Trace of Doubt Page 7

  Only God knows the truth, and He is Truth.

  My mind turned the note inside out. What truth? Her faith, forgiveness, and all the God stuff?

  Below it she’d penned a few short lines—

  Why do I remember

  The sins that stalk my soul?

  Why can’t I hold on to the

  Forgiveness that makes me whole?

  Ashes rise to steal my breath.

  I choke from drowning fear.

  Help me, Lord, to cling to You

  In never-ending prayer.

  Her words spoke of anguish that God hadn’t removed. Why did He promise peace when she obviously lived a self-induced nightmare? Did she have dreams of a husband and children? Ambitions to use her business degree? Make a success of her jewelry design? How could she hold on to God when He’d failed her? I shrugged. God failed people on a consistent basis. I knew firsthand.

  A thought lingered . . . What if she had changed?

  The sound of footsteps outside the front door caused me to step between Shelby’s bedroom wall and the door. Trapped just when I’d tried to gain her confidence. Maybe she’d forgotten something, and I could stay hidden. I peered through the slim crack between the door hinges and the frame.

  A square envelope slid under the door.

  Randy Hughes had a few loose screws when it came to Shelby. But invading her privacy while representing the law seemed low for him. I suspected him of sending the last note, except the person who’d left it had raced into the woods. Hughes’s beer gut slowed his speed. Of course, I was breaking and entering. What about the man who’d fired into Edie’s tire? Ran Shelby off the road and into a ditch?

  I hurried to the living room window and saw no traces of the sender. The person had been on foot and obviously headed to the side or rear of the cabin. I drew my Glock as I slipped out the back door, hoping I didn’t confront a bullet. The quiet morning greeted me. Man-size boot prints sank into the dirt and led to the woods behind the property. I snapped a few pics of them and wrestled with the idea of trailing him. If the person was armed, the stretch of open field behind the cabin set me up as target practice.

  Inside the cabin, the envelope lay on the floor with Shelby’s name written in adhesive black letters, like those purchased at a craft store. Tearing off a paper towel, I wrapped it twice around my fingers to grasp the unsealed envelope. I slipped out a card.

  To the Pearce family,

  No words can ease your loss

  In the suicide of your daughter

  Or the answer to why

  Or bring comfort in the pain.

  Know you are in our thoughts and prayers

  In this difficult time of grief.

  We all will miss Shelby.

  I stared at the handwritten personalization at the top and bottom of the card. The sender had a warped sense of humor. My jaw dropped, and the card fell from my hand. What kind of sicko broke—?

  Someone wanted Shelby dead and concealed the telltale signs of murder. Her time in prison raised the likelihood of her gaining enemies, and her past left a trail of hate and possibly even vengeance, but what else had she done? What information needed to follow her to the grave?

  Were the jagged pieces of Shelby’s life even sharper than I’d ever considered? I’d overlooked something vital, and although what I’d witnessed today may not be connected to the missing money, I’d not sign off on this case until I had answers.

  I slid the card back into the envelope, yet leaving it for Shelby to find seemed wrong, cruel. What good came from messing with Shelby’s mind? That labeled me a worse offender than breaking into her home. If she fell prey to depression again, as her prison records indicated, and she committed suicide, I’d own part of the blame.

  I’d taken this journey because I believed in justice. Well, that and restoring my pride. The thought of discovering additional crimes with her name on them challenged my near attraction to her. The unknown drew me forward. I could no more abandon my quest than deny my own name.

  No matter what I discovered.

  I tucked the paper towel–covered card inside my shirt and made certain the interior doors were locked. Unlikely that fingerprints still existed on the card, but the handwriting could be documented in the FBI database. Enough time had passed for the sender to hoof it back to his vehicle, but clues to his name and purpose lay out there in the soft earth. I followed a trail across the back field.

  Only God knows the truth, and He is Truth.

  16

  SHELBY

  Home was often described as a state of mind. How quickly I’d embraced this cabin as my sanctuary. No dank smells, concrete, metal, harsh sounds, or fear of assault. Oh, the thrill of caressing my sweet puppy and designing jewelry.

  Except this afternoon I chilled the moment I stepped inside my cabin after work.

  Someone had invaded my privacy.

  Fury raced through me. I’d had enough of the invasion.

  The scent of the outdoors clung faintly in the air, my air. A small clod of dirt led into the kitchen and rear door by an intruder’s shoe prints. I quickly scanned the visible areas for signs of an unwanted visitor. Without a weapon, the idea of confronting the person labeled me as stupid.

  I rubbed my shoulders and retraced my steps outside the cabin to my path of pine cones and sticks. Some were broken. Two sets of prints caught my attention—one had treads of a tennis shoe and the other looked like a western boot. I made my way to the woods’ edge and grabbed a fallen pine branch nearly three feet long. Having the thin wood in my hand gave me confidence that if someone attacked me, I could defend myself. Chances were, an assailant would take the limb and beat me with it.

  My life had been plagued with trouble since the bus dropped me off in Valleysburg. I held my frail weapon like a baseball bat and crept through the cabin. In every room an intruder had rearranged my meticulously placed belongings, not by much, but enough for me to detect it.

  I despised an unseen enemy.

  The memory of my first prison beating repeated in my mind—not the cuts, bruises, and broken arm, but the violation of my spirit. An inmate bribed a guard to give her and three friends ten minutes to persuade me to talk about the missing money. I refused. At the time, I longed to forget the many hands assaulting me. The pain taught me how to avoid those who lived to do me harm. Smartened me to prison degradation. The gang set out to build an empire while I counted each day until my release.

  Other beatings occurred, but none like the first.

  I stared into my bedroom and at the closed door of the second one. Who did I call when my only evidence lay in dirt on the floor, the shape of the drawers in my bedroom, footsteps in the dirt, and a sixth sense crawling up my spine?

  Actually no one but James Peterson or Sheriff Wendall. My suspicious nature told me even they could be behind the threats.

  Silence kept its secret.

  My phone rang with an anonymous caller ID.

  “Shelby,” the distorted voice said. “Did you receive my calling card?”

  “Yes. Why not come to the door when I’m here and knock like a civilized person?”

  The voice laughed. “Are you ready to accept my invitation?”

  “Which is?”

  “Take an overdose, an easy way out. Your parents despise you. Marissa and her daughter are afraid of you. Give them the peace they deserve.”

  Love for my family had guided my actions for years . . . but I refused to take my own life. That belonged to God. “I’d rather live and see you arrested.”

  “Always the selfish one.”

  I stared at my phone after his final words. One bit of information told me the caller knew more than I did about my family . . . I had a niece. All these years I’d wondered if Marissa’s child was a girl or a boy. Now I heard it from a person who wanted me dead.

  17

  DENTON

  I stepped into church three times a year—Christmas Eve, Easter, and Mother’s Day. Sometimes I attended
weddings and funerals, both as a sign of respect. Today gave me an extra God-star. I’d sacrificed sleeping in on a Sunday morning not to strengthen my faith, but to add a notch in my friendship belt with Shelby.

  I assumed Shelby would walk in any minute, a way to start a new week out right after a rotten start. I chose a pew midway on the right side, thinking she’d sit close by. “Doesn’t matter where you sit, only that you listen” echoed from one of my grandpa’s sayings. Shelby didn’t hit me as a front- or back-row gal.

  Five minutes to ten, Shelby slid into a pew on the left in front of me. Go figure. She wore jeans and a shirt . . . so did many other folks. Out of my upbringing and sparse attendance, I’d dragged out slacks and a sport coat to spend an hour in God’s house.

  Lots of people filed in at the last minute. Edie and her kids sat in front of me, a boy who looked like his mother and a smaller girl with huge dark eyes. Odd that Edie hadn’t chosen to sit in Shelby’s company. Randy Hughes must have missed the invite because he wasn’t there. Then again, he didn’t impress me as the churchgoing type. Had no clue about his ex-wife and teenage sons.

  Amy-Jo scooted in next to Shelby. I had no clue of Amy-Jo’s last name, and she didn’t come across as the churchgoing type either. I swallowed a chuckle. Today her ensemble resembled a peacock . . . head to toe.

  Pastor Emory, a broad-shouldered man in his late forties, welcomed everyone and thanked them for their care and concern while his family suffered from the flu. He gave announcements and congratulated a couple on forty-eight years of marriage. At the sound of a guitar and drums, I startled. The contemporary service and the pastor in jeans and red tennis shoes reminded me of my parents’ church.

  An older man in the front pew stood. “Pastor, the newspaper said we have an ex-con in our community. Shelby Pearce murdered a family member and is living among decent people. How are we to handle such an atrocity? How are we to defend ourselves?”

  I glanced at Shelby, and she attempted to stand, but Amy-Jo pulled her down onto the hard bench. The older man must not have seen her sitting among them. Before meeting her, I’d have sided with the man. I expected criticism, but in church, where sinners were supposed to find forgiveness and support? No wonder I kept God at a distance.

  Pity for Shelby washed over me, which was odd. How could I have compassion for a woman who’d murdered a family member?

  “I read the newspaper article.” Pastor Emory sighed. “While I’m not disputing the circumstances, whoever wrote the piece chose to be anonymous.” He scanned the crowd. “Jesus would want us to give Ms. Pearce an opportunity to regain her dignity, to feel welcome.”

  “She’s not.” The man turned to face the crowd. “A good person lies in the ground.”

  “I suggest an open mind and heart. Be loving and discerning. If you have any other concerns about the matter, please contact me personally.”

  Shelby rose to her feet, although Amy-Jo attempted to yank her back down again. Edie gasped in front of me. Her son wrapped his arm around her shoulder.

  “Pastor Emory,” Shelby said. “I’d like a word, please.”

  He nodded and gestured for her to step to the pulpit. The older man resumed his perch on the front row.

  “No thank you. Here is fine.” Her back was the only part visible to me, but she trembled. “My name is Shelby Pearce. I chose Valleysburg to begin my life over after recommendations from the prison chaplain who is familiar with the area. My purpose is not to cause problems with anyone, young or old. I found Jesus Christ in prison. He accepted me, my past, my present, and my future. He is leading my life as my Lord and Savior. I ask the citizens of this town to give me a chance to show I’m sincere.” Shelby sat.

  Heat rushed into my face—for what I’d done to her, deceived her for my own well-being.

  The older man stood and looked out at the congregation. “Ms. Pearce, standing up for yourself takes guts. While I’m apprehensive about you living among us, I commend your courage. Accept my apology, and I will give you the chance you requested.” He turned to Pastor Emory. “Sorry to interrupt worship.”

  “No problem. I hope all of you will reflect Jesus in your actions.”

  The sermon took over the agenda, and I tuned out Pastor Emory.

  Yesterday, I followed shoe prints to a country road where the sender of Shelby’s card had driven away in a vehicle. Someone had developed a devious plan to get into her head, but the motives defeated me. What else had the person done? Would Shelby open up to me about other possible threats? As far as I was concerned, she’d never see the suicide-sympathy card unless I deemed it necessary. Except . . . she might recognize the handwriting and identify the sender.

  The service ended, and I waited in the rear to ask her to lunch. I had my truck to load her bicycle and plans to drive her home later. The older man exited his pew and nodded at her. He mumbled something indiscernible before he moved on. Edie and her two kids joined Shelby and Amy-Jo. Then the pastor and his wife stopped to chat. After-church conversation might take a while.

  An hour later, Shelby and I sat at a popular restaurant known for its down-home cooking. My order of chicken-fried steak smothered in pepper gravy with mashed potatoes and buttered green beans didn’t match her healthier choice.

  I patted my belly. “I see a six-mile run in my future, but it will be worth every cholesterol-filled bite.”

  “And drop of sweat.” A hint of a smile met me, and my heartbeat bolted like a schoolboy’s.

  “Is this your first restaurant meal after your release other than at the café?”

  She lifted her chin. How could one woman display such a picture of beauty and innocence? “Edie drove me through McDonald’s after picking me up at the bus station. Fabulous hamburger and fries.”

  I sighed. “My effort is number two. My ego is under the table.”

  She lifted a glass of iced tea with lemon to her lips. “Friendship isn’t based on ego. And you sounded like you were flirting, which is not up for discussion.”

  Was I interested in Shelby other than learning about the missing money? “My apologies.”

  She set the glass back on the table. “We had an interesting church service.”

  I shook my head. “You mean the man who wanted you tarred and feathered? Or the brave stand you took?”

  “Neither. I was talking about the pastor’s message.”

  Great. I hadn’t paid attention. “Okay, you go first.”

  “Faith is a part of my every breath. What about you?”

  “God and I have a difference of opinion on how He runs things. I attend church, depending on the occasion.”

  “He’s always in control of what’s happening in the world,” she said.

  “So I hear.”

  “You were there today.”

  “It fit the occasion.”

  She tilted her head and sadness cast a shadow on the moment. “Denton, my guess is you’ve scoured the Internet and read every post and viewed every video about what I did years ago. You heard the older man in church voice his disapproval. Since arriving in Valleysburg, I’ve been threatened, and I’ve promised to keep my distance from Edie. You’re aware of these things, and it hasn’t deterred you. By being seen with me publicly, you risk your reputation and your safety.” She hesitated. “Let’s be honest here. What’s the real reason for your keeping company with me?”

  “Do I need one?”

  She folded her hands on the table. “Over fifteen years ago, FBI Special Agent Allen Denton McClure was assigned to track down the disappearance of $500K, part of the case involving the murder of Travis Stover. The state of Texas filed the murder charges and tasked the FBI to help locate the money. Agent McClure and his partner, Special Agent Mike Kruse, failed to recover it. No one did. The missing money remains an open case. Back then your hair was dark brown. No mustache or beard. You got rid of your large-framed glasses, possibly in exchange for contacts. I say that because when we took the walk through the woods, your eyes reddened. I
assumed because of allergies. You’ve gone to a lot of trouble to portray a widower finding his way back from grief.” Pain from my betrayal flashed across her eyes. “Your turn, and I deserve the truth.”

  I’d underestimated her. Now I looked like a fool. I peered at her. Cover my rear or admit the truth? “How long have you known?”

  “Since Friday evening. No one gives a puppy without a reason.”

  “Shelby, I thought the puppy could be a companion. Nothing else.”

  “And you expect me to swallow another lie?”

  “Is that why you agreed to lunch?”

  She shrugged. “I’m curious.” She studied me as though I were a despicable specimen under a microscope. “Is this about adding credibility to your résumé? A promotion? Are you and Officer Hughes working together?”

  “It’s about seeking justice.”

  She glanced away, then back to me. How did she keep her face so calm? “Have you attempted to locate the money all these years?”

  I nodded. “Off and on.”

  She laughed, but it held no humor. “You’ve wasted years of your life on a travesty. How sad.”

  “Prove me wrong.”

  She leaned in closer. “I’ve spent years trying to understand what happened to Travis’s money. But it doesn’t control me.”

  “So your accomplice made off with it?” Contempt scorched like I’d swallowed acid.

  “Good one, Denton. If I’d enlisted someone to help me, the money would be long gone. No fool would wait on a killer who might never be released.”

  “What about the threats since you’ve arrived?”

  “My vote is for Officer Hughes or you.”

  “It’s not me.”

  “You’re a strange man, rather pathetic.” She paused. “At the end of your life, what will you have to show for your quest?”

  I’d pondered the same thing. “A life spent seeking truth.”