escaped her lips softly, a withered mew. She tried to keep a courageous face, but her lower lip failed her. It jutted out, and tears sprang from her eyes. Don’t cry! Don’t cry! She tried not to whimper, remembering the early hours of the night before. There is no place in this world for crybabies, her captor had said, just before putting her in the bad spot.

The woman looked into Tracey’s tearing eyes. “Crying,” Mummy said. “You’ll stop that soon enough!” The woman placed her strong hands on Tracey’s back and prodded her toward one of the endless dark tunnels. “Stop that now and make Mummy proud.”

You’re not my mummy! I hate you! Tracey kept her thoughts locked inside. Please don’t hurt me. She tried to stop crying. Her fear was too big. Had it not been for the lady pushing her, she hadn’t thought she’d be able to continue walking. The dark, rancid tunnel went on forever. She silently prayed her parents would find her, and rued the lies Mummy had told her about the fun place where she lived—where girls could play for hours with no rules—but mostly, she hated what Mummy had told her once they were in the tunnel—that her mother didn’t love her as much as she loved Emma, and that she would be glad to be rid of Tracey. Liar! My mom loves me! Tracey’s anger grew, tamping down her fear, but not overtaking it.

Tracey reached up and touched the indentation just between her collar bones, as she’d done unconsciously so many times before, the very spot where the cold metal of her necklace used to sit—the necklace with the heart-shaped charm that her first grade teacher, Mrs. Tate, had given her on the last day of school. Fresh tears pooled in her eyes.

Mummy pushed Tracey deeper into the dark passageways. Tracey’s heart pounded faster, fresh goose bumps riddled her skin. She could still feel Mummy’s large body as it had slid in against her side while she had lain in the grass playing hide and seek with her mother and little sister, Emma. She could still see Mummy’s smiling face when she had held her necklace like a prize in her enormous palm, luring her in. Tracey had believed Mummy’s promises of giving back her necklace and even letting Tracey try on her special diamond ring. As Mummy pushed Tracey through the dark tunnel, Tracey silently scolded herself for not listening to her parents’ warnings about strangers, but Mummy wasn’t really a stranger to Tracey. She had played with her many times in the park when Tracey’s own mother had been busy with Emma.

Five

The night was cool with few stars in the sky. Molly parked by the Adventure Park, hitched her pack over her shoulder and tried to talk herself out of turning back and going home—the evening cast an eerie glow around the playground equipment. She hoped her dark clothes would keep her from being seen and couldn’t help but wonder if the abductor had pondered a similar thought. The abductor. Amanda’s abductor had never been caught. His face, his scraggly brown beard, his unruly, thick dark hair, and his cold eyes, still haunted Molly. Most of the time she could replace the image with one of happier thoughts, as her therapist had taught her, but now, in the dark, his face came back to her. She trembled, desperately trying to push away his cold stare, his rough voice. She didn’t get the dolly she wanted, he’d said from the vehicle. I should have known! Molly berated herself. I should have fucking done something, anything! She jogged along the grass, trying to outrun the memory, and headed toward the woods. Molly thought she must be crazy to be out alone at night, looking for god knows what, but she had to do it. She wasn’t going to let Tracey down. She prayed the Knowing would give her a sign, guide her, yet it had not given her anything more than the terrifying image of Tracey she had seen earlier—and it hadn’t been enough to save Amanda. Her foot caught in a rut. “Damn!” She looked around to make sure no one heard or saw her. She found her footing and continued past the playground equipment to the crest of the field where it fell away into the woods. The forest looked completely different in the dark—intimidating, villainous. Molly crouched down and removed her flashlight from her sack. She did not turn it on for fear of calling attention to herself, but it made her feel more secure just having it in her hand. She forged forward, momentarily flinching from the pinch in her ankle. “It’s now or never,” she whispered to herself. As she lifted her leg to step into the woods, she once again felt pressure against her chest. She gritted her teeth, pinched her eyes closed, and pushed her slight frame through the strange energy field, fighting her way into the depths of the forest. Her vision began to blur, her heart raced against her ribcage so hard she was afraid she might pass out. The Knowing was upon her. She concentrated on moving forward, holding onto branches as if they were lifelines. She squeezed the flashlight in her hand so hard that it hurt. Each inch she gained was a struggle. Her surroundings closed in on her, fading quickly to black. She fell to the ground—a vision of a baby girl seared into her mind. She could smell the infant’s milky-gray skin, wet with birthing fluids. The baby’s body lay rigid, dead.

Molly came to in a fog, the pungent odor of death, the smell that had accompanied her dreams of Amanda, smothered her senses. Her palm bled through the bandage, caked with mud and broken leaves. She sat up and looked around frantically, putting together the pieces of what she’d seen and trying to breathe without tasting the sickening stench. The silence around her was unnatural. Molly’s heart continued to race as she sat on the chilly ground, gathering her thoughts. She scrambled forward, grabbed the flashlight, turned it on, and scanned the area, nervously pulling herself to her feet and grimacing as her ankle complained about the hundred ten pounds of her weight. She spotted her bag a few feet away and reached for it, pulling her hand back quickly, the ground beneath the bag was hot. With the exception of the leaves and dirt being unusually dry, she noticed nothing remarkable. She quickly removed her notebook from her backpack and sketched the area, scribbling details about every tree, branch, and bush. She pushed leaves over the spot where her bag had lain and suddenly felt as if she were not alone. She spun around, facing the dark night. Amanda’s killer’s face flashed before her and disappeared just as quickly. “Shit!” She shoved the notebook into her pack, hitched it over her shoulder, and with the flashlight to guide her, sprinted back out of the forest, oblivious to the pain in her ankle.

Molly was mauled by Stealth and Trigger as soon as she entered the house—all paws and tongues—reminding her of what her supposed mission had been when she’d left the house earlier in the evening. In a voice loud enough for Cole to hear, she said, “Where were you guys? I looked all over those woods for you.” Molly hurried into the mudroom and stashed her bag behind the freezer. She eased her feet out of her muddy shoes and wriggled her ankle to see if it was any better without them. It was not. She washed her hands and face, patted dry her bandage, and went to face Cole.

The television blared in the small family room. It was not uncommon for Molly to wake up to hear the television as far upstairs as the bedroom and to find Cole fast asleep in front of it. Tonight, he was awake, sitting in his t-shirt and jeans and talking on his cell phone. “She has no clue,” Cole said with a smirk. Molly walked quietly into the room. “Gotta go,” Cole ended the call and stared intently at the movie playing before him.

“Hi, honey,” Molly said. “When did the dogs come back?” Her efforts at sounding casual were strained. She sat next to Cole and stretched her arm casually across the back of the sofa.

He leaned forward, his eyes remained trained on the television. “Maybe an hour ago.”

Molly cringed. She glanced at the wall clock and went for a fast recovery, “I looked all over the woods behind our house. I’m surprised you didn’t hear me yelling.”

Cole turned to look at her with the “uh-huh” face she’d come to know all too well.

“I went across White Ground and searched the Hoyles Mill Conservation Trail for a bit, thinking that they crossed into those woods.” Molly remembered that the Hoyles Mill Trail, part of the county’s Legacy Open Space project, ran through the woods adjacent to White Ground Road and continued south, abutting the Adventure Park. She made a mental note to check out that area and rationalized that it wasn’t a complete lie if she planned on doing it.

Cole gently took Molly’s wrist in his warm hand. He ran his finger along the dirty bandage. “You know, Mol, I would have gone with you,” he said. “I don’t like you in those woods alone.”

Molly was unsure if he was talking about those woods looking for dogs, or if he knew where she had really gone but was not yet ready to call her on it directly. She looked away. “I know,” she said tentatively. “I was going stir crazy with the stress of the day, and I was worried about the dogs.”

“Uh-huh,” he laid her hand on her thigh and turned back to the television.

Molly desperately wanted to tell him the truth. She hated to lie to him, but she didn’t want to face his disregard for her senses. She could just imagine what he would say: What you think of as the Knowing is really just your repressed anxiety about Amanda and your desire to do something about it, or something just as scientifically explainable.

Cole turned to her with a mixture of concern and anger on his face. “Baby, you can’t keep putting yourself at risk.” He said seriously, “You shouldn’t be in the woods at all. You should be here, with me.” He reached his arm around her and pulled her close. “You’re going to hurt yourself so badly that you won’t be able to run, and then you’ll be miserable.” His words were spoken with sheer love and concern, and just a sprinkling of frustration. Thankfully, what Molly had picked up on as anger had dissipated.

She snuggled into him, “I know,” she said. “I had to go.” It was the truth, plain and simple.

Six

Pastor Lett looked down at the scratches on her arms and was glad it was fall and that long sleeves were in order. She was exhausted from the prior evening’s scene and the chase that had ensued. It had taken her hours to catch and settle down the kid, and when she had, her old body wouldn’t move as fast as she’d needed it to. She needed to find a way to ensure that the kid could not escape again.

Figuring out a way to seal off the entrance to the house from the cellar wouldn’t be difficult, she knew, she simply rued the energy it would take to do the job. In all of the years she’d been caring for the Perkinson House and utilizing the cellar, no one had ever found the entrance behind the sofa. She wondered how her observations could have been so sloppy. She’d been doing this for so many years that it had become a routine that she no longer enjoyed, a duty she loathed.

The idea that the kid could have wandered out of the house and down the driveway scared the dickens out of her. Her heart beat faster just thinking of the scene that could have transpired. She’d board up the windows and doors, just in case—lock the doors from the outside, too. Her heartbeat settled as she formed her plan. I’ve put enough fear in that kid that it won’t happen again, she thought, and if the kid did get into the house again, there would be no escape. Pleased with her plan, she headed to the shower, whistling.

Molly tossed and turned all night, the events of the day had taken their toll on her body and on her mind. She awoke in an anxious state, thinking about Tracey, and vowing not to let her become the next Amanda. She sat up on the edge of the bed, her favorite of Cole’s t-shirts tangled around her waist, her sleeping shorts uncomfortably bunched around the tops of her thighs. She began to stand, and a searing pain shot through her ankle. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, the bandage scratched her eyelid. She sighed and turned to wake Cole just as the radio sang out in alarm.

Cole rolled over and reached his arms around Molly’s waist from behind. She pried his hands away, feeling guilty. Cole would never approve of her plan to help find Tracey. She knew that Tracey wasn’t Amanda, but she believed that if she could find Tracey, it would help her make amends for what she had, or hadn’t done, for Amanda. Maybe I am losing my mind, Molly thought. “Come on, Cole. You’ll be late,” she said, and limped into the bathroom.

“Ankle still bad?” Cole asked.

“Not really,” Molly lied. She knew he would tell her not to run, a feat she wasn’t even sure she could pull off, but she didn’t want to be told what to do. She continued through her morning routine with high hopes of making it to her run.

She caught a look from Cole as they passed each other entering and exiting the bathroom. “It gets a little better with each step,” she said, feigning cheerfulness.

“Mm-hmm,” he said. “Don’t be stupid, Mol. If it hurts, don’t run.” He stood in the bathroom in his boxer briefs looking very sexy and very sleepy. At forty-three, he still took Molly’s breath away. She was reminded of the first time they had stayed together overnight. After hours of newly-finding-each-other sex, they had lain together for the entire next day, reading, talking, and dozing.

Molly turned her back to Cole and lifted her foot onto the bed to begin wrapping her ankle for her run.

“Molly,” Cole wrapped his arms around Molly’s waist again, turning her to face him. “You’ll be sorry if you overdo it. Don’t you remember how you hated not being able to run for months on end when you had tendonitis?”

“Yes, I remember,” she said, more testily than she had anticipated. “I’m not going to hurt myself this time. If it hurts, I’ll just walk.” She smiled, “Promise.”

He kissed the top of her head, “Good.” He walked to the bathroom and turned on the shower, “What’s on your schedule today?”

Molly became rigid, fearing the untruth that hung on the tip of her tongue. She’d already calculated the time it would take to scan the papers for updates on Tracey, check out the woods, stop by the police station, and maybe even hand out flyers. Molly was excited to finally have an agenda, even if she knew that this day’s particular agenda was one of which her husband might not approve.

After a moment of silence, Cole said, “Mol?” He paused, and the flow of the shower water told Molly that Cole was washing his face. “I know you’re worried about that little girl,” he said between splashes. “Are you going to try and help?”

That was Molly’s in—she wouldn’t have to lie after all. She paced, fidgeting with her shirt. “Oh, you know me,” she said. “I’ll nose around a bit and see what I can find out.” She heard the water turn off.

Cole stepped out of the bathroom with a pale green towel wrapped around his waist. “And?” he asked.

Molly looked at his strong body wet with steam, his hair slicked away from his broad forehead, and the seriousness of his eyes. Cole’s looks commanded attention, and, whether he was happy, mad, or sleeping, it didn’t matter, there was something extraordinary about him—the square of his jaw, the ever-present darkening of the lower half of his face, where, within hours, a five o’clock shadow would settle in, like salt and pepper sprinkled on his upper lip, down his cheeks, and into the little dimple in his chin. He walked into a room and people gawked, women and men alike. He spoke softly and they wanted to align themselves with him, just to be close enough to catch every breath, but when he was upset, his eyes darkened, his stance became manlier, taller, puffed-up. At the moment, Molly was lost in those looks, but her growing desire was quickly quelled by her guilt—guilt for knowing she was omitting the relentless resolve she felt toward finding Tracey. “I’ll do what I didn’t do, what I wasn’t able to do, for Amanda. I’ll help.”

A look of pity stole over Cole’s face. “Mol, what happened to Amanda wasn’t your fault. You have to let that go.” Cole wasn’t used to dealing with the old demons anymore. They’d subsided in the past few years, and he felt a bit rusty trying to deal with them now, but he knew the potential they had to cripple his wife.

Molly grew sullen and looked away.

“Mol,” Cole said again, “I get it. I was there, remember? Amanda’s gone. You can’t save her. Tracey’s not Amanda.”

“I know she’s not Amanda,” Molly snapped. “Don’t you think I know that?” Molly pleaded with him to understand. “I have to do this, Cole. I just want to help.”

Cole threw his hands up. “Fine, Molly, but I’m worried about you. It feels like we just got back to normal, and I’m not sure we can make it through that again.” He walked to Molly’s side. “Please, Mol, think about this. You weren’t at the point of abduction. It doesn’t come down to you saving this girl. The whole damn town is looking for her.” He gestured with his arm as if to encompass all of Boyds.

Molly knew he was right about their relationship. After Amanda, she’d become useless, and hadn’t trusted herself to make decisions. Cole had been supportive and understanding. He’d taken her to therapists, was patient when she would have a near panic attack at the sound of a crying child, and finally, with no other choice, he’d agreed to pack up their family, leave his practice, and move to the country. Molly was thankful, and she knew her recovery would not have been possible without him by her side, but something in Molly needed this. It was something that she had to do.

She was non-committal, “Don’t worry. I won’t do anything stupid.”

“It’s not stupidity that worries me,” he said. “It’s your damn drive and determination. Once you get something in your head, you don’t let it go.”

The Boyds Country Store had been in business for decades, and Molly could imagine, as she pulled up to the front of the store, that the old wooden bench and the three men who sat upon it each morning had been there just as long. Harley Mott, Mac Peterson, and Joe Dillon, or as Molly liked to call them, the Boyds Boys, were the eyes and ears of Boyds. They’d grown up together, each in their sixties now, and if the stories that Molly had heard were true, they knew intimacies about residents that paralleled teenage gossip.

Molly greeted the men with a smile, “Hey, guys!”

“Hey, girl!” Harley said, a term of endearment that had taken Molly two years to get used to. A burly farmer with slicked-back graying hair, he had an imposing presence and had become protective of Molly for reasons she never understood.

She grabbed copies of the Washington Post and the Frederick News-Post, scanning them on the porch of the store. Tracey Porter was front-page news, “Boyds Girl Still Missing, Foul Play Suspected.” Molly shook her head. She had hoped they might have found Tracey and that the Knowing had been wrong. She glanced up and into the three tired faces of the Boyds Boys. Molly knew their reputation for being bad boys in their younger days, and yet she wasn’t able to reconcile that reputation with the three fatherly types that sat before her.

“Have you heard about this?” she turned the newspapers toward them. Immediately their faces hardened—Mac, a small, squirrel of a man, who never had much to say and always appeared a tad bit nervous, pursed his lips and looked away, Harley fiddled with his coffee cup and stared into the dark liquid, and Joe sat between the two, huddling toward the back of the bench.

Molly gave Harley an inquisitive look.

Harley shuffled his feet, his heavy boots scraping against the concrete of the porch, and took a long sip of his coffee. “Well, Molly,” he said quietly, “it’s just that…well…it’s too much like what happened twenty years ago is all.” He looked toward Mac, who shook his head and looked away. “It’s a little too close to home.”

Molly’s heart leapt in her chest, It’s not your fault.

Pastor Lett pulled up in her blue corvette, a car that Molly believed was a little too flashy for a woman of the cloth, though Pastor Lett’s argument was that just because she spoke to God did not mean that she had to be as invisible as Him. Children loved Pastor Lett’s car. She often took them on rides up and down White Ground Road after the children’s services at church. Pastor Lett was very supportive of their activities, showing up at their baseball games, gymnastic meets, and even Girl Scout and Boy Scout outings.

“Good morning, Pastor Lett,” Molly said, still distracted by Harley’s disclosure. “How’s Mrs. Porter doing? Any news yet?”

Pastor Lett walked nervously past Molly, giving her a brief nod, “Molly.” She shot the Boyds Boys a contemptuous look and walked into the store.

Molly bristled at the brush-off and looked toward Harley. “What’s up with that?”

A knowing look passed between the Boyds Boys. Molly did not like to be ignored. She sat herself down between Harley and Joe, purposely making them uncomfortable. “It’s okay, I can wait,” she said.

Joe, who had probably been somewhat of a lady’s man in his day, with his Gregory Peck good looks and quiet demeanor, cleared his throat, and Harley took another sip of his coffee. Molly didn’t budge.

Pastor Lett walked out of the store, orange juice in hand and a newspaper under her arm. She didn’t look back at the four of them, packed on the bench like sardines. She got in her car, started her engine, and backed out without ever looking up. “Okay, guys, spit it out,” Molly said. Tension thickened the silence between them. “What the heck, Joe?” Joe looked away. “Mac?” Molly said, forcefully. Mac looked down at his boots.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” she said, angrily. “Harley?” she caught his gaze and held it, ignoring the twitch that long ago had claimed his left eye.

Harley looked down and fingered the ends of his frayed flannel shirt. He turned his body to face Molly, and said, in barely a whisper, “Kate Plummer. She disappeared about twenty years ago—same way.” He looked at Joe, who scowled at him. Mac let his breath out loud and hard in displeasure, and nodded so slightly that had Molly not been scrutinizing every move, she may have missed it.

“What do you mean, ‘same way’?” she asked.

“She was playing at the preschool playground. You know the one behind the church on White Ground?” he looked down again, and his voice held a hint of anger. “They never found her.”

Molly jumped to her feet, shocked by the news. She looked at the three men, who sat in silence, again avoiding her eyes. Her mind raced with questions. “What happened?”

“She just disappeared,” Harley began.

Mac interrupted, “She lived right here in Boyds, by the old Wade farm.”

“That’s right,” Joe said. “The Plummers were mighty upset,” he shook his head. “They stayed around for about five or six years, hoping she’d come back, or turn up somehow, but they just couldn’t take it, I suppose.” He swirled his coffee in the Styrofoam cup, watching it intently. “Moved away, Missouri, I think, back where the wife’s family was from.” Mac and Harley nodded in confirmation.

Molly paced across the porch—her mind reeled. “How does that happen at such a small playground?” She turned in the direction of the preschool, envisioning the tiny playground, no bigger than a one-car garage.

Harley filled her in. There had been a birthday party with several children playing and a few parents watching over them. “Late September, if my memory serves me correctly.”

Mac confirmed, “Remember, they were late harvesting the corn that year because Ned broke his combine machine, and Harley here had to fill in after he finished Hannah’s fields.”

Harley nodded in affirmation, “Yup, September,” he sipped his coffee. “Anyway, I guess the kids were playing hide and seek, and when they got in their cars to leave, they noticed she was missing.”

“Where were her parents?” Molly asked.

“Mrs. Plummer, Bonnie, she was ill,” Joe said. “Had the cancer, you know? She’d had it for about a year by then. They operated, did some chemo, you know, she was real sick. So Kate was taken care of by neighbors, mostly. Other moms would take her to school, take care of her after school, run her to Girl Scouts, and whatnot. They were a tight-knit group back then, the moms.”

Molly asked about her father, and Harley told her that Paulie had worked two jobs just to make ends meet.

“That type of thing never happened,” Harley’s voice trailed off.

“It never happens anywhere, until it does happen,” Molly was screaming inside, incredulous on the surface.

“Anyway,” Harley began, “they searched, but they ain’t never found no sign of her.” Harley finished his coffee and crushed the Styrofoam cup with his hand.

Mac got off the bench and threw away his cup. He went to the end of the porch and leaned against one of the wooden columns, his back to the others.

Joe kicked his shoes against the concrete and cleared his throat—when Harley looked over, Joe shot him a stern look. Harley shrugged. Molly picked up on the cues. “What?” Her eyes darted from Harley to Joe and back again. Harley drew in a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “Well,” he said, “they never found Kate, but they knew who did it.” After a long, uncomfortable pause, Molly prompted, “Well…who did it?” Mac’s words fell fast from his lips. “Pastor Lett’s damned younger brother, Rodney.” Molly was bewildered, “Pastor Lett has a brother? I’ve known her for years and never heard her talk about him.”

“Had a brother. Rodney,” Mac said. “He died that year, too.”

Molly thought about Pastor Lett, the way she’d hurried past, the look she’d given them. “What happened to him?”

Joe suddenly became enraged, “He knew too much, Molly!” He paced across the porch, muttering under his breath, “Goddamn killer.”

Harley explained that shortly after Kate had gone missing, Rodney had been outside on his front porch when a reporter had stopped by, looking for the pastor. As he spoke, Harley rubbed his hands on his jeans, which appeared permanently stained from that specific move. “He looked right at the reporter and just starts sayin’, ‘She’s in a dark place. She doesn’t hurt.’” Harley sat back down on the bench, as if preparing himself for a tiring story. “Everything seemed to fast forward from that point. The police arrived, reporters, angry residents.” Harley sighed. “They took Rodney to the station, and he told them that Kate was with her mommy, which you know meant that he’d killed her—that he buried her somewhere to go to heaven like her mother eventually would, Bonnie, you know?”

“Well if he was saying all those things, then no wonder the police arrested him, but if he knew where she was, why didn’t they find her?” Molly asked.

“They didn’t have enough evidence to keep his ass in jail. I have no idea how these dumb-ass police work, but they let the son-of-a-bitch go!” Mac threw his cup into the trash and said, “They have a guy telling them that she’s in a dark goddamn place, and they let him go?”

“But you said he died. How’d he die?” Molly asked.

When the three men remained silent and avoided Molly’s eyes, she pressed for an answer.

Harley lifted his eyes, met her gaze, then turned away. “He was beat to death,” he said quietly. “People don’t take too kindly around here to a little girl being killed, or stolen, or whatever.”

Molly felt light-headed. “If she was alive, then no one could have found her anyway after Rodney was killed. Whoever beat him up should be ashamed. That poor girl never had a chance after that.” Molly’s words were angry, but the tickle down the back of her neck held the truth. There were many times, since Amanda’s death, that she wished she’d had the courage to find her killer—and the strength to do the same thing.

Seven

Tracey kept her arms close to her body to avoid touching the dirt walls. The confined space of the tunnel made her heart race, her breathing hindered. She knew she’d be punished for fighting back the evening before. She couldn’t stop her body from shaking or the tears from pouring silently down her cheeks. The ground was cold and wet under her bare feet. She gritted her teeth together, trying not to let her captor see her cry. Crying girls get punished. Tracey saw candles burning up ahead. Relief flooded through her as she realized that she was not headed toward the bad spot but rather toward her captor’s praying place.

Three candles burned. She knew from the prior evening that one candle was for her captor, one was for her captor’s mother, and the last one was for her. When Mummy had told Tracey about them, she had acted nice, but when Tracey had asked where her mother was, her captor had gotten mad and yelled at her, Don’t you speak of my mother! Her eyes had burned through Tracey’s, and her face had contorted. Tracey didn’t ask any more questions.

Tracey followed her captor’s lead and knelt on the cold earth. She held her hands together tightly to stop them from shaking. It didn’t work. She wished she were invisible.

“That’s Mummy’s girl,” her captor said. She handed Tracey a Bible and spoke in an eerie whisper, her voice so confident and the words spoken so smoothly, Tracey felt as if she were sitting in Sunday School. “John 8:42. The Children of the Devil. Jesus said to them, ‘If God were your Father, you would love me, for I came from God and now am here. I have not come on my own; but He sent me. Why is my language not clear to you? Because you are unable to hear what I say. You belong to your father, the devil, and you want to carry out your father’s desire.’”

Tracey felt eyes boring down on her and kept her own eyes trained on the candles. She didn’t dare look up. Daddy is not the devil! Tracey wished the woman, who was as big as any man she had ever seen, would just go away. She wanted to go home. She was so tired that it was hard to keep her eyes open, and yet she knew better than to close them. Tracey hated her captor, she hated her words, I’m your mummy now, she hated her lies, If you come see me, alone, I’ll give you back your necklace, and she hated the smell of her breath, like she’d eaten too many Slim Jims. Tracey snuck a peek in her captor’s direction.

“He who belongs to God hears what God says. The reason you do not hear is that you do not belong to God,” Mummy prayed.

Tracey grew angrier as she listened to Mummy pray. In her mind she heard her mother calling her during their last game of hide and seek, “Tracey Lynn, Emma Elizabeth, where are you girls? You hide better than fish in a pond!” Tracey swallowed hard.

Eight

Molly felt as if she were being thrown back in time. She could barely wrap her mind around the fact that the small town she’d chosen for its safety and charm had been home to the exact thing she thought she had escaped. Maybe Cole was right. Maybe she should close her eyes and walk away, just not think about Tracey, or Amanda. It’s not my fault. She drove by the church, vacillating between trying to go for a run and doing a little investigating, finally giving up on the idea of running on a bum ankle. She rationalized that she could keep her promise to Cole by walking instead of running. He didn’t have to know that her chosen path was because of Tracey. She headed further down the road toward the Hoyles Mill Conservation Trail.

Molly put her cell phone in her back pocket, threw her pack over her shoulder, and faced the well-hidden trail. It struck her as odd that she’d lived in Boyds for so many years and had never before been on the Hoyles Mill Conservation Trail. She picked up a stick and made her way down the trail, refreshed by the sounds of the birds and the smell of the leaves. It crossed her mind, briefly, that she had been able to drive down White Ground Road without encountering the Knowing, and as much as she disliked the impact it had on her, she also wished for answers about Tracey. She wondered if the episode on White Ground had simply been a coincidence, and if Cole was right, that she was setting herself up for another heartache, or worse.

She quickly came upon a little bridge that crossed a stream. She tossed a stone in just to hear it land and savored the light plink! Molly told herself that she wasn’t really looking for clues about Tracey, but just taking a walk to replace the run she’d skipped. If she could convince herself of that, than surely she could convince Cole. The foliage increased, and the path became harder to follow as she pushed through vines and made her way deeper into the woods. An hour of walking caused her ankle to ache, and Molly found the absence of the Knowing strangely and painfully disappointing.

Eventually, she came to a clearing, a large meadow that eased up a hill and edged a cornfield. Great, she thought, now I’m lost at someone’s farm. Exasperated, she made her way up the small hill, angry with herself for wasting her morning. At the crest of the hill, the rear of Kerr Hall came into view. The small, concrete building used for the preschool was situated directly behind the Boyds Presbyterian Church. The playground where Kate must have disappeared stood bare, the swings swaying in the gentle breeze. Molly swore under her breath, realizing she’d gone in the wrong direction when she had lost sight of the path. Or did I, whispered through her head. She sighed and began the trek down the hill, through the cornfield, toward the church. A noise startled her. She froze, listening. The sound pierced the air again, growing into what sounded like a child crying. Molly yelled out, “Tracey! Is that you?” Her heartbeat quickened, pounding through her with hope. There was no response. She ran toward the sound, “Tracey? Is that you? Tracey!” Still no response. She heard rustling, like a small child running through the cornstalks. Molly was shorter than the stalks and couldn’t tell which direction to search. “Hey!” she yelled. “Wait, I can help you!” In her haste, she stepped in a ditch and fell to the ground. She tried to stand, but was incapacitated by the throbbing pain in her ankle. “Shit!” she yelled. “Shit, shit, shit!” She remained on the ground to ease the pain and reached for her cell phone, flipping it open as fast as she was able. She held it up—no bars, no service! “Goddamn it! Piece of shit!” she yelled. “Tracey!” She looked to the sky and screamed out of sheer frustration.

The crying had stopped, the rustling had stopped, and the area around Molly was silent. Her ankle throbbed. She pushed herself up to her feet and yelled, “Tracey? Tracey Porter?” There was no response. Adrenaline pumped through her, enabling Molly to hobble toward the church, flinching with each step. Painfully making her way out of the cornfield, she reached the parking lot just as Nelly, a teacher for the pre-school, came out of Kerr Hall.

“Nelly,” Molly yelled, waving her arms. Nelly looked in her direction, squinted, then walked towards Molly.

“Molly,” she looked her up and down, “what on Earth happened to you?”

“You wouldn’t believe me,” she said. “I heard a crying sound in the cornfield. Can you call the police to come check it out?” her words rushed out of her. “Maybe they can bring dogs or something. Maybe it’s the little girl, Tracey Porter,” she tried to catch her breath.

“Oh my! Let me go call.” She turned to go, then turned back toward Molly. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Molly waved her on. “Of course! Go! Hurry!” She turned back toward the silent cornfield, praying that Tracey was in it, safe, unharmed. Molly limped to the red painted picnic table, its wood etched with children’s names from years past. She laid her pack on the worn bench and suddenly realized how much her life had changed over the past twenty-four hours. She pulled out her cell phone, hoping to have service, and dialed Cole’s number, cursing that her phone had not connected when she had desperately needed it. She filled him in on what had transpired, gracefully accepting his initial chastising, “Geez, Mol. I told you to stay out of the woods!” After a pause of silence, he added, distractedly, “Maybe they’ll find her. Are you okay?”

Molly rubbed her ankle. “I guess, yeah. I hope they find her, Cole. You know, the longer it is with no clues, the harder it gets, until…” She found it too difficult to think about what came next.

“They’ll find her, Mol, don’t worry. It’s a small town, someone probably saw something.”

The way his voice trailed off, Molly knew that he’d realized what he’d said, and what it meant to her. He was trying to remain hopeful about Tracey, she knew, but this wasn’t about hope. She’d seen something. She’d failed Amanda, and they both knew it. Her inability to let go of that guilt lay between them like a great chasm.

Within fifteen minutes of Nelly’s emergency call, the fields were swarming with police officers. They weaved in and out of the fields, walking in neat rows so as not to miss the smallest hint of a child. They filtered into the woods in groups of three, some called out Tracey’s name. Others just yelled out, “Hello!”

Suddenly, the officers converged on the lower field, less than fifty feet from where Molly had fallen. “Get back!” Molly heard someone yell. “Give us some room!” This was followed by loud gasps and murmurs.

Molly felt supremely frustrated—watching from afar and longing to run into the field. She tried to stand, but her ankle sent a sharp pain shooting up her calf. Nelly ran out of Kerr Hall, where she had been tending to the children, and said, “What happened? I heard yelling.”

“Over there,” Molly pointed to the area where the search party had gathered. “They found something. Oh God, Nelly, I hope it’s Tracey! Go see, please!” Molly watched her run toward the commotion. She hadn’t made her way halfway through the field when the crowd began to disperse. Nelly stopped to talk to a middle-aged police officer. Molly watched as Nelly’s shoulders dropped. She feared the worst. Nelly ran back to her and sat down on the picnic bench, out of breath. “They found…” she paused as she caught her breath, and Molly held hers. “What? What is it? Did they find her?” she asked. Nelly’s face was drawn, as if she carried horrific news. “They found a family of foxes.” She put her hand on Molly’s knee. “I’m so sorry.”

Molly exhaled, confused. She looked toward the field and could feel her entire body deflate. Her renewed hope dwindled. Tears rolled down her cheeks, leaving thin wet streaks. “What…” she whispered, “what about the crying?”

“The mother fox is injured. It looks like she has a broken leg, and when she heard you coming she must have been trying to get her cubs to safety. The crying must have been her screaming in pain as she moved them along.”

The enormity of the disappointment devoured Molly. She could barely focus on what Nelly was telling her.

“They said they’ll probably have to put her down. I don’t know about the pups, though.” Nelly stood up, “I’m going to get you some juice. I’ll be right back.” She started toward Kerr Hall, paused, and turned back to Molly. “The oddest thing, though, one of the baby foxes had one of those Airhead candies in its mouth. When they approached the pup, he dropped it and curled up around it.” She looked toward the field. “Weird, huh?”

Molly reached for the picnic table as the world around her began to spin. The taste of apple candy pooled in her mouth.

Molly was sitting at her computer, her leg elevated, and a bag of frozen peas perched atop the swollen protrusion that was her ankle when she heard Cole enter the den. She didn’t look at him, for fear of hearing those dreaded words, “I told you so.” She feared she’d cry, the devastation of the foxes still rode the surface of her emotions. He walked behind her and rested his hands on her shoulders, kissing the top of her head. “Hi,” he said sweetly. She craned her neck back and looked up at him. “I brought you something,” he said, handing her a plastic bag.

Molly loved presents, even the smallest of gifts—a card, a token from an airport—she was appreciative of the thought behind them, and Cole always seemed to give her a little something at just the right time.

She grabbed the bag and reached her hand inside, curiously. “What is it?” She grasped the gift, recognized the feel of it, and said, “Oh no! You have to stop doing this.” She pulled the sack of Hershey’s Gold miniature candy bars from the bag, “I didn’t even get to run today. I’ll be as big as a cow soon!”

“I figured you could use a pick-me-up,” he said, and started toward the family room. “Besides,” he called over his shoulder, “you can put them away and eat just one each day.”

“Yeah,” she called back, laughing, “you know how that works. I’ll hide them from myself, then spend every two minutes jumping up to get one, as if there’s a spring on my butt, until the entire bag is gone.” She stuffed the candies in her desk drawer and locked it. “Thank you!” she called out.

Molly spent hours researching “ground-emitting heat” on the internet, to no avail. She had skipped dinner, asked Cole to fend for himself because of her ankle, a convenient excuse, and had Cole take their dogs for their nightly walk. She had dismissed the call from her mother, and once again put off calling Erik. Frustration brewed within her—there didn’t seem to be any plausible reason for the phenomenon. She read about the greenhouse effect, heat flux, man and nature, physical geography as modified by human action, and several other topics that a week before she couldn’t have cared less about.

She spun around on her chair and decided to take a different angle. She accessed the library resources, which made the old microfiche archives seem like the dark ages—a skill she learned from her technological-virgin of a husband, who had learned it from his library specialist at work. She searched “Kate Plummer” and immediately found several sites referencing the little girl’s disappearance. She scanned through as many as she was able before fatigue set in. The only new information she gained was that the investigation had ended shortly after Rodney Lett had been killed.

Molly leaned back in her chair, listening to the sounds of the television filter in from the family room. She sat up suddenly, disliking herself as she turned back to her laptop and googled “Hannah Slate”. Nine pages of data were found. The new search renewed her energy, and she scanned the materials until finally finding something relevant to the Hannah Slate she knew. A local Gazette article in the Community News and Events section recognized her for her many contributions to the community regarding equestrian issues and lobbying efforts, and noted her twenty-plus years of employment at the Department of the Navy. It also noted her recovery from a hospital stay for “undisclosed trauma.” The article was from the same year as Hannah’s divorce. Molly recalled attending a prayer meeting, at the urging of Pastor Lett, when she had moved to Boyds. It was there that she had first met Hannah who’d been attending the prayer group since her divorce. Molly shuddered, remembering how she had wanted to run from that room, the religious overtone too strong for her at a time when she had been so angry at God.

Molly’s eyes grew tired, and she scolded herself for thinking that Hannah could have been involved in Tracey’s disappearance.

Molly shut down her computer and put the bag of watery peas into the freezer. She hobbled past Cole, asleep in the family room, and gingerly mounted the stairs. She crawled into bed and quickly fell asleep. She was awakened an hour later as Cole wrapped his warm body around hers like a cocoon. Her body settled against his, and she fell asleep, comforted by his embrace.

Nine

Molly woke with a start at dawn, covered in sweat and shaking all over. She sat upright in bed, took a deep cleansing breath, and tried to maintain the flow of air to her lungs, a sickeningly sweet syrupy taste swam in her mouth. As she’d done many times before, she leaned over and grabbed her notepad and pen from the wooden nightstand. She began quickly sketching the images as they flew through her mind: a dark cavernous hole, trails leading out of the hole and into other shadowy cavernous rooms, a wooden box the size of a crate of wine, sealed with nails. Just as Molly’s throat began to relax, her mind was assailed again, thrusting her body forward. Cole rolled away from Molly, unaware of her difficulty. The image of a shovel flashed before her and was blacked out by a thick mass of trees. As quickly as Molly was overwhelmed by the Knowing, it vanished, leaving her exhausted and energized at the same time. It had taken Molly thirty years to understand the difference between dreams and visions, thirty years to realize that looking out a window after a dream washed it away, leaving a mere shadow in her mind, while nothing could erase the images from her visions which lingered for days, taunting her and leaving her feeling adrift, helpless, and curious.

As her body began to wind down, she curled against Cole once again, causing him to stir. “I love you,” she whispered, as she often did when she was scared. He turned to hold her, as he often did when he knew she just needed to be held. Molly lay safe and warm, unable to sleep, and unable to swallow without tasting the sweet flavor of apple candy.

The sun began to rise just as Pastor Lett finished boarding the last window on the Perkinson House. This should keep the kid inside, Pastor Lett thought. Her arms ached from hammering during the cover of the cold night. Balancing herself on the ladder had become trickier as the morning had approached and the roof had become slick with dew. She maneuvered down the ladder, her mind drifting back to the previous evening. She had approached the cellar in the same careful manner, and she’d thought for sure that there had been another incident—her warnings perhaps were not sharp enough. Inside, she had found the kid curled up on the mattress, fast asleep. The kid must have been exhausted from all of the fighting the evening before. Pastor Lett had noticed the bruises on both wrists and arms, and her heart wrenched. She had explained the importance of heeding her warnings and avoiding danger. “They wouldn’t understand my need to take care of you, to protect you,” she had said. She had reached her hand out, but the kid hadn’t budged. The kid had just looked at her, unsure, scared. Pastor Lett had seen that look before, and she didn’t let it sway her duty then, any more than she did now. She had turned away and left the dark room, locked up, and had gone to work on the long, tedious job of sealing up the windows and adding locks to the outside of the doors.

With her tools neatly organized, she made her way, exhausted, down the overgrown knoll toward her car, thankful that she had decided to park at the enclave just before the bridge, where fishermen and families parked near the edge of the lake. She threw her sweater over her shoulder, her turtleneck just warm enough for the chilly morning air, and retrieved a handful of sunflower seeds, gnawing them into tiny bits. The last ten feet to her car seemed like a mile, the import of what she’d done weighed heavily on her heart. Exhausted, she leaned against the car and looked back toward the Perkinson House—no telltale chimney showed above the trees, no worn pathway snaked its way up the knoll from the lake. It was as if it didn’t exist, though she was thankful it did. She whispered, “God, forgive me for what I’ve done,” and headed home to escape the nightmare that had become her life.

A quick visit to the police station revealed that they had no suspects in Tracey’s disappearance. Even worse, they appeared to have no real clues, either. Though the officer at the desk gave Molly the usual line of not being able to give out pertinent details, as it might hinder the case, it was clear to her that the search was at a standstill.

Molly had also inquired about the previous disappearance of Kate Plummer, which she knew was pushing her luck, but that didn’t stop her. Most of the local law enforcement officials had not been around long enough to know about the Kate Plummer case; however, there was one detective who remembered the case and was willing to speak to Molly.

A short, plump man ambled toward Molly, his hand outstretched, “Officer Brown,” he said, as if he were bored.

Molly couldn’t help but see a resemblance between Officer Brown and the Pillsbury doughboy, minus the cheery attitude. She swallowed her chuckle and said, professionally, “Molly Tanner, President of the Boyds Civic Association. There’s been talk around the community? Residents are trying to draw correlations between Tracey Porter’s disappearance and the disappearance of Kate Plummer. I was hoping you could shed some light for me, help me calm their fears.”

Officer Brown rolled his eyes and motioned for Molly to follow him. He led her down a stale gray and pale green corridor, turning back to look at Molly every few steps. They entered a small room with a square metal table, no bigger than a desk one might find in a cubicle, and two metal chairs. Molly was mildly surprised to see what she was sure was a stereotypical two-way mirror in the center of the far wall. Officer Brown motioned for Molly to sit down. He must have read Molly’s mind, because at that moment he said, “This is our interrogation room.” He motioned with his chubby hands around the small enclosure. “It all happens here: confessions, lies, manipulations.” His round face was a strange mix of excitement and weariness. His pink cheeks overlapped the sides of his mouth, and he breathed hard from the long walk down the corridor. His brown hair was matted on the top of his head, like a schoolboy with a bad case of hat head. His arms rested on his protruding belly, and he acted as if he thought he should be abrupt but couldn’t quite pull it off.

“Thank you for taking the time to speak with me,” Molly rested her arms on the table and smiled. “I’m sure there’s probably no link here, but I’ve only just learned about Kate…and Rodney Lett, and, well, the cases seem similar. You can see why the residents are talking. I was hoping you could fill me in so I can waylay their fears.”

Molly expected him to give her the song and dance of not being able to reveal details of the case, but he surprised her, “Well, let’s see.” He looked at the ceiling, thinking. “That was about twenty years ago, if I remember correctly.” He pursed his lips, as if he were trying to figure out the details in his mind. “Odd boy, he was. A man, really, but with a boy’s mind.”

“That’s what I’ve heard, sort of,” she offered.

“He wasn’t retarded, not that we could tell anyway. It seemed he was just slow. He would talk slow, move slow, he even thought slow, taking sometimes ten minutes before he would answer questions, but when he answered, he was, or he seemed, one hundred percent certain of his answers.”

“Did anyone in the community have trouble with him before Kate Plummer went missing?” Molly asked.

“No, no, not really.” As he shook his head, his chin jiggled. “Never heard much about the boy.” Detective Brown looked thoughtful. “It wasn’t till the Plummer case that we had any trouble with him.” He looked away, then back at Molly, “But then again, they never do appear dangerous, now, do they?” Molly shrugged noncommittally. Officer Brown continued, “But he knew the details about little Kate Plummer, that’s for sure.” “Do you think he heard someone else talking about it, or that there could have been some other explanation?” she asked.

He gave her a stunned look. “He did it. He took that little girl and killed her.” He stared at Molly until she became uncomfortable and looked down.

Molly bristled at the coldness of his words, and began to feel sick to her stomach. The body of six-year-old Amanda—

“Pastor Lett,” he let out a little laugh, “she was really something. She kept insisting that Rodney had some sort of sixth sense.”

The hair on the back of Molly’s neck stood on end. She gathered her courage and reminded herself that Amanda was not Tracey. “Sixth sense?” she asked.

“I don’t know. It sounded like a load of horse manure to me. You know, the older sister trying to save the younger brother type of thing.” He looked around the room, fidgeted as if he were getting tired of the conversation. He leaned back in his chair, which Molly was sure would send him flying backwards, but it didn’t, and said, “The guy didn’t really have an alibi, either, if I remember correctly. I think he said he was at home when Kate was taken. I don’t remember anyone being able to corroborate that story for him.” He sighed heavily, “People came to fear him very quickly.”

Molly readjusted her position, feeling as though she wanted to run out of the room, cover her ears, and forget the whole thing, but Officer Brown’s voice reeled her back in.

“Pastor Lett found him that night and took his body to Delaware before we could even file a formal report. Said she was too upset to wait for the medical examiner to come by. Said she couldn’t take all of the red tape anymore.” He leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on the edge of the table. “She was gone within minutes of the phone call to the police, far as we could tell. She called later that evening, saying they were burying her brother the next morning and apologizing for taking off so quickly.”

“She must have been upset, but isn’t there some protocol for such an event? I mean if he was killed, then wasn’t there a murder investigation?” Molly asked.

“Yes, indeedy, there was. We searched the house, dusted for prints and all, and came up with nothing more than a broken window in the rear, which is how we think the murderers got in. We found boot prints in the house, several, in fact. Farm boots, the type that all the men in these parts wear. There were no solid leads. It sort of died out. In fact, people were happy to have closure at that point, and the Wilmington Police Chief followed up with the Lett family on their end.”

“But, Kate, what happened to her?” she spoke quickly, wanting answers faster than he could give them.

“Well, we continued the search for her. Took his clues, in fact, of a dark cold place. We searched the woods, crevices at Sugarloaf Mountain, trails, and boroughs. We found nothing at all. After a few weeks, we all assumed she was gone—dead, I mean—and that he had disposed of her. The case on Kate Plummer is closed, although the file will remain open until her body is found—if it’s ever found.”

“But—”

Officer Brown stood abruptly, “Mrs. Tanner, you just tell the residents that there’s no connection between the two cases. Rodney Lett is dead and buried.”

Molly knew when she’d been dismissed.

The bell above the door chimed as Molly entered the Country Store, and she shouted out her usual, “Hey, Jin!” and limped toward the coolers. Jin didn’t answer. Molly looked around the small store, four aisles of household necessities and snacks, but no Jin. She walked toward the rear of the store and called out again, “Jin?” He and his wife, Edie, had owned the store for twenty-five years, and Molly had yet to find the store attended by someone other than Jin or Edie. Molly admired his level of responsibility but in no way wanted to mimic it. She was happy that Cole was home with her at night, and even happier that he had been home with Erik when he was little.

The silence of the store pressed in on her. She grabbed a bottle of water and a Power Bar and was about to call out for Jin again when she heard hushed voices coming from the storeroom. Molly’s heart quickened. The store was an easy target for robbery, with the glass of the store covered with banners advertising beer and wine, and the old push-button style cash register. Everyone in town knew that Jin had no security or alarm system—he didn’t believe in them.

Molly stood near the storeroom door, “Jin, are you okay?”

“Be right out,” Jin said, hurriedly. His Korean accent was as strong as ever. Molly heard Edie say something in Korean, and relief washed through her. Jin’s voice became loud and harsh. Molly turned to walk toward the cash register as Jin opened the door, carrying a towel in his right hand. His pants hung off of his slim waist, and his thick black hair was cropped short and combed neatly to the side. “I ring you up,” he said impatiently. “Is Edie…alright?” Molly asked. “Oh yes. She upset, that’s all,” he walked behind the counter. “The little girl that is missing, she worried about her,” he said. Molly was relieved by the simple, appropriate concern. “Do you know the family?” she asked. “No, no. I see the girl before,” he was calm and thoughtful, “but I did not know her family.” Molly paid for her purchase, began to leave, then hesitated, “Jin, did you know Pastor Lett’s brother, Rodney?”

Jin looked up and away, saddened. “Ah, yes,” he said. “I know Rodney.” He busied himself straightening up shelves that lined the wall behind the counter. “Poor Rodney. He no kill that girl.” He looked at Molly and held her gaze.

The comment took Molly by surprise. “I’m sorry…about him. How well did you know him?” she asked.

“He come here. All the time he come here. While his sister was at work, he walked here,” Jin pointed in the direction of the train tracks, and looked toward the back of the store, as if a memory were weaving its way into his mind. “He used to come, talk. He was very, very smart.” The “r” in “smart” came across as an additional short “a”.

“Really?” Molly said, happy to have been told something positive about Rodney, for whom, for some odd reason, she felt horribly sorry. “Tell me about him,” she put her bag on the counter.

“He smart. He knew things,” Jin pointed to his temple and tapped it a few times with his index finger. “He had feelings about things—good and bad—present, future.” Jin looked down at the floor, “That’s what got him in trouble.”

“Yeah, so I’ve heard,” Molly said.

“People around here,” Jin made a guttural sound of disgust, “they so quick to judge. They no like being scared.” He looked into Molly’s eyes, “They take things into their own hands,” he shook his head, “shame.”

Molly grabbed the paper bag containing her water and Power Bar, and turned toward a noise in the back of the store. Edie stood in her long black and gold caftan which dwarfed her small frame. She turned red-rimmed eyes to Jin with a mixed look of anger, hurt, and disbelief—as if she had walked in on Jin in bed with another woman.

“Hi, Edie!” Molly said cheerily, trying to ease the tension that had settled in the small store. “I was just asking Jin about Rodney Lett.”

“I know,” she said sullenly. She spoke Korean to Jin through clenched teeth. Jin did not respond.

“Do you think he took that little girl, Kate Plummer?” Molly asked, turning to Edie.

Edie shook her head and moved behind the counter to Jin’s side. She stood with her body half-hidden behind Jin’s, as if seeking his protection.

“Both of you think he was innocent, and yet, he was beaten to death,” Molly was almost talking to herself. Acknowledging her own doubt of Rodney’s guilt, she could not understand her loyalty to this man, a possible killer. “Do you have any idea who killed him?”

Jin looked annoyed, “No, but I bet he know before it happened.”

“Before?”

“People don’t,” he hesitated, “no understand him.” Edie vanished further behind him. “He know things before they happen,” Jin turned and put his arm around Edie, who had her hands steepled together as if praying.

“People say all sorts of things,” Molly rationalized.

Jin shook his head, “Told me things that happen in future.” A look of longing passed over Jin’s face. “Rodney, he know things no one else understand. He could see…”

Edie mumbled under her breath, “Never find her.” She turned angry eyes toward Molly, “Never find girl! They kill Rodney because he know things. No proof! No proof that he took her!” she threw her hands up in the air, and stomped toward the stock room.

“I’m sorry, Jin,” Molly said. “I didn’t mean to upset her, but she’s right. What did happen to Kate? Did Rodney take her and kill her?” she wondered.

Jin walked up to Molly, standing within inches of her face. She took a step back, uncomfortable around Jin for the first time since she’d known him. He pointed his index finger at the ceiling, and said, calmly, confidently, “Rodney did not kill that girl. Rodney did not take that girl. I don’t know what happened—but not Rodney.” Then he turned and walked away.

Pastor Lett wondered how long one woman could carry on her ritual. When she had left the Perkinson House the evening before, the kid was rocking back and forth. She could not get the kid to speak to her—it was getting to be too much for her, and yet she found herself compelled to continue. Even if she had wanted to stop at that point, she wasn’t sure she could. She felt it was her calling.

As she approached the altar, she reluctantly released the bag of seeds in her pocket, withdrew her hand, lit a candle, and knelt down as she did every morning, though this day it was afternoon, with the sun already perched high in the sky. She had slept late, her arms and legs ached from her recent labor. Her mind, devoid of energy, had acquiesced to a night of dreamless sleep.

She bowed her head and whispered, “Forgive me, Lord, for I have sinned. You know this, of course,” she said. “I’ve been a sinner for so many years that I know I have no right to ask for your forgiveness, but I am going to anyway. Please forgive me, Lord. I love this kid. I know it’s wrong—keeping the kid locked away like this.” She choked on her words, took a minute to pull herself together, and then said, “People would never understand. I need a sign, Lord. I need a sign that you understand what I have done and why.” She rested her head in her hand, her aged fingers splayed across her tired eyes, rubbing them as if by doing so, the simple motion would bring her clarity.

She startled when the doors of the church slammed closed. She jumped up and turned around, hoping her visitor had not heard what she had said. “Molly,” she said, surprised, “what brings you to church this morning?” She smoothed down her jacket and walked toward her, trying to read her expression.

“Hi, Pastor Lett,” she said, “I…I just wanted to stop by and see how you were doing.” The kindness in Molly’s voice eased her mind.

As Molly limped toward her, Pastor Lett wondered if Molly could see her fatigue. Molly’s head was cocked slightly to the side, as if she were studying Pastor Lett, analyzing her. Pastor Lett wiped her face anxiously.

“I’m okay, Molly,” she said uncomfortably. “Worried about the Porters, of course, but doing well, thank you.”

Pastor Lett motioned to Molly’s wrapped ankle, “Running accident?” she asked.

“This?” Molly lifted her ankle and twisted it, looking it over. “Yeah, kind of,” she shrugged. “I’m worried about Tracey, too. As time goes by, there’s less of a chance of finding her. My God, it’s so scary.” She paused. “Oh! I’m so sorry!” she offered quickly.

“It’s okay, Molly. I’m sure He understands,” she said, motioning up toward the ceiling. “Is something on your mind? Are you feeling a bit overwhelmed? Want to talk?”

“No. Yes,” Molly said, flustered. She was feeling overwhelmed, but didn’t want to talk about it for fear that she would then have to deal with those feelings. “Pastor Lett, it’s your brother.”

Pastor Lett stiffened. She turned away to hide her discomfort and settled herself into the rear-most pew. She breathed slowly, unable to find her voice. She had known this time would eventually come. “Pastor Lett, are you okay?” Molly asked. She nodded her head in confirmation and managed, “Yes, fine. Tired.” “No wonder, with all that’s going on. It’s so reminiscent of what happened with your brother. I’m so sorry.” Pastor Lett kept her eyes trained on the wooden pew before her, wondering how much Molly knew about Rodney.

“I’m sorry, that was rude of me,” Molly said, bringing her hands together in her lap. “I just recently learned that you had a brother,” Pastor Lett felt her glance at her, “and that you lost him.” Pastor Lett’s body visibly relaxed as the statement replaced her fear with relief. “Yes, years ago,” she said. “I know. I wanted to tell you that I’m so sorry,” Molly said. Pastor Lett felt the comfort in her voice. “Thank you,” she said. “He was a special person.”

Molly looked away, then back into her eyes, and said, “I can’t imagine how hard it must have been.” She hesitated, contemplating discussing Rodney on a level that would expose parts of her past that she’d never discussed with Pastor Lett. “May I ask you a few things about him?”

Pastor Lett repositioned herself in the pew, cleared her throat, “Sure,” she said.

“Well, I was told that he ‘knew’ things about Kate Plummer’s disappearance. Do you know about that? Anything about him knowing things?” she asked with innocence, not accusation.

“Yes,” she sighed as if she had been asked about that one too many times. “He knew a lot of things. Sadly, his gift became his misfortune. People found out.” She looked at the stained glass window on the right wall of the church, noticing for the first time how very bright the reds and yellows were against the more vivid greens and blues. The complexity of the colors, like life, made her half-smile, half-smirk.

She looked at Molly, but knew she couldn’t talk about Rodney with truth in her eyes, so she lowered her gaze. “He was apparently walking around town, like he usually did when I was running the church, or holding services, and he was repeating what he saw, or rather, what he knew—and I guess a few people heard it and went straight to the police.” Pastor Lett shrugged, rolled her shoulders backward, as if she could rid her body of a pesky ache. “I accepted long ago that those people were just trying to protect their own children. Not many people really knew Rodney.”

Molly nodded, sitting forward in the pew.

“He was the kindest boy. Never hurt a fly. He was a bit slow. Drove my parents crazy as they got on in years,” she looked away, as if reliving a memory. “They passed a few years back. Mom, of cancer, and my father, well, I think of a broken heart. I brought Rodney here with me twenty-five years ago, he was just twenty-one years old then.” At the mention of his age, Molly’s eyes grew wide. “Rodney was…an accident if you will,” she turned her head to the side and looked at Molly. “There were eleven years between us.” Molly nodded again, understandingly, she thought.

“He used to help out the residents with yard work, stuff like that, but even those he helped didn’t really get to know him. They considered it charity.”

“Pastor Lett,” she began, “I sort of…know things, too. I wanted to find out if he knew things the way I sometimes do.”

She smiled, ruefully. Everyone thinks they’re special. “Well, what do you mean?” she asked, to humor her.

“I have visions—I guess you call them that—sometimes early in the morning when I’m not really asleep but not really awake, other times when I am near a place where there is danger or something is going to happen,” she said, her hazel eyes pleading for understanding.

Pastor Lett politely paid closer attention. “Go on,” she said.

“I’m not always sure if what I see is real or not,” she looked away, as if embarrassed by her admission.

“I’ve never met anyone else who truly possessed the same power as Rodney,” Pastor Lett said. “Perhaps, Molly, your insecurities, or your past, interfere with your present,” Pastor Lett said authoritatively.

Disheartened, Molly replied, “No, I’m sure it’s not that.”

Pastor Lett continued, “When Rodney was a little boy, he used to tell me that things were going to happen. Bad things were going to happen. I never gave any credence to what he said to me, but then, as I got older and started really paying attention, I realized that they had started coming true, and the connection was undeniable.”

Molly released a breath, her disappointment subsided. “So it is true. He did know things.”

Pastor Lett nodded, “He knew facts and details about catastrophes that he couldn’t have read about or predicted by any means.” She turned her body toward Molly and looked her in the eye, welcoming the opportunity to discuss this hidden aspect of her brother’s life, craving the acceptance, and, she was ashamed to admit, the purging of the burden. “I don’t know how to tell if what you see, or what you know, is real, but I can tell you that with Rodney, it was. It was a little scary.” She took a deep breath, about to reveal what nobody understood, or cared to try to understand, years ago. “When Rodney was four, he woke up on June 16, shaking and crying. I remember because for years afterwards, every time he cried in the morning I prayed for a full forty-eight hours, even as a young woman, that nothing bad was going to happen. Anyway, he ran around our house yelling, something about a big bomb going off. The poor kid, he spent the whole day—and even slept that night—in the cellar, petrified. The next day, of course, June 17, 1967, China exploded its first hydrogen bomb. Rodney worried for years that they would bomb us and we’d all die.” She looked away, remembering Rodney screaming and frightened, as their parents yelled at him to just be quiet and stop making up stories. The memory saddened her.

“Then there was the time, he was about five years old, when he started talking about this man that would walk on the moon in the month twenty. We had no idea what he was jabbering about. He kept repeating, over and over, ‘Month twenty, man walk on moon.’ He drove us crazy, until July 20, 1969, when he bound into the room and said to me, ‘See! Man walk on moon month twenty!’” Pastor Lett let out a little laugh. “We didn’t own a television back them. My parents believed television was the root of all evil,” she laughed at the thought, pausing to savor the memory. “That’s how it was with Rodney. When he knew something, he really knew it.”

Molly could barely contain her enthusiasm, but Pastor Lett’s comment had subdued her notion of exposing her clairvoyance. The last thing she needed was for Pastor Lett to think she was crazy. She understood what she thought was Pastor Lett’s angst over Rodney’s visions. “It must have been difficult to bear that burden all by yourself.”

She looked at Molly then. Finally, a little understanding instead of pity. “Yes. It was hard,” she said, “but I loved him—very much. People didn’t understand. No one took the time to see past the allegations.” Anger crept into her voice as she sat up taller and looked at Molly, “And now it’s like he never existed to them. They pummeled him and forgot him—forgetting that he was a person, a brother, a son. Pummeled him and walked away, thinking they were protecting their community from some…monster.” At this, Pastor Lett released her anger, “I’m sorry,” she said. “I was never able to protect him—not then, and not in the end.” Pastor Lett stood up and tried to pull herself together. “Molly, there were things he said that never made sense, too.” She looked away from Molly again, drawing into her own mind, “We had times like that, too, times where ramblings meant nothing more than torture to my poor brother, and a mere inconvenience to me.”

Hannah meandered aimlessly through her barns. She had felt a sense of unease since the afternoon when she had taken part in the search for Tracey. The woodsy smell of the fallen damp leaves and the fear-stricken faces of the volunteers—faces that she knew hid the secret panic that they might find Tracey’s cold, lifeless body—coalesced and reawakened the memories that she’d forced herself to suppress; memories that she knew, at any moment, could send her into a frenzied state of panic and expose her secret. She had thought she could escape her own thoughts—do the deed and then act as though it had never happened—but they mixed with an overwhelming sadness and confusion that she could not keep at bay. And the anger—she could feel the rage mounting inside her with every breath she took. That anger, she feared, would lead to her discovery. She closed her eyes and ran her hand along the rough wood of the stalls, trying to suppress the memories that played in her mind with shocking clarity, like a rerun of a bad horror movie; the fight, the cold evening air, the desperation—Oh, the desperation! Tears streamed down her cheeks. She swiped at them with the sleeve of her rough wool sweater which left almost imperceptible scratches on her face. Others might not notice the thin abrasions, but Hannah took the quick piercing scratches as her due, punishment for what she’d done. Suddenly, guilt hit her with such force that it stopped her in her tracks. She stood, staring at her horses and wallowing in her own emptiness, the unfairness of life. She became uneasy and crouched down to gain control of her own body. She glanced up at Hunter, her Appaloosa, in whose curious eyes she saw accusation. Hannah covered her face as sobs wracked her body, her heart breaking all over again. She knew it was wrong! She’d broken rules—rules of society—and it distressed her. But she was mine, mine! Not theirs, not his! She slid to the ground, slamming against the hard wooden stall, her legs splayed in front of her.

“Damn you, Charlie!” she yelled, startling the horse. Hannah pounded the concrete floor with her fists until her hands throbbed. She wiped her nose and waited for her trembling to subside. She looked up toward the ceiling and whispered, “I am so sorry, baby. I am so, so sorry.”

Hannah pet Hunter and smiled at Gracie, a colt that she had recently inherited from a friend. “I can’t bring you guys with me. I have to be quiet this time.” She often treated the horses as people. Hannah spent more time with her four-legged friends than her two-legged ones. “But look, guys,” she said as she held up a handful of flowers, “I’ve got a present for her.” Hannah stuffed them into a knapsack and laughed a shaky little laugh.

She made her way through the meadow that ran along the back of her barn, thankful that the only neighboring houses were acres away, and disappeared into the woods. Hannah had made that trek so often that it seemed second nature to her. She was at home in the fields and certainly in the woods. Today, though, Hannah felt as if she were being watched. She nervously scanned her surroundings, thinking about what would happen if she were ever caught. The thought turned her stomach. What would people think? How would I survive? Images of hard women flew to the forefront of her mind—big, stocky women with too many muscles and short, spiky haircuts that screamed of a manly presence, women who would circle her, looking her up and down like a piece of fresh meat. She envisioned herself standing there, old and weak, ripe for the taking, or beating, or whatever it was they did to each other in jail. Whatever it was, she was sure she would not survive it. Her head dropped with the weight of the world resting on her shoulders. I had to take her there. There was no other option. If people had found out she was with me, surely he would have come and taken her and done God-knows-what to me.

Hannah resolved to be strong. What am I doing, living one life during the day and an entire other life that no one knows about? The poor girl. She couldn’t know that I had to keep her from them. Hannah wiped her hands on her jeans and said to the surrounding forest, “There’s no way they’ll find her.” She took one tentative step, then two. Her steps grew strong, determined.

Ten

Tracey was again being dragged through the darkened tunnels. She wondered where she was being taken, but after being trapped in the dark, musty room with the mattress all day, she was glad to stretch her legs. It seemed like Mummy was always gone. Mummy had told her that they were going outside. Outside! Tracey was excited when she first heard that word, but her distrust of Mummy subdued the excitement. Tracey hurried, hardly able to keep up with her captor’s fast, purposeful gait. The speed of their trek gave Tracey an inkling of hope. Maybe she was going outside. Maybe she was being brought back to her own mommy and daddy. If they were going outside, then someone would surely see her, and Tracey was confident that her parents were searching for her. This was it! She was about to go home, she was sure of it!

“Keep up, Tracey, Mummy is in a hurry,” the captor said.

Tracey liked how nice Mummy was acting, and she was relieved that Mummy had finally changed her clothes and didn’t stink so badly. Tracey rushed as fast as she was able—the last day of resting on the putrid mattress had lessened the ache in her legs.

“We’re going outside, Tracey! Outside!” Mummy said, cheerily.

Tracey believed this would be a good day. Mummy hadn’t read from the Bible today, and she didn’t even worship in the morning. Tracey worried about why they hadn’t gone to the praying place, but she didn’t ask.

The passageway narrowed, and tears stung Tracey’s eyes, tears of hope, tears of hope that she would not let tumble down her cheeks for fear of upsetting her captor. She held her arms tight against her body, away from the dirt walls. The narrowing tunnel caused Mummy to walk sideways to fit through. Tracey held her breath—the stench from the walls reminded her of wet, dirty puppies, the way they shake themselves off and splatter you with water and bits of dirt.

Oh, my God! Oh, my God! I see it! Tracey’s heart pounded in her chest. A smile stretched across her face as the narrow tunnel opened wider and came to an end, slowly narrowing back to the size of a car tire, and winding its way up toward the outside. Streaming in, like a savior, was the sun—the glorious sun! Tracey wanted to jump, to climb through that hole and rush into her parents’ arms. She was sure they would be there, waiting, like this had all been a planned-out game of hide-and-seek. Her hands clenched into fists, her arms became rigid at her side, and she bounced from foot to foot, biting her lower lip to keep from squealing. Mummy stood in front of Tracey, looking up toward the beam of light, a smile on her face. Their bodies were so close that Tracey could smell her, a slight metallic, sulfuric smell. It was not so bad, really. Mummy had washed up that morning and had let Tracey wash up, too. They had used a big bucket of water, towels, which appeared to already have been slightly soiled, and a little soap. Tracey had kept her back to Mummy so she wouldn’t see her with her clothes off. She had pretended to be playing clean up with Emma, though she didn’t think Mummy was watching her at all. Mummy had been hunched over her journal, writing quickly and in deep concentration. Tracey’s own mother kept a journal, too. Her mother, her real mother, had always told Tracey and Emma that it helped keep her sane, whatever that meant. Tracey thought it meant that it helped her to yell less when she was mad at them. Sometimes, when her mother was really mad, she’d count to ten, tell the girls to go to their rooms, and then her mother would go write in her journal. Tracey really wanted to read that journal one day. She wondered if her mother wrote about how bad she and Emma were sometimes. Maybe she wrote about when they were good, too. Thinking of her mother made Tracey sad. She made a silent promise to herself—she promised that if she got back to her real mommy, she would never be bad again. Do you hear me, God? she wondered—and hoped—as she looked up at the beam of light.

Her captor was silent. She looked back at Tracey, and Tracey’s eyes grew open wide, she clamped her mouth shut. Mummy smiled, and Tracey shivered with relief and anticipation. Mummy spun around and crawled along the dirt opening. The passageway seemed to engulf her. Tracey wasn’t sure Mummy would even fit through the tight cavity, but the sun was shining at the end of the tunnel, pouring in around Mummy’s wriggling, large body. Tracey crouched down and enthusiastically began crawling behind her. The dirt was cold and damp, seeping through her leggings and onto her knees, but she didn’t care. She was going home!

As she neared the top of the passageway, Mummy reached down, grabbed her hand tightly, and swiftly pulled her up and onto the ground. Tracey took a deep breath of the fresh air; tears of happiness ran down her cheeks. Relief swept through her. Mummy smacked her enormous hands against her jeans to rid them of dirt, and the sound startled Tracey. She flinched, and stepped backward, almost falling back into the passageway, letting out a frightened shriek.

“Hey!” Mummy yelled. “Watch it!”

Mummy clasped her hand around Tracey’s spindly arm, yanking her firmly onto solid ground. Tracey instinctively ducked her head and pulled away. She stole a quick look up through her eyelashes and was surprised to see concern, perhaps even empathy, in Mummy’s eyes. “I…I’m sorry,” Tracey’s words were barely more than a whisper.

Mummy released her arm and dusted off Tracey’s knees. Tracey stood stock still, her eyes wide. She took in her surroundings, the brambles, thick with thorns, and tangled branches that grew so high they formed a shelter above them. A mottled tapestry of light formed the ceiling where the sun streamed through.

Mummy straightened up and backed away from Tracey. She stood in the middle of the strange den. She stretched her arms out to her sides and then reached for Tracey, pulling her quickly against her body. Tracey flinched, fought the urge to back away. She hated to be touched by Mummy. Unsure and scared, she clenched her eyes closed.

“Tracey, isn’t this wonderful?” Mummy whispered. “We are finally outside! Look how beautiful of a day it is!” she let go of Tracey and spun in a circle with her arms stretched out to her sides, her hair lifting off her shoulders.

Tracey wondered if she should run and scream, like Mrs. Tate had told them to do if they were ever in danger, but what if she didn’t get away and Mummy took her back to that dark chamber? What if her captor hurt her because she was such a bad girl? Tracey formulated a plan in her young mind. Her mother had always taught her to find an adult when she was in danger. How she wished she had never followed Mummy into the woods in the first place, but she couldn’t change what she had done. She couldn’t have known that the woman who had played and laughed with her at the park would ever steal her. She remained still, concentrating on her plan. When Mummy took her out of the bramble—when they saw people—then Tracey would run straight to another adult and ask for help. She’d holler and insist they help her. No matter how much Mummy pretended to be her mother, she was not. She was NOT!

Mummy had stopped spinning and smiled at Tracey.

“Where are we?” Tracey asked quietly. She was afraid to ask loudly, afraid that Mummy might turn mean again, and they’d retreat back underground.

Mummy rolled her eyes, a look that Tracey had seen her mother do hundreds of times when Tracey asked a question that had an obvious answer, “We are outside, of course,” she said.

Tracey swallowed the “duh” that rang in her seven-year-old mind.

“This is where I come to exercise sometimes or just to read. Once, I even saw a family of deer playing right over there,” she pointed to a distant thicket.

Tracey searched for something familiar—a parking lot, the park, people. Her hopes were quickly dashed. She looked up, searching the sky through breaks in the branches. Standing directly under a circle of sunlight, she saw a bunch of birds flying overhead in a circular motion. They weren’t flying together or in a pattern—they flew in random circles nearly running into each other. She blinked a few times and realized that the birds were actually little airplanes—the smallest airplanes she had ever seen. A smile stretched across her face as her mind settled on an odd noise, a noise that had been there all along, but that she had been too upset to hear: A hum. Tracey concentrated on the humming noise and separated the hum into two distinct sounds—an mmm and an rrrrr. The sounds varied in pitch, drifting from very high to something softer, more distant.

Tracey began to point to the sky, then quickly brought her hand back to her side. Airplanes meant people, and somehow Tracey knew that if Mummy had known there were people nearby, she would take Tracey back to that awful place. She walked around the small clearing, watching Mummy out of the corner of her eye. It was no bigger than the cave where Tracey and Mummy slept. Tracey remembered her father telling her that she was as tall as her arms were long. Mummy was sitting on the ground, fiddling with sticks and looking the other way. Tracey stretched her arms out as wide as she was able, but was not big enough to reach both sides. I bet me and Emma and Mommy all hooked together, holding hands, could reach both sides. Tracey decided to see how many of her it would take to reach each side. She spread her arms, then moved to where she thought her fingertips had been. She was sure she was mistaken in where she stood and went back to the side of the bramble and started over—stretching her fingers, then hurrying to where her extended fingers had been. She was startled when Mummy laughed. In spite of her initial habitual flinch, Tracey laughed, too. It was fun being outside. Mummy got up and stood next to Tracey.

“Reach, Tracey,” she said, kindly.

Tracey smiled and reached her arms out, the sound of the airplanes faded away in the distance, but Tracey was concentrating so hard on figuring out how many Traceys it would take to cross the bramble that she had forgotten all about the airplanes. Her fingertips neared Mummy’s. “Put your fingertips on mine, Tracey,” she said. “We’ll see if we are long enough to reach the sides.” Tracey stretched her fingers further, until they were touching Mummy’s. Mummy smiled, and Tracey did, too. “Nope, not quite!” Mummy said. “This is like a mansion for us, huh? Our place isn’t this big, is it?”

As Mummy spoke, Tracey’s heart sank. The reality of her situation came tumbling back. Her mind ran through the images of the rank mattress where she had slept for the last few nights, the horrid odor of the bad spot, and the worst realization of all—that she wasn’t going home. She’s talking about our place, Tracey thought. Her limbs began to tremble, her lower lip quivered, and she frantically scanned the enclosed area. I don’t want her place to be my place. I want to go home! Tracey dropped her arms and looked up, searching the empty sky for the planes. She listened, silently pleading that she would hear them—find some connection to the outside world. Gentle scamperings across the forest floor and her captor’s breathing were the only sounds she heard. Her shoulders slumped and her head dropped heavily forward. She stared at her sneakers which used to be white but were now soiled with mud, and grime, and red dirt, upon which she now stood. She stared at the ground as a glimmer of hope crawled through her body. Red dirt! The ground looked like the dirt that was in the backyard of her friend Cindy’s house. Cindy lived by the church in Boyds, and her mother always got mad when she and Cindy dragged that ugly red dirt into the house on their bare feet. Tracey spun around and again searched beyond the trees. Cindy’s house was nowhere to be seen. Tracey backed up until her back brushed against the prickly brambles. “Ouch,” slipped from her lips, and her captor turned to face her. Tracey closed her mouth tight and tried to keep from crying. She sank down, wrapped her arms around her knees and began to rock.

Mummy walked toward her, stopping just inches in front of Tracey’s feet. Tracey stopped rocking. She did not look up. She kept her eyes trained on the ground, feeling Mummy’s presence looming. Mummy sat down beside Tracey, and Tracey began to cry, fearfully.

“There’s no need to cry, Tracey,” Mummy said in an even, flat voice. “I have saved you.”

They sat in silence for what felt to Tracey like hours, until the sun dropped behind the middle of the trees—until her captor told her it was time to go home.

I can’t go back in that place, I just can’t! Tracey remained, huddled and silent, on the cold dirt.

“Tracey,” Mummy insisted, “we have to go. Now!”

Tracey remained still, paralyzed with fear. Her captor reached down and yanked her to her feet.

“Move it, Tracey,” she ordered. She pushed Tracey from behind toward the opening in the ground. Tracey leaned her body backward, pushing into the ground with her heels as hard as she could. She blindly grabbed behind her, taking purchase of her captor’s jeans.

“No!” Tracey shouted. “No! I can’t!” She kicked and scratched at her captor, hitting her with all of her might.

Her captor grabbed hold of Tracey’s shirt, catching it on a bramble, and tearing it apart as she dragged Tracey into the dark hole.

“Get off!” Tracey screamed. She swung at her, slamming her hand into her ribs. Her captor doubled over, keeping her tight grip on Tracey’s arm.

“You little brat!” she screamed at Tracey, her eyes as vicious as a cold-blooded animal’s.

Tracey’s fear turned to rage—the anger of being taken from her parents fueled her with renewed energy and strength. She fought with all the might of her sixty-three pounds, screaming, “I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!” She broke loose and tried to wriggle back up the hole toward the last of the fading light, but was pulled back down by a quick yank of her ankle. Tracey shrieked, “No! I want to go home!” She clawed at the dirt, kicking fiercely at her captor’s face, “I’m not going back in there!” Tracey felt her arm being pulled and twisted behind her back.

Her terrified screams were absorbed by the dirt walls of the tunnel.

Eleven

Molly pulled on a gray cotton sweater and her favorite blue jeans—the ones with several patches of mismatched fabric on the knees. She was excited about the upcoming evening, and as she heard Cole’s footsteps on the stairs, she was glad that he had made it home at a reasonable hour.

“Hi, honey,” she cheerily called out. “I’m getting ready for tonight.”

“Tonight?” he asked, as he entered the room. “What’s tonight? I’m so tired.” He fell backward on the bed, his arms and legs spread wide. His feet hung off the bottom of the bed, and his arms were just shy of the edges of the king-sized mattress. His rumpled scrubs top inched up and revealed an enticing swathe of his toned stomach, speckled with dark hair.

Molly walked over and sat down on the bed next to him, running her fingers over the rough pattern on his cheeks, up around his forehead, and down the soft skin next to his eyes. She smiled, thinking that his face held the innocence of a child and yet the sexiness of a man.

“Mmm,” he moaned. “That feels good. Can’t we just stay like this all night?” he asked.

“Mm-hmm,” Molly responded. She stood up, sighed, and said, “No, no, we can’t.” She turned away to glance in the mirror, fluffed her thick hair, and scrunched her face in disapproval.

“Why not?”

“We have to go. Newton Carr is speaking about the history of Boyds at the Boyds Negro School tonight. Remember?” She put her hands on her hips, “Don’t you remember? We talked about this.” Molly was used to Cole’s mind, which, though she knew was like a sponge at work, she believed suddenly turned into a sieve when he left the hospital each afternoon.

He made a face, groaned, and said, “Do we really have to?” He stood and walked toward Molly, reaching his arms around her, and looking at her with his big, dark eyes. “I’ll buy you Japanese and rub your feet if you let me stay home,” he coaxed. “Honey!” she smiled. “I want to go. We loved his other discussions, remember? Besides, you always like it once you’re there.” He made another do-I-really-have-to face. “C’mon. I’ll buy you Japanese and rub your feet if you come with me,” Molly urged. Cole smiled and relented. As he walked toward the shower, he said, “You owe me.” Molly snickered, “Yeah, yeah, I know.”

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.

Cole reached for her, whispered, “What is it? What’s the matter?”

Fresh tears sprang to Molly’s eyes, “My cut. It burns so badly.” She shook her bandaged hand, rocking in pain. “I can’t stand it,” she hissed, trying to keep from crying out.

Newton noticed Molly’s red face, the tears streaming down her cheeks, “Molly, are you okay?”

Molly looked up to see thirteen sets of eyes trained on her. She could not stop rocking, the pain shooting up her wrist felt as if it traveled through her veins. Cole was on his feet, helping Molly up.

“I…I have a cut,” she said, trying to sound calm. “I think I have to go.”

Cole was calm, guiding Molly to the car and assuring the others that she was going to be fine.

Molly turned suddenly out of his arms and faced Newton, holding her bandaged arm up with her strong one. “Newton,” she said through the pain, “where is the Perkinson House?”

Newton stood silently, dumbfounded by the pain in Molly’s eyes. It took him a moment to figure out what she was referring to. “Oh!” he said, suddenly remembering his discussion. “It’s just up the dirt road next to the lake, but you can’t go up there. No, no.” He shook his head, watching Cole trying to coax Molly toward the car. “Pastor Lett, who is caring for the home, has strict orders not to let anyone up that road, much less to the house.” Newton walked a few steps in either direction, as if he were looking for something.

Molly nodded in confirmation and turned to go.

The relief in Cole’s eyes was evident. He turned to Newton and said quickly, “Thank you, Newton. Great discussion. I’m sorry we have to leave.” He ushered Molly into the car.

Molly collapsed into her seat, doubling over and holding in her screams.

Cole grabbed Molly’s hand and unwrapped the bandage. Molly turned away, afraid to look.

“How is it?” she asked. When Cole didn’t answer right away, she asked again, “What? What does it look like?” The words tumbled out of her mouth unstoppable and unsteady.

“Mol, what happened?” he asked, his eyes wide.

Molly looked at her hand. The gash was bright red and swollen, the letter T stared back at her, accusing—or pleading—she wasn’t sure which but felt the signal with each pulsating pain.

“It wasn’t like that this morning, I swear,” she said. “What happened?”

In the space of a breath, the pain receded into numbness, the swelling shrank, the redness faded as if it had never been there. The numbness passed into oblivion—gone.

“What the hell?” Cole demanded.

“I have no idea.” Molly panicked. “The pain is gone. Gone! My God, Cole, what’s happening?”

Twelve

Hours had passed, and Tracey felt like a limp rag doll. She opened her eyes and found her captor sitting on an upended log, the handle of an old pocket knife in her left hand and a partially-whittled wooden bird in her right. “Mummy doesn’t like bad girls,” her captor sneered. Tracey had become numb to the pains that tore through her limbs and shoulder, numb to the treachery of her situation. “I have to put you in the bad spot now,” Mummy said, irritated at the inconvenience. “I have no choice but to put you there.” Tracey shook her head, whispered, “No.” She was too exhausted to fight. Her eyes pleaded with her captor. “You give me no choice, young lady.” Her arms rested on her knees. “It will hurt me more than it will hurt you.”

Tracey watched flakes of wood peel from the block and glide toward the dirt floor. She glanced from the knife in her captor’s hand to the other wooden birds lined up along the edge of the wall where her captor slept and wondered if each bird represented a child she had stolen. Her eyes drifted back to the knife and settled there.

Mummy sat silently shaking her head, whittling the head of the bird. When the beak was complete and the head distinct, she stood, turned, and set the bird down carefully on the log. The knife remained in her hand as she turned to face Tracey.

Tracey gritted her teeth, swallowing any sounds that might have tried to escape. Her eyes remained trained on the knife.

Mummy walked toward Tracey, gripping the knife in her left hand. She reached for Tracey with both arms. Tracey leaned back, closing her eyes. Mummy lifted Tracey gently to her feet, then laughed. “What is this?” she mumbled. Tracey snatched a quick glance at Mummy and saw her staring at the knife.

Tracey’s entire body shook. She leaned back, as far away from her captor’s body as she was able while being held by the shoulders in a crushing grip. She turned her face away from the cold, sharp knife. Her captor removed her left hand from Tracey’s shoulder and raised the knife to her own eye-level. She looked it over, turning it in her hand. Her eyebrows furrowed, as she closely inspected the weapon. Then she let out a hmph, shrugged her shoulders, and tossed the tool toward the upended log. She looked down at Tracey and released her grip.

“Let’s go,” she said in a bored and tired voice.

Tracey let out her breath in a rush of relief. Breathing hard and fast, she followed her captor as she removed the plywood from the opening and headed down the dingy passageway. They neared the entrance to where the bad spot was; Tracey’s legs failed her. She couldn’t walk toward that awful place. Paralyzed with fear, she breathed in rapid, noisy breaths. Her captor turned to face her, rolled her eyes, and yanked Tracey’s arm toward the wretched room.

“No!” Tracey screamed, blinded by her own tears. “I won’t do it again! I promise! I’ll be good!” she begged to deaf ears. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please, don’t put me in the bad spot. Please!”

Mummy began to pray, which scared Tracey even more than the bad spot did. “Hosea 9:7. The days of punishment are coming, the days of reckoning are at hand. Let Israel know this. Because your sins are so many and your hostility so great, the prophet is considered a fool, the inspired man a maniac.”

The rancid smell of urine, dead rodents, and fear pervaded the air of the dark room like rainwater seeping into the cracks of an old foundation. Tracey stood straight as a soldier, petrified. She felt a hand grasp her upper arm. Her captor’s fingers wrapped all the way around Tracey’s slim arm and squeezed—hard. Her other hand pushed against Tracey’s back, forcing her forward.

Tracey’s feet reluctantly disobeyed her desire to run away. The light from the lantern cast menacing shadows across the floor. Loose dirt, littered with rocks and pebbles, receded into a dark hole in the earth—the bad spot. Despite her best efforts not to, Tracey began to sob, “Please! Please! I’ll be good!”

Her captor pushed her forward, “You don’t appreciate anything!” Her words were robotic, as if scripted. “You’re a spoiled little brat, and you are going to learn to appreciate the things I give you!” Her entire body shook. “I saved you!” she said nastily, thrusting Tracey forward with such force that Tracey fell to the ground, just inches from the hole. Tracey tried to scramble away, clawing at the unforgiving dirt, struggling to move away from the hole, fruitlessly digging into the ground with knees and toes.

Her captor put her foot on the back of Tracey’s calf, successfully trapping her. Her captor yelled, “I saved you from being part of that horrible world! Part of the ‘people who don’t care’!”

Tracey wriggled and sobbed beneath her.

Her anger chillingly eased. “I’ll save you. You will be happy.” Just as quickly, her voice became terrifying, “You will learn to appreciate what you are given,” her final word was emphasized by her bearing down on Tracey’s already throbbing leg. Tracey yelped in pain.

In one quick motion, her captor removed her foot from Tracey’s leg, yanked Tracey several inches off of the ground, and dropped her into the hole. Tracey landed hard on her feet—her knees buckled and she sank down, her back up against the cold dirt. The narrowness of the cavity forced her knees against her chest, hindering her breathing. She looked up just in time to see the grate—made out of rough branches and leaves—placed over the top of the hole, evoking more tears of helplessness. As the board was eased over the top of the grate, eliminating all but a single beam of dim light, she pulled her legs in tighter to her chest. Tracey focused on the golf-ball-sized hole that was cut in the center of the rotten board. An air hole, Mummy had said. Tracey’s body flinched with each shovelful of dirt as it fell onto the board. She held her breath, afraid the dirt was going to clog the air hole, but too scared to reach up, for fear she’d be sealed in forever. Urine seeped in between her thighs, puddling beneath her. The light faded in and out of the hole. Tracey concentrated on the heavy thumps the dirt made on the board, the sound of random pebbles as they plunked against each other. One...two...three…four…She put her head down on her arms as bits of dirt fell upon her through the air hole. Five…six….seven…..eight…nine. Eventually Tracey was met with darkness, silence. Her pulse throbbed in her ear like an Indian drum. Her fear was so great that she felt as if her heart were actually breaking, piece by piece, torn out of her chest. Her stomach hurt. She was starving, though it felt like a rock was in her belly. Her tears drained the energy right out of her ravaged body, leaving her limp, inert—she gave into the exhaustion. Maybe not waking up, she thought, would be easier than being here.

Thirteen

Cole worried that his wife might be falling back into the unsettled place of her past. Tense and baffled, he watched her as they sat in their car in front of the schoolhouse. He rewrapped Molly’s injured hand, then put the car into motion to begin the short drive home. White Ground Road was dark, quiet. With no streetlights and the umbrella of trees blocking the moonlight, Cole drove carefully, his eyes bouncing between Molly and the narrow road that lay ahead.

Molly’s hands were pressed against her thighs, shaking. She looked as if she were intently focused, staring straight ahead. “Hold on, Mol,” Cole said, silently calculating the time it would take them to get home—or possibly to the hospital. “Cole, I don’t feel so great,” she said, nervously. “We’re almost home,” he said, squeezing her thigh. “Cole,” Molly said, fiddling with her hands, “Cole!”

The alarm in her voice caught Cole’s attention. He pulled over just beyond the Hoyles Mill Trail. Molly was holding her hands in front of her face, turning them, touching one with the other, as if she were making sure they were actually there.

“Oh my God! Cole!” Tears sprang from Molly’s eyes as she frantically grasped at her face, the dashboard. “I can’t see. I can’t see anything!” she screamed.

Cole instantly reverted to doctor mode. He reached for Molly’s face, placing his warm hands firmly on her cheeks and tilting her head up so he could look into her eyes. “Molly!” he said, sternly. “Can you see me at all? What do you see?” “I can hear you, but I think…I’m going…” Cole watched her eyes begin to roll up into her head. “Molly! Stay with me, Mol!” he demanded. “Can’t...feel—” Molly’s head fell back against the headrest.

Cole jumped into action. He ran to the trunk and rummaged frantically through the boxes and medical reference books. “Damn it!” he swore as he dug through the mounds of other insignificant crap in his trunk. “Yes!” he found his first-aid kit and ripped the plastic top open. He rushed to Molly’s door and flung it open. Molly’s body was shuddering, as if she were having convulsions. “Molly! Can you hear me, Molly?” he yelled. Cole tore open the smelling salt package and broke the ampule in half under Molly’s nose.

Molly’s head jerked backward. “My hand,” Molly’s voice was almost a whisper. Then suddenly she grabbed her wrist and screamed, “Cole! Fuck! It’s burning!” Just as quickly, her body shuddered, then went limp.

“Molly!” Cole yelled again, slapping her cheeks and instinctively taking her pulse. She was breathing, but her pulse was elevated. Cole raced to the driver’s side and threw himself into the seat. He slammed the car into Drive and sped off toward help.

Molly’s breathing hitched. “Molly!” Cole yelled, reaching over and holding her head back against the headrest. She lifted her legs off of the seat and curled up into in a fetal position. “Hang on, baby, hang on,” Cole urged. He gunned the engine up around the corner, turning fast into Hannah Slate’s driveway. He threw the gear into Park and turned to Molly, whose eyes were closed, but her breathing had become normal once again.

“Mol?” Cole’s words were laden with concern.

Molly opened her eyes. He grabbed her arm and looked over her bandage—he gasped. “Molly?” He reached up and pushed her bangs off of her head—no fever. He held up his finger in front of Molly’s eyes. She stared at it as if in a daze. As he moved his finger from right to left she moved her head to follow. He placed his hand firmly on the top of Molly’s head, “Follow, Molly,” he directed, in full physician mode. “Follow my finger with only your eyes.”

Molly closed her eyes. “Cole?” she said.

He sensed her need acutely. “I’m right here, Mol,” he said, glad she could not see the tears forming in his eyes. He wiped his eyes with his free hand, “Molly, open your eyes.” She did. “Track my finger,” he insisted. She did. He put his arms around her and held her tight.

“My legs, Cole,” she began, “they were like ice, but they’re normal now.” She wiggled her fingers and looked at the bandage on her right palm. The letter T was singed into the gauze. She thrust her hand in his direction.

Cole looked angry, although his anger was at the unknown, not Molly. He turned away, clenching his jaw and breathing out of his nose. What the hell is going on? He turned back to Molly and hastily unwrapped the bandage. Her wound was pink, healing.

“It’s the Knowing, Cole,” Molly said quietly. “There is something here,” she explained. “Well, something back there,” she turned and gazed toward the darkened road behind them. Cole stared at her in disbelief. He wasn’t sure which he disbelieved—her or what was actually happening. “I don’t know why it happened earlier,” Molly said, matter-of-factly. Cole watched her eyes and knew she was already calculating her next step. “The Perkinson House!” She made fists with her hands and blurted, “It started when Newton was discussing the Perkinson House!”

“What?” Cole was lost. “Why the Perkinson House of all things?” His mind was still sifting through the medical possibilities of what he’d seen happen to Molly.

Molly ignored his question. “I have to get into that home,” she exclaimed deliberately. “There’s something there—a clue maybe. There must be some correlation to Tracey.”

“Molly, please.” Cole shook his head. “After what I just saw, how do we know there isn’t some other explanation—a medical explanation,” he grasped for clarification, rationalization. “There has to be some reason you blacked out, Molly. It looked like you had some sort of a seizure, not some…some...”

Molly broke in, “Some paranormal weird type of thing that you can’t explain, Cole? Well, I’m fucking sorry, okay, but that’s what’s going on with me. I’m not sick! God!” She turned away from him. “You’ve known me forever, Cole. Have I ever had a seizure?”

Cole grit his teeth.

“Why can’t you believe me?” she yelled.

Cole, equally infuriated and concerned, continued staring at Hannah’s driveway, “This isn’t Philly, Molly! Maybe you’re losing it again.”

He turned toward her just in time to see her recoil as if she’d been slapped, then quickly turned away.

“Look at me!” She grabbed his chin and moved his angry face in her direction. “Cole, look at my bandage.” She held the bandage up in front of him, displaying the undeniable T. “You saw what happened back there. There must be something in the woods or something…I don’t know, some…thing, or connection, here on White Ground Road.” Just as Molly finished speaking and looked up, a revelation spread across her face. “Hannah, of course.”

Cole turned and spotted Hannah walking toward the car.

The evening seemed endless to Molly. As soon as Hannah had touched her arm she had been assaulted by images: a woman kneeling on the dirt, surrounded by woods—in a forest-cocoon—leaning over a wooden box; nail heads defining a visible edge across the lid.

She’d pulled back from Hannah and urged Cole to take her home. He’d grown angry at her rudeness toward Hannah, and they’d ridden home in another uncomfortable silence. Their relationship had become a roller coaster of emotions, and Molly was unsure how to change its course.

She was exhausted and felt guilty for having ignored her civic responsibilities. She sat down behind her desk and logged onto her Civic Association email account. As she had expected, there were twenty-seven new emails. Molly sighed, glad to at least be comfortable in her favorite drawstring sleeping shorts and Cole’s comfy long-sleeved shirt. She pulled her feet onto the chair, beneath her, and reluctantly scanned the messages, passing over the political materials. Great, only twenty-two more. She grabbed a chocolate from the desk drawer and focused on the task at hand, prioritizing based on the subject line rather than trying to tackle all of them by dated order. She would get through what she was able with the little energy she had left. The rest would have to wait. Molly felt a presence and looked up to find Cole standing in the doorway. The disappointed smirk on his face was one Molly was becoming increasingly used to. “Email?” he said flatly. Molly shrugged, “BCA stuff.” Cole rolled his eyes and walked away.

Molly’s heart sank as the fissure between them grew. She knew she should leave the emails for the next day and patch things up with Cole, but she couldn’t find the justification to apologize for wanting to help Tracey. If only she’d have had the courage to have helped Amanda. Damn it! Cole is my husband! He should believe me unconditionally. She pushed her anger aside, took a deep breath, and turned back to her computer, listening to Cole’s heavy footsteps climb the stairs and flinching when he slammed the bedroom door.

Her eyes were drawn to three responses to her original announcement about Tracey’s disappearance. She read the first two—thank you notes from residents that promised to keep their eyes open. Just as she was about to open the next email, Stealth and Trigger suddenly burst into fits of barking. She could hear them clawing at the back door. Molly picked up her mug of tepid hot chocolate, took a sip, and wondered what she’d have to deal with now. She turned back to her computer but could not block out the frantic barking. Annoyed, she went to the kitchen and opened the door, releasing the alerted dogs into the yard—and finding a folded paper taped to the back of the door. Molly snagged the sheet, more annoyed than concerned, and unfolded the simple white paper. The typed message sent a chill down her spine, “FIND HIM AND YOU WILL FIND HER.”

Fourteen

Molly woke with a start. She was becoming increasingly used to the fearful state that greeted her in the mornings. She reached for her journal and began scribbling down the horror she’d seen and felt. Her mind reeled from the Knowing while Cole slept, blissfully unaware, beside her. She never failed to be amazed at his ability to not only fall asleep quickly, but to sleep so deeply that her constant trips to the bathroom never seemed to rouse him. She was too hyped up to go back to sleep. The clock glowed red—four A.M. She climbed from the bed and into her gray sweatpants, slipping Cole’s Cape Cod sweatshirt over her head.

Stealth and Trigger followed her as she moved downstairs and entered the mudroom. She forced her feet into her pink converse high-tops, grabbed her backpack and her keys, and slipped silently out the door, dogs in tow. She trembled from the cold—or maybe from her nerves—and climbed into the van. Stealth claimed the back bench seat, and Trigger settled for the floor.

“Thanks, guys,” Molly said to them. “I know it’s early, but I could use the company.” She knew she had been too focused on Tracey lately and needed to clear her mind. She crawled gently through the slumbering town, passing the Country Store and the darkened houses. Everyone must be sleeping, the perfect time for a criminal to prowl the streets—with no one the wiser. She shuddered at the thought.

A glimmer on the lake caught Molly’s eye. She pulled over and parked on the side of the bridge, causing the dogs to stir.

“Relax, we’re okay,” she assured them in a quiet voice. The beauty of the evening was not lost on Molly. She reclined her seat and watched the light sparkle across the water. The inlet from which the light emerged began to ripple. Molly squinted and quickly realized it was caused by a canoe. She watched the lone occupant paddle across the peanut-shaped lake, toward the bridge. Another insomniac, Molly thought, wondering where it was headed. She watched the canoe until it disappeared under the bridge and then reappeared on the other side. A gentle mist trailed behind the canoe as it streamlined toward the shore. Molly knew most of the residents of Boyds and was intrigued to see who else could not sleep on such a beautiful night. She raised her seat, started the car, and drove up and around the corner. The dogs whined as she came to a stop.

Molly sighed, “Okay, c’mon,” and grabbed their leashes. The dogs jumped out of the van and hurried to the short strip of grass that separated the lake from the road. From her vantage point, Molly watched the canoe careen closer to the shore, the dark water rippled silently as it snuck into port. The person on board hunched over in a heavy coat and hat. The dogs picked up a scent, and they made their way further down the bank through the tall grass. A bunny hopped in front of Molly, Stealth and Trigger immediately gave chase. Molly yanked their leashes, and they gave in to their restraints, sulking, but poised to pounce again.

The street Molly had turned onto ran adjacent to the peanut-shaped lake. The canoe came to rest on the shore below Pastor Lett’s home. Molly realized then that Pastor Lett must have moved from the manse to the house on the lake after Rodney’s beating. I’d have done the same thing, she thought to herself. The person tugged the boat onto shore and dragged it up a hill, behind several large trees, and draped a brown camouflage tarp over it. Molly was about to wave when she noticed the person covering the canoe with sticks and piles of leaves. She hurried back up the hill with the dogs. Pastor Lett would be furious to know that someone was using her boat in the middle of the night. She ushered the dogs into the van and drove to the end of the cul-de-sac into Pastor Lett’s driveway. She parked at the top of the black-top driveway and was surprised to see the person approaching Pastor Lett’s side door. As she turned toward her car, Molly recognized her.

Molly’s mind raced, Does she know it’s me? Can I just back up and drive away? Reality set in as Pastor Lett neared her door. Molly rolled down the window, a little nervous. The dogs stood, alert, protective. Stealth growled.

“Shhh,” Molly said, and Stealth lay back down, his ears perched high.

Molly turned back to see the fatigued face of Pastor Lett, her dirty, tired appearance not fitting into place in her mind. “Hello, Pastor,” she said, a bit too cheerily for four in the morning.

“Molly,” she said.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she offered. “Thought a drive would clear my head. Then I saw someone…well…you…in the canoe. I didn’t know it was you, and I was going to see who it was so I could tell you about it in the morning.” She felt like a teenager caught sneaking out at night. “Anyway, so here we are,” she laughed, a little timidly.

“I couldn’t sleep either,” she said. Her words dragged. “Sometimes I just row to make myself tired.”

An uncomfortable silence passed between them.

“Well, I’d better go then,” Molly said nervously, relieved to be leaving. She smiled one last time, and said on her way out of the driveway, “I hope you get some sleep. It’s been a pretty stressful time for everyone.”

Pastor Lett nodded, and as Molly drove away from her house, she glanced in her rearview mirror. Pastor Lett remained at the top of the driveway, watching her leave.

Molly drove slowly back across the bridge, thinking about Pastor Lett. She strained to see the inlet which now appeared vacant and still. As she left the bridge behind, she noticed the gated driveway just beyond the lake—the driveway that she must have driven by hundreds of times and never noticed. It was the type of gate used to block off parks at sunset, two green cylindrical metal bars in the shape of sideways Vs which met in the middle and were chained and locked together. The Perkinson House! Molly pulled across the lanes and parked just before the driveway. She reached into her backpack and grabbed the flashlight, wondering if she was brave enough to make the trek up the hill. Stealth sat up and barked, startling Molly. She quickly scanned the area.

“What is it, boy?” she asked.

As if on cue, he barked again and pawed at the door. That, Molly could understand—the universal signal for I have to go to the bathroom!

With Stealth’s needs taken care of, the dogs bounded toward the driveway. Molly juggled the leashes and tried to keep up with the excited dogs while cursing herself for leaving the van parked facing traffic. I’ll only be a few minutes, she thought. The dogs’ noses were on the ground, and there was a bounce in their steps, as if they were on a mission. They reached the bend at the top of the driveway, and Molly stopped, taking stock of her surroundings, trying to summon the courage to continue through the dark woods where the path of the barely-discernable driveway had disappeared. The train tracks lay to her right, but she couldn’t see any signs of a house through the overgrown thorn bushes and thick trees. It must be here, she thought, thinking back to what Newton Carr had mentioned about a driveway. She continued along the path that wound further up the hill and through the trees, picking her way carefully through brambles, and finally came upon an incredible sight. The house seemed magnified to Molly, the way it perched atop the hill, clothed in ivy, standing sentry, the peaks of the roof reaching toward the sky. Despite the evident disrepair of the structure, Molly found herself in awe of its timeless beauty. She could imagine the Perkinson family sitting on the covered porch over a century ago, sipping cider and listening to the trains go by.

The air was thick with morning dew, gray and misty in the flashlight beam, making it difficult for Molly to see protruding roots through the fallen leaves. She stumbled, finding her balance before toppling over. The dogs vied to be set free—pulling their leashes and, in turn, yanking Molly—the leashes tore out of her bandaged palm. She winced in pain. The dogs trotted happily toward the rear of the property, leashes trailing behind them.

Molly hurried to follow the panting dogs and found them barking at the weathered and chained cellar doors which emerged from the ground, a treasure chest beckoning to be opened. Molly grabbed the dogs’ leashes and pulled them away from the doors, shushing their loud barks. As they walked deeper into the backyard, the trees thinned, and a path was exposed. They followed it to a weathered yet elegant gazebo where the dried remains of wisteria wound around each carved spindle.

Trigger pulled Molly back toward the cellar doors. “That’s enough, Trig!” Molly snapped. Molly fanned the light across the back of the house, illuminating the newly-placed boards covering the windows. She tugged hard on Trigger’s leash and they made their way over the crest of the yard to where she could see the lake. She readied herself for the descent down the slippery hill, pulling the dogs closer to her sides and rolling her shoulders back. She eased down the hill toward the inlet below, the ground beneath her feet softening as she neared the water. The dogs rushed as far ahead as their leashes would allow, and Molly was pulled behind, barely able to keep her footing. At the bottom of the hill, the dogs sniffed at the water’s edge. Molly caught her breath and turned back toward the hill. A path of recent footprints in the mud led up the hill and faded into the grassy knoll.

Fifteen

Tracey woke cold and aching. Even the slightest of movements sent sharp pains through her body. Light filtered through small holes in the top of the bad spot. Tracey tried to remember how to get back outside, which tunnels and turns to follow—but it was as if the path fell apart in her mind. She buried her face in her hands and cried frustrated, angry tears.

Tracey’s head snapped upward at the dense sound of footsteps above her. She swiped at her tears, took a deep breath, and held it. A shadow cast over the light, and Tracey’s heart jumped.

“Tracey, Mummy’s here,” her voice was cheerful. “Are you ready to come out of the bad spot? Have you decided to listen to Mummy and be a good girl?” she asked.

Tracey let out a whoosh of breath and pleaded frantically, “Yes! Yes! Please!” Her voice cracked. “Please take me out. I’ll be a good girl! I’ll listen! I won’t fight anymore!” she declared, and she meant every word she said.

“Okay, just a sec,” Mummy said.

Tracey could hear Mummy brush at the dirt with her feet. She covered her head with her hands and closed her eyes tightly. She remained still, hoping she was really going to be rescued from the bad spot. Dirt spilled through the hole and onto her arms. The sounds of the shovel scratching and scraping against the wood brought her hope. Her captor lifted the wood and Tracey saw her smiling face. Tears of happiness sprang from her eyes. She knew crying made Mummy mad, so she squeezed her eyes shut and tried her hardest to stop. All she wanted was to get out of the bad spot, make Mummy happy, and be a good girl.

“I’m almost there, sweetie, hold on one more minute,” she said, as she lifted the tangled twigs.

Tracey reached her arms eagerly for Mummy to grab them. She held on as tight as she could and stood slowly, flinching from the pains that immobility had wrought. Mummy lifted her out of the hole, and Tracey collapsed into her warmth, pushing as far away from the bad spot as she was able. She took comfort in the safety of the arms of her captor. In her relief upon being freed from the bad spot, Tracey said through her tears, “I’m so sorry, Mummy. I promise to be good!”

Mummy leaned back from Tracey, her firm grip softened, her eyes serious. “Tracey, I put you there for your own good, but you see that Mummy came and got you, right?” she smiled and pulled her close again. “Let’s get you out of those wet stinky clothes and clean you up a bit, huh?”

Tracey smiled. She was relieved to be out of the bad spot, comforted to be with another person, and thankful to be alive. She held Mummy’s hand on the way back to their bathing place, happy to be taken care of again. Her crying subsided, replaced with acceptance—acceptance of her new life—and her new mummy.

Sixteen

Molly approached the rear of the dark house warily, the dogs pulled in the direction of the cellar doors, whining. Just as Molly felt at her wits’ end, about to scream at the dogs and drag them by their fur if need be, she glanced down. A chill ran along her spine as she noticed the faintest ribbon of light beneath the cellar doors. A second later, it was gone. Molly froze, panicked. Her hands released the leashes, though the dogs remained by her side, alert, standing guard. Molly lowered her trembling body and peered beneath the doors. She reached her hands past the shiny lock, and tentatively touched the peeling paint of the old, wooden doors. Molly’s vision instantly went black and images filled her mind, flashing erratically: a man being beaten, huddling, cowering, and chanting; the same man sitting cross-legged on a dirt floor rocking back and forth. Pressure grew against her hands—pressure of a man’s thick, rough palms against her own. Molly shuddered. A second later the sensation was gone. Her eyes darted wildly as she grabbed the dogs’ leashes and sprinted toward the driveway, literally dragging them behind her.

It wasn’t until she started driving that she noticed the parking ticket. Her eyes stung with tears of fatigue and frustration. She cursed loudly into the dark night.

Molly tried to calm her mind as she stripped off her dirty clothes and pulled a t-shirt from the dryer. If it weren’t for the bandage, she would have forgotten the wound on her hand. She peeled the dirty bandage off and replaced it with a clean one. The dogs followed her into the den, where Molly flicked on her computer and was surprised to see the time: six-thirty A.M. She moved foggily to the kitchen and made coffee, thinking about the strange night she had been through and remembering that she still had yet to discover why the ground had been hot where Hannah had knelt in the woods. That location, she decided, would be her destination for the morning—after her trip to the police station to talk her way out of that damn ticket—and maybe a nap. She rubbed her eyes as Cole walked in, dressed and ready for work. “Couldn’t sleep, huh?” he asked, absently. “Mm-hmm. I keep seeing Tracey. It’s driving me crazy.” Cole looked at her sharply, disbelief spread across his face.

“I’m not crazy, Cole,” she said, annoyed. “I took the dogs for a drive, but then I saw Pastor Lett—at four o’clock in the morning! She was rowing her canoe out from one of the inlets—the one by the Perkinson House that Newton Carr was talking about.” She poured Cole a cup of coffee, added cream and Sweet ’n Low, and filled a glass with water for herself.

Cole went to the front of the house to retrieve the newspaper, returned, and sat silently at the table, reading.

“Cole,” Molly continued, “I know what you think of my visions. I don’t know what’s going on, but something is really wrong with...with...well, with everything right now.” She leaned against the counter.

Cole lowered the newspaper. He looked at her, but Molly couldn’t tell whether it was a look of pity or concern.

“Babe,” he said, “I don’t know what to think, but I can only suppose that you believe there’s something going on. I’m worried about you. I thought the therapy really helped when we were in Philly. Maybe you should try that again, or talk to Pastor Lett, she helped you before.”

Molly felt a strong need to validate what she had seen. “Cole, I got this weird note, and then I went to the Perkinson House, and saw, I don’t know, something.” She paused, thoughtfully, “There’s something in the cellar.” She rubbed her eyes, pulled away from him. “I think there might be someone in the cellar.”

“Molly,” Cole’s tone was dismissive, “do you even hear what you’re saying?”

“Cole, listen!” she pleaded, speaking quickly, as if she had to tell him before he could disparage her again. She told him about the visions she’d had in the early morning and the ones she’d had at the cellar doors.

Surprisingly, he said, in a very serious tone, “Well, Mol, it looks like you have something going on with you, though I don’t know what.” He looked across the table at her disheveled hair, the dark circles under her eyes. “Are you sure you aren’t just exhausted?” he reached across the table and placed his hand upon hers. “Your curiosity working overtime, maybe? You know, Mol,” he softened his voice, “you’re OCD could cause you to dream about all of this, dredging up the past.”

Molly smirked, inwardly chiding him for blaming OCD—an easy scapegoat for a person who needed hard, tangible facts in order to believe in things.

He quickly recovered. “I’m not saying it is causing the dreams. I’m just saying it could be, in combination with…well, you know, that’s all.” He sat calmly sipping his coffee—far too calm for Molly’s racing mind.

“Don’t you think I’ve thought of that?” she asked sharply. “I know she’s not Amanda, and I don’t think that I’d have such distinct visions if it were just my OCD. I mean,” she fiddled with the castaway section of the newspaper that lay on the table, “if it were just OCD, I don’t think I would’ve felt the man’s palms on mine or seen with such clarity the area in the woods where I could feel her.”

He looked at her as a doctor would look at a patient—a look that Molly was beginning to despise.

“Feel her? Come on, Molly. Maybe you did have visions—or do have visions—but we have to make sense of them somehow.” He placated her, “You always do, you know. You figure everything out sooner or later.”

“But later might be too late! There’s a little girl’s life at stake!” Molly’s voice rose as she got up from the chair. “If she’s still alive.”

She gulped her water. Her determination grew. “She is still alive. I can feel it. I just have to find her.” She looked out the window at the woods beyond the backyard and said quietly, “I have to find out about that spot in the woods where the ground was hot.”

“What? What spot in the woods? What are you talking about?” Cole asked determinedly. “I’m worried about you, Molly, but if you’re not willing to get help, then you need to know, I’m not uprooting again.”

His cold stare bore into Molly. Too tired to draft another explanation that she knew would be refuted, she conceded. “I’m not asking you to uproot again. I think I’m just overtired.” Molly headed toward the stairs. “I just need to rest.” Cole didn’t respond. Molly watched him shake his head and walk out the front door. As she ascended the stairs, thoughts of the Perkinsons’ cellar raced through her mind. The light was on. The light was off. She turned back around and headed toward her den. Molly knew that once her mind got started, it was relentless; she’d never be able to rest. She sat down at her desk and drafted an email to Newton Carr.