The 24th Letter ((Mystery/Thriller)) (34 page)

He stepped up on the platform, and stood behind the large Bible; its pages lying opened and turned to
Psalms 23.
  O’Brien flipped the pages to the end of the Bible, to the Book of Revelation.  He turned to Revelation 13:13.

The letter wasn’t there.

Lightning flashed through the skylights, and thunder rolled in the distance.  O’Brien found Revelation 22:23.  There on the opposite side page from the verse, on a

single sheet of folded legal paper, was a letter.  O’Brien opened the paper and read Sam Spelling’s words:

To Father John and God -

My name is Sam Spelling.  I am real sorry for my sins.  I wish to ask God for forgiveness…..and I know now I done some bad things in my life.  I hope to make amends.  On the night of June 18th, 1999, I was working a deal, trying to score some cocaine at the Mystic Islands condos near Miami, Florida.  I was supposed to meet a dealer there.  It was the same night Alexandria Cole was stabbed to death.  I was sitting in a car in the condo lot waiting for the dealer to show when I seen a man come out of Miss Cole’s condo.  But before I go any further, I want to say where the knife can be found in case I get too tired to finish this letter…

It’s in the town of St. Augustine.  Tranquility Trail - my mother’s grave is there.  She always loved that old cemetery and wanted to be buried there.   I put the knife in a plastic Tupperware box and buried it right across the road from her grave.
. 
It’s about one foot directly in front of a statue of an angel with wings.  I buried it under a rock.

The angel is next to a pond in the cemetery.  The angel is pointing with her right hand.  Back to what I was saying.  I was sitting in a car in the condo lot, waiting for the dealer to show when I seen a man come out of Miss Cole’s condo.  He didn’t see me on account I was hunkered down in the car.  I could tell he was drunk, almost fell a few times walking toward a truck I figured was his at the far end of the parking lot.  I was curious as to what he was doing, and I got out of my car to see what was going on.  The man looked like he was getting something out of the truck then he walked across the street to the Whales Tale Tavern.  I didn’t think much about it.  Went back to my car and I seen another man go into Miss Cole’s place.  Wasn’t but a short while before I heard a scream.  I saw the man running from her condo.  He ran and stopped behind a breezeway, then I watched him go on down to the truck, the same one the other feller opened earlier.  Looked to me like the second dude put something in the truck.  I got back in my car and followed him as he left. 

He went a block and tossed something wrapped in a newspaper…tossed it in a dumpster. 

I looked in the dumpster, found the newspaper, opened it and found a plastic bag with a bloody knife in it.  When I seen the knife in the bag, I knew he’d put some drops of blood in the truck. The man that killed Alexandria a Cole is Christian Manerou, an agent with the FBI.  I recognized him from a picture in the paper.  He was part of a drug bust earlier involving Miss Cole’s manager.  I made a call to him, told him I seen what he did and said for a hundred grand I’d go way and never come back.  He agreed.  I was sort of surprised he had that much cash, because I would have took less.  He wanted the knife, but I told him I’d bury it and keep it as my little secret insurance policy.  I pray for Charlie Williams’ soul, and I ask God to forgive mine for what I done.

Sincerely,

Sam Spelling.

O’Brien looked at his watch.  Midnight.  It was now Tuesday, September 22.  The day Charlie Williams was scheduled to die.  At 5:30 a.m., he would be brought to the execution room and strapped to a gurney.  At 6:00 a.m., they would pump the first of three chemicals in his bloodstream.  At 6:03, Charlie Williams would be dead. 

NINETY-THREE

O’Brien drove to the cemetery and he called Lauren Miles.  “Have you heard from Manerou?”

“About an hour ago.  He doesn’t know you’re on to him.  He said he would do what he could to ‘help O’Brien’ find Sam Spelling’s mother.”

“Get your guys to run a cell tower location on his last call.”

“Okay.  Sean, I checked, Christian is rated as an expert marksman, too. ”

“No doubt.  The information your lab got off the letter faded out at the point where Spelling gave the town and street name and said it was where his mother is…what you didn’t get is that fact that’s where his mother is buried.”

“Dead!  Do you think Spelling buried the knife with his mother?”

“No, it’s in front of a statue—a winged angel, across from his mother’s grave.”

“How do you know that?”

“I found Spelling’s letter.”

“Where?”

“Before his murder, Father Callahan hid it in a large Bible—in Revelation.”

“Let me guess: Saint John.  The disciple who wrote Revelation as dictated by God.”

“The same.”

“Dear God...   Where are you now?”

“I’m almost to the cemetery.  I’m calling Tucker now.”                                           

O’Brien drove through the rain, the wipers doing little to remove the torrent from the windshield.  He punched in Tucker Houston’s number.  “Tucker, I found Spelling’s letter.  He names FBI agent Christian Manerou as the killer and says the knife can be found near a grave—Spelling’s mother.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m almost to the cemetery.  It’s the Old City Cemetery near St. Augustine.  Spelling left directions to the spot where he buried the knife in a plastic box.  If we’re lucky, it’s still in the original plastic bag Manerou used to carry Alexandria’s blood.”

“The letter alone may be enough to stop the execution.  I’ll call the Attorney General.  He’s got Governor Owens’ cell number.  They’re all on stand-by.  Standard procedure during a routine execution.  But this thing’s proved far from routine.  Governor Owens knows the nation is watching.  We’re counting on you to find it Sean, and then Charlie Williams walks.”

#

TWO AND A HALF HOURS after he started, O’Brien drove up to the gates leading into the Old City Cemetery.  He checked his watch: 4:39 a.m.  He tried not to think about what Charlie Williams was going through, with less than two hours left on earth, his final meal and his final words. 
No!

The wind blew through the branches of ancient oaks and the wrought iron gate at the cemetery entrance.  There was a plaque in one of the old coquina stone pillars.  The cemetery was designated as a national historic place.  Circa: 1598.

O’Brien drove through the open gate, down a twisting road that wound its way through graves more than two hundred years older than America.  The live oaks almost as old, long branches laden with Spanish moss, stood like sentries to time, the boughs offering canopies to the dead.  Through the flashes of lightning, O’Brien tried to make out the names of the small roads that seemed to come around every turn.  He pointed his flashlight toward a bent metal sign, paint as faded as an old gravestone.  He could read: 
Tranqu l….Tra l.
  O’Brien turned left and followed the road more than a half mile.

His cell rang.  It was Lauren Miles.   “Sean, we got a fix on Christian’s call.  Came from a cell tower south of St. Augustine, near the cemetery.  Be careful, Sean.  If Christian’s not there, he soon will be.”

NINETY-FOUR

O’Brien was silent.  He turned off the Jeep’s headlight.

“Sean, are you there?”            asked Lauren

“I’m here.”

“I could only hear the rain on the roof of your car.  We’re sending back-up.”

“You can’t get here in time.  The local P.D. would turn it into a circus.  All I need is to find the buried box.  Manerou doesn’t know where Spelling hid it.  I’ll call you when I find it.” 

The rain turned to hail.  The stones were the size of peanuts, ivory-colored rocks bouncing off tombs of gray.  They pounded the canvas roof of O’Brien’s Jeep.  He drove slowly, straining through the bursts of lightning to follow the narrow road.  At the end of the road, before it hooked left and turned into a coquina shell path, O’Brien saw the statue of the angel.  Even in silhouette, he knew it was the one Spelling had described.  O’Brien drove the car over a half dozen graves to get it off the road, to hide it behind a mausoleum.  He shut off the interior dome light, picked up his Glock, took a small utility shovel out of the back, and walked toward the statue.

O’Brien stood behind a giant oak tree, out of sight from the road, and waited for the next burst of lightning.  It came within seconds.  He looked the length of the road to see if anyone was walking toward him.

Nothing.  As O’Brien stepped around the tree, lightning hit the treetop.  A branch broke off, crashing through the limbs.  He dove out of the way, coming up next to a

headstone.  His vision blurred.  His heart felt like it had stopped for a moment before the hammering started again in his chest.  The hair on his arms and the back of his neck stood.  His vision floated for a second, the words on the headstone coming into focus:

Dottie Spelling

Loving Mother

Born 1940 – Died 1996

Broken limbs and leaves rained down on O’Brien.  He covered his head with his arms and slowly stood.  He darted across the cemetery road and approached the statue.   He looked at the statue of the winged angel and thought about the Bosch painting—Saint John of Patmos.  The angel in that painting was similar to the statue, her right arm out, hand pointing up, wings extended and look of peace on her face.  In the white shimmer of lightning, O’Brien could see a small lake less than fifty feet from the statue.

There was a granite rock about the size of a loaf of bread in front of the statue.  He lifted it and set it aside.  O’Brien looked at his watch.  5:29 a.m.  Less than thirty minutes left.

NINETY-FIVE

Two department of corrections officers led Charlie Williams out of his deathwatch cell.  There was an awkward silence.  One, an older staff member said, “Son, I hope you’ve made your peace with the Lord.”

“And I hope ya’ll know you’re killin’ an innocent man.”

They escorted him into the death chamber.  The room was bright white and the gurney was in the direct center.  Two more guards stood there, hands clasped in front of them, somber expressions on pinched faces.  The warden stood in a corner next to a black phone on the wall.  A white curtain on the left side of the room was closed.

“We need to get you ready, son,” said the older guard.  “Just go on and make it easier on yourself, you need to lie down on the table.”

Charlie looked through the curtain, his lower lip quivering, his jaw line popping. “I don’t want people to watch me die.  It’s not right.”

“State law,” said the warden. “The department has nothing to with it.  There has to be witnesses in case somebody tried to say we did something wrong.”

“You’re doing something worse; you’re killin’ the wrong man!”

The warden motioned with his head, three guards surrounded Charlie Williams and led him to the gurney.”

Charlie said, “I can’t just hop up there like I’m crawlin’ in bed to be killed.”

The warden said, “Put him up and strap him down.”

“Noooooo!” Charlie screamed as urine trickled from his full bladder, a wet spot growing on his pants in the shape of a leaf.  “Don’t let them see me pissin’ in my pants!  Please!  God, don’t let them!  Don’t open that curtain!  I didn’t kill Alex!”  

“Hold on, son,” said the older guard in a soft voice.

When they finished the last leg strap, they readied the first chemicals, the needles, and then opened the curtain.  Charlie Williams turned his head and looked at the glass.  He thought he saw the head movements of people sitting, like seeing a school of fish beneath the water in his grandfather’s pond.  He saw his reflection in the glass.   He didn’t recognize his own frightened face.  And he couldn’t hold back the tears.

NINETY-SIX

O’Brien began digging, holding the small flashlight in his mouth as he dug.  Quick movements of the shovel in the wet earth.  The wind whipped through the trees, the rustling sounds of leaves and of gnarled oak branches slapping each other, the creak and groans of wood against wood in the night.

Then there was the sound of metal hitting plastic.

O’Brien dug with his hands, furious, wet dirt flying.  He brushed the dirt off the top and sides, carefully lifting the Tupperware box out of the hole.

He sat it down at the foot of the statue and opened the lid.  O’Brien lifted the plastic bag.  It held an eight-inch kitchen knife and, in one corner, the bag still contained the ruddy creosote deposit of blood.

Thunder rumbled.  There was the feel of cold steel on his neck under his left ear.

“Stand up!”

O’Brien stood and in a flash of lightning saw pure evil, the face of Christian Manerou.  The eyes bore through the night like heat lightning behind pockets in a cloud. He wore a dark raincoat, the hood over his head, the pistol aimed directly at O’Brien’s heart.

“They know you’re here, Manerou.  The smart thing to do would be to give up, cop an insanity plea, and live the rest of your sick life in a padded room on Thorzien.”

“Is that the ‘smart’ thing to do, O’Brien?  You’re nothing but a burnt-out homicide detective, a puny little man who couldn’t solve Alexandria’s death eleven years ago and nothing has changed.  I’ll destroy the evidence in your hand, bury you in this cemetery, and it’ll be the end of a weak man’s life.  A cop who couldn’t cut it against an esteemed federal agent.  You picked an interesting place do die, in front of an angel.”