Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Present day
Outside Shelly Holdcraft’s home, Fletch clenched his jaw, placing mounting pressure on his molars as he cut the lights on the truck.
Sitting as still as a statue, he watched Michelle make her way up the driveway.
If he hadn’t been assured by Colton that her house was safe, there would have been no way he could have let her leave like she was doing. It was selfish what he’d done.
Making his presence known to Michelle.
Saving her.
In reality, her death would have saved her from ever learning about the agency.
Fletch could tell himself that he did what he did for Denny, and that wouldn’t be a lie. However, after all these years, he could admit if only to himself that he saved Michelle for her and for him.
Fletch included two other operatives on this mission, and he knew he’d get his ass chewed.
Leo had been close. Fletch could have taken cleanup duty at Denny’s, but not with Shelly at his side.
The work needed to be done. The shed had to go.
Any evidence that Dennis Holdcraft wasn’t simply a retired policeman living in the woods had to be erased.
Leo went above and beyond by providing the pickup truck, returning the snowmobile, and scouring the cabin. When two people faced death together time after time together, and a favor was requested, questioning never occurred.
Yes. Copy. Received.
Without Leo’s help in Iron Falls and Colt’s help in Indianapolis, the shitstorm Denny found himself in would have been a lot worse.
Fletch turned off the truck and settled in, Shelly’s house in his view. He recalled the first time he’d laid eyes on her; she was a recent college graduate. He’d been assigned to a case in Indianapolis. Prior to Denny’s move, the case would have been his.
The time had come for jury selection in a high-profile case.
The agency had a stake in the verdict. Sometimes the agency took care of the problems themselves.
Other times, they allowed the appearance of justice.
Allowing a case to go to trial accomplished many things, such as bringing evidence to light that would have been hidden with the alternative.
There in the courtroom was Michelle Holdcraft, sitting in the third row.
Fletch was new to the agency, but he knew Denny.
He’d heard about Tracy. Seeing Shelly Holdcraft in person was a starstruck moment.
Somehow the two agents had pulled off the double life.
Not many in the agency could do it. They had and the proof was right in front of him. Shelly Holdcraft was indeed real.
Her light-blue eyes studied each potential juror with the narrow-mindedness she’d acquired in pre-law.
The defense wanted impartial, open-minded, and sympathetic candidates.
The prosecutor wanted jurors who would follow instructions, consider facts objectively, assess credibility, and base their decisions on evidence.
That was basic jury selection.
It wasn’t the way the agency looked at juries. The world was more black-and-white in their eyes. Good versus evil. Right versus wrong. Understanding the sides was more complicated than a simple moral dilemma.
Fletch hadn’t been certain which way Michelle was leaning.
The case involving the abduction of a young girl had received national attention.
There was more at stake than the future of the accused.
A network involving abducted children needed to be exposed.
The perpetrator, while guilty as sin, needed to be released.
Doing so would make him a target to those over him.
The agency wasn’t satisfied with putting the man in prison. They wanted those higher up the ladder. Those people would probably kill the defendant in time. That was less expensive to the taxpayers.
It took Fletch’s discipline and grounded determination to stay focused on the case at hand. Despite that training, Fletch had the urge to move a few rows up and introduce himself.
Of course, he wouldn’t have used his real name.
When they finally met, he did. Fletcher was the name he used to have, when he was alive. In the agency, he was known as Arrow, an agent that found his targets.
Fletch had been mostly right about the jurors to be seated. There was one in particular who would be useful. Fletch couldn’t visit the courthouse every day of the trial without calling attention to himself. He didn’t return or see Shelly again until the day of the verdict.
He knew the outcome before the announcement.
That was why he was shocked at the ending of Michelle’s novel The Wishing Well.
In her story, she changed a few key pieces of evidence.
If she only knew how accurate she’d been.
In reality, it wasn’t the storyteller who altered the evidence. It was the agency.
It took only one juror to cause a hung jury.
Seat the right influential juror and that one person can persuade the entire group. In the actual case, it was a woman—juror number seven. In The Wishing Well, the trial ended with a guilty verdict.
While Fletch hadn’t expected that, he liked the way it worked on the page. After all, the author didn’t know all the layers at work, or that despite the mistrial, the defendant would soon be no more.
Fletch’s cellphone buzzed, returning him to the present. The name on the screen was COLT. Fletch answered right away. “She’s in the house.” He didn’t need to say her name.
“Peterson is irate.”
The agency didn’t have ranks.
It wasn’t an official national agency within the military or intelligence community.
However, if it were and if there were ranks, Peterson would be a sergeant major who thought he was a four-star general. He was a blowhard who opened his mouth too often.
“Fuck him,” Fletch replied. “Both her parents gave their lives for the agency. That’s enough sacrifice for one family.”
“He wants you out there tomorrow. You’d better start driving or get yourself a plane ticket.”
Fletch had no intention of traveling to the agency’s complex in nowhere Montana tonight or even tomorrow. “Been driving for eleven hours straight. I’m getting some shut-eye, or the agency will be down another agent. Peterson can stew for a while.”
“Listen, Arrow,” Colt said, his voice lower. “My assignment has me in her area for a few more days. I’ll keep an eye on Denny’s girl.”
The muscles tightened in Fletch’s neck and shoulders.
Denny’s girl was a woman who had a name.
Fletch had no intention of leaving Shelly’s life in the hands of anyone else, even if that was what the powers that be wanted.
“Appreciate that,” he replied. “Thanks for getting her the paper trail. I owe you.”
“You would have done it for me.”
Fletch would have done it. No questions. That’s what they did.
“I’ll contact Peterson. Once she makes it through the next couple days, she will be able to carry on with her life.”
“Kind of nice when things work out.”
Fletch shrugged. “Not so great for Denny.”
“You’re right, man. Stay where you are for him.”
Fletch disconnected the call.
There were more lights on in Michelle’s home now than a few minutes ago. Illumination glowed from behind plantation blinds. The ranch style house sat on less than half an acre. Yet, the neighborhood was one of the upscale ones in the area.
On his phone, Fletch pulled up the app to her cameras. These weren’t the cameras she told him about, but the ones Fletch installed inside her house as a favor for her father.
Denny wanted to keep an eye on his daughter. Of course, he didn’t know that Fletch also had the ability to watch. Fletch hit the history on the camera in the kitchen. The recording was activated by movement and sound. What he was seeing occurred minutes ago.
Shelly came on the screen upon entering the house and going directly to the kitchen counter.
Lying on the granite surface was a crumpled Greyhound ticket.
Fletch couldn’t read the paper from the camera, yet he knew it had the appropriate dates.
Colt sent him pictures. The American Airline paper ticket had her name, a first-class seat from Boston to Indianapolis, arriving the night before Denny was killed.
Fletch leaned back against the vinyl seat and exhaled.
Every i was dotted and every t crossed.
Fletch figured he should find a place to sleep for at least a few hours. A nagging pull in his gut told him to stay put. Maybe he didn’t want to leave Shelly, not yet. Every fiber of his being told him that ignorance would be Shelly’s savior, not him.
Fletch would only bring danger.
From where Fletch had parked, he could see one of her bedroom windows on the side of the house near the back.
That room was now lit. He switched to her bedroom camera on his phone.
Watching her in her private bedroom and bathroom was undoubtedly crossing an ethical line.
The agency didn’t answer to a higher entity or even congressional oversight.
In other words, they weren’t big on ethics.
Results were what mattered. Statistically, if someone wanted to harm Shelly, entering her home at night and encountering her in her bedroom was the most probable situation.
That was why he placed the camera there.
Fletch’s breathing deepened as Shelly disrobed. Less than twenty-four hours ago, he’d had her in his arms. His lips and fingers roamed over her soft curves. He recalled the sounds she made as she came, the sweet tang of her essence, and the undeniable pleasure of being inside her.
The tendons in his neck pulled tight as she washed him away, the first step in doing as he asked—forget him.
After her shower, Shelly combed her long fiery hair, donning soft shorts and a large shirt.
He watched as she walked barefoot from her bedroom and entered her office.
Curiosity grew within him as she sat down at her desktop.
If Fletch were set up with more than just his phone, he could share her screens, seeing in real time as she researched and typed.
Most of Shelly’s books, Fletch read as she wrote. It fascinated him the way she would write and rewrite, as if the voices in her head were too loud and fast to ignore for anything as mundane as adjectives or adverbs. Those came later, adding depth, color, and emotion.
As Fletch considered pulling away from the curb, content with Shelly’s safety for the night, a local police car came slowly down the street, its headlights narrowly missing Fletch sitting in the cab of the truck. The cruiser turned, pulling into Michelle’s driveway.