Ouroboros

             It was an envelope. 

             A white envelope which felt oddly heavy as Neve Temple ran her fingers over its edges as she contemplated what to do with it. The oddly-flourished iridescent green lettering had her address on it all right, but the name of the addressee---one Gyles Mayhew---didn’t live here.

             She could just write Not At This Address and drop it back in her box, but something about the way the ink sparkled and the strange, almost plastic smoothness of the envelope brought her up short. This letter was just odd. 

             She held it up to the sunlight streaming through the glass panes on either side of her front door but she couldn’t even make out the shadow of the missive inside. Odd.

             Of course, she could just pretend that she hadn’t noticed the address and open it. That must happen all the time. But it was wrong to read someone else’s mail, even if it were sent to her. Maybe she should just toss it and be done with the matter. But what if it were an important piece of mail? 

             She sighed and reached for her letter opener. She had to know---this was too weird. As she dragged the straight edge across the top of the envelope, she could have sworn she heard a harp being swiftly plucked in an ascending sweep. 

             There was a neatly folded piece of lavender parchment inside, a little larger than a normal piece of paper. It was semi-translucent and covered with the neat green calligraphy the address had been written in. She read it immediately.

             Gyles –

             You are not losing your mind. 

             The snake ate itself, just as you predicted it would. Much has transpired since, of which I am forbidden to speak, but know you this: you are the author of events. 

             Do not despair. Everything will be just fine.

             M-

             The initial ended with another twirly flourish, obviously the hallmark of a narcissist. 

Neve’s brow knitted. What the hell was this all about?

She placed the letter on her desk, brooding.

She tried to put the strange letter out of her mind and nearly succeeded. The next day, however, she found another letter in her mailbox, quite similar to the first, but with a disturbing addition: this one was addressed to Ms. Neve Temple.

She made herself a cup of tea and sat at her breakfast table for a good while, sipping it slowly, and working up the courage to open it. The cup was empty for quite some time before she did.

Ms Temple –

You oughtn’t read other people’s mail.

M-

The cup shattered on the floor.

“What do you mean, it’s not your problem?”

Linc Sherman bit his lip and stared patiently at the crazy woman. After a moment, he said, “Ma’am, as I told you, we simply deliver the mail. We don’t write it. If you feel threatened, call a cop---not a mailman.”

“How did it get to my home so quickly?”

Linc smiled. “Contrary to the media, your postal service is a very efficient operation….”

“I opened the other letter the day before. How did it get to my home in just one day? You’re not that efficient.”

Linc frowned. “Why did you open the first letter again?”

“It was a mistake. Look---think about it. In order for that letter to arrive within 24 hours after I opened the first---and forget for a moment how anyone could possibly know I’d opened it---it would have had to be sent Special Delivery or something, right?”

“Ma’am, while the United States Postal Service offers a wide variety of delivery options, courier service isn’t one of them.”

“Exactly. So how did it get to my mailbox?”

“Someone probably put it in there themselves.”

She waved the envelope under his nose. “After they postmarked it?”

             Linc put his cheaters back on. He frowned more deeply. “Umm, ma’am…”

             “Yes?”

             “That was postmarked three days ago.”

             A third letter arrived the next day.

             It was addressed to Gyles Mayhew again. In that beautiful flowing calligraphic script that sparkled and danced in the sunlight, it also said, “Intended for the named recipient only---private and confidential.” “Private” and “Confidential” were underlined in thick strokes. It was heavier and lumpier than the first.

             Neve left that one on her desk, unopened. 

             She sat in the rubble of her life, sobbing softly. 

             She’d been very thorough. She’d worked her way systematically through the entire house, pulling out every drawer, emptying every cupboard, feeling her way over every surface. Nothing. 

             And yet it had to be there. Had to be. How else could they have known?

             She’d even climbed up into the attic and inspected every floor joist with a flashlight, just in case they had used one of those filament cameras like you see in the movies. 

             The notion had given her a brief sense of hope. Maybe this was just one of those hidden camera shows, “America Laughs At Itself” or what have you.

             No one was jumping out with release forms to sign, though. 

             And here she sat, her eyes burning and her nose running, utterly perplexed. 

             A soft rapping on the door awakened her. 

             She looked out the peephole to see a middle-aged man with bushy eyebrows and dark bags under his heavy-lidded eyes smiling ruefully back at her.

             “Ms Temple?” he asked, reaching in his coat. He swiftly opened the leather case within, showing a brass and navy blue badge with FBI printed in big letters on it. “May I have a word with you?”

             She unbolted and opened the door, her fingers numb.

             He brushed past her, his raincoat streaming behind him. He looked at her apologetically and pointed toward her recliner. “May I?”

             She nodded.

             He lowered himself slowly into the chair. “Back trouble,” he smiled.

             She sat on the couch.

             “Ms Temple, would you mind telling me about the letters.” He pulled out a memo pad and a fountain pen.

             She just stared at him for a moment, thinking. But the relief at being taken seriously by someone was too much to pass up. She recounted her story while he asked his questions and took detailed notes.

             “Well,” he said at last, “I think I have everything.” He prepared to rise, gingerly.

             It hit her then.

             “Is something wrong, Ms Temple?”

             “How did you know about the letters? I didn’t tell anyone except the man at the post office.” She stared hard at him.

             His 9mm pistol cleared his holster before she could react. She never even heard it fire.

             He looked at her, grimacing and stretching his back. The entry wound had pulled a bit to just over her right eye. That was the problem with having become an agent so late in life, after his DARPA career had fizzled out. He’d never be much of a marksman.

             He crossed over to her desk and picked up the envelope, tearing it open without a second thought. Inside was a deed and a key. He smiled.

             He headed toward the front door, stopping briefly to pick up the memo pad he’d dropped, the formulas handwritten with his usual style in shimmering green ink. 

             He locked the door behind him with his key and waited for the cleaners to arrive. He had plenty of time. From now on, he always would.