The vehicle was following him. Kyle knew because he had some experience following vehicles himself. This was strange because he sold industrial fans for a living. It had been months since he had followed a car, however. Why would someone want to follow him? Maybe the same reason he had followed Wynton Biggs.
Wynton Biggs had been a professional hit man. He had been hired to kill Selena Montoya, the prosecutor for the city of San Leandro. Nobody knew this because Selena had died in an accident. She had run a red light in the maroon Tesla that she had been so proud of.
Selena was Kyle’s wife. She kept her maiden name when she married for both professional reasons and because of pride in her heritage. Kyle didn’t mind. He had a funny-sounding last name anyway. Kyle and Selena couldn’t have been more different, but they had loved each other deeply. He was squat and pale with thinning red hair while she had been tall with bronze skin and long dark hair.
Kyle knew Selena intimately. He knew that she would no sooner run a red light than slit her own wrist. She had no mercy for defendants whose actions had threatened public safety and her record showed it. There were witnesses and a traffic camera, however, that showed her drive the car straight through the stop signal straight into the path of an oncoming truck. Examination of the wreckage showed that the brakes had been in perfect working order. Case closed.
One day while looking at a Tesla fan site, Kyle saw that some hobbyists had devised a device that could be placed on top of the car’s computer control center and allow it to be piloted by remote control. There was a hilarious video that showed them pranking a friend who couldn’t figure out why his car suddenly had a mind of its own. One of the components necessary for the operation of the device was manufactured by a client of his and he was able to get the names of customers who had bought them. All checked out but one – Wynton Biggs. He saw his picture on Facebook and recognized him. He had appeared in the news footage of firefighters clearing the wreck from the road. The Fire Department had never seen him before. He had been retrieving the device that had been planted in his wife’s car.
Kyle followed Wynton for months until the opportunity had finally arisen last summer for him to kill him. He was found in the back seat of his car with enough oxycontin in his system to kill a horse.
Kyle slammed on his brakes. The car that had been following him was now blocking his path. Two shots penetrated his radiator and his car died with a cough. Before he knew it, he was bound and gagged with a gun against his temple in the back seat.
“My Wynton never was no pillhead,” Mrs. Biggs said.
Literature in Small Doses 