Trace of Doubt

by DiAnn Mills

I pushed away my lousy frame of mind and studied the pristine office, containing overflowing bookcases, family photos, and reflections of his faith.

  “I appreciate you and Mrs. Emory conducting the counseling.”

  He leaned back in his chair. “We’re glad to help.”

  Dare I mention his check? Did his wife know about his generosity? The idea of coming between a pastor and his wife sounded deplorable, but I feared the damage had already occurred.

  “Thank you for the funds to finance my small business. I’ll pay you back in installments, beginning at our next counseling session, around seventy dollars.”

  “I’m not worried about repayment. The money was a gift to help you get started.”

  “I think returning the money as soon as possible is commendable.” Mrs. Emory squared her shoulders. She’d be an attractive brunette if she would smile. “The gesture speaks well for rebuilding your reputation and future.”

  Maybe they’d been stung by lending money in the past. “My thoughts exactly.”

  “Ms. Pearce,” the pastor said. “Outside of a few hiccups, are you getting settled?”

  “I’ve experienced good times and not-so-good.” I shared with him about James Peterson and how I valued his support as my parole officer. “My goal, and his too, is for me to beat the odds and weave my life into this community.”

  “He’s active in the community, coaches Little League, and is on the school board.”

  The info revealed a good man. “Sheriff Wendall has also been helpful.”

  “Not like Officer Hughes?”

  I refused to go there. “He’s concerned about his community and sister.”

  “Ms. Pearce, let’s speak the truth here. While I must send an overview of our sessions to the parole board, I promise you our discussions are confidential. Randy Hughes isn’t on your side.”

  “Yes, sir. Will he ever be?”

  He sighed. “Doubtful, unless God gets ahold of him.”

  His unspoken words aligned with Amy-Jo’s. I tried to pray for whatever misfortune had affected Officer Hughes, but until I could forgive him and mean it, the prayers wouldn’t surface. “Do you recommend I avoid Edie at church and stop the sibling arguments about me?”

  “Have you asked her?”

  “She insists our friendship is important. But we aren’t meeting in public.”

  “Then you have your answer.” He opened a legal pad and scanned it. “You received severe beatings in prison, before and after you became a Christian.” Mrs. Emory gasped, and he took his wife’s hand. “I forgot to inform my wife about those.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Mrs. Emory paled.

  “Shelby was hospitalized four times with injuries from a gang,” the pastor said. “Broken bones and a concussion.”

  “I . . . I was horrible when you entered the office.” She touched her mouth. “Please—”

  “No need to apologize. I understand how I appear in light of my criminal record.” This part of the counseling I could handle. I explained the problems in prison were because I refused to admit knowledge of a crime I hadn’t committed, and I’d attempted to defend a young woman whom they had chosen to abuse. Other times were a refusal to be part of a gang and to avoid guards’ lewd advances.

  “How did those occurrences make you feel about God?” Pastor Emory said.

  “He promises never to abandon us, and I’m alive.”

  “Have you forgiven the women and the guards?”

  “I’m trying. Just when I think I’ve moved past it, a memory pops up that brings it all back.”

  “With a vengeance?”

  I nodded. “Discernment and wisdom are lifelong lessons. But sometimes it’s all a blur.”

  “If you’re willing, we can work on what happened to you in prison.”

  The thought of reliving the beatings clawed at my stomach. Some injuries couldn’t be healed. “Not sure if I’ll ever be able to place them in a locked corner of my heart. Maybe looking over my shoulder is a good habit. Anyway, I’d like to put the ugliness behind me.” I meant it, as long as he didn’t probe into Travis’s death.

  “In the weeks ahead, we’ll visit those painful moments. Talk through your emotions and pray for healing. Mrs. Emory and I have prayed for you, and we’re here to offer friendship as well as guidance.”

  My twice-broken arm ached. No reason except the vivid details of the beatings jarred my senses. Always did. I could only assume the psychological and spiritual growth demanded courage. Other people’s actions in my history included. “External rehabilitation is easier to accomplish than internal.”

  “But you’re not alone, neither have you been since you made a decision to trust Jesus. Who we are stems from examining our past and choosing to move forward with God.”

  Mrs. Emory jotted something on a piece of paper and slid it my way. “Please call me anytime, day or night.”

  “Especially if you are hit with depression,” he added. “I see that was a problem in the past.”

  Was my life an open book for everyone to see? “Thank you.” Pastor Emory and his wife meant well, but neither could discover the damages beneath the visible scars.

  I left the church with one destination—the newspaper office.

  Some days were met with enthusiasm and others grew sour as the day progressed. Unless I chose joy each morning, I couldn’t complain about my day. In prison, I envisioned Marissa, my obedient sister, walked with me, not in the same cell but as an invisible companion to share my thoughts. That was love—conversations of the heart. Today had held its share of good things and challenges. I hoped my next stop before heading home wasn’t a mistake.

  I opened the door of the newspaper office and smelled what I’d always termed as newspaper ink. An inner door separated the lobby from the printing area, but the odor swirled about. Not offensive, just distinctive. I stared at the receptionist and inwardly moaned—the judgmental woman who’d ordered tarts for the ladies’ mission group. I approached the counter with Saturday’s edition in my hand.

  “We meet again.” I mustered cheerfulness into my words.

  One quick look and she darkened. “Yes.” She focused on her computer.

  “I’d like to speak to the owner or editor in charge.”

  “Do you have an appointment?” Still no eye contact.

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Then there’s no point in being here, is there, Ms. Pearce?”

  “The associate editor will do. I only need five minutes.”

  “I assume you don’t have an appointment with him either?”

  “Correct. Please ask if I can speak to him.”

  “He’s busy.”

  I pointed to a small seating area. “I’ll wait.”

  She tapped a manicured nail on the counter. “I’ll check but I make no promises.”

  I thanked her and took a seat. Within ten minutes the door opened to a man in jeans and a black T-shirt who reminded me of a rock star minus a guitar.

  “Ms. Pearce?”

  I nodded, and he joined me in one of the metal chairs. “How may I help you?”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you for seeing me. Saturday’s paper ran an article on me. I understand freedom of the press, but I’d like to know who wrote it.”

  “No idea. The article came to me via email, and when I attempted to respond to the writer, I got a mail-delivery error stating the email address was bogus.”

  “What happened then?”

  “I verified the contents and chose to print it.” He ran his fingers through three-inch-spiked red hair. “Do you want to write a rebuttal?”

  “No, sir. The contents were factual. I simply wanted to talk to the writer.”

  “Why?”

  The thought of telling him I’d been threatened and run off the road nudged me as a mistake. Exactly what I wanted to avoid.

  My silence must have made the man uncomfortable because he cleared his throat. “I’m sorry I can’t help you. Have you experienced more difficulty
because of the article?”

  “Some.”

  He stood. “I’m sorry. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

  Summary dismissal could be welcomed or scrape at a nerve, and I refused to cause a scene. I’d find the writer on my own. “No, sir. Thank you for your time.”

  I left the Valleysburg Gazette with a repeated reminder that the same laws informing the public of my prison release had also given me a second chance at life.

  22

  DENTON

  If I were to learn the truth about Shelby, even if I’d been wrong all these years, I needed to investigate who’d targeted her. Midafternoon, I drove into town to talk to Sheriff Wendall. Time to come clean with him.

  We met in his office with the door closed at my request. “I need to explain why I’m in Valleysburg.”

  Not a muscle moved on his face. “What’s going on, Denton? Aren’t you a math teacher who needed to recover from your wife’s death?”

  “No.”

  He moved his Stetson to the corner of his desk and folded his hands. “Whatcha hiding?”

  “I’m FBI Special Agent Allen Denton McClure on assignment. Not a math teacher or a widower. I work out of the Houston office.” I showed him my ID and continued with my mission to find out where Shelby Pearce had stashed the missing money.

  “After all these years?”

  “I worked the case as a rookie agent when she was arrested for murder. The money came from the Stovers’ nonprofit account.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t have a thing to give you. She’s been here a week, and someone is trying to run her off. Is it you?”

  Second person to ask me that. “Not my style. But Randy Hughes might be behind it.”

  “Nah. He wants her out of Edie’s life. Claims she made a mistake in renting Shelby a cabin.”

  “Do you think he’d confess his part?”

  “He’s not behind the crimes against Shelby. Hughes can be a good cop.”

  “Can be?”

  “He’s wading through a few tough times.”

  The sheriff wasn’t going to relay anything personal to me. I couldn’t blame him when I’d lied about my FBI position. “How many incidents do you know about?”

  Sheriff Wendall frowned. “Three—the shot fired into Edie’s tire, the note shoved under Shelby’s cabin door, and the attempt to run her off the road. No leads.”

  “There’s more. Yesterday she accused me of making threatening calls. I have no idea what was said to her. Thought I’d ask you to check her phone records.”

  “Need a warrant.”

  “Not if she gave you permission.”

  “And why would she?” The sheriff raised an eyebrow.

  “I told you she’d received threatening calls, and they weren’t from me.”

  “Why did she suspect you?”

  I told him about Shelby discovering my real identity. “She’s not happy with me right now. The other thing . . .” I produced the suicide-sympathy card from inside my jacket and told him how I came by it.

  He took the card and snorted. “Let me get this right. You broke into her cabin, and while you’re there, someone slides this under the door. You take out after ’em, but you lose the trail and never see the person’s face.”

  “Right.” Put that way, my actions sounded worse than I intended. “Take a look at the card’s contents.” I’d just confessed to breaking and entering, and the sheriff had valid reasons to arrest me.

  He read the card and eyed me. “Someone is messin’ with her head.”

  “Her past indicates a propensity to depression.”

  The sheriff stood and arched his shoulders. He might be small in stature, but his countenance emitted power. “Are you justifying a crime by stating you stole the card to protect her from herself?”

  “Guess so.”

  “Why? Looks to me like you’d be the agent on record if she spilled her guts or if she killed herself, you’d have no money trail.”

  “Probably both.”

  “Our line of work means gathering evidence, but this is low. Unethical.”

  I rubbed my palm on the side of my pants. “I’m beginning to think she has no knowledge of the money.”

  “That means a lot of your years down the drain. What about your gaining access to her cabin? What’s the motivation there?”

  “None. I’m guilty.”

  He sat and laid the card between us. “What do you expect to accomplish by coming to my office?”

  “Two things—help to discover if she knows the money’s whereabouts and why someone wants her dead.”

  “Why would I?” He glared at me, a technique I’d used during interrogations of suspected criminals.

  “I was hoping you’d pay her a visit, a follow-up about what happened last week. Tell her I gave you my purpose in befriending her and claimed not to have made the calls.”

  He rolled his chair back and walked to the door. Grabbing the knob, he studied me. “Agent McClure, I don’t need the FBI telling me how to do my job. I’ll talk to Ms. Pearce because she’s the victim here—more than once. But let’s get a few things straight. If you step over the line again, your rear’s in jail. And if she finds out about your breaking and entering into her home and presses charges, your rear’s in jail. If I contact the FBI about your actions, they’ll put your rear in jail. In the meantime, I’m talking to Houston FBI about them sending you and not consulting me. Undercover or no undercover, you’re not in charge. I’m the law in this town.”

  “My apologies for taking advantage of you and the community.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “Shelby Pearce is a personal project from your rookie days, and you’re a poor loser. Also looks like you’re trying to be a hero. Makes me wonder if you two are taking lessons from each other.”

  Stupidity slapped me in the face with my unorthodox actions. “I’d like the card to run prints and analyze the handwriting.”

  “Nope. The evidence is mine. I’m capable of conducting an investigation.”

  “Will you let me know the results?”

  “Depends on the findings and my conversation with Houston FBI.”

  I’d done a great job of making myself look like a rogue FBI agent in a bad movie. But Houston had assigned me to the case and knew where I was living. “Are you going to give Shelby the card?”

  “Haven’t decided. In the meantime, don’t leave town. You’re a person of interest in Ms. Pearce’s case. Conversation ended.”

  23

  SHELBY

  In the past, I knew what my predators wanted. Not so much now. I’d stabbed my finger twice with an awl while twisting wire and working with a tissue wrapped over the cut proved cumbersome. I’d add safety gloves to my next supply order. Hard to focus on designing new pieces with the counseling session fresh on my mind and on the heels of what I’d learned about Denton.

  My dealings with most men blurred my vision in shades of gray and black. Dad and I used to be pals, and I’d loved Travis like a brother. Many years had trickled by since then. Denton had shoved a little green into my life, offering hope and healing for a few hours. Rats, focusing on him solved nothing. I was doomed for a colorless existence.

  Like a child needing comfort, I sat on the sofa and held Joy. She snuggled close to me.

  The fixings for an omelet took over, and I concentrated on dicing bell pepper and onion. The familiar sound of crunching gravel drew my attention to the window. Sheriff Wendall parked and walked to the cabin. Now what? He knocked in rhythm to my knees. I prayed before I opened the door.

  “Evening, Shelby. Hope you don’t mind me using your first name.”

  “Not at all, sir. How can I help you?”

  “I’d like to talk to you for a few minutes if you don’t mind. Our office hasn’t figured out who’s been harassing you, and I have a few questions.”

  I invited him inside. When would someone in a law enforcement uniform no longer churn my stomach?

 
; He nodded at my work area. “I see you’re makin’ jewelry. My wife brought home a right pretty necklace from Amy-Jo’s Café, been tellin’ her friends about it. Already makin’ a list of what she wants for Christmas.”

  His kind words relaxed me. “Please give her my thanks.” I pointed to the sofa. “Have a seat. Can I get you something?”

  “I’m good, and I won’t take up much of your time. The counter here is fine.” He pulled out a stool and removed his gray felt Stetson. “Have you experienced any more threats?”

  I pondered how to answer.

  “Your hesitancy confirms what Denton McClure told me today.”

  “Which was?”

  “You discovered his FBI status and accused him of crimes against you, including phone threats. I’d like to know more about what’s goin’ on.” He offered compassion in his demeanor. “Why didn’t you come to me about the calls?”

  “Because they’re threats, Sheriff, and telling you about them potentially puts those I care about in danger. Someone believes I’m a hindrance to Valleysburg, and he or she isn’t giving up. Honestly, I’m questioning if I should leave.”

  “Taking off to another town shows the caller won. And you aren’t a runner. Whoever committed these crimes is breaking the law. If you have any idea who is responsible, I need a name. I’ve questioned Officer Hughes and Denton. Both claim they’re not responsible. Agent McClure is working here on assignment to find out if you are part of an embezzlement scheme from years ago. The FBI claims he has an impeccable record, and for what it’s worth, I believe he’s only after the truth.”

  What about his breaking and entering? “Denton and Officer Hughes could be behind the threats, or one of them could have written the article in Saturday’s paper.”

  “I received a call from the receptionist at the newspaper office. She said you’d been there and wanted to know who’d written it. When I questioned her further and talked to the assistant editor, I learned you were well within your rights. If I’d been the subject of that article, I’d want to know who was behind it too.” He stared at me, and I could almost see the wheels turning inside his head. “What are the threats about?”