She watched the flurry of activity across the lake—the officers’ cars arriving, police dogs on leashes. She shouldn’t have been surprised, she knew what lay ahead; nevertheless, her hand began to shake. A splash of coffee spilled onto the deck, and she watched it spread like a horrible lie. She thought of Molly and the long talks they’d had, the intimate details of Molly’s depression they’d discussed, and felt the weight of sadness in Molly’s sudden mistrust.
She stood and walked inside, looking around, for what, she wasn’t sure. Hints of who lay in wait at the Perkinson House? There were no visible hints in her home—except for the sole legal paper, hidden in the locked metal box on the top shelf in her den. The key, tucked behind her shirt, suddenly felt cold against her chest. Nerves. She moved methodically, retrieving her heavy coat from the closet and setting it on the small maple table near the front door.
As a car pulled into the driveway, she rushed upstairs, taking the photo of Rodney down from the mantel in her bedroom—the photo of Rodney sitting on the living room floor of their childhood home, playing with a wooden train and smiling at the camera. She would carry the innocence of that photo with her as things became more difficult to handle. She said a small prayer and promised to keep Rodney safe, no matter what happened to her. There was a loud knock at the door. Pastor Lett held the photo to her chest for one last second, placed it carefully back on the mantel, aligning it with the other knickknacks, and walked calmly down the stairs.
“I’m coming, just a minute,” the tranquility of her own voice startled her.
On her front stoop stood an officer of the law.
Sergeant Moeler briefly introduced himself. “Pastor Lett,” he began, “we have a search warrant for the Perkinson property.” He handed several papers to Pastor Lett, who took them with a trembling hand—suddenly too nervous and angry to read them, much less decipher them.
“We would like to gain access to the premises now, please.”
Pastor Lett drew in a long breath, thinking of Hannah and Newton. “No problem at all,” she said. She walked to the French doors, using each measured step to compose herself. She locked the doors and, on her way back toward the front door, paused to straighten a magazine. Thoughts of the kid ran painfully through her mind as she put on her coat and went out.
“What exactly will you be looking for?” she asked as they walked toward Sergeant Moeler’s car.
“Rodney Lett, ma’am,” Sergeant Moeler answered.
Molly found Pastor Lett standing on the Perkinson driveway, watching the war-like scene before them unfold.
“Good Lord,” said Pastor Lett. Heavily-armed police officers moved in and out of the woods, search dogs in tow. She watched the house that she had so carefully boarded up be ripped open and invaded by strangers and lowered her face into her hands, “What have I done?”
“Is someone in there?” Molly asked, urgently.
Pastor Lett shook her head without looking at Molly. “I take care of that house! That is my responsibility! And now…just look! It’s being taken over, people are walking all over it, shouting, mussing up the floors, disturbing the balance!” She paced, the grief in her face undeniable; wrinkles settled in around her eyes, her mouth, drawing her face downward.
Molly watched the ensuing commotion, listening to the sounds of disruption and envisioning the dogs running from room to room, scratching the floors with their nails, closets being thrown open. A few scattered voices rang through the thick, stressed air, “Clear! Here!” Her senses were overwhelmed. The unmistakable smell of Pastor Lett, Ivory soap and sweet perfume, mixed with the fresh scent of the cool outdoors.
Twenty minutes later, Sergeant Moeler came down the hill.
“Good, you got my call,” he said to Molly. He turned to Pastor Lett, “You’ve got a rodent issue in the cellar.”
Molly watched the two of them. Their efforts to avoid looking at one another were painful for her to witness. Their distrust was blatant, her guilt, distressing.
“The house was clear,” Mike said, turning to Molly with an annoyed look.
“Clear?” Molly asked. Mike nodded. She turned to Pastor Lett. “If Rodney is alive, he might be able to help find Tracey Porter,” she pleaded, knowing full well that if she’d hidden her brother for that many years, she was not going to give him up easily.
“Molly,” she said confidently. She covered her eyes with her index finger and thumb, drew in a deep breath, and said, “Rodney can’t help you.”
“Molly, the house was clear. Leave the poor woman alone,” Mike said firmly. He shook Pastor Lett’s hand and went to join the search team as they descended the hill.
Molly pursued Pastor Lett, “This girl has one chance, like Kate Plummer did.” she watched the muscles in her jaw tense. “The police made a mistake the first time. Kate may have been found if Rodney hadn’t been fingered as a suspect, and then…well…”
“They cost him his life, Molly,” she said, heatedly. “His life!” She turned away.
Molly called out to her again, “Think of the little girl. Think of Tracey.”
“Think of Rodney,” she spat back. “Think of his family.” Pastor Lett stared at Molly. The silence drew them together, linking them in an uncomfortable moment. Sergeant Moeler’s voice broke the silence. “Molly! I told you to back off. If Rodney is alive, we’ll find him.” “But—” she said.
Pastor Lett interrupted, “Sergeant Moeler, my brother was killed, murdered, because he was a suspect, because he knew things. Not because he hurt Kate Plummer! Not because he killed Kate Plummer! He was murdered because of insecure people in our little town, the town that I have served for over twenty-five damned years—the town that I have given my heart and soul to—the town that I thought I could trust with my own flesh and blood.”
Molly stood between the two of them—the chasm between them impassable. She felt torn, “I’m sorry!” She raised her eyes to Pastor Lett’s and was struck by her venomous look. “Pastor Lett, I am truly sorry. It’s just…” her voice broke off, shaking. “It’s just that if we can save Tracey, we need to. You need to.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Molly,” she said. “He needs to.” She pointed to Sergeant Moeler, who stood ready to take the heat. “He needs to find Tracey. It’s certainly not your job, or my job, or, for heaven’s sake, Rodney’s job. It’s his job. The police need to find Tracey!”
Mike walked toward her and said, “You are absolutely right, Pastor Lett. It is our job to find Tracey Porter. It was our job to find Kate Plummer, though I was not part of that investigation, but if Rodney is alive, it is imperative that we find him and speak to him. It does not mean that he would be placed under investigation for Tracey’s disappearance. We just want to talk to him.”
“Do you know what happened when my brother was questioned by the police, Sergeant Moeler? Do you have any idea what it is like to come home and find that your brother has been beaten?” her face reddened, her arms flailed wildly with her angry words. “To walk into a room and find your own family member lying on the floor, not moving, barely breathing, covered in his own blood? Do you have any idea the pain one endures experiencing such a spectacle?”