“Hello?”
“Molly? Mike. Thanks for the call last night.”
Molly rested her head on Cole’s shoulder. Cole tensed. “You won’t say anything to Edie, will you?” The pit of her stomach hurt when she thought of her betrayal. “We’ll talk about that later. They put another officer in charge, Officer Rozutto. He wants to meet you.” “Why did they do that?” “We get moved around based on other cases that come up. Rozutto’s a fine detective. Can you meet us? Now?” Molly heard the urgency in his voice, “Of course.” She sat up and turned to Cole with a look of apology. He rolled his eyes. “Panera Bread? Half hour okay?” Mike asked. Molly agreed, and hung up the phone. Cole shifted his gaze above his book. “Well?” he asked in a disappointed tone.
Molly snuggled closer to him. “I know this really stinks,” she laid her head on his shoulder, “but I have to meet them. The detective wants to talk to me.”
“Do you want me to come with you—wherever it is that you’re going…with Mike.” Mike’s name held a quip of annoyance.
Molly turned to face him. “First of all, Mike is Sergeant Moeler, a cop, and second of all, no, I’ll be fine, but thank you.” She put her arm across his chest. “Uh-huh,” Cole said flatly. “Cole,” she said, trying to rein in her anxiety over the pending meeting and her ailing marriage, “how can I make it up to you?” “That’s a good question,” he said and looked back down at his book.
Molly shook the outstretched hand of Sal Rozutto, his olive skin and thick dark hair as stereotypically Italian as his name.
“My pleasure,” he said with a voice smooth as butter and thick with culture. His demeanor was friendly, yet keenly in charge. “I appreciate your meeting with us. It’s people like you that are in tune, shall we say, with things that help to solve these cases.” The smile remained on his lips even as he spoke.
Molly lifted her eyebrows, “Well, I don’t know how in tune I am with it, but I’m glad to help.”
“It’s my understanding,” he said a little quieter, moving closer to her, “that you are very in tune with the issues surrounding this case, that you have seen things.” The way he said it, quiet, like an inside secret between the two of them, touched Molly. She liked this man. “That is very beneficial to us, Mrs. Tanner.”
He must have noticed the surprise in Molly’s eyes, because he added quickly, “We don’t often use...seers, but, in a case like this, where time is of the essence and a life hangs in the wings,” he paused, thoughtfully, “in a case where we need every available lead to pan out before we lose a child, well, such a case may deem it appropriate, if the…seer…appears to be a safe and sane individual.” “But Officer Brown said—” “Let me worry about Officer Brown,” Sal said. “I don’t know what you’ve been told.” “I’ve been told enough to know that you know what you’re talking about.” He glanced at Mike.
Molly took a deep breath and felt a blush warm her cheeks. Validation. “Well,” Molly began, “I’m not sure what I can tell you. I mean, the things I’ve seen,” she leaned forward, spoke a little softer, and hoped the other patrons would not overhear their conversation, “they haven’t really been that clear, you know?”
“I don’t know, but I do understand that this is how these things work. Have you kept a record of any of it?”
“A record?” Molly gave a little laugh and told them about her journal, “But I can tell you what I’ve seen. I’ve got most of it right here.” She pointed to her head. Sal nodded. Molly was torn between trust and deceit, “Sal, I have no trouble talking about it, but I want to make sure of something first.” Mike looked at her questioningly.
“Officer Brown basically said I was a suspect. If that’s why you’re talking with me, I want to know up front. I don’t play games, and I won’t be party to any, either. If I’m a suspect, come out and tell me, and I’ll get a lawyer, and then we can talk,” she spoke confidently, almost defiantly.
“I didn’t realize that Officer Brown thought you were a suspect.” He looked at Mike.
Mike chimed in, “Don’t look at me. He never directly conveyed that to me.”
“Regardless,” Sal interrupted, “right now, you are not considered a suspect. You have my word on that, but obviously someone wants to convey things to you, whether it’s someone who is involved or knows who might be.”
“The notes,” Mike said.
“I’m interested in what you know that might help us find Tracey—and hopefully find her alive and quickly.”
“Okay, good.” Molly surveyed the surrounding booths, making sure that there was no one she knew within earshot. She stared out the window, trying to figure out how, or what, to tell them.
“Molly,” Sal touched her arm, “are you okay?”
She sighed, “I’m fine. It’s just that…well....sometimes, it’s not easy describing visions. There are many parts to them, some that will make no sense at all, others that, in the end, will have nothing do to with the vision itself.” She squeezed lemon into her water and added a little Sweet ’n Low, making lemonade. Mike and Sal watched with questioning eyes. “This is my caffeine,” she smiled.
Molly steeled herself for disbelief, then she began to describe the images she’d seen of a man being beaten, the three men hovering above him, the pain and the overpowering sadness that she’d felt. She stopped several times to collect her thoughts and figure out how to describe the depth of what she’d felt, the horrible sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach returning. Mike and Sal’s slack jaws and incredulous looks made Molly feel as if she were speaking obscenities. Her voice faded to a near whisper.
At Mike’s urging, she went on to describe the apple candy taste, which brought saliva to her mouth as she spoke. She detailed the cold, dark, cavernous holes and passageways that she’d seen, the image of Tracey and the dark-haired woman on their knees, praying in front of many candles, and the peaceful feeling that Tracey emitted, the sheer lack of fear that Molly had recently felt coming from her, the strange calm which had seemed out of place and, somehow, wrong.
Molly’s energy was draining. She felt queasy, as though she’d been telling tales that should not be revealed—as if, by voicing them, she were making them real. She knew she had to push herself to continue, replaying for them the evil that overtook her as she’d run down White Ground Road. She swallowed the bile that rose in her throat and continued to describe the image of the girl she’d seen in the flowered dress, the girl who walked happily into the cornfield next to the church, only to be swallowed whole and never seen again. Mike and Sal took notes but did not say a word. Molly thought they were afraid to speak, afraid she might stop divulging her secrets.
Molly’s breathing had become shallow. She had one vision left to describe. She took a deep breath, finally, and told them of the sensation of the large palms against her own at the cellar doors of the Perkinson House.
Molly leaned onto the table for support, her visions splayed out before them like a bad dream. Molly’s head felt heavy and ill fit. She lowered her face into her hands as unexpected tears streamed down her cheeks, leaving her empty, and feeling as though she’d somehow betrayed her own mind—rendering her depleted, sad. She barely registered Sal’s strong, even voice as he spoke to Mike.
“Get a warrant.”
Pastor Lett sat on the rear deck of her home, gripping her warm mug of coffee, looking upon the lake but thinking of the past. She thought of the days before Rodney’s beating, before she had taken the course of deception. She remembered fishing at the lake with Rodney, when Rodney was just a boy, the way his feet dangled over the dock, his toes wriggling in the water, and the way he had pulled them out quickly, worried that fish would bite them. No matter how many times she’d tell Rodney that he was scaring the fish away, he’d continue with his toe-wriggling game. They never caught a single fish. Yet every Saturday morning, before the mist would rise off of the lake, before the birds would leave their nests in search of food, she and Rodney would make their way to the docks, dressed in full fishing garb: tan vests with multiple pockets and lures attached, rubber boots that they’d discard as soon as they hit the docks, and tan and brown floppy fisherman hats, which Rodney called “fish heads.” The memory brought a smile to her lips.