The Mourning Mail (final release candidate #7)

Chapter 23

I had little to drink, but I was dragging as I got around the following morning. It was approaching nine o'clock when I had my second cup of coffee. With a bowl of Cheerios and sliced bananas to one side, I'd begun checking my e-mails.

The Bang! Bang! Bang! at the front door startled me into dropping my half-full cup onto the table. Warm coffee splashed across its surface and onto my robe, then dribbled onto the floor. I never get visitors, and the pounding generated a panic within me as it reverberated through my small apartment. I took a deep breath and grabbed the hand towel hanging on the oven door handle, dabbing at my robe as I walked to the peephole at the front door and peered out.

Two younger, fit men in dark suits and sunglasses stood in the hall behind a shorter man who appeared to be two decades older. "Who are you, and what do you want?" I asked through the closed door.

"My name is Dr. James Seaver, and I hear you've been asking about me, Ms. Wynn," the older man replied. "I was in your neighborhood and thought I'd drop by to clarify some things for you. It would be easier to talk if you would open the door."

My heart was pounding, but I needed to show I wasn't afraid of him. I fastened the security chain and opened the door the four inches it permitted, leaving Seaver and his cohorts standing in the hall. Through the gap, I could see that James Seaver was in his mid-fifties, balding, with what hair he had left almost entirely gray. He wore a camel sports coat with black slacks and a checked blue shirt that didn't hide a pronounced paunch.

He had a sallow complexion and wore a full gray beard trimmed to moderate length, with noticeably untrimmed eyebrows, nose, and ear hair. A prominent snout, large ears, and what seemed like a permanent frown etched in creases dominated his face. The leathery wrinkles on what I could see of his skin suggested he'd been a lifetime cigarette smoker.

The two thugs were large and muscular, each with a five-day growth of stubble, their hands crossed in front of them. Seaver was probably close to six feet tall, though the two men behind him were each a half-foot taller, making him seem short by comparison. I could see that the one nearest me had an earbud, and both had telltale bulges in their suit jackets, showing they were carrying firearms.

To make a point of my own, I grabbed my cell phone. As obviously as possible, I started a video of the three men through the door's opening. I stepped back to show more of my apartment for context and returned the focus to my visitors.

"Mr. Seaver, I..."

"That's Doctor Seaver, Ms. Wynn. It's rude not to acknowledge your betters," Seaver interrupted, wanting to control the conversation.

"No, Mr. Seaver, rudeness has nothing to do with it," I said, choosing to confront him, "but facts do. The medical board stripped you of your title because you broke the law not just once but frequently."

Seaver gave a deep sigh. With slow deliberation, he reached into his inner coat pocket, pulled out a pack of smokes, removed one, put the package back in his pocket, and lit the cigarette.

"This is a no-smoking building—please put that out," I said firmly.

Seaver squinted his eyes closed as he inhaled deeply in feigned obvious enjoyment but without saying a word. Then, opening his eyes and keeping them on me throughout, he slowly exhaled the smoke, blowing a smoke ring at the end. Seaver then removed the cigarette from his mouth with one finger and a thumb. With great deliberation, he extended his arm to its full length straight out in front of him. He let the lit cigarette drop onto the hallway carpet, then forcefully ground the butt into the fibers of the floor covering with the toe of his shoe.

What a classless prick, I thought.

"There, you see how cooperative I can be? Ms. Wynn, we can debate your misinformation all day long if you want to, but wouldn't it be better to have the conversation inside?" Seaver asked disingenuously. "Your neighbors don't need to know your business."

"That's the one thing you may be right about, Mr. Seaver," I responded as I began closing the door. "They don't. You should leave. Now."

"C'mon, be reasonable - what kind of attitude is that for a professional reporter, Ms. Wynn? You are a professional, are you not? Oh, wait, they fired you from your last actual job. So sad. Well, here's a news flash, Ms. Wynn. Responsible reporters interview people before accusing them of anything, and I am presenting myself for an interview."

"You are again mistaken—responsible reporters interview reliable witnesses, and you don't qualify, Mr. Seaver," I replied. "When and if I expose you publicly for who you are and what you've done, we can discuss whether you have any right to an interview. I haven't, and you don't. But I'll assume your request for an interview serves as your tacit approval of the video recording I'm capturing of your visit here today."

"You're not understanding how this works, Ms. Wynn," Seaver said, obviously trying to control his anger. "I am a private citizen, not a public figure. You have no right to stalk me, harass me, or interfere with my life. I was trying to do this peaceably, but if you prefer me to go the cease-and-desist route, I can do that. Ask your friends on the force how that's working out for them."

"I don't think it's as quiet on that front as you think it is," I retorted. "It's just a matter of time before you go to prison for the murder of your wife and your part in the murders of two other human beings. I intend to be one of many people helping make that happen." Challenging him might not have been my brightest move, but I wouldn't let this SOB run all over me.

"For someone who claims she relies on facts, you need to get yours straight," Seaver said in a steady but controlled voice. "I was a person of interest in just one disappearance where the subject ran off of her own volition. And they only looked at me because I was her husband. Ask your friend Darrell Woodson how that goes."

"Are you through, Mr. Seaver, or will I have to call the police to remove you from my doorway?" I asked as firmly as I could, knowing my voice was quivering.

"You should know that any other ridiculous claims you want to make are slander," Seaver said. "Slandering people is one of several ways you could end up never working again. And crawling around in the muck and the mire trying to make something stick that never happened is risky business. There are consequences. People have accidents. Sometimes consequences and accidents can end careers."

"So, your 'tell' is making gangster threats," I said matter-of-factly. "I find it fascinating that you went to all this trouble to intimidate little ole me. I've been doing this a long time, and that says to me we're getting close, and you are running scared. Is your little house of cards collapsing in on you, Jimmie?"

I could tell that hit the mark. Seaver didn't seem like someone who dealt well with strong women in the first place, and one had just called him out in front of his henchmen. I saw his face redden, and for a split second, I thought I'd overplayed a weak hand, that he would rush the door in uncontrolled rage. The thought terrified me, even as I tried not to show it.

He pursed his lips, glanced down at his shoes in apparent contemplation, and then merely raised his eyes to glare at me with a menacing look. "As you wish, Ms. Wynn, we'll be on our way," he said. "For now. We will no doubt continue this discussion at a later time. After all, it's not like we don't know where you live—oh, and you do work from home, do you not, Ms. Wynn?"

And then he turned on his heels and began walking casually down the hall, the two goons closely trailing.

I closed the door softly so that I wouldn't let Seaver have the satisfaction of knowing he'd gotten to me, and then I fastened the deadbolt. But he had achieved his desired effect—I was shaking like a leaf in a windstorm, a mixture of fear, helplessness, and anger swirling in my head.

James Seavercouldn't take all the credit for how I felt. Seaver's behaviors betrayed him as the doppelgängerof my great-uncleLeo,whose ghost had to shoulder some of the blame.