CHAPTER 23
After laying the hammer and small block of wood on the ground, Fawn shone the light on the overhead brick. Aside from being smaller, it appeared to be of the same composition as the other several thousand that made up the long gallery. She withdrew the sketch from her pocket and fixed the light on the paper where she saw the faint “X” at this identical place in the drawing.
Reaching up and feeling the contour of the masonry work, she ran her fingers over the shortened brick, comparing it to the surrounding blocks. To the touch, they all felt the same. She then rubbed her nails along the mortar at the edges, first tracing the shorter brick, then outlining the surrounding ones to distinguish the similarity or incongruity. There appeared to be no discernable differences in the composition of either the red brick material or the grout surrounding it.
Fawn reached down and picked up the wood. She again shone the light upward at the high brick and studied it. Curious at something she saw, Fawn tossed the wood to the ground and brought her middle finger to the grout line surrounding the smaller brick, tracing a razor thin line in the center of the grout.
At first, it appeared normal, but as she slowly sliced through the middle of the grout joint, it suddenly dipped inward, catching on something. Surprised, she pulled her nail out and examined the recess. There was a paper-thin cut no more than a half-inch long. Fawn again placed her fingernail into the slit and tried to push it in further. There was initial resistance before a longer line developed and specks of grout rained down on her face. Flinching, she brushed the debris from her eyes as she tried to suppress her excitement.
There was a clear line of demarcation.
Excitedly, Fawn began to search another edge of the brick where she found a thread-like line within the grout. She quickly went about clearing it out. Then she went back to the first side and did the same, and continued with the other two sides. Each line was perfectly straight, and each met at the corners.
Holding one hand above her head while simultaneously keeping the flashlight trained on the area with the other was a strain. When she had finished, Fawn brought her arms down to rest as she contemplated her next move.
Now what? There was no way to wedge the brick out; the line in the grout was far too thin. She again picked up the small block. Looking back and forth between the block and the brick above, she theorized the block might be a buffer, a way to hammer the brick and dislodge it without shattering it, if in fact, it was supposed to be dislodged.
Fawn positioned the flashlight upward on the ground to free her hands. She lifted the block of wood to the small brick. Turning the block on end, she pressed it against the brick. Then with her other hand, she brought the hammer up and gently tapped the wood.
Nothing happened. The razor-thin line in the grout remained intact, so she adjusted the block of wood and tried again, this time with more force. Still nothing happened.
She dropped her head for a moment, allowing her strained neck to ease. Then she looked up again, repositioned the block of wood, and smacked it with force.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Fawn removed the block of wood. The cutout around the brick had moved and was somewhat more pronounced.
A shiver swept over Fawn. She looked ahead in the darkness, unable to see much past the entryway to the bastion. She turned around and gazed down the long, dark gallery behind her. There had been no sound, yet a strange sensation had gripped her; a feeling that just as quickly left.
Fawn returned to the brick overhead. Again she raised the block and pressed it into place. She began a series of forceful smacks with the hammer. To her surprise, with the fifth strike, the brick slowly receded upward, into a cavity in the arch wall. It retracted with a coarse scrape. Fawn was so startled, she nearly dropped the hammer on her feet. Fawn picked up the flashlight, shining the light directly into the opening where the brick had gone.
It was there. Flush to the row above its original position. The archway now resembled a giant row of bonded teeth, minus one. Yet nothing else had happened. None of the surrounding bricks had changed.
She shone the light on the ground and then along the inner walls of the gallery. Everything was still as it had been.
Inside the dark bastion across the way, a groaning noise erupted. The sound grew louder, and it was all Fawn could do to hold her ground. She waved the flashlight up with a shaking hand and aimed it through the entryway where it cast a jittery beam on the back wall.
The grating noise continued, and she half expected some hideous creature to force its way from the bastion and step into the light. Her heart was racing, and she found herself half turned, ready to sprint down the gallery, away from the god-awful noise.
Just as the sound reached a crescendo, it abruptly stopped. Fawn was now sweating profusely, and her anxiety had risen to near panic. Her ears still rang with the ghastly, tortured sound.
Seconds passed, and all remained calm. Had an animal made the noise? Fawn took a worrisome step forward, shining the light to each side. Then she took another step, then another; each step increasing the angle by which she could see inside the bastion.
It was empty.
She now stood in the entryway, trembling. In her hand, she tightened her grip on the hammer and raised the light to the high vaulted ceiling. Then she swept the beam surgically across every wall, every inch of floor.
Nothing.
“You didn’t imagine it, Fawn,” she assured herself with a whisper. Her breathing was erratic.
Fawn slowly moved forward, searching for any evidence a creature had entered the bastion through the slitted windows. She examined the sill of each opening. The only tracks she found were from her own muddy shoes.
She remained tense, on guard. The sound had been so disturbing…and close.
Re-gripping the hammer, ready to use it as a weapon, she looked to the opening in the wall to the side where the stairs fled upward, spiraling out of sight. It was the next logical place to search.
Fawn hesitated. The steps were steep and wove a tight course with walls crowding in. Not only were they somewhat difficult to scale—because of the height of each step—but because the spiral was tight, there was no opportunity to see ahead. In scaling the stairs, Fawn would need to use the flashlight, clearly giving her position away in advance. Frankly, it was the perfect ambush spot if she was not alone, and she realized it.
Fawn took the first stair step hesitantly. Only four steps up, she froze. Something caught her attention. She looked up and involuntarily gasped.
The curved stairwell wall before her had a gaping square opening that led into darkness. It was approximately three feet wide and four feet tall, and a stale stench leaked from it.
It was a secret opening.
Fawn aimed the flashlight inside. There was a back wall only a few feet away. She angled the beam and saw that a rectangular shaft led straight down. With considerable trepidation, Fawn pushed her head through and directed the light below.
The dust was thick and caught her off guard. She began coughing and drew back from the opening. When her breathing calmed, she used a hand to help shield her nose before peering in again. The light caught the haze of dust, but she could make out the faint image of a distant floor.
“Unbelievable,” Fawn commented in awe.
She examined the shaft, which, like the rest of Fort Clinch, was made from discolored, red brick. On the inside wall leading down from the sill were grooves every few feet. For a few seconds, she considered the skull of Osceola might be somewhere in the shadows below, and it brought a shudder. The true danger, she realized, was that there might be a human presence lurking somewhere below, and surely the noise from the wall scraping open would have announced her arrival. The thought was terrifying.
Fawn reasoned herself to calm. Surely the fact the wall had been sealed indicated
that no one was inside. Still, she could not completely shed her apprehension. This was a hidden opening to god-knows-where.
Fawn thought of Lawrence Courtland’s capture by police in 1969 in the long gallery leading to the bastion. He had had a hammer and a block of wood. He knew what he was doing; knew the secret tunnel was here.
Others might know of its existence also.
For a few minutes, Fawn stood on the stairs leaning over, head pushed inside the opening, pressing the light into the depths and breathing the musty air. The dust had begun to settle, and her vision improved. Clearly, there was a flat, solid surface below, but she could see nothing else beyond the small area of rectangular floor.
Her head was still spinning from the discovery. Fawn looked at the cutout grooves leading downward along the inner wall. She took a deep breath. It was now or never.
Fawn lifted one leg through the opening. She straddled the brick sill, holding onto the edge and lowered the other leg inside. Fortunately, she quickly found purchase into the cutouts with both feet. Fawn grabbed the flashlight and began backing down as if on a perfectly horizontal ladder. Her pace was gradual, negotiating the brick handholds to ensure she had a firm grip. Even holding onto the flashlight, it was easier than she expected. Whoever had designed the entrance knew what they were doing.
Moving down, she paused to look up. A cutout section of wall that mirrored the opening was pressed against the far wall. She knew now it had retracted away when she had depressed the overhead gallery brick.
Fawn continued at an even pace, attempting to suppress her anxiety, listening intently for any sounds coming from below. In the tight crawlspace, and given that she needed to maintain hold, there was no opportunity to shine the light below to see what might await her. The ever-dimming glow coming from above soon melted into darkness.
She continued, counting the handholds, estimating they were approximately a foot apart. Twenty-three feet down, the narrow shaft broke into a large, dark space. The blackness felt crushing. Fawn stopped, awkwardly shining the flashlight around. The floor was half-a-dozen feet below, and the air remained stagnant and warm. The space before her opened into an area the size of a bedroom. She scurried down the remaining length of wall and reached the floor, surveying the austere room nervously as she wiped perspiration from her brow.
As above, the walls, floor, and roof were formed from red brick. The area was barren. Descending, she had been certain she would discover the hiding place of Osceola’s skull, not to mention the grim possibility she would locate the lair of the killer.
She swung the flashlight back and forth, the light licking the empty walls and floor, looking for any trace of tracks on the floor—areas where objects might have been—for residual stains, marks, or abrasions. The floor was clear except for a layer of dust.
Fawn stepped about lightly, directing the beam to the floor. There were areas where the dust coated the floor with only a marginal layer.
Then she saw it. Beneath the thin sediment was an elongated shoe print. Then another. The prints started in the middle of the room where the dust was not as thick, and moved off to the far right corner where the tracks abruptly ended.
Fawn felt her pulse quicken. The lurid reality set in that someone had been here recently, and might still be here.
Confused as to why the tracks ended, Fawn eyed the conjoined walls and suddenly realized they did not meet. There was a narrow gap between them that was secreted by the blending red bricks.
Fawn re-gripped the flashlight, ready to use it as a weapon, if necessary. She moved to the corner, where the walls separated and a narrow slot moved away into darkness. She pushed the flashlight through the cut and the light faded into the distance. Wherever this narrow tunnel led, it was lengthy.
She gathered her composure and turned sideways, pressing her way through the slotted opening. The smell was more earthy and the air cooler. She moved slowly, always keeping the light poised ahead as she slid sideways one step at a time. It was a tight corridor, and she had problems navigating the course without scuffing into the bricks in front and back.
A short way in, Fawn heard a sound coming from behind. She killed the flashlight and froze. Sweat now streaked her cheeks, which, cooled by the chilling air, caused a shiver to snake up her back. She remained motionless, listening intently. She prayed that whatever sound she heard had been an aberration. After what seemed like an eternity, the quietness remained and she took a deep breath to calm herself. She snapped the flashlight back on.
“No turning back now, Fawn,” she whispered to herself, and started again. Crabbing between the tight walls, light stabbing into the darkness, Fawn’s eyes fell on a solid wall ahead. It was a dead end.
“Oh no,” she groaned as she raised a hand to wipe the sweat from her brow, keeping the light trained on the wall ahead. She continued on, not really knowing what else to do, until she reached the end. To her elation, it was not a dead end after all but a 90-degree opening to the left, which had been imperceptible from a distance. Fawn reached it and shined the flashlight inside.
Exactly where this room was situated under Fort Clinch, Fawn had no idea. She had not attempted to map out the logistics in her mind, nor did it matter at the moment.
What did matter was the scene before her.
The room was monastic. Against the wall to the left was a wad of tattered blankets. Across to the far wall was a wood table with a large sealed canister. There were four used candles, one in each corner, seated in some sort of wax base. They appeared aged. Fawn withdrew a pack of matches from her pants and lit each candle in turn. With the room fully lit, she turned off the flashlight to preserve the batteries. The wall to the right contained a few scattered dark bricks that were uncharacteristic of the walls inside Fort Clinch.
She approached the rough wood table to examine the oversized canister. The outside was coated in dust, but something just beyond it caught her eye. Behind the canister, lying on the table was an envelope. The paper was brown with age; the writing was blurred. Fawn lifted it delicately, moving to the corner for better lighting.
It was addressed:
Mr. Coyle Courtland
Post Route 9
14 Nutmeg Street
Fernandina, Florida
The words leapt off the page. Fawn felt a surge of excitement. She quickly turned the envelope over to find the return address written across the tab:
Ms. Sarah Courtland
8 Morrisman
Charleston, South Carolina
It was Sarah Courtland’s 1865 letter to her son, Coyle, just prior to her death; the letter that Lawrence Courtland, Elizabeth’s father, had discovered unopened in his attic that preceded his murderous behavior in 1969.
With trembling fingers, Fawn carefully withdrew the stack of aged paper from the envelope.
April 7, 1865
Dearest Coyle,
By the time you read this, I will have passed. Do not mourn me for long. It was best, as I’ve been in pain these last few years and can feel the end nearing. It will be a relief to unburden myself from this earthly body and join our Lord.
But before I draw my last breath in this world, my precious son, I have something to tell you. Something that was best kept from you, as it was a promise that I made your father.
Numerous paragraphs reiterated what Elizabeth Courtland had told Fawn; information acquired from her father, Lawrence, of how Sarah Courtland had taken Osceola as a lover in the 1830s and how he had fathered Coyle. The letter confirmed that Sarah had kept the fact from Coyle for fear of reprisal from white men, and she had promised Osceola she would eventually tell Coyle of his Indian ancestry. It also briefly outlined Osceola’s subsequent capture under the white flag of truce, his imprisonment at Fort Marion in St. Augustine, and his relocation to Fort Moultrie in Charleston, South Carolina, where Osceola passed away in 1838.
A
s Fawn read, she got the sense that there was nothing new to be learned from this letter. Then came the following:
Because as a toddler you used to love to walk in the shallow stream behind the house, your father named you Weoh, short for Weohyakapka, which means, “Walk in water.” You may find it of interest that as you reach your thirtieth year, long after Osceola’s death, there is still a lake in Florida, in Polk County, named by your father that bears your name. Coyle is the name that I gave you, fearful that if other whites discovered you were a half-breed, your life would be in danger. So I hid your heritage, not out of shame, but to protect you.
Now my dear son, since you know your true ancestry and heritage, I have but one thing to tell you. It involves your father when he was but a teen.
In the Year of Our Lord 1820, when your father was 16, he went on a hunting expedition with one of the older braves. The two of them traveled many days away from their people up the Gulf Coast of Florida.
That morning, they were quietly stalking deer through the ravaged woods when they came upon strange sections of wood strewn about the landscape. Then they heard men talking. Having been taught English along with his native tongue as a boy, Osceola recognized the words and knew that white men were speaking of them.
Osceola and the other brave approached warily, staying hidden within the brush. They saw four men: two black men and two white men, one of whom lay injured on the ground. Osceola couldn’t tell what was wrong with the white man on the ground, but the man was unable to stand and looked close to death.
One of the black men appeared to be the leader. He spoke to the man on the ground, calling him Simpkins and saying that he had been double-crossed by him. The black leader then cut one of Simpkins fingers. Simpkins shouted obscenities at the man, calling him Black Caesar.
Three Keys to Murder Page 15
