Tom Lowe - The 24th Letter

O’Brien nodded and moved to the front of the altar, then slowly descended the steps. He looked at the message written in blood. “What was he trying to tell us? The rough drawing-could be a circle and face. Who? The Greek letter Omega-the end? The letters…P-A-T. Is it the name Pat? Patrick? Patricia? Or is it something else?”b “Could be a warning,” said Grant. “But if it is…then who was he warning?”

“Dan, you said that Spelling told you if something happened to him to see Father Callahan immediately.” O’Brien stared at the message in blood.

“He was adamant about it.”

“Meaning, as Father Callahan told me, the identity of the killer is on that written statement. If Spelling happened to use a pad of paper when he wrote it, he might have pressed down hard to leave an impression on the next page. Even if it’s only a few words-enough letters to spell a name-we might have something.”

“You mean as in P-A-T?” asked Grant.

“Exactly. We need to get to the hospital now.”

“I was just heading that way. The ME is a busy man tonight, too.”

“Call your officers. Don’t let them remove any notepaper.”

“Paper?”

“The killer’s ID could be on the sheet of paper that was under the original-the one he wrote for Father Callahan.”

O’Brien looked at the figure of Christ on the cross. He watched as a dark cloud passed over the moon. He thought about Charlie Williams locked in a place where light from the moon, stars, or the sun never penetrates. O’Brien walked faster.

b

Lyle Johnson pulled off Highway 29 onto the gravel road leading to the old pioneer village, reached across the seat and felt for his pistol. He turned off the headlights and slowly made his way about a half-mile until he came to the entrance. There was no gate, only an old Florida farmhouse the Volusia County Historical Society used for an office. The faded sign read:

Volusia Pioneer Village amp; Museum

An Authentic 19 th Century Replica of a Florida Farm Community

Open Monday — Saturday 10:00 a.m.- 4:00 p.m.

Johnson was an hour early. He wanted to arrive in plenty of time to stake out the grounds. One street lamp hung near the office, the light illuminated a few of the old buildings scattered nearby. The rest of the grounds and buildings were in black and white and shades of gray, silhouettes standing under the oak trees in the moonlight.

From the gravel road, Johnson could see the replica of and old country store, a Burma Shave sign painted on one wall. Not far from the store was a cypress-hewn barn. A steam engine sat frozen in time on rusty rail tracks beside a reproduction of a train depot. The sign hanging from the side of the depot read: DeLand, Florida, Pop. 319. The rest of the grounds consisted of share-cropper shacks, a tiny white clapboard church, a one-room schoolhouse, and a small barnyard where a cow and a pony stood quietly.b Johnson could see two large peacocks pecking at a cornhusk. A few chickens roosted under an A-frame platform that looked like a doghouse for birds.

Johnson parked behind some bushes, beneath a lone pine tree. He pulled the overhead bulb from the dome light in his pickup truck. He worked the pistol under his belt, gently opened the door, and got out.

There was movement.

A bat flew in and out of the light cast from the streetlamp. It attacked large moths that orbited the light.

Johnson’s heart beat faster. His hands were damp and clammy as he folded a copy of Sam Spelling’s letter and put it in his button-down shirt pocket. He walked across the gravel road to the side entrance. His eyes scanned the shadows. The gate was unlocked. Johnson pulled it toward him. The rusty hinges made a squeaking noise. An owl, sitting on a wooden fencepost, lifted its wings and flew into the dark. The pony snorted and walked a few steps before standing like a statue in the long shadows.

Johnson swallowed dryly, a mosquito whining in his ear as he walked through the open gate and headed toward the general store. He hesitated when he came to the store’s front porch. On the heart-of-pine porch were three chairs and a long wooden bench. There was a bushel of Indian corn near one chair. Garden tools from a century ago, the metal ends turned up, sat in a wooden barrel. There was a hoe, shovel, and a pitchfork.

Johnson looked around, his eyes searching the dark paths between the aged buildings. A breeze blew through the trees and turned the blades of a wooden windmill. The windmill groaned and stuttered, like the hinges and slats on a barn door creaking. The wind nudged the blades, and the shallow water pump sputtered and coughed, then burped up tannin water from under the sandy soil. Johnson could smell the odor of sulfur as the water trickled down an open pipe where it spilled into a horse trough.

He glanced at the moon shining through the windmill’s slowly turning blades.

The pony whinnied.

Hang tough. Remember what the Marine Corp taught. Know your enemy. Approach him with respect and surprise, if possible.

Johnson stepped onto the porch, the slats of pine groaning under his weight.

Just sit tight and wait. You have the goods. You’ve mailed the insurance policy.

A peacock shrieked. Johnson pulled the pistol out and pointed it toward the sound. The call was a long, mournful cry. Johnson’s heart raced. His hand trembled. He felt a drop of perspiration roll from one armpit and down his side.

“Hold both hands up!”

Johnson felt nausea deep in his gut. He started to turn, to face the man who issued the order.

“Don’t!” the voice said. “There’s a nine millimeter bullet pointed at the back of your skull. And I think you know I won’t hesitate to blow your head open like I’d shoot a pumpkin out here…do as I say and you might live to see your wife, Anita.”

“How you know my wife’s name?”

“I know all about you, Corporal Lyle Johnson-your history with the department of corrections. The three times you were written up for abusing inmates. Twice deputies were dispatched to your home on domestic abuse calls. Oh, I’d say you have a slight anger problem, Corporal. Now stay exactly where you are and lower the gun.”

Johnson did as ordered.

“Drop the gun.”

“Why? You gonna shoot me anyhow.”

“Haven’t made my mind up. Drop the gun and kick it across the porch.”

Johnson dropped the gun by his right foot and kicked it a few feet.

“Good. Now sit in the chair closest to you and look toward the streetlight.”

“What-”

“Do it!”

Johnson slowly sat down and looked in the direction of the light.

The man walked to the steps and climbed onto the porch. Johnson could only see the man’s silhouette and the tip of a barrel pointed toward his face.

“Why the gun? Thought we’d make a simple trade and go our separate ways.”

“Why’d you bring a gun, Corporal Johnson?”

“Always carry one. Protection mostly. Only shot it at the range.”

“Where’s the letter?”

Johnson reached in his shirt pocket and retrieved the letter. A hand appeared from the dark and took it from him.

A tiny penlight came out of the man’s pocket. Johnson watched as the light traced over the letter, the unseen eyes reading each word.

“Sam Spelling had quite a novel imagination. Come on, Corporal Johnson, do you really believe that years ago I could have killed that poor girl? And all this time an innocent patsy has been sitting in prison under your own watchful eyes. You must appreciate the irony. And now Charlie Williams is going to die, soon. Courtesy of the governor. Williams can protest his innocence as they drag him from his cell and strap him in to die, but nobody will believe him. They didn’t years ago…and they won’t now. Something about the Biblical ‘eye for an eye’ philosophy. Justice or just revenge. Let’s do a little inventory-Sam Spelling is gone-his secret is right here in my hand. And that priest, the one who had to hear the confession, is dead…so that only leaves one person alive who knows my name.”