The 24th Letter ((Mystery/Thriller))

by Tom Lowe

  TWENTY-THREE

  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 & Museum

  An Authentic 19th 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.

  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!”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  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.”

  “You killed the priest?”

  “And I have you to thank. So now that brings me to you, Corporal Johnson. When you die, so does the secret. When Charlie Williams dies on death row, so does the whole story, and the public forgets quickly. Amazing, really. Try to recall the name of the last person the state put to death.”

  Johnson was silent.

  “You can’t, Corporal. And you work there.”

  “You kill me and you’ll be exposed,” Johnson said, his voice rising.

  “Why is that, Corporal?”

  “Because I’ve mailed an insurance policy. I’ve mailed your name and what Sam Spelling said you did. I mailed it to a person of authority. Now, I can intercept that letter and destroy it before the police get it. But I have to be alive to do it. So why don’t you just give me the money like we agreed, I go away, pick up the letter before it’s opened and burn it. You won’t never hear from me again…ever. I swear to God.”

  “To God? Does that impress me? Do you really think you’re smarter than me? Do you think this is some kind of chain letter game? No, Corporal, it isn’t?”

  The figure stepped back to pick up Johnson’s gun off the porch. Johnson stood quickly. He pulled the pitchfork out of the barrel and lunged at the man. The pitchfork ripped the man’s shirt, scraping his ribcage.

  The pistol barrel was shoved into the center of Johnson’s forehead.

  “Sit down!” ordered the silhouette.

  Johnso
n held up his hands and slowly took half a dozen steps backwards, feeling for the chair with both hands and sitting down. A mosquito alighted on Johnson’s cheek. As it began sucking blood, Johnson swatted at it. He missed. From the dark, the man

  caught the insect in midair, crushing it in his hand and wiping the remains on his pants. He said, “You’re not fast enough, Corporal Johnson. Nice gun you brought.”

  The wind blew, causing the old windmill to spin. Johnson saw the moon flickering between the blades, the light creating a bizarre strobe-effect in his adrenaline-pumped mind. Then, Lyle Johnson saw a white flash and the moon exploded. He slumped back in the wooden chair, a mosquito alighting on his neck.

  The shooter ejected all but one remaining bullet in Johnson’s gun. He picked each one up, wrapped Johnson’s right hand around the pistol and fired a round into the night sky. Then he let the gun drop to the porch, bouncing once and stopping next to a dark spot that grew larger as blood dripped onto the century-old heart-of-pine.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  O’Brien met Detective Dan Grant at the emergency room entrance to Baptist Hospital. As they entered, O’Brien said, “Maybe we can find some coffee here. Dan, try to remember everything Spelling told you before he died. Father Callahan told me what Spelling had revealed to him—except for the identity of the shooter. Maybe there’s something, probably small, Spelling mentioned that might fit the puzzle.”

  Detective Grant glanced to his left and right in the ER before responding. “Look, Sean, as I was leaving the church, Henderson and Valdez questioned me about you.”

  “Questioned?”

  “You know, how’d you get involved? Stuff like, if you’re a retired cop, then why don’t you retire. More territorial than anything else, but you’re not even carrying a PI license. You might think about that if—”

  “I’m not going to put a condemned man’s life on hold while I run out and get a license. I didn’t choose this. Father Callahan called me after he heard what Spelling told him. It was a deathbed confession. Callahan wanted it in writing because he knew Spelling might not make it. He called me because I was a friend, and he knew I was the cop who caught and convicted Charlie Williams.”

  “Look man, I’m on your side. I’m damn glad you’re on our side. Henderson and Valdez don’t know you. They know of you, but that’s it. Maybe when they saw you

  walk though that media herd and all the media tossing questions at you, the reporters remembering you from the Santana case, maybe it’s a pissing contest for them.”

  “I just lost a dear friend. We have an odd set of new clues and eighty-three hours left to catch a killer. As you saw, this guy’s the worst of the worst. And he’s smart.”

  “You’re no dummy, either. How’d you miss him the first time around? How’d Charlie Williams take the fall?”

  “I missed him because the perp wanted me to and I didn’t recognize it. He set a trap, a path to Williams. I had an agenda. Wanted notches on my gun, I had a heavy caseload, and I didn’t look beyond Williams once we found the vic’s blood in his car. His semen was in her. Fingernail cut on his face. My gut told me it was too easy and that bothered me. But there were two other murders that came in the week I was working the Alexandria Cole case—one case that really pulled at me. It was a serial pedophile and the average age of his vics was nine. We were short staffed, and I guess I made excuses.” O’Brien felt fatigue growing behind his eyes.

  “Man, it’s a lot easier to go back and say the ‘what if’s’ after time’s passed. So Williams, the guy on death row was set up. But why, after a decade, is the real killer comin out? I mean, Spelling’s confidential confession to a priest…how’d the perp know about that? How’d he slip in here and whack Spelling, if he did do it?”

  “Because there’s a connection here…somewhere.”

  “I’m gonna need more than that, Sean. So will you if you have any hope of getting the DA to reopen this thing. People forget. Witnesses die.”

  “Sam Spelling never forgot.”

  “And he’s dead.”

  O’Brien inhaled deeply. “Look what’s gone down the last couple of days. Someone took a shot at Spelling. Why? My guess is Spelling somehow reconnected with the killer, probably related to money. Father Callahan said Spelling told him he blackmailed the real killer eleven years ago to keep the killer’s ID secret. Maybe Spelling had tried doing it again, this time from his cell.”

  “If Spelling were getting out of prison soon, he’d need the money immediately. Then it would make perfect sense. I’ll check to see if he had a release date coming up.”

  “It’s all about timing because the perp somehow knew Spelling was supposed to act as state’s witness in a cocaine and bank robbery trial. So, the killer resurfaces and uses the opportunity to hit Spelling. He would think, and so would everyone else, that the hit came from someone connected to the drug trial—an ordered hit, mob style.”

  “And, all the while, the guy who killed your vic a decade ago was taking Spelling out for something no one knew about—”

  “Except Spelling.”

  “And Father Callahan. He’s there by default and his good graces.”

  “Father Callahan told me something else.” O’Brien paused. “He said there was a guard, a guy from D.O.C, who was trying to eavesdrop on Spelling’s confession. Apparently the same guy was posted outside Spelling’s room for the first few hours.”

  “Yeah, I saw him. Seemed preoccupied. Like he was in a hurry to clock out. At the end of his shift, we put a deputy on Spelling’s door.”

  “We need to find that guard immediately.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  “Doctor Silverstein, phone call, Doctor Silverstein,” came the announcement of the hospital’s PA system.

  Detective Gant looked at O’Brien and asked, “Why do we need to find the corrections guard immediately?”

  “Because the guard was eavesdropping when Spelling was confiding—confessing to Father Callahan. If this guard heard enough, meaning enough information to link back to the person who killed Alexandria Cole—maybe he spoke with Spelling when he was partially sedated, somehow managed to get even more information from him. I don’t know, but I’m thinking that now he might have the identity of the man who killed Spelling and Father Callahan.”

  “Maybe the guard is somehow tied in with the perp. He could have knocked off Spelling and killed the priest.”

  O’Brien shook his head. “I don’t think so. But it’s plausible that if he somehow discovered the perp’s real identity…just maybe he could have contacted him.”

  “But why would a department of corrections guard do that?” Dan asked

  “The same reason that Sam Spelling did…greed.” O’Brien pinched the bridge of his nose. His eyes burned. “Let’s walk and talk as we head to Spelling’s room.”

  #

  ANITA JOHNSON DIDN’T FEEL the hand touch her shoulder. She lay on the couch with a knitted blanket pulled up over her shoulders, the bluish light from the

  television flickering across the room. An open bottle of sleeping pills was on the coffee table. A few pills were scattered across the glass top. One of the pills had turned into a milky liquid and lay dissolved in the condensation left from a sixteen-ounce can of Budweiser.

  The hand touched her shoulder again, this time more forceful.

  “Mommy, I’m scared,” said the three-year-old boy. He stood at his mother’s side and tried to keep from crying. Summer storms were rolling in again, the approaching thunder sounding like bombs in the distance, growing louder.

  “Mommy, wake up.”

  Anita slowly opened her eyes and tried to focus on her son. “Hey, baby…what you doin’ up, huh? You supposed to be sleepin’.”

  “Thunder scares me.”

  “It’s okay, sweetheart. Crawl under the blanket with me.”

  “Where’s Daddy?”

  Anita felt her heart jump. She tried to focus on the digital numbers glowing from the DVD player. She closed one
eye. 1:37 a.m. “Oh, God.”

  “I’m sleepy, Mommy.”

  “I know, Ronnie. Let Mommy stand up and check on something, okay? You sit here and keep our spot on the sofa warm, okay, baby?”

  The boy nodded and climbed on the couch.

  Anita got up, steadied herself against a wall, and walked into the kitchen. She slowly pulled back the curtains and looked out onto the dirt driveway.

  Lyle Johnson’s truck was not there.

  Anita touched her fingers to her throat. She felt sick. Darkness and nausea rose around her in a flash flood of emotions. Her eyes welled with water, tears streaming down her cheeks like trapped water through a cracked dam.

  He’s not comin’ back. He’s never comin’ back.

  She could hear the sounds of frogs calling as the rain grew closer. She flipped on the porch light and looked through the parted curtains again. Only her seven-year-old Toyota was in the driveway.

  There was something in the road. Maybe it was the outline of a parked car. Was it really a car or are the damned pills causing hallucinations? She strained to see the object as a blanket of clouds engulfed the sky.

  Then the mobile home was covered in darkness.

  Thunder rolled like a distant drum.

  “Mommy, I’m scared.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  The medical examiner pulled the sheet above Sam Spelling’s head. He turned to O’Brien and Detective Grant and said, “This man might have died from the gunshot. I spoke with Dr. Weinberg and he said there were no complications. The patient was resting and a full recovery was expected.”

  “Now he’s heading to the morgue,” Grant said, looking around the room.

  O’Brien pulled back the sheet near Spelling’s handcuffed hand. “He looked at the skin around the handcuff. “Whatever happened to Sam Spelling, it looks like he wasn’t sleeping peacefully when it occurred, unless he was having one hell of a nightmare. Skin’s broken and bruised around the wrists here at the handcuff. The other cuff has scratched the metal bed railing. Looks like Spelling was using what strength he had left to escape from something.”