Chasing Amanda

Newton, I would like to hear more about the Perkinson House. Do you think you could take me there sometime? I’d love to see the property. She leaned back in her chair, and a moment later typed, Does it still have electricity? Thanks, Molly.

Hannah’s morning schedule had been interrupted by an overwhelming sense of anxiety that she could not escape. She felt like a caged tiger, needing to break free. The familiar sound of the horses’ hooves sporadically clomping on the packed-earth floor of their stalls only momentarily soothed Hannah’s anxiety. She breathed in deeply and closed her eyes, relishing the pungent scent of manure and hay—a scent most people would find sharp or unpleasant. Hannah was normally calmed by the smell of her horses. Today, however, she was unable to put her finger on the pulse of her discomfort; it was unsettling, like a bad dream she could not shake. She unlatched Hunter’s stall and drew his lean, muscular body into the center of the barn. She stroked his side, and he nodded his head as if telling her that he was ready. Hannah separated the mouthpiece from the worn leather of the headstall and moved it toward his mouth. He instinctively grasped the bit as he had every morning for the past several years—an expert. Hannah settled the face strap. She didn’t halter Hunter when bridling him, there was no need. He seemed to find equal pleasure in their rides and never fought the tacking process. Together they walked out of the barn and to the block that Hannah had had specifically built in order to mount her horses. She climbed atop Hunter, bareback. Her body molded to the warmth of him. She leaned forward and stroked his mane. He shook his head from side to side. Look, leg, rein, Hannah thought habitually. She turned her head in the direction of the woods, used her leg to reinforce her intended direction, and Hunter moved with her before she had time to direct him.

“Good boy,” Hannah said. They trotted toward the woods behind Hannah’s farm.

Thirty minutes later, Hannah and Hunter emerged from the trees onto Schaeffer Road, a one-lane, rural road used as a shortcut from the older section of Boyds to the newer side of town. Hannah had used Schaeffer Road often when the trails were too muddy to ride as it offered a nice loop that led back toward her farm. It was a dangerous path for a horse, she knew, between the kids who raced down the road on their way to the airpark and the old-timers who drove ten miles per hour, but there were times that she just had to ride, no matter what the risk. On this day, however, she had needed to go through the trail—to see her. She felt the pull of the child, urging her near. Her thoughts drifted to Newton, and the first time they’d met, more than twenty years earlier.

She had been hanging up a flyer on the cork board at the post office, looking for farm hands, and Newton had been straightening papers on the table in front of the board. His eyes genially washed over Hannah, and he had quickly looked toward the ground as she tried to make eye contact.

“Well, hello there,” she’d said, cheerfully. “You must be the wonderful person who keeps our community boards up to date.”

“Yes, yes, I am,” he had said, hurriedly. “You must be Ms. State? Bought the old Williams farm?” His eyes continued to dart away from Hannah’s.

“Slate, with an L—Hannah.” She had reached out to shake his hand.

“Well, nice to meet you, Hannah.” He had taken her hand in his which was small for a man’s hand. His handshake was gentle, not manly, but warm. Although he was shy, he exuded a friendliness that not many people could claim. “Newton, Newton Carr,” he had said, finally looking up at her.

They’d chatted for a while and Hannah found herself intrigued by the little interesting man, who reminded her, somehow, of Piglet, with his modest and embarrassed mannerisms and sweet demeanor.

She’d commented on how he must have known everyone in Boyds, and he said, “I could tell you tales that wrap around this town like a ribbon. Hannah, would you have a minute to come meet Betty, my wife?”

Pleasantly surprised, she’d accepted, and spent the rest of the afternoon, and subsequently, many long days and nights with Newton and Betty, getting to know them, listening to stories about the town, the people, and genuinely becoming close friends. Newton and Betty had quickly become like family to Hannah, sharing holidays and urgencies. It had been Newton who’d dropped everything when Hannah had needed him, multiple times, and Betty who would bring soup when she was ill, tending to her animals over the years.

During the snowstorm in the mid-nineties, it was Newton who had begged Harley to plow her driveway first, Just in case. Newton had been there when Charlie left her and she’d needed a shoulder to cry on, a person to sit with, and to help her glue the pieces of her life back together. It was Newton who had held her secret and cherished it as much as she had, for so many years. Newton helped her hide from the rest of the world. Newton was her savior in more ways than one.

A thud behind her startled her out of her daydream, inciting a sense of fear. Something inside Hannah suddenly changed. Memories of the past heightened her anxiety and made her sentimental at the same time. She turned away from the annoying sound of the model airplanes hovering above, away from the trail she had been following, and down the paved road that led in the direction of her farm. The one-lane road weaved through the thick shade of the trees. Streams of sunlight stretched to the ground, offering brief, delicious patches of warmth. As they neared their turn, raindrops began to fall from the sky. Hannah held her face up toward the clouds, remembering a time long ago when she and Charlie had first begun to ride together—the dreams that they had woven, the plans they had made as they had ridden on a day that was so similar with a light sprinkling of rain. Dreams, Hannah remembered, of children, laughing and running through the fields, ponies bounding in the pastures, and dogs keeping a watchful eye over their blessings. Hannah let out a brief, harsh laugh. “Yeah, right. Dreams!” she lifted the reins and gave a quick tap to Hunter with her heels. He picked up his pace.

Hannah’s dreams had been crushed when Charlie had realized it was all too much for him to handle. He’d become resentful and quick tempered, and he had finally taken off, leaving Hannah to fend for herself. Her stomach panged at the memory of the days just before he had left, the fear of what he would do had he found out her secret, his wrath of anger, which had come on fast and furious, as it had so often toward the end. Out of sadness or old memories, she wasn’t sure which, her hand fell to her barren abdomen.

Molly stared groggily at the ringing telephone. She glanced at the nightstand and had a hard time registering that it was eleven thirty-seven A.M.—not P.M. She had climbed into her warm bed for a quick nap—two hours earlier. She answered the phone groggily, “Hello?” “Ma? Who is he?” “Erik? Who is who?” she said, smiling as she was brought awake by the sound of her son’s energetic, voice. “Who is the other son—the one you’re probably calling instead of me?” he laughed.

“Oh, that one!” she said, loving the game they had played since he had left for college. “Well, he actually lives nearby. He’s about your age, and he calls me sometimes.” “Yeah, right,” Erik said. “Whatever—listen, Mom,” Erik’s voice turned serious, “it’s happening again.” “What is?” Concerned, Molly righted herself. “The dreams—you know,” he hesitated.

Molly could hear the anxiety in Erik’s tone. She leaned against the headboard of the bed, closed her eyes, and remembered her spontaneous visit to a psychic when Erik had been just five. Her friends had been going—for the fun of it—and she had tagged along. The psychic had told Molly that Erik bore the same ability to “see things” as she, but that his young mind was too cluttered to see them clearly. The worry of that being true had plagued Molly for years. She had secretly analyzed Erik’s dreams as he had shared them—but other than a few recurring dreams when he went through puberty, they were always typical boyhood dreams. Now she silently pleaded to God not to burden Erik with the Knowing.

“Tell me, Erik,” she said.

“There’s this guy, Mom,” his voice was quiet, yet rushed. “He’s in the dark, well, mostly in the dark. He rocks—forward and back, like that autistic kid did in that show you made me watch? Son Rise? He says stuff, too, but I don’t really know what,” Erik paused, “but I think it’s something important.”

Molly gripped the phone so tightly that her knuckles were white. “What else?”

“I’m afraid, Mom. I’m afraid of the other things I saw,” he was almost whispering.

“Erik,” Molly swallowed, then urged, “there’s something big going on here at home.” She didn’t want to upset him, but every sense in her body told her that she needed to hear what he saw. “Please, Erik. Please tell me. It might help.”

He took a deep breath. Molly envisioned his worried face, the way the right side of his mouth would quiver with each word and his brown eyes would open wide as he concentrated. Molly saw the troubled face of the boy he was, not the young man he had become. “I saw a girl. It totally freaked me out.” The words tumbled uneasily from his mouth. “Oh, Erik,” Molly said. “I’m so sorry, honey.” “What, Mom?” his voice became louder as his frustration grew. “What the hell is it? Who is she?” “I think she’s the little girl who’s missing, but I don’t know that.” “Oh, great!” Erik said, sarcastically. “This is freakin’ great, Mom.” Molly could hear his panic rise.

“Well, guess what—there’s more. The little girl was in some kind of a...I don’t even know what,” he yelled, “a freaking hole! She was in a freaking hole in the goddamn ground, Mom!” his voice cracked.

“Erik, listen to me,” she paused, listened to his breathing. “Erik, you probably—”

“Don’t even say it, Mom,” he warned. “I’m not like you, Mom. I know you’re going to say it’s a vision or something, but it’s not.”

“Erik, listen. Please, don’t hang up!” she pleaded. “It’s horrible. This little girl’s been missing for a few days, and Erik,” she closed her eyes tight, hoping he would not hang up, “I had the same dream.” Her revelation was met with silence. “Erik?” she said tentatively. As the phone remained silent, Molly grew anxious. “Erik!” she demanded.

“What!” he said harshly. “Jesus Christ, Mom. What do you want me to say?” he yelled. “I just freaking saw a missing girl in a hole, and you want me to talk about it?”

“Erik, you can help her. I know you don’t really believe in this stuff, but you can help her. You have to help her. Please!” Molly’s heart felt as though it were going to burst through her chest.

“That’s just it, Mom,” Erik answered, “I do believe in this stuff,” he said sheepishly.

Molly let out a sigh of relief.

“But I don’t want to,” Erik said. “Don’t you think I’ve seen what you go through—what you’ve gone through all these years? There’s always something that you just know. Goddamn it, Mom!” he said angrily. “I don’t want to be like you!”

Molly bristled. His words stung. “I’m sorry.” She wiped her tears, wishing she could erase his memory of the images. “Honey, I know this is hard, but do you know where she was?” she asked.

“Uh-huh, sort of,” he said. Molly could hear the tension in his words, his desire not to reveal what he saw.

“Erik, please,” she pleaded.

“Fine, whatever! I saw woods and could hear kids in the background, okay? And, no, I don’t know where exactly, but it sounded like she was near a park, or a school, or some shit like that.” He took a deep breath.

Molly waited.

“There’s more. I’m pretty sure I saw Hannah Slate kneeling over her.” He spoke through clenched teeth, “What the hell, Mom?”

Molly eyes grew wide. “I’m not sure, Erik.” She tried to waylay his fears—and her own, “I’m sure it’s nothing. Hannah helped search for her. That’s probably what you saw.”

“The guy, Mom—you have to find him. I think he’s trapped somewhere. I think he needs to get out. I think he was trying to say something important.”

“Okay, honey. I’ll do everything I can to find him—and to find Aman—Tracey.” She decided to go one step further, “Erik, did you feel anything when you saw her?”

Erik didn’t hesitate. “I didn’t feel anything other than being totally freaked out when I woke up—but Mom, find that guy, please. I don’t know why, but it’s really important that you find him—soon.”

“I will. I promise to hunt him down!” She laughed, heard Erik utter, “Jesus Christ!” and added, “Really, honey. I’ll try—and if I can figure this all out, I’ll call you right away.”

He let out a deep sigh. “Good.” His voice softened, like the boy he used to be, “Mom, what if she’s…you know…like Amanda?”

Molly braced herself against the back of the bed. “She’s not, Erik,” she closed her eyes and said, “I’m sorry that you have to go through this. I hoped that you wouldn’t have these…abilities.” Molly’s sadness hung in the air.

“Yeah, whatever. You’re probably happy that you have a kid who’s just like you.”

His sarcasm was not lost on Molly, who smiled at his ability to remain positive about something that just might change his entire life.

Molly unwrapped the bandage from her hand and touched the T which had become a simple scar. She wondered how it could have healed so quickly, but like so many other aspects of her life, accepted it without too much deliberation. She poked at it, curled her fingers into a fist, and stretched them as far as she could—the scar did not tear. It had become as sturdy as the rest of her palm. The T had become a part of her—a constant reminder of the little girl who was yet to be found.

Molly showered, turning away from her own naked reflection in the mirror, Geez, I look like Mom already, she thought. Molly had always thought she’d be able to outrun the aging process, and as she took in her own image, she realized that age lays claim to a body without any fanfare; a few extra pounds here, a little less muscle there, until one day, in the mirror appears a wrinkled face that seems foreign. She turned away from the mirror to dress and began making her mental to-do list.

At her computer, she checked her email and found one new message from Newton Carr:

Hello Molly. I hope you’re feeling better. You looked rather ill the other night. I cannot take you to the Perkinson House. The Perkinson family has requested that only Pastor Lett walk the property. I do apologize, but I must respect their request. Several family members died in their house and with the rumors of ghosts on the property they’ve had issues with curious teens. I’d be happy to tell you all about it, but I’m sorry I can’t take you there.

Take care, Newton.

P.S. There is no electricity turned on as far as I know.

“Great,” Molly sat back in her chair, deflated. “Ghosts. That’s all I need.”

Molly stepped inside the Country Store, and the familiar bell chimed above the door. “Hello!” Jin called from the back of the store. Molly poured herself a cup of coffee, “Hey, Jin, how are you?” Jin came to the front of the store, “Fine, fine, and you?” “Great. Tired.” “It’s late for you. What happened?” he asked. “Don’t even ask!” Molly laughed. “I was up all night. I’m whipped!” she took a sip of coffee and grimaced at the taste. Jin pointed to the cup, “Coffee? No water?” “Not today. Today I need some fake energy!” “No running?” he asked. Molly had become accustomed to Jin’s clipped sentences. The back door of the store opened and closed, and Molly turned to see Edie slip into the office and close the door. “Tomorrow,” Molly said, distracted. “Today I’m making sure my ankle is okay.” She paid for her coffee and turned to leave. “Rodney. He did not kill that girl.” Jin’s serious tone stopped Molly in her tracks. “He did not do it.”

Molly’s shoulders dropped at the mention of his name. “Somehow,” she turned and said to Jin, “I think you might be right, but that doesn’t help him—or Pastor Lett, who has already lost a brother.” Hannah walked in as Molly left the store, breezing by her with a quick hello. Molly sat on the worn wooden bench in front of the store. She set her coffee cup on the ground in front of her and sat back, contemplating the sorrow she felt for Pastor Lett. She thought about the Boyds Boys and how nice it must have been for them to be together for all of those years. The hum of the passing cars and the view of Sugarloaf Mountain in the distance calmed Molly. She relaxed into the bench and began to formulate her plan for the day. Hannah hurried from the store, into her car, and drove off with a quick wave. Molly stood, waved, and climbed into her car. She blew out a frustrated breath and stared at the block-lettered message that was taped to her steering wheel:

DOWN ON KNEES, SECRETS NEAR

FIND HIM, IT WILL BE CLEAR

“What the hell?” Molly said. She tore the note from her steering wheel. Suddenly, she was hit with a stabbing pain that shot through her arms and traveled to her chest. She grabbed hold of the steering wheel, her back as straight as a board, her eyes wide open. The vision hit, sharp and swift—followed by a cold burst that ran through Molly’s body, prickling her skin: Tracey knelt in front of candles, unafraid, peaceful. Next to her, a large woman prayed. The woman turned toward Tracey, her face shrouded in shoulder-length dark hair.

Just as suddenly, the vision ceased. Molly’s body pitched forward, spilling her coffee. She felt the warm liquid dripping down her leg but didn’t have the strength to wipe it away. A combination of relief and fear settled in her mind—Tracey was likely still alive, but something about the woman with her had appeared unnervingly familiar.

Molly did not like women who played the part of damsel-in-distress rather than taking their due, but today, she was going to try. The last thing she needed was another parking ticket. She swallowed her confidence and timidly approached the male officer standing behind the front counter of the police station. “Excuse me,” she said in a quieter-than-normal voice, “I have a question.” She laid the ticket on the counter and tried her best to appear embarrassed, lowering her voice to a whisper. “The other night, I stopped my car on the side of the road because I thought I saw a child down by the lake, and it was really late,” she lied. “I ran down to the lake to see if it was in fact a child, and I walked around a little, you know, checking it out. When I came back up, this was on my van.” She pushed the ticket towards the officer, adding quickly, “I was worried, with the little girl missing and all. I thought I’d better not waste any time. I didn’t want to miss a chance to find the poor girl.” She flashed him her sweetest smile and shrugged, all the while, hating herself for having to pull such girly crap.

“Ma’am, how long were you parked there?” the young officer asked, in a tone that was more like Erik’s than a man’s.

“Oh, not long,” she eagerly replied. “I ran down, walked around a bit,” she glanced up toward the ceiling, tapped her chin with her fingers, as if thinking, “maybe a few minutes, fifteen or so—not so long.” Behind her back, Molly’s fingers were crossed.

The officer held the ticket in his fingers and scrutinized it, as if the answer to his dilemma were written there. Molly tried to appeal to his maternal side—everyone had a mother. “It’s just that,” she looked down at the counter, lowered her voice again, “I have a son, and if someone had seen my son who was missing, I would want them to stop and check it out.”

“Of course you would,” he said kindly.

Molly surveyed him. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-three years old. She pushed a little harder. “It doesn’t seem like something I should be penalized for, you know?”

The officer gave her a pitying look, as if contemplating what he might do for his own mother. He leaned forward and said quietly, “Let me see what I can do.”

Molly was surprised. “Oh, thank you so much,” she said eagerly. “That’s so nice of you!” Molly’s voice seeped maternal gratitude, which she knew would land in his ears the way a proud mother’s might. She watched him walk away and mumbled, “Please God, don’t get me for this!”

Molly waited nervously for the officer to return. The thought entered her mind that perhaps his superior would come out and lecture her on the inappropriate behavior of a civically-responsible adult. She was relieved when he came around the corner five minutes later. He settled himself behind the counter and leaned toward Molly. “Ma’am?” She hurried over, “Yes?” “It’s okay, I took care of it.” He smiled, proud of his accomplishment.

Molly brought her hands together and almost clapped, stopping herself and clasping her hands together instead. “Wonderful! Oh, thank you! You are so kind, really! Thank you so much!”

“No problem,” he grinned, “but from now on, please park on the correct side of the street.”

“I will,” Molly said. “I promise,”

He set the ticket aside, then looked back at Molly. “Thanks for checking out the sighting. Did you find anyone?” he asked with genuine curiosity.

Her smiled faded. “I didn’t find anyone. It must have been a deer or something. I looked everywhere and didn’t see anyone. I was so bummed.” Molly turned to leave, and then turned back to the young man, “Thank you again. Do you have any news about the missing girl?”

The officer shook his head, “No, unfortunately not, but we aren’t giving up hope, and ma’am, we would hate for you to be harmed. Please, in the future, notify the authorities if you see anything suspicious.” Molly nodded and left the building. She was digging through her purse for her keys when she ran head-on into Officer Brown. “Mrs. Tanner, fancy meeting you here,” he said. Molly was caught off guard, “H…How are you?” “Just fine and dandy, though we’ve got no word on Tracey yet,” he said.

Molly glanced hurriedly over her shoulder, embarrassed about talking her way out of the ticket. “I know, I just checked,” she said, hoping her cover would negate his need to follow up on her visit with the officer inside. “I’m so sorry that I ran into you!” she said, touching his arm. She quickly reached back into her purse. “I was looking for,” she brought out her key ring and jingled it, “my keys,” she said.

“No problem,” he smiled in a curious way.

Molly could feel his eyes on her back as she climbed into her van.

Molly stepped out of her van and looked around the parking lot of the Adventure Park. She would never have guessed a child had gone missing from the park had she not known. Children played on the equipment, mothers chatted, and no one noticed as she walked down the grassy hill toward the woods. She realized how easy it would be for someone to walk from the woods to the parking lot and vice versa without so much as a sideways glance. It was too easy.

Molly didn’t hesitate. She moved quickly to the edge of the woods, stepping over the untethered yellow police tape and expecting to be greeted by the force that she had encountered during the search. Instead, the air held a peaceful, almost welcoming quality. Leaves crunched under her feet as she moved branches and walked deeper into the forest. Molly carefully stepped over fallen timber and tried to weave her way around the thorny sprigs that clawed at her from every direction. She was prying a thorn from her sweater when she realized that she was near the site where Hannah had been crouched—where the ground had been warm. Molly removed her pad and looked over the drawings she had made of the area, noting the three rocks that were arranged in a triangular fashion near a lone green bush. She was sure she was near the spot, although something struck her as being different, out of place. She tucked the notepad away in her backpack which she tossed onto a nearby bush. Molly scanned the ground. A lone flower lay on the earth—a white marigold, brown around the edges and wilting. Instinctively, she reached for the flower, retrieving her empty hand quickly as heat intensified beneath it.

“Pretty flower, huh, Mrs. Tanner?”

Molly jumped up and spun around, ready to flee or fight, whatever the situation might command. Officer Brown stood just a few feet from her, his heavy hands in his overcoat pockets, a smirk pasted on his face.

“My God! You scared me,” Molly accused.

“Well, you scared me, too.” He walked toward her. “What are you doing, Mrs. Tanner?” He lifted his chin toward the flower. “What brings you here?”

“I…” she searched frantically for an alibi, “I wanted to see if I could find any hint of Tracey.” Yeah, she thought, go with confidence. Molly pulled her shoulders back and steadied her hands. “I know it sounds silly, but I think these woods hold the answers. I mean, where else could she have gone?”

Officer Brown walked around Molly, stopping only a foot from the heated ground. He turned and bent over from the waist, his large rear end too close for Molly’s comfort. She held her breath and stepped backward. He straightened back up and turned toward Molly, twisting the flower’s stem between his fingers. “Pretty,” he said, handing the flower to Molly. “Y...yes…it is,” Molly managed, suspiciously accepting the flower. “I guess someone must have dropped it.”

“Hmm,” he nodded his head, turned, and walked across the spot where Molly had encountered the heat. Molly stared, mesmerized. “What do you think you will find here, Mrs. Tanner?”

Molly swallowed, answering quickly, “I don’t know. A path? A lead of some sort?” she walked to her right, trying to steer him away from the area. “It seems to me that Tracey must have come this way. I mean, her mother and sister were walking away from here, so they would have seen her if she had walked toward the parking lot,” she shrugged. “So that leaves the woods.” “But why these woods,” he pointed toward the woods on the side of the park, “and not the ones over there?” “They would have seen her. Someone would have seen her, don’t you think?” she asked. “Maybe, maybe not,” he moved closer to Molly, stared into her eyes. Molly held his stare. “Mrs. Tanner, do you know that most abductors come back to the site of the abduction shortly afterward?”

“No, I didn’t know that,” she said, taking a step backward. “Good to know,” she looked down. Then she turned her eyes back to his. “Surely, Officer Brown,” she said with as much confidence as she could muster, “you don’t think I’m a suspect?”

“Never said that,” he quipped. “Just thought it was interesting that you came by the station this morning, asked questions about leads, and here I find you at the same spot as the abduction, that’s all.” He picked up a twig and set it between his yellowing teeth, like a toothpick. “Now, why are you here?” he asked.

“Jesus Christ,” Molly said, with a frustrated sigh, “I am looking for leads, okay?” She stepped away from him, raised her voice, “I think we’ll find them here. Why in God’s name would I abduct a small child? I mean, look at my life, it’s pretty full, wouldn’t you say?”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. You seem to have time to wander around the woods during the day,” he said in a patronizing way.

Molly was angry. “No! I make the time. There is a difference,” she said, strongly. “I can’t believe this. Do you want to arrest me? Or maybe you can’t find leads and you feel badly, so you need someone to hang it on? Well, keep dreaming, sir,” she said with sarcasm, “because there is no correlation between me and Tracey Porter besides my own desire to help find her.” Molly put her hands on her hips, accentuating her firm stance on her innocence. “By the way,” she retorted, “have you considered consulting a psychic? Someone who might be able to see where she is?”

He laughed a hearty, condescending laugh and kicked at the leaves on the ground. “Oh yeah, and we’ve invited the Mickey Mouse Club, too,” he chuckled. “We thought maybe they could do a dance, and the abductor would magically appear.”

For a split second, Molly had considered telling him about her visions, but decided firmly against it the moment the laugh had left his lips. Thick-minded ass. “I’m being serious, Officer Brown,” she said. “There are people who might be able to help you find her,” she pleaded. “Tracey’s time must be running out—if she’s even still alive.”

“Well, statistically speaking, yes, you’re right. Her time is running out,” he said coldly.

“So? What now? Just walk around hoping to find her and accusing innocent people?” she spat the words angrily. “Oh, am I like Rodney Lett now?” she asked. “Well,” she said as she turned away from him. “I won’t be your scapegoat, Officer Brown. I have an alibi, and I have been instrumental in trying to find her.”

“Calm down, Molly,” he said, spitting the twig onto the ground. “Calm down. I’m not saying that you are a suspect. I’m simply wondering why you’re here and letting you know that the abductor usually visits the crime scene shortly after the crime.” Officer Brown watched Molly’s back as she stopped walking. “Yup, there have been cases when killers have actually been at the scene while the police were investigating, within hours of the murder.”

Molly spun around, “Well, let’s hope that you are not investigating a murder,” she said, emphatically.

“Of course,” he said casually, and he turned to walk out of the woods, hesitating a moment later. “Molly,” he said with his back to her, “let me know if you find anything here, will ya?” he continued walking away. “Officer Brown!” Molly called after him. He turned. “Were you following me, Office Brown?” she asked with a hint of concern. “How did you know I was here?”

“Actually, I wanted to catch up to you, but you had driven away. So,” he paused, motioned around with his right hand, “I suppose, yes, I followed you.” “Why?” she asked. He stared blankly at her, puzzled. “I mean, why did you want to catch up to me after I was at the station?” she asked.

“Oh!” he said jovially. “I wanted to let you know that I looked into the Rodney Lett thing, and sure enough, he was buried in Delaware, so there’s no chance that he’s part of this. There’s no correlation between the two.” He looked pleased with the news.

Molly nodded, processing the information. She couldn’t help herself, she felt compelled to throw it back at him, “Well, I wasn’t really concerned that Rodney Lett was the one who took Tracey. I was more concerned that whoever took Kate might have also taken Tracey.”

“I told you, Molly, Rodney Lett is dead and buried.”

This is a positive journey I’m on, Pastor Lett reminded herself as she drove toward the Porters’ home. She realized that she’d been reminding herself of her role quite often recently. The events of late were reminiscent of her own journey, years ago—like opening an old wound. Celia is hurting, scared, and probably feels to blame, she thought to herself. It’s my job as her pastor to ease that pain and to relieve that guilt.

Anger grew within her as she thought of the procedures the police used to try and find Tracey Porter. The systems currently in place were the same lame checks and balances, in her opinion, as they had been twenty years earlier when they had investigated the disappearance of Kate Plummer. She grasped the steering wheel until her knuckles turned from white to red. Her mind turned to Rodney. How could anyone have looked at that big lug and thought he could hurt a child? She clenched her jaw and pulled the car to the side of the road, tears clouding her vision. She remembered Rodney’s face contorting with fear and pain for Kate when she had told him she was missing.

Rodney had sobbed. She remembered his pudgy, fisted hands, rubbing his tears away like a child might have done, but it had been Rodney’s reaction to the photo of Kate that had rocked Pastor Lett to her core. He had gone still as a statue. He had taken the photo out of Pastor Lett’s hand and had stared into the innocent eyes of Kate Plummer, as if he had, at that moment, through the image on the photo paper, connected with her. Rodney had said, “Girl in dark place.” Just like that—without explanation, without thought, or so it had seemed at the time. Those four words had terrified Pastor Lett.

She hadn’t wanted to leave Rodney that evening, but she had an obligation to the church. She had to complete her work, and then, she had promised herself, then she would focus on Rodney and try to understand those words—but it had been too late.

The phone call from the police had sent Pastor Lett rushing to the police station, chiding herself for having left Rodney at home alone. She had been taken to the interrogation room and had found Rodney sitting at that awful metal table, looking like a child caught sneaking a piece of candy from his favorite store—remorseful for an act he didn’t quite understand. The look he had given Pastor Lett when she had arrived—those big dark eyes pleading with fear—had filled her with remorse. Pastor Lett had gone to him, held him, and Rodney had sobbed on her shoulder. “Girl in dark place,” he had repeated. Pastor Lett stiffened at the words, having known full well why the police had brought Rodney in for questioning. Pastor Lett had thought, had hoped, that Officer Katan, a past member of the church who had known Rodney well and had been to their home for dinner, would protect her brother—but she was wrong.

The questioning, which had been futile at best, had left the police with little to go on.

“Rodney,” Officer Katan had asked, looking at Pastor Lett with an expression of apology, “do you know Kate Plummer?”

Rodney had rocked in his seat, a motion Pastor Lett had known too well—a motion that brought Rodney deeper into his own mind. Rodney had replied, “Girl in dark place. Girl in dark place.”

Again, Katan asked, “Rodney, do you know Kate Plummer?” He had taken Rodney’s rocking as affirmation of his knowledge.

“Wait!” Pastor Lett had pleaded. “He doesn’t know the girl. He’s only seen a picture of her!” she insisted. “Katan, he doesn’t know her!” Pastor Lett had turned frantically to Rodney, imploring him, “Rodney, tell them the truth. Tell them you don’t know Kate!” she had pleaded, but it had been like pleading with a child who knew he was right and didn’t understand the parental confusion.

Rodney had rocked harder, stating adamantly, “Girl in dark place!”

Then Katan had asked, “Rodney, where did you put her? Is she alive?”

Pastor Lett had stood abruptly, fisting her hands and breathing heavily. Rodney stopped rocking. He seemed to crawl inside his head for a moment, swimming around and coming out with a deep breath and an answer, “No pain. She’s with mommy,” Rodney had said.

Katan had hovered angrily over Rodney, yelling at him, “Mommy? Kate’s mother is not dead, Rodney. She has cancer, but she’s not dead! What the hell did you do, you big fool?”

Pastor Lett had stepped in between Rodney and Katan protectively. “Don’t you dare accuse him, Katan,” she had said sternly.

Rodney, confused by the anger, stood up, towering over Katan. Katan had squared his shoulders, staring at the large man’s thick chest. “Sit down, Rodney,” he commanded.

Rodney had looked down at him and said emphatically, “With mommy. Not in pain. No pain!”

Katan had taken that to mean that he had killed her.

Pastor Lett swooped into action—wrapping her arms around Rodney and allowing Rodney to cling to her, like a child fearing a stranger. Pastor Lett put her hand to the back of Rodney’s head, as if shielding him from Officer Katan. “Rodney, don’t say what you don’t know. You’re confusing Officer Katan.” She looked at Officer Katan and said, “He doesn’t know what he’s saying. Surely you see that.” Rodney watched Officer Katan out of the corner of his eyes. “Carla, Rodney not bad!” he said, tears striping his cheeks. “No, no, Rodney’s not bad.” Pastor Lett had assured him. The tears she had been holding back broke free. “Girl in dark place—with mommy,” Rodney whispered.

Pastor Lett had grasped for an explanation, her heart beat hard against Rodney’s cheek. “Look, Katan. You know Rodney. He didn’t do this. He…” she hesitated, her chest tight with fear, “he knows things sometimes.” She had tried to explain, knowing full well that Officer Katan might think she was crazy or perhaps arrest them both, but counting on Officer Katan’s compassion and his history of knowing Rodney. “He knows things that happen,” she said sheepishly, “sometimes before and sometimes after the event—but…it’s real.”

“What the hell?” Katan had said, throwing his arms up and pacing around the room. “Carla, this is not good. What the hell do you want me to do here, Carla? We have protocols. You know, I could arrest him here and now—probably for murder.”

“Murder?” Pastor Lett was in Katan’s face again. “You know Rodney would never hurt anyone, much less a child.”

As the ruckus in the room grew, Rodney had moved to the corner, huddling on his heels like a cowering chipmunk being preyed upon by a vicious hawk. He rocked, mumbling, “Girl in dark place. Girl in dark place.”

Pastor Lett turned to him. She knelt down, rested her hands on his knees. “Rodney, honey, you have to stop this. They think you hurt Kate. Please, stop saying that. Tell them you don’t know her.”

Rodney gazed up with wide innocent eyes. He continued to rock, fidgeting with his fingers. He shook his head no.

“Rodney, honey,” Pastor Lett put her fingers to the bridge of her nose, breathing deeply and closing her eyes. “Sweetie,” she said, “you have to tell them. This is not good. This is bad. They think you hurt Kate.”

Rodney shook his head. “Rodney no hurt. Girl in no pain. Girl with mommy. Girl in dark place,” he said.

Officer Katan stared down at them, shaking his head in disbelief. “Carla,” he started, “I’m going to let you take him home. Do not,” he said as he looked around the empty, cold room, “I repeat, do not let him out of your sight. I may have to bring him back in tonight or tomorrow morning.” He turned his back to them. “This is…unusual. I know Rodney, but…” He shook his head, began to raise his arms, then let them fall in defeat.

On the ride home from the station, Rodney had been a mess—rocking and shaking uncontrollably. Pastor Lett had begged Rodney to tell her what he knew about Kate, to show her where Kate was, but Rodney repeated the same things he had told Officer Katan. He seemed as sure of those things as Pastor Lett was about there being a God—but Pastor Lett also knew that, to others, Rodney’s words were the ramblings of a crazy person—one who just might be crazy enough to kill a child.

Pastor Lett remained in her car, staring out the window at the passing traffic, and ruing the memories of that awful night. She covered her eyes with her hand, leaned back against the cold leather seat, and gave in to the crushing memories of Rodney’s last excruciating moments.

The living room, which had once offered comfort and warmth, suddenly felt as if it were a holding room. Pastor Lett had drawn the curtains and sat next to Rodney on the floor where Rodney had pulled into his own world. He was unresponsive to his sister’s touch, his eyes trained on a speck on the cold wooden floor, traumatized. Pastor Lett had told him how brave he had been to speak to the police. She told him he had been a good boy and that he had done nothing wrong. Pastor Lett’s heart was heavy with inadequacy as she watched her brother pull further into his own silent world. Had she led Rodney astray? Had she not been there enough for him? Guilt clouded her judgment, obscuring her eyes with tears, and rendering her unable to see the path ahead, the right thing to do. She had lifted her head toward the ceiling and prayed, Rodney rocking at her side. She could still recall the feel of Rodney’s warm hand as it had unexpectedly grasped her arm. She could still hear Rodney’s child-like voice when he had asked, “God? God there?” pointing to the ceiling—and she remembered her own reply, “Yes, God is there. God hears Carla.”

Pastor Lett pursed her lips and pounded her fist on the steering wheel, wishing she could have changed what had happened next. Wishing she hadn’t taken the phone call.

She had trembled as she had lifted the receiver, fearing it had been Katan telling her to bring Rodney back and not certain that she would be able to will herself to do so—but it hadn’t been Katan on the phone that dreadful night. It had been a man with a deep, scratchy voice who had said that he needed to speak to Pastor Lett immediately and confidentially. He had said it had to do with Kate Plummer. A rush of hope had swept through Pastor Lett as she agreed to meet the man at the church across the street from her home. She had fretted about leaving Rodney, but, in his current state, taking him along had not been an option. His rounded, thick shoulders hunched over as he held onto his favorite toy, a matted and stained stuffed brown rabbit. It had been the one possession that he had saved after they had left their parents’ home in Delaware to come to Boyds.

Pastor Lett had spoken slowly and deliberately to Rodney before she had left. She made sure that Rodney understood three things: that he must stay inside, he must not answer the phone, and that he was, no matter what the police thought, a good person. Rodney had looked up at her with his trusting eyes, pulling himself out of his altered state, if only for a moment, and repeated back to Pastor Lett, “Rodney understand. Rodney good boy. No outside.”

A feeling of relief swept through Pastor Lett as she had approached the darkened church. Though she could not shake the burden of her own guilt—guilt of lying to the police about staying with Rodney—she had hoped that the man she was meeting might be the abductor wanting to confess, or perhaps someone who had a lead and had found out that Rodney had been wrongly accused. She had waited at the church for over an hour, pacing, sweating despite the cool evening, and watching the perimeter of her own home through the small glass window in the front of the church. Eventually, she had decided that whoever had called had gotten cold feet and was not going to show up. She stepped back into that awful gray, stale night, and went in the front door, in case Rodney had fallen asleep in the parlor at the rear of the home where she had left him.

“Rodney?” she had said, listening intently to the suffocating silence. There was no rush of excitement, no gleeful giggle, no “Carla home!” She had rushed into the parlor, nearly collapsing at the sight of her motionless brother, lying on the blood-splattered floor. Her legs had failed her as she’d gasped for breath and fallen to her knees. The sight of her brother’s blood-soaked flannel shirt and couch and the smell of sweat sent her mind spinning. “No!” she had screamed, crawling to her brother’s side and cradling his lifeless head. “No! Rodney, no!” Tears had fallen onto Rodney’s unseeing eyes. His bunny’s ear, torn off and speckled with blood, lay within his hand. Pastor Lett pulled her brother’s heavy body into her chest, emptying her soul via the salty water of her tears. Her next actions were robotic—without thought—her body pumped with adrenaline, her mind a blank slate, in shock. She had quickly called upon Newton, and with his fast and efficient help, they’d laid Rodney in the back seat, covered him with a blanket, and rushed back inside. She took the stairs two at a time, threw open her drawers, and stuffed a few pieces of clothing into a suitcase. She flew back down the stairs and scooped up Rodney’s torn bunny. She hurried to the kitchen, saw the broken window, the muddy prints layering the floor like stale accusations, and her panic grew. Without picking up the phone, she had fled, escaping through the back door and leaving it wide open. What she had of value had been beaten to a pulp and was going with her to Delaware. They were going home, where their lives had started, and where her brother’s life would end.

Pastor Lett threw the car door open and placed her feet on the shoulder of the road. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve, pushed her hair out of her face, clasped her hands together, and pushed them into her forehead, clenching her eyes closed. She tried to erase the image of Rodney’s ravaged body from her mind, to chase the horrid thoughts that came roaring into her head like a bullet train—hatred, pure and evil. She knew she must parlay those thoughts into forgiveness. She wanted to forgive, but the terrifying visceral thoughts would not leave her. She wanted to hate, to take revenge. Didn’t they know he had a family, someone who loved him and would miss him? she futilely thought for the millionth time. Forgive me, Father, rolled through her mind immediately after the wretched thoughts. She took a deep breath and tried to quiet the voice she did not like. I have to be there for Celia and Mark, she thought. The pain I felt must not be felt by others. She yanked the handkerchief from her purse and wiped her eyes, bringing her long legs back into the car and pulling the door shut. She blew her nose. A guttural laugh slipped from her throat. “I’ll show them,” she said. “No one will take this kid away from me.”

Molly hurried back to the site of the confrontation with Officer Brown, cursing her own stupidity for leaving her bag behind, and spotted her pack tangled in a bush where she had tossed it earlier. She fumbled with the thorny, tentacle-like branches, breaking loose a few that dropped to the center of the spiny mess, and freed her bag. A sparkle in the tangles of the broken limbs caught her eye as she hoisted the pack over her shoulder. Molly reached for the shiny gold chain that glimmered before her. She gently untangled the treasure, ignoring the burning sensation in her palm. As she released the necklace from the last twig, the pain became unbearable. She grabbed her wrist with her other hand and cursed, dropping the necklace to the ground. The T on her palm burned, red and angry, bulging from her skin. The pain brought her to her knees. She shrugged her pack from her shoulder and thrust her left hand into the bag, feeling frantically for the bottle of water she carried. She moaned in pain as she wildly withdrew the bottle and brought it to her mouth—twisting off the top with her teeth—and poured the water directly on the burning T. The water warmed in her palm. “Shit!” she screamed and shook the water to the ground. She grabbed her pack and backed away, anxiously eyeing the necklace, not wanting to leave it behind. The further away she got from the necklace, the less severe her pain, until it subsided completely.

Molly sank to the ground, breathing heavily. She was determined to get the necklace, sure that there was a connection to Tracey. She steeled herself for a battle with an unknown entity. You can do this, she told herself. She walked back toward the necklace, her neck muscles tight, her body alert to every feeling, every sound around her. The burning did not return. She neared the necklace and reached for a fallen branch with twigs at the end, like frail little fingers. Extending the branch, she hooked the golden thread for one hopeful second, then the necklace dropped to the ground—even further away. Molly blew the breath she had been holding and tried again—to no avail. Frustrated, she crouched down on her heels, “Come on, you bastard, come on!” she said through clenched teeth. Maneuvering the branch with her left hand was far more difficult than she had expected. The branch hovered above the necklace. She lowered it slowly, easing the longest twig under the chain, and pushed it forward, then quickly edged it up. The necklace hung precariously off the tip of the wavering twig. Molly raised the branch toward the sky, resting the edge on her belly for balance. The gold glistened in the sun, the darkness of the trees creating a perfectly serene backdrop for the tiny heart charm that hung from the end of the necklace, stuck, unable to drop past the hook of the chain. Molly smiled. Warmth spread through her body. As sure as the burning had scarred her palm, she knew the necklace belonged to Tracey. Excitement rushed through her. She turned slowly to her left and took baby steps on her toes to a clearing about fifteen feet away. She lowered the end of the twig and let the necklace slip into the cushion of the leaves. She was unable to slow the smile that sneaked across her cheeks. She scanned the woods again, unable to believe her luck—or was it something else? She scooped the necklace up in her hand. Instantly, the T on her palm went cold. She closed her hand around the necklace, wallowing in the cool, healing feeling. She closed her eyes and whispered, “I know, Tracey.” Molly slid the necklace into the front pocket of her jeans.

Seventeen

Tracey stood in the dimly-lit room, shivering and sick to her stomach from the smell of urine on her clothes. She was relieved when Mummy came back through the rough-and-ready doorway with a bucket of soapy water and two fresh towels. Tracey wondered where clean towels could have been hidden in the small, filthy room but was thankful and quick to please. She reminded herself that a bucket of soapy water was not so bad. It was much better than the bad spot. Just the thought of the bad spot brought tears to Tracey’s eyes. She turned her back to Mummy and promised herself that she was not going to cry—this was just a different kind of home. She felt Mummy’s fingers on her shoulder and reflexively froze.

Mummy turned her around and pointed to a pile on the floor, “I brought you more clothes today. Did you see them?”

Tears of relief formed in Tracey’s eyes. She loved new clothes! She walked over to them, careful to keep her legs apart. Her panties were soaked, so cold that they stung when they touched her thighs.

“Go ahead, honey. You can pick them up,” she said kindly. “They’re yours. Look at them. I think you’ll like them.”

Tracey bent over at the waist, trying to keep the wet cloth away from her skin. She picked up the dark green, long-sleeved, cotton turtleneck shirt. It smelled clean, flowery, and fresh. Tracey placed it gingerly next to the pile of clothes and picked up a bright yellow sweater with pink heart-shaped buttons. “Oh, Mummy!” she smiled. “I love this!”

Mummy smiled. “I hoped you would,” she said, sincerely. “I like to buy you things, when I can.”

Tracey noticed a stain on the sweater but didn’t say anything. She didn’t want to make Mummy feel bad—and it was a pretty sweater—and it was new to her. She laid the sweater on the turtleneck and picked up a pair of white socks with pink ruffles at the top. “I’ve always wanted ruffly socks!” she squealed. She looked from the socks to the jeans that lay on the ground. Pink and green flowers decorated the jeans. Tracey was beside herself, forgetting about the discomfort of her urine-soaked clothes, forgetting the fear of the night before, and forgetting that Mummy had stolen her from her own mother. She reached eagerly for the brown furry boots that rested next to the pile of clothes. White pom-poms hung from the laces. She didn’t care that they had scuffs and a little tear by the heel. Tracey was beside herself. She had seen boots like these in magazines. Her heart beat with excitement as she scooped up all of the clothes and the boots and held them against her. The itchy, cold fabric of her dress was lost in her joy. “Oh, Mummy!” she said. “I love them!” She did love them. Like any little girl, she loved presents. She flew into Mummy’s arms, momentarily forgetting what had led her to her crude new home.

Mummy wrapped her arms around Tracey and kissed her cheek. “Tracey,” she gently moved Tracey’s hair from her eyes, “I want you to be happy.”

Tracey looked down, embarrassed. “Thank you, Mummy. Thank you for the clothes and for getting me out of the bad spot.” When she said those words, there was a sharp pain in her stomach. “I’ll be good from now on. I promise.”

Mummy pulled her back into her arms and drew Tracey onto her lap, unconcerned by Tracey’s soiled clothes. She bounced her knee up and down. Tracey laughed, becoming more at ease with every fun bounce. After a minute or two, Mummy set Tracey down next to the bucket of water and stood.

“Tracey,” she said, “I have to go get us some food. I need you to stay here.”

Fear rushed through Tracey. Alone? Again? “Please, Mummy. Please let me go with you!” she begged. “I promise I’ll be good. I won’t run away. I won’t scream. I promise!” Tracey’s words were frantic, pleading.

“No, Tracey, it’s too soon. You need to stay here and get cleaned up. Don’t forget about the toxins,” she reminded her.

Toxins? Tracey held back her tears and nodded. Tracey worried about the toxins. What were they, and why hadn’t her own mother warned her about them? Maybe she didn’t care about Tracey. Maybe Mummy would not come back because of the toxins. Maybe they’d kill her! Tracey ran to Mummy’s side. “Please stay!” she begged. “I don’t want the toxins to get you, either.”

Mummy knelt down and held Tracey by her shoulders. “Don’t you worry, Tracey. I will be back. I know what to do,” she said. “You get cleaned up, and Mummy will be back really fast, okay?”

Tracey relented, fearing the toxins more than she feared being left alone. “Okay, Mummy,” she said. Her lower lip trembled, but she knew better than to cry. She covered her mouth with her hand and stood up straighter. She could do this! She had to. She had to be a big girl, and big girls didn’t cry.

“By the time you’re cleaned up, I’ll probably be back,” Mummy said. “I’ll go really quickly.”

Tracey nodded. Her legs trembled, and she chewed on the rough edges of her fingernail as she watched Mummy walk toward the tunnel. Mummy turned back to face her. “Tracey, honey,” she said, “now don’t you try to find our play spot, okay? There could be snakes and other dangerous things. I want my little girl to be safe,” she smiled.

Tracey inched closer to the dirt wall of the changing chamber, “Okay,” she said. “I’ll stay right here.”

When Mummy left the chamber, she slid the big wooden board over the entrance. Tracey heard something thud against it. She stood, staring at the board, running her eyes over every inch of it. She was alone—really alone. Just below the board there was a gap between the dirt floor and the board where the ground was uneven. Tracey wondered how Mummy thought that board might keep snakes out and began to worry. She bit her lower lip, then called out, “Mummy!” She wanted Mummy to fix the gap, but she was answered with silence. Mummy had gone. Tracey panicked. “Mummy!” she yelled again. Tears welled in her eyes. She tried one last time to get Mummy back. “Mummy!” she yelled so loudly that her body shook. She received no answer.

Tracey told herself that since no snakes had come in when Mummy was there, there was no reason to think they’d come in with her gone. She told herself that she had nothing to worry about, that she was being a baby.

She crouched by the tub of water, wet the washcloth, and slowly ran it up and down her shivering arms. The warm, soapy water smelled fresh, clean. It felt good on her arms, but when it began to dry, goose bumps formed. The water turned brown as she continued to wash. Yuck! As Tracey reached for her new clothes, she eyed the wood which blocked the entrance and wondered if she could find the way back outside. If she were able to find her way, could she run away? No! Stop thinking about the outside world where the toxins are! she silently scolded herself. It made her sad when she thought about the outside world, and it was better not to be sad. It won’t be that bad here with Mummy—if I can just be good.

Tracey finished washing up and dressed in her new outfit and boots, mildly aware of her empty stomach’s rumblings. She walked over to the plywood and ran her finger over the rough surface. She thought about the maze of tunnels and knew she could never remember which one led to the bad spot and which one led outside—or even how to get to the worship chamber. The room began to feel spooky, unsafe. The silence was deafening. Tracey went back to the soiled mattress and pulled her knees up under her chin, wrapping her shaking hands around her legs. She rocked back and forth, telling herself to be brave. She rolled onto her side and stared at the barricaded exit, waiting for Mummy to return. Eventually, Tracey’s eyes grew heavy, and she drifted off into a dream.

She pumped her arms and ran through the tunnel as fast as she could, her hair lifted from her shoulders with each thump of her feet. Her skin tingled with the feel of the outside air, replacing the stale tunnel atmosphere even before she could see the sunlight. She climbed out of the tunnel and burst into the bramble, spinning around and suddenly realizing she was alone—truly alone. Mummy was not there. She was frightened, shaking, and turned back toward the entrance to the tunnel. “Mummy?” she frantically called out. “Mummy, where are you?” Her questions were met with silence. She peered down the slim tunnel entrance. A force pulled her body away from the tunnel, placing her in front of an almost imperceptible hole in the bramble. She crawled through the hole and into the open forest. She walked at a brisk pace, stepping over vines and branches, around holes, and kicking her way through piles of leaves. Suddenly, she lifted her gaze from the ground, and there were hoards of people, the air filled with voices, conversations, shouting. The crowd was pointing at the sky. Tracey lifted her eyes, shielding them from the glare of the sun. She moved closer to the crowd, squinting to see what held their attention. Then she heard her familiar, comforting voice, “Tracey!” Tracey spun around, her heart pounding with excitement. She ran, fast and hard, into the safety of her open arms, without ever being seen by the people in the outside world. “Mummy!”

Eighteen

Molly drove toward the police station, fully intent on giving the police the necklace she had found, hoping they would search the woods again—more carefully this time—and that this might prove that she wasn’t involved in the disappearance of Tracey Porter. She ran through her encounter with Officer Brown and their troubling conversation. Suspect? Please! She slowed at the last turn before the station and realized that by turning in the necklace, she might solidify Officer Brown’s inclination that she was a suspect; he might turn this evidence on her. Molly was in a quandary, and she didn’t like it one bit. Somehow she knew the necklace belonged to Tracey. Her thoughts were interrupted by her cell phone. She pulled the van over to the shoulder and dug through her pack to find it. “Hello?” she said, hurriedly. “Hey, baby,” Cole said flirtatiously. “Hey!” she smiled, surprised by his playful manner. “Are you feeling better? More awake now?” he asked. “Thank goodness, yes. You have no idea!” “That good, huh? What are you up to?” She was so excited, she didn’t know where to start. “Well, you won’t believe this,” she said, and told him everything.

“You what?” he asked angrily.

She bit her lip, unnerved by his wrath. She continued hurriedly, “Anyway, I, uh…I got the necklace.” She reached down and felt the necklace, safely coiled in her pocket.

“This is unbelievable, Molly, really, just…unbelievable.” He paused. “You think Erik has these visions, too?” he asked with a mixture of concern and disbelief.

“Yes, maybe, I don’t know,” she sighed heavily, thinking about the pain Erik might be in for—the agonizing feeling of not knowing when he’s innocently dreaming and when he’s being given a sign, a message. “Cole, please don’t mention it to him. I’m not sure he wants people to know.”

“I’m his father, Molly.”

Molly heard the hurt in his voice. “Yes, and you’re my husband, and how many years did it take for me to admit to you that I had visions?” she paused. “And you still don’t really believe me,” she said, sadly.

“I won’t say anything,” he conceded, guiltily, “but damn it, Molly, I don’t want him to be as…cra—” he caught himself, then quickly said, “as…wrapped up in things as you get.”

The slip up did not go over Molly’s head. She swallowed her pride and said, “I know, but there’s nothing you can do. Either he will or he won’t get wrapped up in things. You can’t control what he thinks or how he feels when it happens. I’m telling you, Cole, this…Knowing...it takes over. There’s no escaping it.”

“So you say,” Cole mumbled.

“What?” Molly was getting angry. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I guess I don’t really understand it all. Nothing, nothing takes my focus away from whatever I might be doing—”

“Exactly!” she said, not giving him time to finish. “That’s what I mean. You focus on what is going on in your life. I focus on what is going on in mine. Unfortunately, I can’t change that what’s going on in mine is sometimes presented as a vision. It infiltrates my brain. I can’t turn it off. No matter what else I’m thinking about, it’s always there.’”

“I’m sorry. It’s just…” he paused, and Molly waited, knowing it was hard for him, too, “I never know when you’re going to focus on this stuff, and it takes you away from everything else, including me.”

Molly sighed. She knew exactly what he meant, and he was right.

“It sounds awful, like I’m a selfish bastard, I know, but, Mol, I worry about you going off into the woods at night, getting hurt, falling prey to weird forces, and things I can’t see. I never know what’s going to happen to you.” He paused, and Molly held the phone tightly against her ear, listening to him breathe. “And goddamn it, Molly, how is our marriage ever going to survive this shit? We barely survived Amanda! Am I supposed to just sit back and watch? Wait? So what? One day I’ll get a phone call from….from Officer whatever-his-name-is, saying, ‘Guess what? She was right. She found the murderer—only this time he got her.’” Molly could imagine him running his hand through his hair, pacing as he spoke. She could hear it in the beat of his words.

Molly answered with the only words she had to offer, “I know, and I’m sorry.” She could not promise not to follow her hunches—or the visions—any more than she could promise not to call Erik every week. She’d spent years being helpless against the visions. She’d failed Amanda, and she’d be damned if she was going to make the same mistake twice. Amanda’s sweet face appeared in Molly’s mind, just as it had in the newspaper when they’d found her body; her blonde hair cropped just below her chin, tilted up toward the camera in a gentle pose. Molly was driven to help and empowered by the drive. She just hadn’t realized it might someday become a choice between helping a child and saving her marriage. “I love you, Cole,” she said, hoping he could understand.

“Well,” she heard the surrender in his voice, “I chose you, so now I’m stuck, I suppose.”

Molly was hurt, Stuck? She bit back a retort and asked, hesitantly, “So what do I do with the necklace?” “What do you mean? Give it to the police, of course. Let them deal with it.” “Oh no…I can’t. If I give it to the police, then they’ll really think I’m a suspect.” “You could be arrested for obstructing justice or something.” “I know, but what if they take me in, make me a scapegoat. I don’t know, Cole. Do you really think I need to give it to them?” “Molly!” he said, frustrated. “You’re going to do whatever you’re going to do anyway. Why bother asking me?”

Molly didn’t have an answer. In the tense silence, Cole pressed his point home. “What if you keep it, and that necklace is the one clue that could have broken the case? You’d feel awful if she wasn’t found because you were too selfish to turn it in.”

“Selfish? Selfish! Is that what you think?” she screamed into the phone.

“Who are you doing this for, Molly? For Tracey? For Amanda? Or are you doing this for you, so you can fix whatever warped part of your mind thinks you killed Amanda?”

His words stung, and Molly could feel the truth in them, which hurt even more. She was unclear who she was doing this for, but she didn’t care. She was moving forward. “One night, Cole, one night, that’s all I need. It might bring me more information. Tomorrow, I will bring it directly to the police station. I promise. ” Molly didn’t need Cole’s approval but desperately wanted it to ease the guilt of doing what she knew was wrong. The line went dead in her hands.

Molly had intended to go home, but, on a whim, she found herself driving toward Hannah’s. Passing the vast soybean fields brought a sense of calm to her otherwise anxious day. She rolled down the windows and let the breeze wash over her, the stress of the morning fading away. She passed Harley’s farm, the hayfields pristine, the grass perfectly mowed, and waved to Harley who stood by his truck in the driveway. Her levity fell away as Harley’s unnerving stare, his face awash of any emotion, followed her down the road.

Molly parked at Hannah’s and stepped from the van, forcibly pushing aside the uncomfortable feeling of Harley’s glare. “Hannah?” she called out, and was answered by two dogs that came bounding toward her: a large, long-haired black dog that Molly thought resembled a cross between a Saint Bernard and a Great Dane, and an older hound dog. “Hey, guys,” she said as she scratched their heads. “Where’s your mama?” The horses came to attention as she entered the barn, undoubtedly looking for carrots and treats. Molly caressed their cheeks.

“Hannah?” she called out again. The dogs’ ears perked up at the sound of their owner’s name. Molly looked in the well-organized tack room, calling out in a sing-song voice, “Han-nah?” She walked to the garage, dogs in tow, where she found Hannah’s car. Molly scanned the fields, but Hannah was nowhere in sight. The other horses, however, had gathered along the far end of the pasture where the fence edged the woods.

“Molly!”

Molly turned around, relieved to see Pete standing in his dirty jeans and flannel shirt. Pete had boarded his horses at Hannah’s farm for fifteen years. Molly had known him for ten of those years but had never gotten used to his diminutive stature. His smile brightened his dark, weathered face.

“Hi, Pete,” Molly said. “Do you know where I can find Hannah?”

He ambled over slowly, wiping his hands on a towel that hung from his belt. His skin was slick with sweat. He nodded toward the woods, just past the gathered horses. “She went for a walk.”

The walk through the pasture was much further than Molly had anticipated. She leaned against the fence to rest near the four horses. Somewhere from the recesses of her mind, she pulled a memory that horses, like people, have favorite spots where they like to spend their time. As she leaned against the fence, her arms against the prickly wood, she looked down and noticed that the fencing had clear boot markings, as if it had been climbed over in that exact spot for many years. That was not out of place, Molly figured, because Hannah was an avid hiker as well as rider. She had likely climbed over the fence many times. Molly turned to the woods and, sure enough, there was a well-worn path leading into the forest. Molly rubbed the horses and took to the path which was lined with fall flowers, marigolds and blue-stem goldenrod.

The path faded gently, becoming overgrown yet still discernable. The tree branches hovered over the natural trellises. Molly reached up and ran her fingertips through them. She glanced behind her but was unable to see Hannah’s farm or hear the gentle noises of the horses and dogs. All was quiet. No wonder Hannah frequents this path.

She had been lost in thought when a noise disturbed her reverie, and she suddenly realized that the path she thought she had been following had not been a path at all. In fact, the forest around her looked as if it were a maze of overgrown paths. She pushed aside her rush to find Hannah and decided to enjoy her walk instead. She reassuringly touched the bulge in her pocket where the necklace was safely tucked away. She quickened her pace and crossed the rutted pavement of White Ground Road coming to the entrance to the Hoyles Mill Trail. Molly considered returning to Hannah’s, then she briefly wondered where Hannah had gone and why they hadn’t yet crossed paths. She was enjoying the exercise and was not yet ready to relinquish her peaceful escape. She checked the time and decided she’d have enough time to walk to the church and take the main road back to Hannah’s farm.

Molly skipped over rocks, bending down to miss a vine here, a branch there, and when she came to an area that she didn’t recognize, she ventured to the right, hearing Cole’s practical voice echo in her head, It’s a right-handed society. It didn’t worry Molly that she wasn’t quite sure where the path would end up, as Boyds was such a small area that she knew eventually she’d come out either by the church, by the farm just beyond it, or onto one of the country roads that encircled the small town.

The sunlight was beginning to fade as Molly came across a clear fork in the woods. Again, she veered right, and what she saw just beyond the bushes startled her: a man-made clearing surrounded by mature oaks and pines. Two picnic tables, the wood gray with age, splintered and rough, names and dates sloppily carved into the benches, were set about ten feet apart in the center of the clearing. A bird sat atop one of the tables, pecking at sunflower seeds. It flew away when Molly took a step in its direction.

Along the edge of the clearing were four large plywood boxes, with angled, green plywood roofs and bowed, unpainted sides. The roughly-built boxes were layered with cobwebs and ivy. Molly tried to lift the lid of the box nearest her which stood beside a small creek. Its weight surprised her. She peered inside, and a field mouse scurried across the bottom. Molly dropped the heavy lid and jumped back, letting out a meek yelp, the slam echoed in the darkened woods. She sheepishly looked around to see if anyone could have heard her little squeak.

“Jesus Christ,” Molly said, shaking her hands as if flinging off water. She wiped them on her jeans and approached the box again. “I can do this,” she said, and lifted the lid slowly, peeking inside. Cobwebs hung from the corners. A two-by-four shelf ran the length of the box, mouse nests tucked into the corners. In one of the nests, the tiny mouse huddled. Roughly-cut logs were tucked under the shelf. Molly dropped the lid, simultaneously stepping backward and cringing from the loud thud. She took in her surroundings—picnic tables, grates in the ground covering shallow holes—the scene reminded her of childhood camping trips. She smiled at the memory. Molly instantly liked the secluded area.

Darkness began to close in around her, and she started to worry that she may not be able to find her way back to the road after all. She reached for her cell phone, realizing only too late that she had left her backpack in the van—at Hannah’s. Hannah, where in the world are you? Molly worried about Cole, whom she knew would be upset with her if he knew she was lost in the woods. Am I lost? she wondered. She looked around for a path leading out of the clearing. Between two large trees, there was a clear path with…tire marks? She walked toward the clearing and caught sight of a flicker of white and green on the bottom of one of the boxes—out of place in the otherwise clean area. As she neared the box, her senses were assaulted by the sweet taste of candy apples. She rolled her tongue across the roof of her mouth—every drop of saliva carried sweet apple candy.

Molly crouched down near the wooden box, curiously peering at what she recognized as an Airhead candy wrapper. She reached for the shiny piece of trash with her left hand, and instantly her right hand burned.

“Damn it!” she yelped, knowing exactly what she was in for. She backed away from the wrapper, holding her burning palm in her healthy one. “Damn it! I got it, okay? I understand!” she yelled toward the sky. She backed away from the box, shaking her burning palm up and down, trying desperately to cool it off as she retreated up the path and further away from the camp. Her injured palm began to cool. Molly sat down at the crest of a small hill, just outside the cleared area, the ache lingered in her palm. She was not surprised to see the scar reddened and angry. Her hands shook, and guttural, frustrated sounds poured from her mouth. “Tell me already!” she yelled angrily. “Tell me where the hell she is!”

Molly sat for a few minutes, cursing the Knowing and trying to figure out how the signs, the notes, the candy wrappers, and the visions were tied together. She stared down at the clearing, compelled to return to it. It only took one thought to push her past her fear and toward the clearing: Amanda. Her senses heightened as she neared the area, she waited for her palm to burn, but was met with nothing—no heat, no pain, no oppressive feeling around the clearing. She breathed a little easier, dropping to her knees an arm’s length away from the wooden box and the candy wrapper. She reached her left hand out tentatively, snagged the wrapper, and pulled her arm back quickly, holding the playing-card-sized piece of wrapper between her fingers. She shoved it in her pocket with the necklace and patted the lump on her thigh. “I got you guys,” she said. “We’ll find her.” She froze at the sound of a man’s voice. “Hello!” a deep and concerned voice called out. At first Molly didn’t respond, she had gone on instant alert. “Hello? Who’s there?” Recognition set in, then confusion. “Newton?” Molly yelled.

Over the crest of the hill, where she had just been sitting, came a figure, shrouded in a long dark overcoat, a hat pulled over his eyes. “Who is that?” he asked. “Molly Tanner,” she said, unable to make out his face in the dark. “Molly?” he said. “What in the name of heaven are you doing over here in the dark?”

Molly sighed, relieved. “Newton,” she said, rising to her feet. “I was walking in the woods and kinda got lost.” She motioned with her arms to the clearing.

“I thought I heard someone yelling,” he said, coming down the hill towards her. “Here, I’ve got a flashlight.” He offered his arm to her on her way up the hill, handing her the light. Molly accepted the kind gesture.

“It was me,” she laughed. “What is this place, Newton?”

“You, my dear, are, um, in the campsites for the Girl and Boy Scouts. Sometimes the church groups use it or other local nonprofit groups, but it’s mainly for the scouts. It, uh, belongs to the church.”

They made their way down a tire-worn path that cut through the overgrown field. The field to their right was vast, edged by a cornfield. Beyond the field was an old farmhouse and barn. A silo stood tall in the distance. As if her eyes had a mind of their own, they drifted beyond the silo, above the trees, to where the turret of the Perkinson House peered above the treetops like a voyeur. “Where are we, Newton?” Molly asked, curiously.

“At the church, of course.” Newton shone the flashlight beam down the hill, illuminating the grass between the field and the park—the park from which Kate Plummer had disappeared.

They headed down the hill toward Newton’s car, the sole car in the church parking lot. Molly asked when the campsite had last been used.

“I don’t know. Let’s see,” he looked to the sky, his hand fidgeted around his lips, “probably August or so. I think the Girl Scouts have a jamboree around that time.” He turned to her, “Where’s your car, Molly?” he asked.

Molly’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, my gosh! I left it at Hannah’s house,” she said, having completely forgotten. “Would you mind giving me a ride?”

“Of course not—come on.”

Molly slid into the front seat of the old car. There was not a single scratch on the interior. The back seat, however, was littered with writing papers, binders, and loose articles, the floor stacked high with binders.

“Adding to your historical binders?” Molly motioned to the back seat.

“Oh, yeah,” he said, embarrassed. “I like to keep up on things around Boyds.” Newton took a loose article that was on the console between them and looked at it, longingly, “What a shame this whole thing is—what a shame.” He set the article on one of the binders, and Molly quickly glimpsed a photo of Tracey Porter and part of the headline, “Missing Boyds Girl.” Newton started the car, his eyes trained on the road ahead of them, gripping the steering wheel with both hands. The bumps on White Ground Road were difficult for any driver to maneuver around, but Newton appeared to be having a particularly stressful time.

Molly closed her eyes as she felt the oppressive pressure of the Knowing engulfing her, as it had the night before. She gripped the door handle with her right hand, the edge of the seat with her left. Her body began to tremble. “Please,” she said, breathlessly, “can you drive faster?” Molly’s eyes rolled back in her head as the visions hit like pictures projected in an old-fashioned slide show: Tracey, alone in a dirt chamber, staring into the darkness; a wooden plank; a thicket in the woods. Fear shivered across Molly’s skin, and the memories came crashing in. It was Tracey she saw in the vision, her face, her body, her hair, but those cold, dead eyes were Amanda’s, staring accusingly, directly, at Molly.

She could hear Newton calling her name from a distance, but she couldn’t respond. She felt the car accelerate, her body slumped against the door, jerking her mind back into the present. Her body swayed with the turns in the road, first left, then right.

“Molly?” Newton continued to call out to her.

“I feel a little…sick,” she managed. As they neared the intersection at Hannah’s road, Molly’s breathing returned to normal, her sight became clear, and she was able to right her body in the seat.

Newton took the right turn slowly, “Molly, are you okay?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she said, trying to minimize the episode. “I’m fine now, thanks. That part of the road gets to me sometimes,” she waved her hand, dismissively, “a little carsickness, you know?”

Newton let out a sigh of relief, “Me, too. It scares me sometimes. It’s so narrow, and it’s in such poor shape. You’d think the county would do something about it.” He shook his head. Molly realized with relief that he hadn’t seen her clearly, hadn’t realized the import of her experience. Newton approached Hannah’s driveway, and Molly turned toward the rear of the car. “Newton? May I?” she asked, reaching for one of the articles. “Oh, be my guest,” he said.

She picked up an article. Loosely taped to the back was an old photo. As it fell to the seat, she was able to make out the shape of the grand old house. While the colors had changed and the porches seemed smaller than she had remembered, it looked familiar. “Newton, is this a photo of the Perkinson House?”

Newton spun his head around, nervous, a look of shock and horror on his face. “What? Oh, surely not,” he said as he parked the car and gathered the loose papers, along with the photo, and held them on his lap.

“May I see it?” Molly asked, reaching for the photo.

“Oh, Molly. I’m certain it’s not the Perkinson House.” He clutched the mass of mixed-up papers and the photo to his chest so tightly that Molly could hear the papers crumbling. He laughed, nervously.

“Well, it looked like it might have been the house that you described when you held that discussion the other night. I thought maybe it was one you showed to everyone after I left or something,” she rationalized.

“No, no,” he said, shaking his head. “I didn’t show a photo that night. I, uh, I just talked is all.” Straightening the papers, he slipped the photo in between. “It’s nothing, really, probably an old photo that fell out of one of the old albums.”

“Okay,” Molly stepped out of the car. “Thanks for the ride. I’m not sure what I would have done if you hadn’t come by. I might have curled up in a little ball and slept on a picnic table!” she laughed, turned to her van, and heard Newton’s relieved sigh as she walked away.

Once in her van, she scribbled the visions she’d just had in her notebook. “Where is this child?” she wondered aloud. She put the notebook and her iPod in her backpack and retrieved her phone: seven missed calls. She scanned the numbers: Cole, Hannah, and several from a number marked Private. What now? She clicked on the voicemail icon to retrieve the five new messages.

“Hi, babe, just checking on you. Love you,” Cole’s voice soothed over the recording.

“Molly, it’s Hannah. I just noticed your vehicle in my driveway. Are you out running?” She paused. “Well, I guess I’ll see you sometime soon. Have a good run.”

The next message was garbled with heavy static which continued for almost a full minute. Molly debated hanging up, but curiosity got the best of her, and she remained on the line. Just as she was about to delete the message, a scratchy voice said, “He knows.” More static punctured the air like bullets. Molly pressed the phone harder against her ear, hoping to make out more words, to recognize the voice. When the words finally escaped the static, they made her dizzy. She leaned back in the driver’s seat and pushed the number one on her phone to replay the message. The words, “Save...Tracey,” were just as painful the second time around. Molly’s fingers shook as they hovered over the number nine on her phone, checking it again and again before pushing the number, making sure she was saving the message rather than deleting it. Molly’s heart skipped a beat as the next message began with the same sinister static. She listened intently for three minutes, hoping to hear a few words, a hint of who had called. She was met with the spine-chilling noise of cellular airways unwilling to release the voices that they were paid to carry. Just as she was about to give up, there were two voices in the background—one male and one female. The symphony of their conversation rose and fell—an argument, though what about, Molly could not decipher. The voices were muffled, the words unclear. Her heart pounded in anticipation of a clue, some hint to who had been calling her. The message clicked off, and Molly pulled the phone from her ear.

Tracey awoke frightened and cold. “Mummy?” she called out, hoping she had returned while Tracey had napped. There was no answer. The candle had gone out, leaving the room pitch black. Tracey rose hesitantly from her mattress and felt her way along the dirt wall to the makeshift table. She fumbled for the matches and nervously fingered the rectangular match box. She didn’t want to get in trouble for lighting the match, but she was terrified of the darkness. She bit her lower lip and withdrew a wooden match. Her fingers felt their way along the thin match, recognizing the bulbous head, and then gripping the opposite end. Tracey trembled as she struck the match along the side of the box, just as her father had showed her the last time they had made a campfire. A tiny spark flittered in the darkness. Tracey released the breath she had unconsciously been holding, and a frustrated, strangled sound followed. She removed another matchstick from the box, again she searched with her fingers for the swollen end. Please, please, she prayed. She instinctively stepped back when the flame came to life, then she lowered it quickly against the candle wick.

Tracey squinted into the lightening room, noting the wooden plank, still in place, the ghostly shadows dancing on the wall behind the candle. She felt a presence behind her and turned slowly, frightened, her body covered with goose bumps. She stood rigid while her eyes adjusted to the darkness. Her gaze dropped to a bulging image that lay on the other side of the room—they hadn’t been there when Mummy had gone—a tall figure loomed beside them. Tracey was not alone.

Nineteen

Molly threw her backpack on the kitchen table, glad the dogs were in the yard and not at her feet. The Washington Post sat folded before her. Cole, she sighed. Tracey’s smiling face covered the upper right quarter of the page, and around her neck, sparkling like a flash of metal at sea, sat the necklace that Molly held in her possession. Molly withdrew her notepad from her backpack with a sigh. She took it into the family room and sat on the couch, exhausted. Her head flopped back onto the soft cushion. She let her eyes fall closed and took a deep, relaxing breath, wondering why she had ever stopped meditating. She thought about how quickly her life had changed. It seemed to her that one day she was trying to keep up with a three-year-old, her every second wrapped around his needs, the days weaving in and out of each other, some blending so smoothly that it was hard to tell when one ended and the next began, some so terribly hard that she couldn’t wait for a reprieve—a little breathing space, a few minutes to think her own thoughts, accomplish her own grown-up tasks. And then her life had been interrupted. There had been Amanda, and the years when functioning became a goal rather than a given—the lost years. Molly sat up and sighed, remembering the therapy, the fights, the fear in Erik’s eyes when he realized that he couldn’t count on his mother for her strength or safety, and the way that look felt like a knife in her gut, initially sinking her further into depression. Eventually, that pain became the catalyst to her lifeline, her reason for pulling herself toward solid ground. And now that she had it all together—direction, confidence, her son’s trust—she was throwing herself right into the heart of an investigation.

“What am I doing?” Molly curled her legs up beneath herself and skimmed through her notepad. Visions, she wondered, or just scenes made up by a delusional mother’s subconscious? She was too tired to deal with Cole’s suspicion that her visions were just her mind working overtime, a thought she could not make go away, no matter how hard she tried. She put the notepad down and withdrew the folded messages that she’d tucked in the back of the pad. She stared at the creased pages, pages she knew she had not fabricated. They were tangible evidence that someone, somewhere, knew she was trying to find Tracey. She wondered why the person wouldn’t come forward and simply go to the police. She folded the papers, frustrated, knowing she had memorized them the first time she had read them. Molly was too irritated to relax. She wondered if Cole was right, if she should go back into therapy, try to deal with the remaining guilt of losing Amanda. The dogs barked and pawed at the rear door. Molly walked through the house feeling useless. She let the dogs in and walked back out the front door to retrieve the mail.

She leafed through the junk mail and set the rest in a pile on the counter. She let out a sigh, her hopes of finding a catalogue, or something distracting to leaf through, dashed. She’d have been happy with a coupon flyer. She fed the dogs and felt as if she were moving robotically through the motions.

Molly ran a warm bath, pouring in extra bubbles so she wouldn’t have to see her aging body distorted through the water. She pulled off her jeans and felt the unfamiliar bulge in her pocket. She gently removed the necklace and candy wrapper, and sat down on the edge of the tub in her underwear. She laced the necklace in and out of her fingers, dragging the chain across her palms. The cold metal felt lonely, hollow. The heart trinket was smeared with dirt. She walked into her bedroom and placed it, along with the candy wrapper, under her pillow. Molly finished undressing and lowered her body into the warm bubbly water, a consolation for a hard afternoon’s…What? she wondered. Work? Research? Search? She quickly decided that she had no idea what to call the way she had been spending her time lately but reassured herself that the bath was still her due. She lay back and closed her eyes. She had been drifting toward sleep when the phone rang. “Damn it,” she said, opening her eyes and bracing herself to stand up. “I got it!” Cole yelled up the stairs.

Molly sighed with relief that Cole was home. The clutter of her busy mind had finally been waylaid by the contentment of the soothing bath.

“Baby,” Cole whispered, his breath was warm against her cheek. “Have you been doing a little shopping?” She sighed and opened her eyes. “Hi.” “Tired?” he asked. “Mm-hmm,” she said, closing her eyes again. “Sweetie, you’ve got a package.” He held up the padded envelope, swinging it teasingly in front of her. “I didn’t order anything,” Molly said. “Your baseball cards? Ebay maybe?”

He shrugged and ripped open the package, shaking the contents, an old newspaper clipping, into his hand. Molly raised her eyebrows.

Cole scanned the article, “It’s an article about Rodney Lett.”

Molly read the concern in his eyes, heard the annoyance in his voice.

“It says that he was beaten to death and that he was responsible for the abduction of Kate Plummer. Mol, this is from October 1989.”

“Who sent it?” she asked, nervously rising to her feet and draining the water from the tub.

“Who knows, Molly?” he said agitated. “What exactly are you doing? Trying to get yourself killed?”

Molly tried to calm his anger and temper her own growing concern, “It’s probably nothing. It’s a gag or something. No one even knows what I’m doing.” She leaned her naked body forward and put her arms around his neck, ignoring the irritation on his face. “C’mon,” she pleaded. “Don’t ruin tonight.” Cole resisted her efforts. She kissed his cheek, his neck. “Don’t be mad at me, Cole,” she said between kisses. “I didn’t write the note.” “You need to tell the police,” his tone had softened. “Mm-hmm.” She felt the tension in his shoulders release as he pulled her toward him and kissed her lips. “Whoa, wait a minute,” she laughed, “we have to get ready. Hand me a towel?” Cole stood in front of her, leering lustily, and holding the towel just out of her reach, “Not so quickly.”

Molly blushed, turned away from him, and feigned anger. He wrapped his arms around her, the water from her wet body soaked his clothes. Standing in the bathtub brought her closer to his height. Embarrassed, Molly pushed him away, “Okay, towel, please.”

He playfully tossed her the towel, grinning like a Cheshire cat. As he walked out of the bathroom, he picked up the torn package and looked it over. “Mol, there’s no return address.” He ripped the package completely open and inside was a yellow Post-It note. Cole’s face swiftly changed from lovingly playful to clearly annoyed once again. “Molly,” his tone was serious, angry, “what the hell is going on?”

She looked at him in confusion.

He crushed the note in his fist and threw it, and the torn package, into the trash can and stormed from the room. Molly hurried over to the can to retrieve the crumpled paper, unfolding it as quickly as she could. Scrawled in pencil were the words:

LET SLEEPING DOGS LIE.

Pastor Lett stood against the wall, waiting for the right time to let her presence be known. The kid stood like a statue in the dimly-lit room. She watched the kid turn slowly on trembling legs.

Her eyes met the kid’s. “Honey,” she said in a low, gentle voice, “it’s me. It’s okay.”

The kid stared at her as if she were a stranger. Guilt rose within her, and she pushed it away as her irritation grew. She walked closer to the kid, leaving the garbage bag behind on the dirt floor.

She had thought they’d established an understood vow of compliance, an acknowledgement of how things had to be in order for them to live happily. What had changed? Why, she wondered, had the kid reverted to fear? But she knew why. She knew she had crossed the line, scared the kid—perhaps beyond repair. She moved closer, slowly, crouching down so she wasn’t too imposing. “Honey, it’s okay. I’m here to take care of you, to keep you safe. We’re going to be happy.” She reached toward the kid, but the kid pulled back, out of her reach. “God put me on this Earth to care for you,” her voice rose, and she tried to gain control of her emotions. She wiggled her fingers, urging the kid toward her. “C’mon, it’s okay.” Slowly the kid moved, hesitantly, toward her.

“That’s right, sweetie. Come to me.” Pastor Lett reached out and pulled the kid’s reluctant body close, “What were you doing, honey?”

The kid stared up at her—big round beautiful eyes, innocent and scared. Pastor Lett held the kid at arm’s length, her heart pounded with love and admiration, mixed with an underlying grief. She hated holding the kid hostage like that. She knew the kid should be outside, enjoying life, not stuck in this damn dungeon. She whispered, “Were you getting ready to pray? Talking to God?” The kid nodded nervously. “It’s okay. We all talk to God.” The kid looked up, acknowledging her words with a sense of relief. “What were you praying for? Do you need something?” Pastor Lett asked. Her question was met with silence. “What do you want from God? Are you not happy?” she asked, desperately wanting to make things as comfortable as she was able.

The kid began rocking, barely noticeable at first. Pastor Lett had seen it before, a slight rock back and forth, almost non-existent, yet she understood the message—the kid was uneasy, frightened.

“Sweetie, let it out. I can help,” Pastor Lett urged. “Let’s see what I’ve brought you!” she said, reaching for the bags. The kid eyed the bags curiously. Pastor Lett reached deep inside the bag and pulled out a stuffed bunny. The kid’s eyes lit up, and Pastor Lett handed the prize over, gratified. The kid held it tight, then tucked it under one arm.

“There’s that smile I love,” she said. “Let’s see what else I’ve brought you.” The kid moved closer, less afraid, renouncing the rocking for the promise of gifts.

Pastor Lett reached into the bag and pulled out a brown shirt and white sweater. “What is this?” she teased. “It looks like clothes.” Pastor Lett held the clothing up, pretending to inspect them. “Hm, they look to be just about your size.” She glanced at the kid, “Let’s just see if they might fit.” She held them up. “Yup. Perfect. They must be yours!”

The kid snagged the clothing from Pastor Lett’s hands. Pastor Lett watched the kid smell the clothing, smile. Her spirits lifted. As much as she loathed material items bringing joy, at times it was all she had to offer. She was well aware of what she had done, what she would continue to do, but people had forced it upon her. She was compelled to live a lie. It was unfair, and she knew it. The kid was often left alone, and she hated that, but she knew, or at least she hoped, that God would look over their place, protecting them from harm, protecting them from the cruel, unforgiving world.

The kid stared at the bag, wordlessly asking for more. Pastor Lett pushed aside her melancholy thoughts and laughed a little. “Oh, you want to see what else I might have brought? Don’t you have enough yet, kiddo?”

The kid smiled.

“Okay, well, let’s see,” she said, trying to keep the mood lighter than it had been. She put her arm in the bag and pretended that the item was stuck, cringing and pulling backward. “I can’t get it out,” her voice was strained as she pretended to use all of her strength to retrieve the contents of the bag.

The kid’s face contorted, painfully waiting for the prize to be revealed.

“It’s stuck in here,” Pastor Lett said. She pretended to be yanked into the bag, flailing her head and arms and falling to the floor.

The kid laughed.

Pastor Lett’s voice was muffled by the bag, “Help! Help! Honey, I’m stuck!”

There was a moment’s hesitation—then Pastor Lett felt warm hands on her back as the kid tried to pull her from the bag. She used all of her strength to remain in the bag, continuing the game, relishing in the kid’s delight. After a minute, they both fell backward, tumbling together, laughter filling the dimly-lit room. Slowly, their laughter faded, and Pastor Lett peeked in the bag, creating a dramatic scene—eyes wide, arms outstretched. She turned to the kid, “No way am I going in there again.” She sat back on her heels. “You go,” she instructed.

The kid approached the bag tentatively, looking into it, then back at Pastor Lett. A shake of the head and a smile egged her on.

“Uh-uh,” she said. “Why do I have to do all of the dirty work? It’s just not fair!” she said, pretending to pout. “You can do it. You’re strong,” she urged. Again, the shake of the head. “Okay, okay, fine.” She resigned her stance and dove into the bag so fast that the kid jumped up and down excitedly. Finally, a single word escaped the kid’s lips, “Funny!”

Pastor Lett felt her heart melt like chocolate on a warm afternoon. She wanted to grab that one word and tuck it away safely in her pocket. Instead, she scrambled around in the bag, like she was wrestling with an animal. Suddenly, she stopped thrashing and backed out of the bag, cradling a small box in her hands. She sat on the floor next to the kid whose eyes were wide with anticipation. The kid reached for the box, crouched next to Pastor Lett, and looked over the box, slowly lifting the lid, and removing the gold chain. The kid stared, mesmerized. Tears of joy slipped down the kid’s cheeks. Pastor Lett had never imagined that a necklace would evoke such a reaction. The token, an icon of Pastor Lett’s love, hung from the chain like a star in the sky, sparkling and bright.

The kid clutched the necklace as if it might disappear. Not to worry, Pastor Lett thought to herself. I will be here to make sure it stays right where it belongs.

When Molly finally made her way downstairs, she found Cole stewing in front of a football game. She came to sit on the coffee table in front of him, blocking his view of the game. She held his gaze until he abruptly clicked off the television and gave her his full, enervated attention.

His eyes said, “Well?” but she didn’t know where to begin to fill the breach. The tension was deafening.

She tentatively reached for his hand and said, placatingly, “Cole, how could I know that this would happen? No one even knows I’m looking for her, really.”

“No one even knows,” he said, mocking her. “Someone does,” he said, accusingly. “That little present you just got,” he sneered, “is a threat.”

Molly peeled her gaze away, “I don’t think…” she began timidly. “Maybe it’s not really a threat,” she tried, lamely.

Cole threw his arms up in the air. “What?” he yelled. “Do you know, do you even have a clue, how dangerous this is?”

She stood with her hands at her side, wanting to say something, anything to make him understand why she had to pursue this, but words failed her. Finally, she took a deep breath and, deciding not to tell him about the other notes, released the air slowly, trying to keep control of her emotions. She turned and looked into his scornful eyes.

“Oh, Cole,” she began, “I can’t help it. I feel like I have to find her.”

Cole let out a hiss of anger. “Molly, why do you think you can find this girl? You couldn’t help Amanda, and you can’t help Tracey!” he yelled.

Molly was too hurt, too angry to speak.

Cole looked away, momentarily ashamed, but the anger came raging forward, “How much more do you know than the police? It sounds like you’re all over the place—in the woods, at the Perkinson House. Don’t you think if she were in the Perkinson House, someone would have found her? Why don’t you just ask Pastor Lett? I’m sure she’ll tell you she’s not there.”

Molly fumed.

“For God’s sake, Molly, she didn’t take her. I have no idea how you can live like this, wondering, tracking things down. Where do you get the energy, much less the desire? She’s not even your daughter.”

“I know she’s not my daughter, Cole!” she yelled through angry tears. “What if I can find her? The police didn’t find her necklace, I did. What am I supposed to do? Turn my back on this little girl? Walk away like I know nothing when clearly someone, somewhere is trying to send me messages about her? Let her die like I let Amanda die?”

Cole sat on the couch, his eyes focused on nothing.

Molly was caught between walking out and never coming back, and trying to bridge the gap between them. Cole dropped his head into his hands. Molly eyed the foyer, then looked at the photos littered around the room of them in happier times. She walked over to Cole, stood between his legs, put her hands on his shoulders, and leaned her forehead against his. She whispered, “What if it were Erik, and one person was being given details, and that one person ignored them? Would you want that to happen?”

He whispered back, “No, of course not.” He pushed Molly aside and walked out of the room.

Molly listened to the rhythm of Cole’s heavy footfalls and the hum of the treadmill. She settled in front of her computer and opened an email from Hannah.

Molly, I saw your car here today. Sorry I missed you. Were you out running? Hannah.

Molly replied, responded to a few other emails, and was relieved to reach the last one which was from Newton Carr.

Molly, I’m glad I found you today. I thought everyone knew about the campsites, but I suppose not. You should stop by some time. I can fill you in on much of the history of Boyds. I can even show you Colonel Boyds’s grave. He was an amazing man.

Take care, Newton.

P.S. The photo you saw was actually of another home in Boyds that no longer exists. As I mentioned before, Molly, please stay away from the Perkinson House. Grant the Perkinson family their privacy.

Molly clicked back to her Inbox. “That was fast,” she said when a new email from Hannah arrived.

Molly, I’m glad you enjoyed your walk through the woods. Next time, though, why don’t I go with you? Hannah.

Molly replied, Sounds great!

The newspaper clipping nagged at Molly. She retrieved it and scanned the article.

Relief of one sort was provided today to the family of Kate Plummer. The prime suspect, Rodney Lett, was found beaten to death in the home of his sister, Pastor Carla Lett…The body was taken to Delaware for burial in the family plot…The body of Kate Plummer has not been found. Rodney Lett’s confession included a statement that the girl was with her “mommy.” Police interpreted the information to mean that she was dead. Mrs. Plummer, a cancer patient, is alive, though it is unclear if Rodney Lett understood that at the time of Kate’s disappearance.

She tossed the article on her desk, “So that’s their proof?” Molly was disgusted with the realization that the police could lead such a shallow investigation, and that the search would be dropped without ever finding Kate’s body.

Frustrated by the fight with Cole and her internal conflict, Molly decided to try and put their argument behind them. She went downstairs to their exercise room. “Almost done?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he huffed. Cole hated to run, but as he did with most aspects of his life, he did what he was supposed to do because it was best for him, not because it was something he enjoyed. “How would you feel about dinner out tonight? I sort of need to clear my head.” Molly asked, flopping, defeated, onto the couch. “Sure, whatever you want,” he said, as Molly had expected he would. “Café Miletto okay?” “Sure, whatever, I’ll be done in a minute.”

Molly dressed for dinner and then looked beneath her pillow, confirming that her evidence was still in place. She thought of Tracey, out there somewhere, terrified, hungry, cold. Molly ran her fingers over the necklace, then picked up the candy wrapper. Instantly, she tasted apple candy. Her palm became warm, and she could feel Tracey’s soft little hand grasping the wrapper. She could feel her fear, her breathing becoming rapid, shallow. She closed her eyes, hoping for more—slowly, gray images came to her: trees, leaves, the wooden boxes. The wrapper grew cold and fell from her hand.

Molly jumped when Cole put his hand on her shoulder. She pushed the pillow down over the wrapper and the necklace. “Good God, Cole,” she said, “how long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough,” he said.

Café Miletto was quiet. There were four other tables with patrons, two young couples, one older couple, and a couple who appeared, from behind, to be middle aged. They sat in the corner with their backs to Molly and Cole. Molly reached for Cole’s hand across the table, trying to mend the widening abyss between them. Cole withdrew his hand.

Molly blinked back tears and gazed out the window, inadvertently listening to the couple that sat nearby. Their voices were hushed whispers. “I don’t know what to do. I think someone has been there,” the woman said. “Oh no, I’m sure not,” said the man. “It’s just been so long, you know?” she paused. “How long can I do this?”

“As long as you have to,” the man replied. “If you come out now, can you imagine the terror it would bring to the community, the distrust?”

Molly recognized the voices and chided herself for listening. At that point, she couldn’t help it, she was drawn into their conversation, listening for the sake of curiosity.

“You did what you felt like you had to do. People will be angry, maybe try to railroad you. Send you to jail even,” Newton whispered adamantly.

“Look what I’ve put the kid through.” Pastor Lett sounded beaten down.

Molly looked over, her heart speeding up.

“I’ve put that kid in a prison and for what? Somehow, what started to be about the kid, ended up really just about me. I’m so selfish.”

Molly was riveted by their conversation. Cole looked at his menu, unaware of her fixation. He reached across the table and grabbed Molly’s hand. The relief she felt was overshadowed by her curiosity. “And look what I’ve put you through,” Pastor Lett said. Molly suddenly felt like a voyeur. She pulled her hand away from Cole’s, who looked up, surprised. “What?” Cole asked.

Molly hid behind her menu. She tilted it sideways and looked into Cole’s eyes. “Shhh,” she whispered, motioning with a finger in front of her lips. She pointed behind him and mouthed, Don’t let them see you.

Cole angled his body to the side, crossing his legs and stretching. He recognized them instantly, spinning back and leaning over the table toward Molly. “Pastor Lett and Newton—so what?”

“Oh my God! So,” she whispered frantically, “they’re talking about something awful that Pastor Lett did, about a kid kept in a prison!” She lifted her finger to her lips again. “Damn it, Molly. Let it go,” he seethed. The waitress brought Pastor Lett her check. She reached for it and handed the check and a credit card back to the waitress. Cole and Molly sat in silence.

They stood to leave, and Molly quickly pulled her menu in front of her face again. Cole tried, but failed to mimic her speed—Newton’s eyes met his. Newton anxiously wrung his fingers, looking from Molly to Cole, then down at the ground, then at them again.

“Well, Molly, Cole,” Newton’s eyes shifted toward Pastor Lett, then back at Molly. “How are you?” he asked in a shaky voice.

Molly stretched a sleepy arm underneath her pillow, reassured by the feel of the necklace and candy wrapper. She wondered why they hadn’t brought her more information, more visions. She turned toward Cole, who was sleeping soundly, and snuggled next to him, but her mind was already too alert, making it impossible for her to sleep. She moved gently off the bed and padded downstairs, dogs in tow.

“Okay, guys,” she said quietly to the dogs, “but I warn you, it’s cold out there.” She opened the door and let them run out. Seconds later, Stealth was scratching to come back in. “What did I tell you?” she smirked and let Stealth back inside. Molly filled a glass with water and took it to the family room, where she curled up under a blanket and clicked on the television, catching the tail end of a local news clip about Tracey Porter. The reporter stated that they were looking to the community for answers. Molly fought the urge to call the police and recommend that they question Pastor Lett and Newton Carr.

Molly jumped when the phone rang. She answered it tentatively, “Hello?”

“Mom, it’s me,” Erik’s voice was wrought with purpose. Before Molly could ask, he said, “Don’t worry, everything’s fine. I just need to talk to you.” “Okay, okay, slow down. What is it?” “I saw that little girl on TV tonight—you know, Tracey.” “Yeah, me too,” Molly said, relieved that he was okay. “Mom, she’s alive. I know she’s alive. I can feel it. Can you feel it?” he asked, hopefully. “I do think she’s alive, Erik. I’m just stuck on where to find her.”

“Mom, every time I think of her, I see this guy. He’s big, like Dad,” he paused, and Molly knew he was pacing the floor, just as his father did when he was on the phone. “I don’t know who he is, but I know he’s big. Who could it be?”

“I don’t know, honey. I’m trying to figure that out, too.” She thought about telling him about Pastor Lett and Newton, then quickly reconsidered. She didn’t want to taint his feelings against them in case her suspicions were wrong. “I found her necklace, I think. It’s a gold chain—”

“With a heart—I know,” Erik said.

“How did you know? Did Dad tell you?”

Erik’s voice was hesitant, “No, Mom, I just knew.” He quickly grew angry. “I hate this. I really hate it. I can’t put it away or turn it off. Something just happens. It’s like seeing Hannah in the woods. Mom, how do you ever know what it all means?”

Molly heard the fear in his voice and wanted nothing more than to wrap her arms around him, engulf him with love and safety, and somehow protect him from the infiltration and pain of the Knowing. “I don’t,” she admitted, sadly. “I hate it too. I can only believe that we’re given this information to save her.” Molly paused. “Do you see anything else? Do you feel anything else?”

“Yeah, she’s scared sometimes, terrified. I know that. Sometimes I’m sitting in my classes, and this fear comes over me, and when I try to figure out what I’m afraid of, all I see is darkness.”

“Oh, Erik.”

“Sometimes I see candles, and once…once I saw that big man with his hands stretched up, like he was…I don’t know, reaching for something? It looked like he was reaching for the sky, but I know that sounds stupid.”

“I saw that too, Erik. Can you see anything else, like where she is?” Molly asked.

“Not really. Sometimes, I see an old creepy house, and sometimes I see just darkness, like she’s in a hole or something. I can just sort of feel that she’s there, but not really see her,” he paused. Molly could tell that he wanted to say more.

“What is it, Erik?”

“Once…once I saw Tracey outside.” His voice grew quieter, “I just don’t know where outside, and that’s killing me, but I saw her, and it was like I was seeing out of her eyes or something. It scared the shit out of me. I was in the woods, with one of my lab partners looking for samples, and suddenly it was like I was her. I can’t explain it. God! This is so frustrating!” Molly heard him swear under his breath, then return to the phone. “I saw woods, thickets—like the ones where Dad and I used to hunt?”

Erik became silent. Molly grasped the phone tight against her ear. Knowing that Erik would be powerless to walk away from the visions pained her.

“I don’t know what it means. I wish I could take it away. When you were little, I could blow on your scrapes and you thought I was magical, the pain would blow away with my breath, but, well, you know. I’m not magical. It kinda sucks. I’m powerless, and I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay, Ma. I guess it’s kinda cool, too. Maybe one day I’ll see some really hot girl as she gets undressed. That would be worth it!” he laughed.

“Ha ha, Erik, I wouldn’t hold your breath on that one,” Molly said, smiling. “Listen, you get some sleep. Maybe together we can solve this thing.”

“Okay, Ma.”

“Erik, one more thing,” she said to him. “Are you pretty sure it’s a guy with her? Are you pretty clear on that? You don’t think it’s a lady that looks like Hannah?”

“I’m not sure, but I keep seeing this guy. It’s like I just know he’s reaching out to her, but he’s also kind of not there. Shit! I don’t know, Mom.” Erik drew a deep breath. “I don’t know about Hannah, either, because sometimes I have flashes of her sitting on a log, or someone that looks like her. Sometimes she’s in the dark. It’s just freaky, Mom. I don’t know.”

“Okay, honey, go get some sleep,” Molly said, “and Erik, I’m glad you called. I love you.”

“Love you more, Mom. G’night.”

Molly leaned back against the couch and pet Stealth, and then remembered Trigger was still outside. “Come on, boy,” Molly said to the dog, “let’s find Trigger.”

At Trigger’s name, Stealth was instantly alert, on his feet, and bounding to the door.

Molly opened the door. Stealth pushed past her and darted ouside. Molly stepped onto the back porch and looked up at the stars, which sparkled across the dark sky, beseeching her to reach up toward them, which she did. Suddenly, the heat of large palms, the same palms she had felt at the cellar door of the Perkinson House, weighed heavily against her own. Her body was frozen, arms outstretched toward the sky. Molly’s heart beat faster. The dogs ran toward her barking frantically. She squinted, sure there was a formidable being in front of her, sure of the pressure on her hands growing stronger, and just as sure that she was alone.

Twenty

Molly had been riding the current of emotions for days. Between the daily battles with Cole and the guilt that consumed her, the guilt she thought she’d dealt with years ago, she didn’t know what, or whom, she could trust anymore. She began doubting her own determination. Molly put on her jogging clothes, the familiarity of them felt like an old friend returning, giving her renewed energy. She once again buried her doubts and decided to focus on the day before her. She looked forward to a quick trip to the police station, and then a much-needed run. She parked in front of the Country Store and greeted the Boyds Boys as she entered the store for a Power Bar and a bottle of water. She found Edie bent over a group of boxes. “Hi, Edie. How are you?” she asked, tentatively. “Fine,” Edie said, curtly. “Did I offend you somehow, Edie?” she asked.

“Not you, Molly. It’s not you,” Edie stood. “I want to know where Kate Plummer is. Why Rodney have to get hurt? I just don’t understand.” Years of bottled up anger came tumbling forward. Edie looked as if she were on the verge of tears.

Molly reached out and touched her arm. “I don’t know,” she said.

“Why no police investigate? No body, no proof!” she demanded. “Where Tracey? Where that little girl?” Tears fell from Edie’s eyes.

“I’m just as baffled as you are, Edie,” Molly said.

Edie walked away. Molly swore she heard her say, “He knows,” when she brushed past her. The hair on the back of her neck prickled with a frisson. She walked hurriedly to the front of the store, paid for her items, and escaped. Molly hurried down the concrete steps toward her van. Harley yelled behind her, “Running today?” Molly held up her bottle of water in answer. “Molly?” Harley’s tone stopped her in her tracks. “Yeah?” she replied, distracted and miffed by the glare of the day before. “Careful poking a sleeping bear. I wouldn’t want you gettin’ hurt.”

Molly thought she could walk into the police station, hand over the necklace and candy wrapper, and turn around and leave—a five-minute trip. She was surprised at how wrong she felt when she walked through the door and found the same young officer manning the front desk. A spark of recognition passed between them. “Hello, ma’am, nice to see you again,” the officer smiled. “You, too,” she said, mildly embarrassed. “Is Officer Brown in today?” she asked. A voice boomed from behind her, “Just who would like to know?”

Molly turned around and looked into the round face of Officer Brown, his hands clasped atop his protruding belly. He smiled as if there were no ill feelings between them. Molly tried to smile, to cover the angst she felt at seeing him again.

“Officer Brown,” Molly reached into her backpack, protectively touching the treasures she’d tucked away, and thinking about Harley’s comment.

“What brings you here today?” he asked.

His shoes were dull, his brown pants wrinkled, almost as short as they were wide, and his jacket had a coffee stain on the front. Why, Molly wondered to herself, was she so worried about this unkempt man? She stood up straighter and decided that she would not be intimidated by him.

“I was wondering if we could talk for a minute,” she said, trying to summon her business voice from her Philadelphia days.

“Well, we surely can,” he said. He waddled in front of Molly and led her down the hallway towards the interrogation room. He winked as he passed her.

You wish, Molly thought, cringing inwardly.

Molly followed him, feeling oddly like a school girl walking to the principal’s office, unsure how to turn over the evidence without appearing guilty. Her mind wrestled with the pros and cons, but she could not bring back her resolve to give up those pieces of Tracey.

“After you, Mrs. Tanner,” Officer Brown held the door open.

“Thank you,” Molly said, clutching her backpack.

Molly sat on the same cold chair, in the same stale room, facing the same two-way mirror, and felt even more like a suspect. She reminded herself that she was there by choice—she could get up and leave if she wanted. She held the backpack in her lap, realizing that by not turning over the evidence, she was, in fact, a criminal. She rationalized in her mind that she could keep them for one more day—in case there were more messages to come, even though she knew that doing so would cause strife in her marriage. Her marriage—that was another thing Molly couldn’t worry about at the moment.

Officer Brown sat across from Molly, staring expectantly at her, his hands resting across his stomach.

“Mrs. Tanner?” he smiled. “Do you have something to tell me?”

Does he think I am here to confess? Molly was taken by surprise. “Excuse me?”

“I assume,” he adjusted his too large body in the too small seat, “that there is some reason you’re here.”

“Of course—sorry,” Molly said. “I was just wondering,” she paused, having difficulty concentrating. She glanced around the room and images came at her fast, stealing her concentration: An image of a mother crying, while her teenage son sat across the very same table, head in his hands, ashamed; an image of a large man, his veins bursting with anger, arrested after raping a young girl. They came at Molly with such power that it took her a moment to regroup, so long, in fact, that Officer Brown had asked her if she was alright.

“I’m sorry. I guess I’m a little sidetracked, Officer Brown,” Molly sat up straighter, scrambling to come up with a reason for her visit.

Officer Brown looked up at the ceiling, rubbing his chin with his left index finger and thumb. His neck jiggled with each movement. “Mrs. Tanner?” Molly jumped in her seat. “Is there something else, Mrs. Tanner?” he asked. Molly leaned her elbows on the table and leaned forward. “Officer Brown, no one was charged in Rodney’s murder, right?” He frowned, a little annoyed, “Right, yes. We’ve been over this before.” He straightened his back, looking at her more seriously. “But you never found Kate Plummer, either?”

“Right, right, Mrs. Tanner, where are you going with this? That case is over twenty years old. This case, the Tracey Porter case, has no relation. What is it that you want? I don’t have time to talk to every Tom, Dick, or…Molly,” he emphasized her name with sarcasm, “about closed cases.” He leaned forward until Molly could smell his stale breath, “Unless, of course, you are trying to get me to look the other way, look for others who might be involved.”

“Excuse me?” Molly pushed back from the table. “Officer Brown, you cannot possibly believe that I might be a suspect,” she said angrily. “That’s a load of horse shit and you know it!”

Officer Brown sat back slowly and looked at his stubby fingernails, “Maybe I do.” He looked up at Molly, who stood before him, incensed. “But what I can’t figure is why you’re tracking this case so closely, closer than the girl’s parents. What do you have to gain? Or maybe you know the abductor, and you want to keep tabs on the police?”

Molly could feel heat spread up her chest, her face reddening. “That’s ridiculous. I’m a mother! I have a son! I would never want harm to come to a child, much less protect someone who caused it!” The nightmares and the face of Amanda’s killer flashed in her mind, clear as day. She swallowed the pain of the truth—she had ignored those visions—and turned her back to Officer Brown, hiding the tears of anger that welled in her eyes, “You should be ashamed of yourself,” she seethed.

“Then tell me, Mrs. Tanner, what is your stake in this?” he asked sincerely.

“I…” Molly spun around, looked down, and suddenly decided to come clean. She looked him in the eye, “I know things.” She watched his eyes light up, as if she were going to confess. “No, not because I did them or am involved,” she began to pace. “I’m not the culprit, Officer Brown.” She stood before him, mustering the strength to tell him the truth, and hoping it would make a difference. “I have visions…visions that I don’t always understand. I’ve always had them.”

She recognized the look of disbelief in his eyes, the slack in his jaw. “I know what you’re thinking. Either this woman is crazy, or she’s in on it.” She leaned toward him. “I’m not crazy, and I’m not Rodney. I have flashes of things, which I know is just like what Pastor Lett said Rodney had, but I’m not guilty. My son has the same…gift…if you will.” She leaned back, and spoke honestly. “Only it isn’t a gift, it’s torture. I have seen flashes of this little girl in the dark, of a man reaching for the sky. I just can’t make sense of it all.” She looked at him, seeking any amount of belief, but was met with another blank stare.

“I know how crazy this all sounds. I’ve lived with it my whole damn life, but, Officer Brown, maybe it’s not crazy. Maybe we can pull together what I see with clues you and your team have. Maybe there is an end in sight. Maybe Tracey is still alive.” She was enthused by the thought.

“And maybe, Mrs. Tanner, you are guilty and trying to sideline us,” he said flatly. “I’m not going to arrest you. I have no proof, but,” he deepened his voice, “I will be watching you. I’m sorry, Mrs. Tanner, but this is too crazy. Most housewives,” he smirked, “have better things to do.”

Molly knew she should bite her tongue, but the urge to defend herself was too great, she could not stand being wrongly accused. Manipulatively, she reached across the table and grabbed Officer Brown’s hand. “Officer Brown,” Molly closed her eyes and focused her thoughts on the feel of his hand, the heaviness of it, the clammy texture of his skin. The answers she sought appeared gently, like a sneaky child putting a slip of paper into her pocket, then tiptoeing away. Molly smiled at her own cleverness. “I hope Charlie Cook was convicted because he did rape that child. Mrs. Jaden’s son did steal the principal’s laptop, but he was so regretful that I hope you let him off easy.” She opened her eyes and looked up at him, surprised that she was able to find those details with such ease. The room had become her ally, pulled her through the storm. Damn! Molly thought. If only I could harness that control for Tracey—or for Amanda! She could hear her mother’s sing-song voice, Be careful what you wish for, and could not figure out why she’d gone from a woman who had occasionally experienced a few indiscernible images, to a woman who was receiving multiple, detailed visions. Cole was right, she’d become like a dog with a bone, relentless.

“Excuse me?” he said, stealing his hand from hers.

“I don’t know, really. I saw it when I came into this room. I have no idea who those people are, or even if I have the names right, but when I walked into this room,” she motioned to the room, stood, and her voice grew louder, “when I walked in, these images came to me. I couldn’t make these things up. Why don’t you just go check, and we’ll see. Who knows, maybe I am crazy—but I have faith in my visions. I have to—for Tracey’s sake.”

“You’re crazy,” he made no effort to move.

“Officer Brown,” Molly tried to persuade him, “check it out—please. If I’m wrong, you can arrest me or send me away, and I’ll never bother you again—whatever you want. Just please,” she pleaded, “please! Rodney got killed over this. You can make things right. Just do this for me. It will only cost you a walk down the hall.”

He sighed and looked away, then back again. “Mrs. Tanner, you are really pushing me,” he said testily.

“I know,” she said, almost giddily. “If I don’t push you, I’m afraid Tracey might never be found. You need to look outside of the virtual box. Don’t you see? If you pigeon-hole me as a crazy nut, or as the culprit, when clearly I’m not, then you’re only hurting Tracey—Tracey, Officer Brown, not me.”

He reluctantly pushed his chair out from the table and stood. He looked her in the eye and pointed to the table, “Sit,” he commanded, “but if you’re wrong, I will have to take the next step.”

He left the room, and suddenly the air became less stifling. Molly took a deep breath and nervously curled her lips into a smile, hoping and praying that what she had seen was right. What-ifs sailed across her mind. What if there were no such cases? What if they do want to consider working with her? What if he finds out that she has the necklace? She leaned back and took a deep breath, staring unseeing at her reflection in the glass panel on the opposite side of the room.

Ten minutes later, which seemed more like an hour to Molly, Officer Brown entered the room looking clearly displeased. He stood next to the table, silently. Molly’s heart raced as she waited for him to speak. He looked over her, then shook his head. Molly’s heart sank. He walked around the table and sat across from Molly, crossed his arms, and said, “Mrs. Tanner. I don’t know what your game is.” He sighed heavily. “Those cases did indeed take place in this room. At least the questioning did—last week.”

Molly breathed hard, relieved.

“I have no idea how you have done this, but you have. I don’t know if I believe in your…visions...but—”

“Okay,” Molly’s voice shook, “but I didn’t take her. Can we work together? Can we try to figure these things out together?” She was excited about the prospect of actually having a plan, working with the police, with their resources.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “We have protocols, certain ways of doing things. We can’t just open up the investigation to anyone off the street.”

“I see,” Molly said, disappointed.

“Though I can’t advise you to impede our investigation, we do have a lead system set up.” He slid a business card across the table. “You can call this number at any time, anonymously or not, and tell the officer who answers what your thoughts are. Every lead is followed up.”

The great blow-off, Molly thought.

“Mrs. Tanner, I want you to clearly understand that this does not mean that you are off my radar screen. Like I said, I don’t know about all of this vision stuff. Also, what happened with Rodney Lett remains as it was. I do not doubt what the officers in charge did, or how they handled that investigation. If you claim to have visions, that reflects on your abilities, not his.” He waved his hand in dismissal. “I remain constant in my support for the investigation of Kate Plummer. The case is closed.”

Molly turned to leave, but when she reached the door, she put her hand on the doorknob and said, “I know she’s alive. I can feel it.”

Officer Brown rose from the table and looked evenly at Molly. “Mrs. Tanner, if you have a solid lead, something other than a vision,” he said the word sarcastically, “you can call me directly.” He handed her a business card.

Molly walked into the depressing hallway and swiftly came to the realization that she was once again on her own. A stocky, brown-haired man walked out of the neighboring office and leaned against the door, arms crossed, his eyes trained on Molly. Officer Brown appeared in the doorway and nodded at the other man. Molly hurried toward the exit, hearing Officer Brown’s hushed voice behind her, “Keep your eye on that one.”

Molly was anxious for her morning run and desperately needed to clear her head, but as she neared White Ground Road, she hesitated. After the morning she’d had, she wasn’t up to taking a chance on another vision hitting her. Instead, she parked along the road that crossed the lake. She focused on her upcoming run and vowed not to think about Officer Brown. She tied her van key to her shoelace, secured her iPod armband, and began to stretch.

The sun warmed her face as she ran across the bridge, heading toward the gated entrance to the Perkinson driveway. She tried not to look toward the house but couldn’t stop herself. Despite her firm resolve to ignore it, her feet carried her past the rusty black mailbox, around the metal gate, and up the overgrown driveway.

She reached the top of the hill quickly and scanned the yard. She veered into the woods, following a metal clanking sound that rang out from the rear of the house. Her heart jumped at the glimpse of someone disappearing around the far side of the house. Molly sprinted to the front of the house, Cole’s warnings whispered to her, chilling her bare arms. She ducked behind a bush just in time to see Hannah and Pastor Lett coming around the corner. Molly crouched as low as she was able, hoping the leaves beneath her wouldn’t give her away.

The house loomed behind them like a blind sentry, the windows boarded up like two eye patches. Hannah walked up the front steps and tried the door, touching the heavy metal lock, and turned back toward the front yard. Pastor Lett motioned to Hannah. Molly watched from the bushes. Crouching further down, a twig snapped beneath her feet. Hannah’s head snapped in Molly’s direction, and she moved toward her. Pastor Lett reached out and touched Hannah’s arm, saying something Molly could not hear. Molly closed her eyes, hoping she hadn’t been spotted. When she opened them, they were nowhere in sight.

After waiting in the bushes for what felt like hours, Molly snuck back down through the woods and decided to visit Pastor Lett and lay it all out on the table. She was going to get to the bottom of the situation one way or the other. Surely Pastor Lett would have a good explanation for the lights in the cellar. Molly trusted Pastor Lett, didn’t she? Yes, she decided, she did. She drove the short distance to the church and pulled into the empty parking lot. Newton’s minivan pulled in along side Molly’s car. Molly waved. Newton climbed out of the van, “Molly. How are you?” “Great, thanks. Just looking for Pastor Lett.” “She’s not coming in today.” Newton replied.

“Oh,” Molly looked perplexed. “I just saw her,” she caught her mistake, “earlier. I saw her earlier today. Just thought I might catch her here.”

A skinny, old black man walked out of the cemetery and toward Newton and Molly. His army jacket was zipped to his neckline, and he had a woolen hat pulled tight over his head, though the weather didn’t call for such warmth. He moved slowly past them, as if each step took great effort, and Molly cringed at the odor that followed. “Hello, ma’am. Mr. Carr,” the man said in a raspy voice. “Good day, Walter,” Newton said. Molly turned and watched him walking across the parking lot toward the road. His jeans dragged along the asphalt with each step. Newton whispered to her, “You know Walter?” Molly shook her head, guiltily feeling like a gossip.

“Walter Meeks. Seventy years he’s lived here. Thirty of it right off of Peachtree Road. He, um, he’s always kept to himself. Had a wife and child—a girl. Doesn’t drive, you know, afraid of cars.”

“Why?” Molly asked.

“Not really sure why, just is. Walked to and from work each day when he worked for the mines. Came home one day and his, uh, his house was burned to the ground.” “How awful.” “Some people thought it was arson, but they never figured it out. His wife left him right after that. Took the child with her.” “That poor man. He lost his house and his family?” Molly followed Newton as he walked toward the cemetery.

“She just up and disappeared. When the house burned down, they went to his aunt’s house for the night. In the morning, she and the girl were gone.” Newton was uncharacteristically forthcoming with Walter’s background. Molly paid full attention. “He was married to a white girl. Their daughter was, um, light skinned, too—dark hair, prettiest little thing.” He stopped walking, and stared into the cemetery, thinking. “If I recall, his house burned down in the late sixties, somewhere ’round there. A real shame. His wife was a loner, too. She was real sick.” Newton shook his head. “Her father passed away from an asbestos-related cancer, meso-something-or-other, and she was exposed as a little girl.” Newton put his hands in his pocket, then pulled them out again, fidgeting. “Said she could cure anything herself. Some said she was into voodoo, witchery, that type of thing. Not sure I believed it, though. Surely never saw any of it.” He looked at Molly and said, “Sorry. Too much information, I know.”

“And all this time I thought that he was just some old guy that never made anything of himself. Now I feel badly,” Molly said, always amazed at the font of information that was Newton Carr.

“Well, he wasn’t the brightest tool in the shed, that’s for sure, but he was dependable. Yes, ma’am, the mining company was really unhappy when he left. He worked for them for over twenty years. Had a big party for him, in fact, right in the field across from the gravel lot, behind that cornfield.” He pointed to a field on a hill behind the church.

They walked silently through the graveyard, and Molly realized that Newton knew far more than just the history of Boyds.

“You know about the quarry, right, Molly?” Newton asked, clearly changing the subject.

Molly was oddly relieved. “Well, I know there was a community battle to keep it out of Boyds, and that it ended when a local resident bought the property.”

The simplification of the story brought a smirk to Newton’s face. He asked Molly if she’d like to walk with him through the cemetery, where he was headed to check on the upkeep of the graves. She anxiously agreed. “That property there,” Newton pointed toward the fields, and then in the direction of the railroad tracks. “The mining company that was trying to put the quarry in? They used to own all this land. The tunnels were over there,” he pointed, again, to the fields. “Until, uh, Martin Chambers scooped it up.”

“Tunnels?”

“Well, there’s debate about if the tunnels ever really existed at all. Rumor has it they dug tunnels clear through Boyds as a means of trucking their gravel without causing problems on the roads. The roads, they were the big issue back then. I suppose they thought that if they alleviated that worry, then the residents wouldn’t mind them being here. Anyway, they owned seventeen or eighteen hundred acres. Come to think of it, I believe there’s an old abandoned mine shaft in the Black Hill Park area, too. That area used to be called Gold Mine Farm back when the Wicks owned it.”

“Chambers bought all eighteen hundred acres?” she asked.

“Yup, sure did. He put about eight hundred acres into conservation land right away—the Hoyles Mill Conservation Park and Trail? We have him to thank for that. He really saved Boyds, if you ask me. Yup, we’re mighty fortunate that someone like him would come to our little town and be willing to tie up so much capital to preserve the area.”

They walked along in silence, Newton bent down to pick up bits and pieces of debris along the way. They came upon a small grouping of graves. Newton pulled a few weeds and straightened flowers that had been left on the graves. He crouched over a pink headstone, which was unreadable, cracked, and weathered. He looked sad.

“This here is Colonel James A. Boyds’s grave. He was born in Ayrshire, Scotland, December 22, 1823. Died here in Boyds, December 21, 1886.”

Molly crouched down next to Newton and dragged her fingers across the gravestone’s dips and valleys. It was easy for Molly to envision Newton as a younger man, just back from his stint with the army, and wondering how else he might serve his country, his home town

He led Molly up a hill to another group of headstones and stooped by the grave of a child. He ran his hand over the headstone. The sun beat down on them. In the distance, a soft drone of cars from the nearby roads hummed. The headstone bore no name, only dates: 1979-1979.

He tilted his head toward Molly. “There’s no baby here, just a headstone, in memory of a dear friend of mine’s child. Didn’t live more than a few minutes.”

“I’m sorry, Newton.” Molly touched his shoulder, thinking of Amanda’s funeral, which she’d watched from her car across the street—the way Amanda’s mother’s shoulders had hunched and shaken from her sobs, Amanda’s little brother’s spindly arm hanging onto his mother’s dress, thumb in his mouth, and the tiny coffin, perched and ready to be lowered into the ground forever.

Newton turned, and Molly followed him further up the hill to the rear of the cemetery where the grave of Cathy Mall overflowed with photographs, trinkets, flowers, and stuffed animals. A metal frame cradled an eight-by-ten photo of Cathy, standing in that very spot, with her arms reaching toward the sun, or was she reaching for heaven? Newton told Molly that Cathy had been the founder of the preschool, and that when she was told her breast cancer was malignant, she had chosen that particular grave so she could watch over the children. He explained how Cathy had asked that her insurance money be used to build the playground behind Kerr Hall, a church-owned building that was built just behind the church. Molly wondered if children still played at the simple playground with the massive Adventure Park just five minutes away.

Molly’s heart ached for Cathy, wondering if Cathy somehow knew that Kate Plummer had disappeared from the very playground where her dreams for children had come true. The sadness closed in on Molly’s heart, creating a pressure in her chest. She closed her eyes, willing it away, and just as she realized it was not sadness, but the Knowing, she was met by a slow montage of images and smells: A lanky, dark-haired girl, wearing a flowing dress, walking into the cornfield, the stalks split before her, as if she had followed someone. Then she was gone. The powdery fresh smell of her lingered like smoke from a fire. Molly stared straight ahead, the images still playing before her eyes—children, oblivious to the girl’s disappearance, playing, smiling. Adults gathered in a group, talking, completely unaware. Molly had an urge to scream, to run toward the image she’d seen, and warn her, No! Don’t go! But she was rooted to the grassy hill, an onlooker to a past tragedy.

Tracey clutched the new clothes to her chest, her heart beat excitedly. She ran over and gave Mummy a big hug. “I love them!” she exclaimed. “Did you get yourself anything, Mummy?”

“Yup,” Mummy said, and she reached deep into her pockets, then splayed her hand out for Tracey to see.

“What are those for?” she asked, wondering why Mummy thought quarters were a fun gift.

“They’re for our other worship chamber—our deep chamber. We leave them as gifts, and God grants our wishes.” She put them in a pile on the makeshift shelf.

“Deep chamber?” Tracey asked, envisioning the bad spot and growing increasingly anxious.

“The one where my mummy is.” Mummy sat down on a log and reached for Tracey’s hand. “We’ll go there soon,” she said.

Tracey touched her necklace, the best gift of all. The charm rested comfortingly between her two collar bones. She ran her fingers over the chain and smiled. Mummy had told her that she had been such a brave girl, staying in their sleeping place all by herself, that she deserved it. She was going to be good, she’d decided. She would make Mummy proud of her. Mummy told her that it was time to thank God for the things they had. “Tracey,” she said, “remember when I told you that little girls sometimes get sick out in the big world?” “Yes,” Tracey looked up through the fringe of her hair.

“Well, sometimes little girls get sick, and they don’t know it. Sometimes they don’t know until they are too sick and ready to die.” She looked right into Tracey’s eyes and squeezed her hand.

“Why, Mummy? Why does that happen?” Tracey asked in a quivering voice, sure Mummy had been referring to her.

“I don’t know—no one knows—but that’s why we have to keep you away from all of the toxins that are out there. We never know just what will make you sick.” She patted Tracey’s hand with her free hand. Tracey leaned her body against Mummy, scared.

“Okay,” she said, relieved, and silently hoping that she wouldn’t get any of the bad toxins in her when they went outside to the bramble place.

“I’ll take care of you,” Mummy assured her.

“Okay,” Tracey whispered.

“C’mon, Tracey, let’s put on your church dress,” Mummy pulled the dress out of one of the green bags. Tracey was surprised, and happy, to see that it had been freshly washed.

“Do I have to change?” she asked in the least whiney voice that she could muster.

“Today we’re worshiping, and we need to show respect to God. Come on now. It will look pretty with your necklace.”

Tracey felt for the necklace and smiled at the now-familiar feel of it. She took the dress and went to the corner to change her clothes. She had gotten used to changing as quickly as she could, using her arms to cover up her body. She brought her arms across the front of the dress, walked to Mummy, and turned around. Mummy hummed as she zipped Tracey’s dress.

Mummy spoke as they left their room and headed toward the worship chamber, “That my heart may sing to you and not be silent. O Lord, my God, I will give you thanks forever.”

Tracey walked nervously with her arms wrapped tightly around her—the dirt walls intimidated her. She could see the worship chamber up ahead and was happy when Mummy sped up her pace.

Tracey stood quietly in the doorway while Mummy lit the candles. “Come now, Tracey,” she beckoned. “Let’s give thanks to the Lord for keeping us safe.” She patted the ground next to her as she knelt down.

The scratchy cold feeling of the dirt on Tracey’s knees made her sad. She didn’t want to get sick, but she was still a little scared to be underground. Mummy steepled her hands, and Tracey followed. Mummy didn’t have to tell Tracey to close her eyes, she knew the routine, closed her eyes, and listened to Mummy whispering.

“Hebrews 12:28. Therefore, since we are receiving a kingdom that cannot be shaken, let us be thankful, and so worship God acceptably with reverence and awe.”

Mummy rested her hand on Tracey’s thigh. Tracey recoiled, opened her eyes. Upon seeing a smile on Mummy’s face, she relaxed again and closed her eyes.

“Dear God, thank you for bringing me Tracey to take care of. She needed me. Thank you for allowing me to keep her safe, keep her healthy. She’s a wonderful girl, and I am thankful to have her as my family.”

The word “family” made Tracey bristle. She stifled the urge to cry. She had almost forgotten how much she missed her real family. How could she have done that, she wondered. Have Mommy and Daddy forgotten about me? What about Emma?

Mummy lifted her hand from Tracey’s thigh, “Tracey, honey, what’s wrong?”

Tracey didn’t realize that she had clenched her eyes shut. She opened them, and tears spilled onto her cheeks. She knew better than to cry in front of Mummy. She wiped her eyes and clenched them shut again.

Mummy took Tracey in her arms and held her quaking body, fresh tears landed on Mummy’s shoulder. Tracey tried to fight the tears, but she was powerless—she sobbed in Mummy’s arms. Mummy rocked her and hummed the same tune she had hummed earlier, a tune Tracey did not know.

“It’s okay, honey. You don’t want to get the sickness and die, too. You belong with me. You needed to be saved. ”

No, Tracey thought, I don’t want to die from the toxins! She didn’t know what they were, but she thought of them as little bugs that got under her skin and traveled through her body. She grabbed Mummy’s hand and held it tight.

Mummy whispered, one big hand on Tracey’s back, the other patting her hair, “God told me, Tracey. He told me, ‘Exodus 15:13. In your unfailing love you will lead the people you have redeemed. In your strength you will guide them to your holy dwelling,’” she said. “So you see Tracey, I was put here to find you and love you and keep you safe. This is our holy dwelling. Nothing can hurt you here.”

Safety, Tracey thought, safety from the toxins. She sniffled and pulled back from Mummy so she could see her face. She wanted to be kept safe. She wiped her nose on her arm and was overwhelmed with relief that she hadn’t gotten in trouble for crying.

Mummy smiled at Tracey. “I am safe. Look around us, there are no toxins here, nothing to hurt us or get into our bodies. We have each other. We have safety. We have the Lord.”

Tracey slipped off of her lap and positioned herself to pray. She whispered, “God, if you can hear me, thank you for saving me. I want to be healthy.” She spoke quickly. “Thank you for my necklace, too.” She reached for the necklace, and held the cool gold tightly in her fingers. Mummy opened her arms, and Tracey went to her, willingly, thankfully. In the back of Tracey’s mind, she wondered why her own mother hadn’t wanted to keep her safe from the toxins. She wondered if her own mother had really loved her at all.

Molly arrived home, let the dogs out, and went straight to her office to review the notes, drawings, and other clues that she had compiled. A stream of sunlight illuminated her desk, highlighting the drawings in her notebook. She wrote a list of each item in her notebook, and tried to decipher the clues. Her cell phone rang three times before she reached for it, and was met by a deep, unfamiliar voice.

“Mrs. Tanner?”

“Yes?”

“This is Sergeant Moeler from the Germantown Police Department. Officer Brown asked me to follow up on a few leads that you might have regarding the disappearance of Tracey Porter.” “Okay,” Molly replied, curiously. They agreed to meet that afternoon. Molly confirmed her address and then picked up the phone to call Cole. “Hey, you!” she said, happy to hear his voice. “How was your run?” he asked. “Okay. I ran into Newton, and we talked for a while.” “Did you go to the police station?” he asked. “Yes,” she said. “Did you give them the necklace and the candy wrapper?” Molly was silent, fiddling with her pen, trying to figure out how to answer without lying. “Molly? Did you give them the stuff you found?” he repeated more sternly. “I went there,” she said coyly.

“Mol, I thought we agreed that the best thing to do was turn that stuff in. You can get in so much trouble!” His voice sounded flat-out angry.

“Well, I went there with every intention of turning it in!” she insisted.

“Mm-hm.”

“I did! I was going to, and then when I got there, Officer Brown was…I don’t know…annoying me, and I got to thinking—what if I gave them the stuff, and they just filed it away? You know how they let cases just die out? And then I thought, well, maybe there’s more that I’m supposed to know—to gain—from the necklace and wrapper. Maybe I just haven’t looked hard enough yet.”

“Give it in, Molly. This is no time for bullshit. This is real trouble. You’re withholding evidence!” Molly waited to hear if his voice would soften. It didn’t. “Molly, what do you think will happen when they find out? They’ll go, ‘Oh, it’s Molly Tanner, no problem, we’ll overlook it!’”

“No!” she protested. “But…I just thought that a few more days wouldn’t hurt. Maybe I’ll track her down today, maybe tomorrow. Who knows? But something didn’t feel right,” Molly paced her office. “It felt like a betrayal to give it to them. They aren’t even doing anything to find her!” she said too loudly.

“Do what you want, Molly, but just think of Erik and me, okay?” Cole asked, his every word biting. “What will we do while you sit in jail wondering how you could have been so stupid?”

Molly’s bravado deflated. She knew he was right, to an extent. “Cole, they don’t know I have it. They could never know how long I’ve had it!” she pleaded. “When I turn it in, I’ll say that I just found it. Besides,” she took a deep breath, and mumbled, “the fingerprints would be gone now anyway.”

“What?”

“The fingerprints,” she raised her voice. “They’d be gone now anyway! I’ve touched it! It’s been in my bag! I screwed that up!” The admission weighed heavily on her. She had screwed up—again.

“Great!” he fell silent.

The silence was worse than when he had been yelling at her. Molly closed her eyes tightly, her tentative voice sliced through the silence, “I think I saw Kate Plummer disappear today.”

“Tell me,” he said flatly.

Molly told him the details of the vision, which he promptly told her was probably transference—that she had taken the details that she already knew, coupled with the guilt that she still carried for Amanda’s death, and that her mind had run with them.

Molly rolled her eyes, Always the fact man.

“I saw her dress. If I could find out what she was wearing when she disappeared, that would tell me if it was her or not,” she retorted.

“And how does that help find Tracey?” he snapped.

“I don’t know!” she said, exasperated. “Look, I’ve got to go. The police are sending someone over. I’ll call you later.” She hung up the phone before the tension could grow any thicker. She stared at the phone, wondering how she’d ever be able to repair the damage that she was creating in her marriage and knowing she wouldn’t let another child’s life end if she could help it.

Molly pushed aside her frustrations with Cole, and mentally raced through her to-do list:

1. Look up Kate’s clothes when missing.

2. Who was in the cellar?

3. Call Hannah.

Molly turned on her computer, and, while it booted up, she walked into the kitchen to get a glass of water. She leaned against the sink and looked outside where Stealth and Trigger sat by the back door. She let them inside, and Stealth pushed his body against her leg as he walked by. The comforts of home settled around her, making her feel sad for Tracey, for Kate, and for Amanda. Their safety had been abruptly stolen away from them.

The phone rang, and Molly immediately hoped it wasn’t Cole, then hated herself for the thought. Reluctantly, she reached for it, cursing herself for choosing a decorative phone instead of one with caller I.D. “Hello?” “Molly Tanner?” The voice sounded like a teenage girl’s. “Yes? Who is this?” “Someone wants you to know there’s a guy who can tell you what happened to Kate Plummer.” Molly’s heartbeat quickened. “Who is this?” she asked anxiously. “What guy?” “I don’t know,” the girl was irritated, rushed. “I just know that I’m supposed to tell you that, like, you have to find the guy.” “Where? Where do I find this guy? Who are you?” Molly pleaded desperately.

“She paid me to tell you this,” she said in an annoyed, exasperated teenage fashion. “I don’t know where to find the guy. I don’t know anything about this,” the girl spat her answers. “She said, like, he would know about Tracey, too.” “Who paid you? I’ll pay you twice as much to tell me who paid you!” Molly said eagerly. “No, I can’t. I want no part of this. I…I have to go—” “Wait!” Molly yelled. “Just tell me who told you to call.”

The caller covered the phone. Molly heard muffled voices. When the caller returned to the phone, she asked, “Who is Kate Plummer?”

Molly sighed, deflated. The girl was merely a pigeon—a messenger. “Who paid you? Please tell me!” she pleaded. “A child’s life is at stake.”

“What?” Molly heard fear in the girl’s shaky, unsure voice.

“A child has been abducted—Tracey Porter. If you know anything, please, please tell me. This is life or death!”

“Jesus, I’ve heard about that girl,” she said. “I saw her on the Missing Children flyer that came home from school. Fuck! I don’t want no part of this!”

“Wait! Who told you to call me?” Molly begged. “She may be involved. I may be able to save the girl! I’ll pay you! I’ll do anything you want!”

“Shit! Fuck this shit!” The girl yelled distantly, as if holding the phone at arm’s length. She pulled the receiver close again, “I don’t know, alright!” she yelled. “Some woman! That’s all I know!”

Molly’s heart sank with the resounding click. She yelled, “Goddamn it! Give me a fucking break!” Molly stared at the phone as if it were evil, “Goddamn you! Help me find her! This is goddamn bull shit!”

For the next hour, Molly played the phone conversation over and over in her mind, like a bad rerun. She had tried to use *69 to trace the call, to no avail. She had called the operator only to be told that they didn’t offer a tracing service—she’d have to go to the police. When the doorbell rang, the dogs went crazy, barking and jumping up at the front door. Molly was frustrated. She tried to ignore the door, hoping the person would just go away.

There was another hard rap at the door, “Mrs. Tanner?” a deep voice boomed through the door. “It’s me, Sergeant Moeler.”

“Just a minute!” she called out, remembering their appointment and trying to decide if she should mention the phone call, knowing they’d tap her phone if she did. Undecided and flustered, she answered the door.

The stocky man she had seen when leaving the interrogation room stood before her looking serious, then quickly smiled, revealing large, square, white teeth. Stealth and Trigger’s tails wagged excitedly next to Molly.

“Heel!” she commanded, and they obediently came to her side. She managed a smile, “Hello, Sergeant, thanks for coming.”

“Sorry I’m early, ma’am. I had a break so I decided to head over.” His face was warm and his blue eyes friendly. His neatly-combed brown hair and ironed uniform gave him a youthful look. He extended his hand to Molly, and Molly shook it, pensively.

She stepped aside. “Come in. They bark but don’t bite unless they hear the secret command,” she smiled.

They sat in the living room, and he pet Stealth and made playful sounds toward Trigger. Molly was confused by the relaxed man who sat before her. His personality in stark contrast to the stern look he’d given her in the hallway at the police station. “They think anyone is fair game,” Molly attempted small talk. “I love animals. I have a Great Dane and a Pomeranian.” Molly lifted her eyebrows.

“I know, strange mix,” he said. “The Dane was mine, and the Pomeranian belonged to a victim. I just couldn’t let it go to the shelter. Anyway, they’re best buds now. Rex, my Dane, thinks Tippy is her puppy. She’s very protective. Cutest thing when they’re curled up together.” Molly was surprised by his open and bright demeanor. In a more serious tone, he said, “So tell me about these leads.” She was no longer on edge from the phone call, relieved to hand over the worries of the day to someone else for a while.

Molly started to explain about the notes she had received, and Sergeant Moeler cut her off. “I’m interested in the notes, but quite frankly, Mrs. Tanner—” “Molly.” He nodded, “Molly. Mike,” he smiled again. “You were dead-on in the interrogation room.” “But how—” Molly shook her head, then it dawned on her. “Two-way mirror?” He shrugged. “So Officer Brown sent you over because he thinks I’m crazy? Or party to the crime?” Molly turned away angrily.

“No,” Sergeant Moeler said, then corrected himself, “maybe, but that’s not my intent. I came because I’m curious. How did you know about the interrogations?”

Molly stewed in her growing anger. “If you’d like to talk about the anonymous notes I’ve been getting and how they might lead to Tracey, that’s fine, but I’m not going to discuss my visions anymore. I’m not a circus freak. I seriously wanted to help, but I can see that no one at the police station takes me seriously.” She stood, as if ready to walk him to the door.

He didn’t move.

She put her hand on her hip, “Sergeant Moeler, I don’t know what you expect to find out about me.”

He stood, his body relaxed next to Molly’s tension-ridden self. He spoke easily, “Molly, I’m not trying to cast you as a circus freak, and I’m sorry if you felt that way. I’m not curious out of voyeurism. I’m curious because we never know what lead will take us to find the missing girl.”

Molly questioned his motives, staring silently.

He handed her a business card, “Look, here’s my number. When you’re ready to talk, I’ll listen,” he paused. “Do you want to show me those notes?”

Warily, Molly acquiesced. When she returned with the notes, she asked, skeptically, but with a sense of hope, “So what do we do now?”

“We do nothing. I have to hand this over to the officer in charge.” Sergeant Moeler gathered the notes and stood to leave.

“Officer Brown?”

“Do you have a problem with Officer Brown?” he asked, one eyebrow raised.

“Well,” she hesitated, ran her fingers along the desk as she looked in the distance, “not a problem, really. It’s just that…well, let’s just say that I’m not sure he is really going to take me seriously, and I don’t see him as a go-getter. I get the idea he’s more of a sit-and-let’s-see-what-happens type of guy.”

Sergeant Moeler laughed, a quiet, confirmatory laugh. “Well, at least you read people well, but there’s more to him than you see. I’ve worked with him for three years, and it never fails to amaze me how it appears he’s doing nothing all day, and then he solves cases,” he snapped his fingers, “just like that. I don’t have a choice, Molly. I have to give him the information. He’ll delegate it, probably, and I’ll try and stay on top of it.”

Molly fell onto her living room couch, propped up her feet, and questioned her motive for not revealing the phone call, which seemed to have slipped her mind the minute Sergeant Moeler had walked into the house. The dogs panted in Molly’s face. She shooed them away. Reluctantly, they sulked to the other side of the room and lay down.

Just as she began to relax, her cell phone rang. She debated letting it go to voicemail and begrudgingly pushed herself off of the couch to retrieve her phone; Hannah Slate flashed on the screen. “Hello?” she could not hide her irritation. “Molly!” Hannah’s voice was overly enthusiastic. “Hannah, hi, how are you?” Molly faked levity.

“I’m just fine, thanks,” she said. “I was just going out for a walk and thought you might enjoy coming with me. I was so sorry to have missed you yesterday.”

Molly’s first inclination was to decline, but then she reconsidered.

“Hannah, I hope you know where we’re going,” Molly said, “because I’m totally lost.”

“Of course I do,” Hannah laughed. “Did you think I’d bring you out in the woods and leave you here to find your way out?”

When she paused after her strange statement, Molly knew a moment of nervous fear—half wishing she had left a trail of crumbs like Hansel and Gretel.

“Come on, Molly,” she tugged on Molly’s sleeve. “I’ve been in and out of these woods for over thirty years. We’re nearing Schaeffer Road by now, I would say.”

“How the heck did we get there without crossing White Ground?” Molly asked, perplexed.

“We did cross it, at the other end of the stream. You were just too busy to notice,” Hannah stopped to rest.

Molly set her backpack on the ground and crouched next to a stream that snaked through the woods.

“This is one of my favorite places,” Hannah said. “Come here a minute. I want to show you something.” She walked up the slight incline, looking carefully at all of the large trees.

Molly watched Hannah from behind, her ponytail swayed with each step, her body tall and strong. Hannah splayed her hands on a large beech tree, gazed upward. “Look here,” Hannah beckoned Molly to come forward. Molly looked at the tree curiously. Hannah pulled Molly gently to the spot where she had been standing. “Now do you see it?” “I see something,” Molly squinted.

Hannah’s voice grew quiet, and her eyes, introspective. “That, my friend, is a heart that I carved into this tree when I first arrived in Boyds.”

Molly looked at the bark, where it had curled back from the grooves. “Your and Charlie’s initials?”

“No. What’s inside that heart is sacred—but it’s not me and Charlie. Some people aren’t meant to be remembered.”

They crossed another section of road. Molly recognized the one-lane bridge, so small it almost didn’t exist, and the creek bed that grew slender as it passed under the bridge, then widened just beyond. The bridge linked White Ground and Schaeffer Roads. They climbed the grassy bank and headed back into the seclusion of the woods. The roar of several small motors broke into the silence.

Hannah crinkled her nose and looked up toward the sky, “The model airpark. The bane of my existence.”

“Boyds has an airpark?” Molly was intrigued.

“You’re right next to it, Molly.” Hannah blocked the sun with her right hand, and pointed with her left beyond the bushes. “They have limited times that they can run the planes, but when they do, they sure are noisy.”

Molly had a nagging feeling that she should have known about the airpark.

They turned away and continued on their hike, eventually reaching the Schaeffer Farm Trail, another place Molly had never seen. “This is beautiful,” she said. “I love Boyds.”

“There’s a reason I’m still here, you know,” Hannah said.

Molly listened intently, hoping for what? A confession? Hannah was her friend. She didn’t want Hannah to be guilty of anything, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that Hannah was hiding something.

They talked about Tracey’s disappearance and how similar it was to Kate’s. They shared their sadness for Pastor Lett’s loss of her brother, and Molly asked Hannah if she’d thought Rodney had been involved.

“Don’t be silly. I knew Rodney fairly well. He was kind and gentle, like Carla. I still don’t know what possessed the police to drag him in for questioning. Just like that, they were the catalyst for his murder.” As she spoke, her voice became agitated.

“What do you think happened to Kate?” Molly asked.

“I don’t know. Some people say she was taken by someone from out of town. Others say she’s holed up somewhere with a child molester. If she is alive, I just hope she’s okay.” She looked beyond Molly and grew silent. “Shhh, listen,” Hannah whispered.

Molly listened. Shouts and children’s laughter carried almost inaudibly through the air. The sun, high in the sky, had long ago tipped over the noon time ridge.

“The Adventure Park,” Hannah said in an annoyed, sharp voice, and pointed beyond Molly. “It’s right over there. I was not pleased when they put the park in. It ruined a perfect setting.”

They continued in the direction of the Adventure Park, and eventually Molly came to recognize where they were. Hannah walked right over to where Molly had seen her crouched down on the day of the search—to the hot spot. Hannah knelt and patted the ground. Molly watched, stunned. The look on Hannah’s face baffled Molly—she looked as if she might cry. Guilt? Molly pretended not to notice, unsure of how, or if, she should approach her.

Hannah closed her eyes. Molly turned away, thinking of her biggest regret, the secret she’d kept.

Hannah stood and walked back the way they’d come, leaving Molly to stare at her back, bewildered.

Pastor Lett took the keys from around her neck and methodically unlocked the back door, first the padlock, then the deadbolt, and finally, the scratched and rusty doorknob itself. The heavy oak door creaked open, releasing a rush of frigid, stale air. Pastor Lett drew her coat tightly across her chest and stepped onto the worn, wooden floors. Her footsteps echoed in the sparsely-furnished house, giving it an aura of hollowness.

She ran her fingers along the cracked plaster walls, her mind hovering anxiously between relief and panic. Her fear of exposure grew worse with every passing day. She felt her time with the kid was coming to an end and feared not for what that would mean for her, but for the kid, for Newton, and for Hannah. She moved slowly, trancelike, through the kitchen and into the musty living room. At the bottom of the wide staircase, she knelt down, as if guided there by an unseen will. She clasped her hands over her knee, bent her head, and just before she closed her eyes, she caught a glimpse of the family portrait that hung on the wall next to the staircase.

“Please, Lord, do not take this kid from me.” She prayed with such devotion that she believed God could not ignore her, unless He did so willfully. “Please do not expose our sins to the world around us. Keep this introduction silent and let us continue to find our way together, as we’ve done for so long.” Shamefully, she continued, “I realize, Lord, that this is selfish, but it is for the best. Please forgive me for what I have done, for how I have done it.”

She opened her eyes and raised her head, her gaze settling first to the windows next to the stairs, and then higher, to the top of the stairs, where looking down upon her was a woman and a young girl—an apparition. She wiped her eyes, certain she had not seen what she thought she had. She staggered to her feet, her breath caught in her throat. At the top of the stairs, stood Mrs. Perkinson, whom she recognized from the portrait, and a young girl. The figures were transparent, yet discernable. The woman’s eyes locked with Pastor Lett’s, her floor-length dress and light apron, tied around her waist, moved as she beckoned her with her arms—motioning her to come forward. Pastor Lett’s legs felt like lead as she moved toward the stairs. She lifted her foot to the first riser, certain her legs would fail her, and yet they carried her up the long staircase. The little girl clung to her mother’s leg, peering out from behind. Pastor Lett stood three steps from the landing, holding onto the railing, her eyes wide, disbelieving. The woman turned and walked down the hall, toward the far bedroom. The little girl held her hand, looking over her shoulder once, then forward again. Pastor Lett forced herself to continue up the risers, and finally, onto the landing. She watched the tail of the woman’s dress disappear into the bedroom. The silence pressed in on her. She made her way slowly down the hallway, telling herself that what she had seen was not real—that she was exhausted. She forced the lessons that she had been taught, that the spirit lived beyond the heavenly body, to the back of her mind. She stood at the entrance to the bedroom and pushed the heavy wood door all the way open. It creaked and knocked against the wall, startling her. In the center of the room, the little ghostly girl played with a wooden dollhouse, a dollhouse that Pastor Lett had seen many times—an exact replica of the Perkinson House. The figures in the house were set up in various rooms of the tiny diorama. The girl moved them with her transparent fingers. The tiny mother figurine stood in the kitchen, next to a miniaturized stove. The father figure was placed in the study, surrounded by a desk and shelves that were perfectly scaled. The inhabited rooms were on the middle floor of the dollhouse. The top floor of the dollhouse had four rooms, each one equipped with a miniature-sized bed and nightstand, a small figurine of a girl lay on a bed in the center of one of the bedrooms. The first floor of the dollhouse had indistinguishable rooms, just bare open spaces. The last figurine, a boy, was placed in the open space of the first floor, next to a plastic candle. Pastor Lett took those images in quickly; mere seconds had passed.

The little girl looked up at her and smiled. Pastor Lett blanched, she could barely breathe.

The girl mouthed, “Thank you.”

Pastor Lett blinked rapidly and swept her eyes toward a movement at the far end of the room. Mrs. Perkinson stood in front of the boarded-up window. Each board appeared to be an oddly integral part of her body. Her hands were clasped in front of her. She nodded, as if in slow motion. A sudden chill whisked through the room, and the woman and child faded away. Pastor Lett remained still, only the ends of her hair moved with the sudden gust of air. Just as suddenly, the chill was gone, swallowed by the walls.

Twenty One

Molly pulled into her driveway to find Steve Moore, the roofing contractor that Cole had hired a few weeks before, sitting in his truck in front of her house. Molly parked her car and walked to the driver’s side door. Steve leaned over his clipboard, cell phone pressed tightly against his ear. He held up one finger to Molly. Molly sifted through her memory trying to recall if Cole had mentioned that he’d forgotten to pay him. A moment later, Steve rolled down his window. Even his large truck seemed too small for his six-foot-five frame. He smiled, a kind, open smile that held no pretense or hidden agenda, simply a welcome greeting. “Sorry, Molly,” he said. “Cell phones: you gotta love ’em, you gotta hate ’em.” He waved his phone in his enormous hand. Molly smiled, “What’s up, Steve?” “I came by the other day to check on a leak. I just wanted to make sure that everything was okay, that there were no issues.”

Molly told him that they hadn’t had any other leaks and that she appreciated his stopping by. On a whim, she turned back and asked, “Steve, do you know anything about the Perkinson family or their house? The one near the lake?”

“Sure, I’ve worked around here for so many years that there ain’t much I don’t know. Which is good and bad if you get my drift,” he cracked a wicked little smile. “What do you want to know?” “I don’t really know. I just have a funny feeling about the house, that’s all.” “It used to be a hotel, and I’ve heard that it has ghosts, too.” He started the engine of his truck. “What do you know about the ghosts?” Molly asked excitedly.

He laughed. “Well, I don’t know them personally, if that’s what you mean. I’ve heard rumors of old Mr. Perkinson walkin’ ’round the house, on the grounds, and of the late Mrs. Perkinson sittin’ in a rockin’ chair, knittin’.”

“Really?”

“Well, there were a few stories that went around for a while, but I doubt they were true. Oh, you know how these things go, everything from Lizzie Borden to the Amityville Horror.”

Molly looked intrigued.

“I’m not sayin’ that it ain’t true, I’m just sayin’ that I’ve heard about a daughter who didn’t really exist, and a son that was born when they were really old, but I ain’t never seen no proof.” He looked away, guffawed, “Stories, they grow like trees around here.”

“Well, you never know what happened back then.”

“You know Newton Carr? He never lets things go undocumented,” he rolled his eyes. “He s’posably asked old Chet Perkinson, you know, to validate the facts? Anyway, according to Newton, old Chet Perkinson ain’t as with it as he used to be. Said the child was never born. So who knows where these stories come from.

“One thing I do know,” his voice grew quiet, “they all died in that house, one by one. They didn’t believe in no hospitals. It’s a wonder old Chet left.” Steve paused, then cheerily said, “Speaking of hospitals, I guess you know about the big indoor yard sale up at the private school to benefit Children’s Hospital. It’s been going on all week. I went up a couple nights ago.”

Damn! Molly had forgotten all about it. “How was it?”

“It was great. I saw Newton there. He was picking up a bunch of kids’ stuff, probably for his grandkids, pants, shirts, dresses—even bought toys.”

Molly recalled the photo of Newton’s grandchildren in his living room: two boys, about ten and twelve years old.

Molly made her way inside, lavishing the dogs with soft strokes and kind words before opening the door and letting them romp outside. She thought about Steve’s mention of ghosts at the Perkinson House, and wondered if she were chasing a ghost, chasing Amanda’s memory. Maybe Cole’s right, she thought. Maybe I am trying to right my wrong. Frustrated, she buried her face in her hands, It wasn’t my fault! she thought, then she stood up straight and said, “I can’t think about this right now.” She leaned against the counter looking for a distraction—anything to take her mind off of Amanda. The blinking light on the answering machine fulfilled her wish.

“Hi, Ma, it’s me,” Molly smiled at his need to announce himself—as if she wouldn’t recognize his voice after listening to it for eighteen years. “Did you find the guy yet? Call me. Oh, and Ma, can you put twenty bucks in my account? I’m a little low. Thanks. Love you. Bye.” Molly’s finger hovered over the delete button, then she quickly pulled away. She knew she was ridiculous, but she always liked to have his voice nearby. Before checking the next message, she pulled out her cell phone and texted Erik, Got ur msg. Dating money? She knew the message would cause an eye roll from him. A moment later her cell vibrated with a reply, Haha. She smugly resumed checking messages.

The second message was a hang up, and the third was from Officer Brown. “Mrs. Tanner, this is Officer Brown with the Germantown Police Department,” his tone was professional, distant. “Just wanted to make sure Sergeant Moeler came by today. Please let me know if he has not yet contacted you.”

The message gave Molly pause. Officer Moeler had left hours ago and said he would have to provide the information to Officer Brown for direction. Molly retrieved his card and quickly punched in his phone number—she was redirected to his voice mail.

“Sergeant Moeler—hi,” she paced the kitchen nervously. She was not known for her patience, and that trait had caused her trouble in the past. She knew if Cole were there he’d caution her against bothering Sergeant Moeler—but Cole wasn’t there. “This is Molly Tanner. You were here this morning to get some information on leads? I just received a message from Officer Brown wondering if you were here yet. So…I’m just wondering what’s happening with the notes I gave you. Thanks. I can be reached on my cell. Bye.” She hung up the phone and pressed her lips between her teeth, hoping that he wouldn’t think she was the nagging type. Her mind shifted, worrying that maybe he was one of those people who said all of the right things but tended to drag their heels unless someone was sitting on them every second. She let out a long, loud breath, “No, Molly, he isn’t like that,” she said out loud, mocking herself. She grabbed an iced tea from the refrigerator and headed to her computer.

Molly didn’t have long to ponder the comfort of her chair before she received a near-frantic phone call from Erik. He wanted to know if she had found the guy that he had told her about.

“No, not yet,” Molly answered, “but I’m working on it.”

“Mom, you have to find him! Soon!”

“I know. I’m trying.” Erik’s rising anxiety worried her. “What’s going on Erik? Why are you so worried?”

“I just have an awful feeling, like, like…we’re going to lose her, the little girl. You need to find this guy. I can almost feel her slipping away, like...like…hell, like when I was little and I had that box kite at the Cape, remember? And the string slipped through my hands? Remember? And it was like slow motion as it rose in the sky, until we couldn’t see it anymore? That’s what it feels like, like I knew it was gone forever, and instead of fighting it, I just accepted it.”

Molly closed her eyes, remembering the kite he had loved so much. “I’m sorry, Erik. It’s all my fault.”

“What’s your fault?”

“This! Those feelings! You feel it all because of me, who I am, because I have that sixth sense, or whatever it is they call it. If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t have to deal with it at all.”

“So what? I don’t care about what I have to go through. Who cares about that? I just want to find the girl,” he said urgently. “Ma, I gotta go. I have a lab this afternoon.” “Okay. I’ll call you when I know something.” “’Kay. Love you,” he said. “Love you more.” Molly waited to hear the line go dead before she hung up the phone.

Twenty Two

Tracey couldn’t tell if today would be a good or bad day for Mummy who was already dressed in jeans, a blue turtleneck, and a blue sweater. Tracey had gotten used to the cool air of their sleeping chamber—the smell, too; she barely noticed it anymore. Now it just seemed like home—like when she’d walk into her grandma’s house, and it had a smell all its own.

All morning, Mummy had been busy collecting things in a basket. She had her Bible and other worship books, bottles of water, and the quarters that she had lined up on the top shelf. Tracey remained still under her blanket—partly for warmth and partly because it was fun to peek at what Mummy was doing. She watched Mummy pull two picture frames off of the top shelf. She smiled when she looked at them, then placed them back up on the shelf. She felt sad as Mummy’s hand drifted to cover her heart, as if it hurt. Tracey wondered if Mummy missed her mother. Tracey felt a pang in her heart, but tucked it away with annoyance—she still couldn’t believe that her own mother hadn’t wanted to keep her safe from the toxins that were outside—and what about Emma? Would she die from them? Maybe they were already sick, and that’s why her real mom wanted her to be with Mummy. Maybe her real mother set it up so that Tracey would be saved by Mummy.

Tracey reached for her new doll. Tracey held her doll tight against her chest and touched her necklace. She smiled, relieved that it was still there. Thank God, she thought and liked the new way that she had come to think of God. She liked thanking Him, knowing He was watching over them. “Good morning, Tracey,” Mummy said sweetly. Tracey lowered the blanket and smiled, “Morning.” “Guess where we’re going today?” Mummy asked, settling herself on the edge of the mattress. Tracey looked at her, asking with her eyes.

“We’re going to see my mummy.”

A shiver ran up Tracey’s back. “But,” she said, tentatively, “I thought she was dead.”

“She is, honey, but we still go visit her.” Mummy handed Tracey the sweater and pants she’d worn the day before and walked to the other end of the chamber. Tracey dressed under the covers to avoid the cold. She wasn’t scared of their dirt room anymore. Something had changed inside of her. She now thought of their chamber as warmly as she thought of the cabin in Little House on the Prairie—one of her favorite DVDs.

“Tracey, you have to eat a good breakfast today. We’re going to do a lot of walking, and I don’t want you to get tired.”

“Okay,” Tracey said.

Mummy busied herself making breakfast. She removed the butter and milk from the little blue Igloo cooler. She prepared the cereal first, set it on the table, and placed one of the three spoons they owned next to it. Tracey tiptoed across the cold dirt floor and hopped onto the upended log, her feet dangling. She began eating and listened to Mummy mumbling her prayers.

Tracey nibbled on the crust of her bread, wondering how she could ask the question that was on her lips. Should she ask? Was it a stupid question? She gathered her courage and asked timidly, “Mummy? How did you learn how to talk to God?” She held her breath, unsure if Mummy would be upset that she didn’t innately know how to talk to God.

Mummy looked away. The pit of Tracey’s stomach suddenly felt heavy. Her courage slipped away like a rumor. “I’m sorry, Mummy,” she said. “I didn’t mean to make you sad. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.” Tears instantly formed in Tracey’s eyes, the memory of the bad spot raced through her. She hoped she wouldn’t have to go back there. She had done something bad. She had made Mummy upset.

Mummy turned toward Tracey, her mouth set firmly in a thin line. Tracey closed her eyes and readied herself for what was sure to come. Mummy grabbed her by the shoulders, not hard, but strong. Tears streamed down Tracey’s cheeks; she’d misread Mummy. She was mad, not sad. She pleaded, her words shaky, fearful, “Mummy, I really am sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

Tracey’s chest rattled with each hiccupping breath. She felt herself being pulled into Mummy’s chest, her head resting on the pillow of her breasts. Mummy’s large hand caressed the top of Tracey’s hair.

“Shhh,” she whispered. “Oh, Tracey, I learned a long, long time ago how to talk to God. I learned before I even came here.” She knelt down, her eyes met Tracey’s, and she reached up and gently wiped Tracey’s tears away. “Take a deep breath, honey,” she said. “It’s okay.”

Tracey slowed her tears and drew in a jagged, hitching breath, confused. “But how did you learn?” she asked in a whisper. “How do you know what to say?” She wanted to make Mummy proud. She wanted to learn to talk to God just like her. Maybe if she prayed hard enough, Emma, Mommy, and Daddy could be saved, too.

“Well,” Mummy offered a hand to help Tracey up from her perch, and then gathered the basket that she had filled, “I listened very carefully to what my mummy was saying, and she gave me lessons, too. Every day we studied the Bible. I repeated the words of God until I knew them all by heart—and when I didn’t read it right, or I pouted about learning my teachings, I got punished, too. So, you see, Tracey, the bad spot helps you remember what’s important, what you need to learn, and how you need to act.”

“You did?” Tracey asked, relieved. She sat on the mattress and pulled her socks over her cold feet, then stepped into her boots.

“Yes, I knew that I had to learn how to talk to God the right way in order to be saved. I would read and read, even when we weren’t having a lesson. My mummy was very proud of me. Some nights, I read until my eyes stung and all the words on the page just ran together in one big blurry line.”

Tracey couldn’t imagine reading that much. Tracey would try, but she wasn’t very good of a reader yet, and that worried her, but she’d do just about anything to stay out of the bad spot.

“Don’t you worry,” Mummy said, turning away from Tracey, who had crouched over the chamber pot in the corner of the room. “I’ll make sure that you know exactly what to say to God. We have a lifetime together, and many, many years to learn to do it right.”

Tracey wiped herself, pulled her pants up, and straightened her sweater. The basket Mummy held now had a lantern and candles in it as well. She carried a backpack over her shoulder, and Tracey wondered what was in it. They must be traveling far, she thought, to need all of those supplies. They were leaving the chamber and entering the first tunnel when Mummy asked Tracey to wait for a second. She headed back toward the chamber, and returned quickly.

“Here,” she said, handing Tracey her new doll. “I don’t think you want to leave this behind.”

Consciousness arrived with the sound of the shower. Molly rolled over in bed and reached for Cole. Her hand flopped across the empty, wrinkled sheets. She sighed, relieved. The tension between them the evening before had been too thick to bear. Cole had hounded her over the threatening note and her determination. She’d escaped the argument by going to bed earlier than he had, and feigning sleep when his head finally hit the pillow. She stretched, throwing her bare legs over the side of the bed and wishing she were still folded neatly away in the dream that she could no longer remember.

She sauntered sleepily toward the bathroom, nervous for the first time in many years, and pushed open the bathroom door; steam greeted her like warm mist from an ocean, clearing the morning chill.

“Hey,” she said hesitantly. Cole’s silhouette paused behind the shower curtain, then moved once again. He did not respond. Molly turned away, feeling hurt, torn. She brushed her teeth, then turned back toward the shower, mustering courage. She slipped out of Cole’s t-shirt and dropped it into the hamper. She parted the shower curtain looking pensive. Cole stared at her, and she’d worried she’d made a mistake. A heartbeat later he reached for her hand and led her gently under the stream of water, falling softly across her breasts and dripping down her legs. He washed her, lovingly caressing every fold of her skin, every dip and curve that was her body. His touch never failed to arouse her, melting away any upsetting thoughts she might have had. He turned her around, slowly soaped her back, and ran his large, strong hands along her bottom, her thighs. Her breath caught. He bent down to soap her calves, kissing her lower back, her sides. He stood, pulling her against him—the spray of the shower binding them like a love song.

Hannah pulled into the parking lot of the Boyds Post Office just as Newton was walking out of the building. She parked her car and hurried over to him. He scanned the parking lot, walking quickly toward his car even as Hannah approached him. “Newton,” she called out to him. “Thank you for bringing me all those clothes and things the other day. Carla said that they were just perfect!”

“Oh, it’s no problem, Hannah,” he said, looking down at the ground, then back up at Hannah. He fidgeted with his hands. “We all have to do what we have to do, right?”

“Yes, I suppose,” she said. Hannah felt the weight of the world resting on her shoulders and was thankful that Newton and Carla were there to help her carry the burden.

Newton opened his car door and lowered his elderly body slowly into the driver’s seat. Hannah leaned down, whispered, “Do you ever worry, Newton? About…well…you know?” she asked.

Newton put his hands on the steering wheel, gripped it tight, staring straight ahead. He looked up at Hannah for just a second, as if he were going to speak, took a breath, and then looked away again, rolling his lips tightly between his teeth. Hannah was used to his odd mannerisms, his constant state of unease. She also understood his ability to keep silent, as they had decided they would do so long ago. The pact, Hannah thought—a silent, unspoken pact, but a pact all the same. She knew she was now breaching that pact. Out of fear? Out of self preservation? She wasn’t certain, but for the first time in twenty-some-odd years, she felt the need to be free of it, to be released from the confines of the secrets that had become her life. They had all held up their ends of the bargain, did what they were duty bound to do. It had taken its toll on each of them, first Carla, then Newton filling in when Carla had her crises and had no one else to turn to, and then, her, of course, because who else had Newton known so intimately? Who else had he known for so long that he trusted with his own children? Who else could he possibly have had watch over his wife during her gall bladder operation and subsequent infection? Newton was like a brother to Hannah. More so, in fact—he was like the husband that she’d never had, the one that would have been kind and caring, the one that would never have taken her for granted, screamed at her, or given her up. He’d tended to her in her time of need, reading medical manuals and calling his colleagues in other cities, the ones that he’d known from his military tour, for medical advice, guidance. He was a gracious man, and Hannah knew she had put him in a horrible position, something he would never do to her. As he turned to her to answer, opening his mouth to speak, she interrupted him.