The Pastor’s Daughter: Episode XII

The first thing I did when I reached the Atlantic  City metro area was to hand the keys of the vacation house to the realtor. I also settled the rent that was owing and gave him my Middle River address in case any mail came for Brittany in the vacation house. I told him to forward her mails to my address.

He was really sorry about what happened to Brittany. He told me it was very sad that such a young and beautiful girl should have such a terrible accident. Since I wasn’t in the mood for his pleasantries, I simply grunted, shook hands with him and went back to  the car.

I drove to the police station where I collected Brittany’s cine camera and its case. When I got there, Lieutenant Reid kept me waiting for almost thirty minutes. Eventually, he sent a sergeant out with the camera. The sergeant made me to sign a receipt for it. After signing, I left the police station, got into my car and drove slowly into the traffic-congested road.

The experience I hard while still at the compound of Brittany’s vacation house made me alert. When I was leaving the police station in my car, I had noticed in the driving mirror, a black Pontiac pull out from behind another parked car and drift after me. I would have been less suspicious of the car if I hadn’t been certain that someone had been watching me when I was at the vacation house. But now I was so sure that this car was following me that I can even bet on it. There was a dark blue sun shield covering the wind screen of the Pontiac. And, for this reason I could not see who was driving. This added to my suspicion.

Pretending to be driving out of the city, I headed for Absecon, driving at a moderate speed. Due to my alertness, I glanced in the driving mirror from time to time. I noticed that the Pontiac had kept a respectful hundred yards behind me. I remained calm and kept driving, maintaining a steady forty miles an hour. Still the Pontiac kept after me.

As soon as I reached the highway, I decided to see if the Pontiac was really following me. I told myself I would feel much more better if it was a mere coincidence that the car hung in my rear. So I eased the speed of the Mercedes up to sixty. The Pontiac still remained a hundred yards behind me. By now I had became very alarmed. My life could be in danger, I thought. I was convinced that to be alive in the next one hour, I must lose the Pontiac. The Mercedes surged forward. I was so happy that it had plenty of speed and snap. Soon I was making about eighty miles an hour. I noticed that the Pontiac had fallen back. I also noticed that it had increased speed. I have now confirmed that I was being followed because as I watched in the driving mirror the Pontiac was closing the gap again. I don’t stand the chance of shaking it off on this flat, straight highway. So I decided that the best time to try tricks would be when I reached Absecon.

I slacked the speed to sixty mile an hour, and drove steadily to the end of the highway. The Pontiac hung on, with the driver keeping its hundred yards distance. On getting to the toll gates, I slowed down to pay the tolls. The Pontiac moved up and closed the gap between us. Obviously, the driver had realized that I would be much more difficult to follow once I was in Absecon traffic. Again, following my instinct,  I used the opportunity to memorize the car’s number. There was only about twenty yards between us as I drove into the thick Absecon  traffic.

Now is the time to shake the Pontiac off, I told myself. My first attempt, however, wasn’t successful. The driver appears to be good at maneuvering in congested traffic than I was. So the only thing I achieved when I made my bid was wild hooting from the on-coming traffic and curses from the drivers of cars on either side of me. I made another attempt, and this time I succeeded. Finally I shook him off! I was so excited.  I immediately changed direction and drove back to Atlantic City.

On reaching  Atlantic City, I drove into Marriott Hotel and swung the Mercedes into the only available space before the hotel. Luckily for me, there was a porter around the corner. I told him to keep an eye on the car and then went quickly into the lobby.

I wanted to be sure that I lost the black Pontiac, so I paused to look through the revolving doors to see if I could spot it. I was relieved that there was no sign of it. I went into the bar and ordered a Vodka. I then took Brittany’s camera from its case and opened it. I immediately discovered that both the film spool and the take-up spool were missing. I slid the catch of the film gate release. To my surprise, a strip of torn film about three inches long dropped into my lap.

I started examining the films. They actually confirmed what I had thought had happened. My theory was that someone had opened the camera. Whoever it was that opened it had also taken out the two spools with the film wound on to them. And, maybe out of impatience or anxiety, he or she had yanked the film clear of the gate.

I’m done with the camera for now, I said to myself. I also told myself that the best thing to do at this moment would be to replace the film and lock the gate into position. And I did exactly that. I then put the camera into its case, lit a cigarette and did some thinking.

There is no doubt that Mr. A had ripped out the film. There is only one explanation for that: Brittany may have taken pictures of something he didn’t want anyone to see. Perhaps he had come on her while she was by the window, and as he approached her, she had turned the camera on him. He had realized that it would be too dangerous to leave such a record in the camera. So he had ripped out the film and destroyed it after he got rid of her.

After he got rid of her.

By now I’m sure that Brittany’s death was not an accident.  I was something to I was sad to admit, but the fact that the film was missing from the camera and that they had been taken from the vacation house seems to validate that conclusion. This also means that Reverend Waters’ wild guess had been right. Brittany hadn’t died accidentally. She hadn’t committed suicide either. She was murdered. I was now in a very hot soup – more than I had imagined. She was murdered! I knew then that the finger of guilt  would soon be pointing at me if I wasn’t  careful.

END OF EPISODE XII

P.S. Episode Thirteen  will be published here next Monday.