Chapter 11
She stood inside by the front window and stared out into the night. London’s truck was in her driveway. All the neighbors would think he was staying overnight at her house. Not what she wanted them to see. Or think.
Then again, she hadn’t given a damn about what the neighbors thought for a long time. But obviously she hadn’t given up caring about London.
Even now anger thrummed through her. She was so enraged and so frustrated that he’d believed his lying, scheming snake of a brother. She wanted to believe Derek wasn’t involved any deeper in this mess. But, if he was, it would be justice when she saw him locked up for life. Yet he was such a weakling. She couldn’t see him killing anyone.
On the other hand, he was easily manipulated. Somebody behind him, yanking his chain and forcing him to get involved, now that she saw.
She felt her ire rolling through, building higher. She crossed her arms over her chest, like holding in her anger. No way she could sleep tonight. Not with this going on.
She spun on her heels and stormed back into the kitchen. There was still leftover pizza. She emptied the boxes, putting the few remaining pieces on a plate, off to the side. She took the boxes out to the recycling bin and tossed them in. Back inside again, she cleaned up the few plates. She grabbed a broom, turning on the light on both sides of the kitchen as she swept up pizza crumbs and little bits of lint and dust from the post office bag. As she bent with the dustpan to collect the pile, she caught sight of an envelope half under the kitchen cabinet that held her towels. She cleaned up the dirt, dumped it into the garbage can and replaced the broom and dustpan, then walked back to the envelope.
No green was around it, for which she was grateful, but there was an odd look to it. One she couldn’t define. She glanced around at the windows and back at the envelope. There was almost a shimmer around it. Was it a bleed-through from whatever Detective Sutherland had done to the windows and doors? Or was it something else entirely?
She reached out a hand and then pulled back. She went to the pantry, put on plastic gloves, returned to pick up the envelope. Her first name and box number were written on the front. Yet no stamp, no return address, nothing to identify who the sender was. She stared at it with misgivings.
And then she realized London might still be on the front step. Should she take this to him? Or open it herself? If she did open it, and it was suspicious, she was sure the cops would say she had created it herself.
She walked to the front door, unlocked the bolts and pulled open the door. London sat to the side, leaning against one of the big support posts on the front porch. He turned toward her. She held up the envelope and said, “You guys missed one. It slid underneath the cabinet off to the side.” She held it out so he could read it, and she turned it over. “There’s no identification, nothing to say who the sender was. But it looks and feels odd.” Yet she couldn’t decide in what way. It wasn’t full of poison, but there was almost a hint of it. But so faint … so old as to not be.
He motioned at her gloved hands and said, “Does it also smell like poison?”
No mockery was in his voice so she answered honestly. “No, there’s no poison, but I don’t like it.”
He studied her face for a long moment and then glanced at the envelope. “Let’s figure out what it is.” He carefully pulled on gloves he had in one pocket and then withdrew a pocketknife from his other pants pocket to slit open the top of the envelope and to withdraw the letter. He unfolded it, and his eyebrows shot up. He turned slowly so she saw it was another letter made from cut-out newspaper lettering. This time the message was very clear.
I won’t be happy until everyone around you is dead. Just like everyone around me is dead—because of you.
She stared at it and shook her head. “That makes no sense.”
“We really need to talk about this,” he said quietly. “The sender of this letter seems to think you have something to do with killing his family or friends.”
“Why? I didn’t kill anyone,” she cried out. So fed up with it all, she just wanted to slam the door on him again. “So what if there’s another crazy person looking to blame me for the injustices in his life? For all you know, this wacko went off his meds, killed his own family, all because, in his head, I wouldn’t go to the prom with him.”
Silence followed her outburst as he stared at her. “Who didn’t you go to prom with?”
She raised her hands in frustration, then popped off her gloves. “None of your goddamned business.” She stormed back into her house and went to slam the door. But he stuck his boot in the way. She glared at him and waited.
In a gentle voice he said, “It is my business. When people around you are dying, we have to know everything there is to know about you. If you have an unhappy suitor after you, maybe it’s because you did turn him down for the prom.”
“I never went to prom so not an issue.” She continued to glare at him, not willing to give an inch. “I didn’t do anything to anyone. My research was never used on humans. As far as I know, I had no enemies before being charged. Now the world hates me.” She pointed toward the envelope he still held. “I can’t be held responsible for every wacko who uses me as a target.”
“Calling yourself Dr. Death doesn’t help,” he urged. “It’s like asking to be a target.”
She stared at him and gave a bitter laugh. “You have no idea. I’ve been dealing with death since I was two years old.”
She tried again to slam the door, but he held out a hand and asked urgently, “What do you mean?”
She gave him a flat stare. “Figure it out yourself.”
When he wouldn’t move, she reached back and kicked the door. The force of it popped his foot off the threshold, and the door slammed shut. She threw the bolts and returned to the kitchen. She dropped the gloves into the garbage can, then took a careful look around the floor to make sure no other letters had been dropped. It appeared to be clear. She shut off the lights and walked upstairs.
She had intended to take the leftover pizza to him while he sat in his lonely vigil. But now she was too mad to be bothered.
Upstairs she grabbed her laptop, set it on her bed and quickly took a shower before getting into her pajamas.
After climbing back into bed, she contacted several of her friends in England. What she really wanted to know was whether the extension for a contract at the gardens was open. She was so done with all this. And she wanted out before things got any uglier, and everyone here turned against her again. She fired off several emails.
When everybody had first spewed their poison and hate to such an extent that it made her violently ill just seeing one more comment, she’d closed all her social media accounts, swearing she’d never open another one. Not able to help herself, she typed her name into the Google search bar to see if anything new came up.
Of course she found an article about her having found the body tonight—late last night—at the conservatory. And how the hell the media had found that out so soon, she didn’t know. Her name was in the article about the death of Pam Akers as well.
And thus a resurgence of interest was spawned as to the two previous deaths of the maintenance man and the visitor at the conservatory. Of course they somehow got her nickname—Dr. Death—into that new rewrite of that older news. Her nickname brought sensationalism, making it almost mandatory to work into the articles. Nobody gave a damn that it ruined her life. That she was an innocent victim in all this.
Finally, when she could read no more, she turned off her laptop, put it on the far side of her bed, snuggled under the blanket and grabbed a book. Of all the things she missed about being relocated, it was her pets. She’d had two beautiful cats, but she had been forced to give them away when it looked like she was headed to jail. No way would she leave them in a shelter.
Reggie and Pam had taken them. Now Fern worried about who was taking care of her cats now. She was also afraid, when she woke up the next morning, that she would be the headline news—all over again.
*
London studied the latest cut-and-paste letter, realizing it needed to be with the others. Was he really doing anything of value sitting here like some lost Romeo, waiting outside her house? Not really. He suspected the killer was more interested in hurting her than killing her. Although the end game would be her death for sure. Particularly if she got off through the court system again. And that would imply he expected her to be charged once more.
London grabbed his stuff, walked to his truck and hopped in. He had to get back to the office to see about those letters.
He drove to FBI headquarters, pulling around to the back. A couple people were still here but not many. Using his keys, he let himself into the office and headed to his desk. Steve said he had put all the mail in Conference Room 12.
Setting down his laptop, London walked into the designated room and to the table with the piles of the various letters. There was the first one done with newspaper. He laid the two of them side by side. Then he walked over to the scanner, scanned each in and brought the pictures up on the big screen. In his mind, he had no doubt they were from the same hand. Were there others? Earlier ones? He got his laptop and brought up the case files.
None put into forensic evidence as far as he saw, and no notes said someone had written letters like this back then. He sent off an email to the lead detectives on both sets of the murder cases, asking if they had seen anything like this. He attached the two images and hit Send.
He glanced at the amount of mail sitting here for them to process and shook his head. So much hate. How was it possible for the world to lock on to one target? He walked out of the conference room, shut off the light and closed the door. When he got back to his laptop, he found an email message flashing. From one of the police detectives. So it wasn’t just him working late. Then some cases were like that. London sat and read it.
She brought in two similar to this. We never did find out who sent them. They weren’t deemed a high priority.
“How about now?” London asked the empty room. He continued to read.
Where did you get these two letters?
His reply was short and sweet. He thought about whether to add anything else to the email and then typed:
I’m concerned. She was acquitted once, but it seems like someone wants to make sure she doesn’t get off a second time.
He hit Send.
The response was almost instant.
I never believed she was guilty to begin with. When she was acquitted, several were furious. Now that time has gone by, there is a little more distance. People are less likely to jump on her as a possible suspect. Nobody wants that circus we went through before.
London finished typing his response and sent it.
Neither does she.
London sat back and wondered if somebody had walked into her house and left that envelope there. An unnerving thought. He picked up his phone and called her. When she answered, her voice sounded sleepy. “What’s the chance that the letter under your cabinet wasn’t in the mailbag?”
“What are you talking about?”
He could hear her, like she was shaking the sleep from her eyes. He bolted to his feet and said, “What’s the chance somebody put that letter in your house?”
There was silence first, then she asked cautiously, “Like an intruder?”
“Yes.” He grabbed his keys. “I’m coming to your place.”
“Why would you think of that suddenly? Do you think I’m in danger?” she asked in alarm.
“It’s always been in the back of my mind. You continue to be his target.”
“I have security on all the windows and doors.”
“You might have, but what good is that security if you set it up after the intruder got into your house?”
“What are you saying?” Her voice rose in a short gasp.
“I mean, what if someone’s in your house right now.”
He heard her gasp of shock. And her heavy swallow.
She whispered, “Get your ass over here now.” It was followed by a click as her phone shut down.
Damn it. He needed her to stay on the line.
*
He tilted his head back and contemplated life. He was at an interesting stage right now. Something he had wanted for a long time, and here it was—within his grasp. That elusive second chance.
But he had to play the game like a pro. He needed her. But he doubted she’d come willingly. He’d given her the chance. Once.
After that, well, she’d had a taste of freedom. He had no compunction about taking it away from her again. If she’d been jailed like she should have been, he’d have gotten to her there.
But she’d been acquitted. Something he still didn’t understand.
But he was nothing if not adaptable.
Maybe another test or two. She’d passed everything he’d flung at her so far.
He could wait. For a day or so. Not more.
He was too eager to get back to the results he’d watched roll in for years. He was desperate to see them again.