The Mourning Mail (final release candidate #7)

Chapter 29

The human mind is a fantastic thing. One of its underrated talents is the ability to record subtle oddities subliminally and nag you with discomfort as its collection grows.

A few days had passed after the enormous letdown that Richard Ainsworth wasn't Brian Pierce's killer. I'd been aware that someone was watching me, but I'd kept ignoring the significance, pushing it off to circumstances I couldn't control. I didn't need to add to all the negative emotions I'd recently felt around the Pierce and Seaver cases. And I was no longer actively investigating the discredited doctor or his cronies. Any side effects from poking my nose where someone thought it didn't belong should have gone away.

Today, as I was walking to my car in my apartment building's parking lot, I spotted a dark green Mustang several cars away from mine. I've seen that car before, too often for it to be a coincidence. This time, the sense of déjà vu wasn't going away.

As I backed out of my assigned space, I stayed in reverse, I turned to my right and kept going until I was perpendicular to the rear of the Mustang. Once I had a good view through my passenger-side window, I took a photo of the plates with my cell phone. As I did, I saw the vehicle's brake lights brighten, which meant the driver was still inside and resting his foot on the pedal. As I stepped out of my car to walk around the front of the Mustang, it pulled forward and left the lot. I'd first seen it behind me coming back from Darrell Woodson's place, which reassured me that this wasn't some predator stalking me because they had an inappropriate attraction or desire; this had something to do with Seaver or his cohorts. I wasn't pleased about being followed, but something I'd done had obviously hit a nerve; to a journalist, that's like X marking the spot on a treasure map to dig deeper.

A few hours later, the same realization came to me about a navy-blue Dodge Charger idling in a handicapped spot at Von's supermarket. It looked identical to the one I'd seen before parked behind my car in my apartment lot. The driver inside quickly averted his gaze when he saw me looking directly at him. I checked the plates against the photo I'd taken the second time I saw that vehicle, and they matched.

And now, the too-familiar onyx Ford Transit commercial van with blacked-out windows on its side - it sat on the curb of one of the access roads within the gates of the memorial gardens. I recalled seeing the van at least once previously because I had to fight past it to get into my car after a filling lunch. I had a strong sense I'd seen it other times as well, but I'd lost the memory among all the Amazon vehicles I'd seen dropping off packages. And once again, a reaction from the driver once I focused my eyes intently upon him—the van started up and moved off slowly.

Walking towards the family plot for my weekly visit with Mom and Dad, I felt genuinely anxious and threatened. If Seaver was having me followed, why? Only Dad and I, and now the police through Marci, knew of Seaver's link to Brian's letters or their existence. I didn't have any other information concerning Seaver that authorities didn't already have.

But a half-hour of sharing with my parents re-centered my worldview. It helped me see that someone following me was more upsetting than harmful as long as I knew of their presence. I would need to be more careful about who I might lead my pursuers to and any danger to them that could result.

I wanted to pay my respects to Brian and his family while there. Because I hadn't found his killer, I felt an apology would be cleansing. I was gathering my thoughts while strolling over to Brian's family plot when, without warning, everything coalesced in my head.

I had been confident that only the police knew of my connection to Brian's letters, and they wouldn't need to reveal to any other parties how they had obtained them. But a sudden, sickening feeling came over me as though someone had punched me below the beltline. Fear coursed through every fiber of my being. Dammit, there was a way someone could tie me to Brian Pierce's murder as an investigator. Please, please, let me be wrong.