Page 103 of Trace of Doubt
“And for the truth,” Shelby said. “I want to know what Marissa’s been doing the past several years.”
After Pastor Emory prayed with us and drove back to town, I called Mike and updated him. I asked him to contact Houston’s FBI and relay our findings. With the new info, the bureau would be supportive.
He thanked me with one of his favorite phrases—not suitable for kids or Christians. “I’ll arrange protective custody for Clay and Aria and dig into updates on Marissa. I’ll have the assigned agents tell Clay that he and Aria are in immediate danger.”
“He may suspect Marissa.”
“I’ll brief the agents to tell him nothing. If I’m going to spend my days before retirement on a case, you’d better keep me posted. Hourly. I’m leaving for Valleysburg as soon as I throw together a bag.”
“Thanks. Appreciate it.”
“I’ll call you every thirty minutes. I don’t like surprises. Look for me at your door.”
While the aroma of freshly brewed coffee swirled around me, the sheriff paced, Shelby made notes in her journal, and I... I hoped I hadn’t lost my mind with a ridiculous plan.
“We need a timetable.” The sheriff grabbed a sandwich and another blueberry scone along with a mug of coffee. “How’s this goin’ to play out?”
“We’re looking at digging up facts, evidence, and how to interact with unpredictable people like money launderers—tonight. All based on Marissa contacting Shelby.”
“With those odds, maybe we should have asked Pastor to stay. Put in a good word to God,” the sheriff said.
We needed all the divine help available on the planet. “Mike is working on gathering intel. As soon as he has something, he’ll forward it to me. Basically, I’ll take Shelby home. When a plan’s in place, she’ll leave the rear of her cabin into the woods to a safe location. About six in the morning, I’ll check on her cabin with the excuse I was worried about her state of mind. Then I’ll call you with a missing person report. Notifying the paper and Amy-Jo of her disappearance gets the word out. One issue is James Peterson.”
“My department,” the sheriff said. “I’ll tell him this is part of a plan to keep her safe, and the FBI is monitorin’ the situation.”
She frowned. “Where will I go while I wait for Marissa’s call?”
“I have a deer lease.” Sheriff Wendall crossed his arms over his chest. “Not fancy, but it’s a real cozy cabin.”
“It’s not hunting season, right?” She smiled, but I knew she feared the worst.
“And we intend to keep it that way. Problem is, I don’t have time to drive you there and get back to follow up on Denton’s call.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ve got an idea.” Mike would earn his retirement.
62
SHELBY
Timing, the crucial element of every sting operation. An exhilaration in my spirit gave me incredible energy, or perhaps the adrenaline came from my commitment to bring justice to light and honor Travis’s memory. With an hour left until I made my exit and met up with Mike Kruse, I showered and dressed.
Alone in my cabin, my mind refused to slow down. I’d listened to Denton talk about money laundering and read FBI articles. I banked on Marissa’s delay to memorize what I needed to know.
Marissa had attempted four times to persuade the parole board to review my case. Now I saw her persistence wasn’t for my benefit. If she’d taken off while I sat behind bars, I’d have nailed her. So I needed to be out of the picture. As a result she used Mom and Dad’s generosity as a cover, like she’d used the family bakery, church involvement, community activities, and at least one alias. Did she work for Eli Chandler or the other way around?
Slow down.
I tossed my inhalers, my journal, and a few clothing items into my backpack. Not a difficult task when my life’s belongings could be held in one hand. I’d entered the official world of minimalism.
Not calling Dad needled me, but I’d given Denton my word not to contact him. The FBI were enroute to transport Dad and Aria into protective custody. I longed to be with them, to hear their voices, and touch them. Soon... First things first.
My flashlight kept me company until Mike texted me for the meetup. My God, who held the grand kaleidoscope, promised myriad colors for the future.
The GPS on Mike’s car sent us in a northwestern route, an hour away.
His stomach growled. “We should have grabbed some donuts.”
I reached behind the passenger seat for a small box. “What’s your poison? Because I have a mixed dozen of day-old Amy-Jo’s specialties.”
