Three Keys to Murder

by Gary Williams

  Black Caesar demanded that Simpkins tell him the location of the key. It was at this moment that your father snapped a branch, accidentally alerting the other three men of their presence.

  A skirmish ensued. The brave accompanying Osceola managed to kill one of the men but was then shot and fell dead. Osceola, who was hunting with a bow, had quickly notched an arrow and let it fly, striking the man holding the gun in the stomach, where he fell to the ground writhing in agony.

  The man in the middle, the one called Black Caesar, reached for a gun tucked in his belt at the same time that Osceola unsheathed another arrow. Black Caesar drew and aimed long before your father could get the arrow notched. Right before Black Caesar was about to shoot your father, the beleaguered man lying on the ground kicked Black Caesar, temporarily causing the man to lose his balance. This gave your father the opportunity to draw his arrow and fire, striking Black Caesar in the chest. The man fell dead.

  As Osceola left the thin cover of the brush and walked toward the man on the ground, he saw a huge box – higher than the top of Osceola’s head and many, many arm’s-lengths long. It was a dozen feet away braced against a wall of white earth. It was unlike any he had ever seen. He knew, however, that he must focus on the man called Simpkins lying on the ground. Osceola had been raised not to trust the white man, so he pulled another arrow from his quiver, notching it and holding the bow at the ready.

  Simpkins begged Osceola for mercy as Osceola continued to approach. The man’s face was caked in blood, and one leg was bent grotesquely away from his body.

  Simpkins pointed to the iron box and told your father there was treasure inside and that Osceola could have it if he spared Simpkins’ life. He then offered Osceola a key to the box and pointed inland, slightly left. “On the Southern end of Crumblin…I promise.” Moments later, Simpkins was dead.

  Osceola never did discover the exact contents of the large box, but he did discover that men were willing to kill for it, and he knew there was something of value inside. Being an Indian, though, he was a creature of the land. His desires were for land and freedom. So he hid the box. Coyle, your father wanted you to know of this. He wants you to have it, whatever the contents may hold. Consider it a legacy from a father to his son.

  A click like a camera shutter went off in Fawn’s mind. She correlated the words and the significance struck. “Oh my God! Could this be possible?” It was almost too staggering to comprehend.

  She forced herself to continue reading.

  When your father was captured and sent to Fort Moultrie in December 1837, he sent a secret message to me. At the time, you were barely two years old. Osceola’s request was that I should tell you his wish when you turned 18. God help me, I wanted to tell you then. I tried and tried, but I feared for your safety. And now, as I sit at death’s door, I realize I owe him the promise that I did not keep. So now, with respect to your father, I offer his words –

  “Weoh, you are my son. My blood runs within you. You will grow to be strong. The Seminole people are proud and love the land you call Florida. We abide in peace, but I was betrayed by white men. Their shame is just, their blood will turn cold, but you will thrive with the deer and the trees, living with the strength from me. From my father. From my people. I have but one request for you, Weoh. My body belongs in Florida soil, not here where I sit. Take me back. Do not be afraid. In doing so, my legacy will be passed to you. Then see to it that I rest where I lived and hunted. You will preserve my name so that I may always walk where the waters and land forever meet.”

  “Take me back and discover the key from my eye. You will find the treasure at the shell against the white wall.”

  A sudden noise came from somewhere beyond the room that startled Fawn. She quickly folded the pages back into the envelope and tucked it into the front of her pants, covering it with her shirt. Another distant thud caused Fawn to fluster.

  She went from corner to corner, dousing the candles. Then she flicked on the flashlight, covering the beam with the palm of her hand, allowing just enough light to shine through into the narrow corridor. The horrific image of Elizabeth Courtland’s half-red face struck her. She had to get out, now.

  Fawn had never felt such fear. With each sidelong step, terror gripped her like a vice. She knew she was moving toward the sound, yet the thought of being trapped in the room with no way out was more frightening, so she pushed on, her breathing labored. Sweat bathed her forehead, dribbling down her cheeks. She kept the muted beam low as she went.

  Foot by foot, she slid between the two suffocating walls, sometimes pausing, listening. Her hands and back raked by the bricks as she wedged through, fear driving her. There was an unforgiving air about this place now. It was squeezing Fawn, wrapping its sinister arms around her, impeding her escape. She was on the verge of hyperventilating and struggled valiantly to maintain her composure.

  On and on she went, the walls ripping and tearing at her hands, her flesh. Her hair was sometimes grabbed mercilessly, only to be released after a painful tug. When it seemed like an eternity had passed, Fawn suddenly found herself breaking free of the prevailing walls into the outer room.

  Afraid of what lie before her, she swept the light about the room. It was as empty as it had been before. She paused, tempering her breathing until it returned to a steady state. There had been no further sounds. Nonetheless, Fawn wanted out of this place.

  She moved to the wall and began to ascend using the handholds. Her pace fueled by adrenaline, she made the climb quickly, reaching the lip of the shaft and climbing over into the bastion stairwell.

  Fawn came to the base of the spiraling stairs where she kept the flashlight aimed outward, surveying the spacious area of the bastion. Moonlight brought faint light through the windowed openings; a welcome sight after the cloying darkness. The croaking of frogs and the trilling of crickets beyond were also music to her ears.

  Fawn wondered what it was she had heard while in the room. Lawrence Courtland had been there in ’69 as evidenced by Sarah’s letter to Coyle. Based on the footprints in the dust, she wondered if the present-day killer was emulating those murders and using it as his or her lair. If so, the murderer might return at any time.

  She edged to the opening, crossed the brief courtyard, and reached the long gallery. There, she stopped to look at the brick in the apex. It was still recessed, gaping in the arch like a child with a front tooth missing.

  “Damn.” She thought back to the room. She had been so preoccupied with the contents of the letter— Simpkins…keys…treasure…and how it connected to the very treasure her father had sought, that she failed to examine the canister which, most likely, contained the head of Osceola. Then the noise flushed her from the room.

  Cradling the flashlight between her forearm and body, she excitedly removed the letter from the envelope. As she unfolded the pages, she felt a lightning-like shiver climb up her back as a rushing sound came from behind. A push of air was on her in an instant, followed by a dizzying burst of pain to her head.

  Then all went dark.

  CHAPTER 24

  Fawn gazed at dark, crisscrossed lines set against a black tarp. She blinked. Patches of gray skipped across the darkness. There was a throbbing pain nudging her to consciousness. Her mind floated, fending the pain until reality shook her.

  Fort Clinch! She had been inside Fort Clinch; down the hidden shaft, inside the room. She had found the letter and had returned outside after hearing a noise.

  She suddenly sat up and looked around. It was still dark, but night was giving in to the first glow of daybreak. A slight breeze eased its way between the curtain wall and rampart, cooling her. She ran a hand across her forehead brushing her hair away, wondering what had happened. She rose to her feet groggily and saw the opening to the gallery. The small brick at the peak was still withdrawn and hidden.

  She shivered and recalled placing the envelope in her pan
ts. A quick pat on her midsection confirmed the worst. It was gone. She frantically looked about the ground. Finding the flashlight nearby, Fawn searched the area, but the envelope and the letter were nowhere to be found.

  Her head throbbed even harder, and she raised a hand to massage it. She glanced at her watch, drawing it close to her eyes to focus: 6:19 a.m. Fawn brushed herself off. Whoever had attacked her had taken Sarah’s letter to Coyle.

  Fawn gathered her wits. Daylight was coming quickly. She knew the stairwell passageway was still open. Soon employees would arrive at the fort to prepare for opening. She had to move quickly.

  Fawn gathered the flashlight and returned inside the bastion. She picked up the hammer, tucked it in her belt, and moved to the stairwell. Without hesitation, she slithered over the edge and quickly moved down the shaft. With the light from outside lost, she turned the flashlight on as she reached the bottom. It was possible her attacker had come here, but her instincts told her otherwise. Nevertheless, she moved cautiously, allowing the beam of light to guide her.

  When she reached the corner, she temporarily doused the light and gazed down the long thin corridor toward the back room in the distance. If someone was there, surely she would see light; however, darkness prevailed. She began sliding through the narrow walls toward the far room.

  Unlike her previous tentativeness, her movement was now determined. The rap to her head had resulted in a searing headache, and she was now angry enough to push onward with resolve. Still wary that she might not be alone, she kept a hand poised on the hammer dangling from her belt.

  Some minutes later, she neared the opening to the room and slowed. She cautiously peered in, using the flashlight to examine the entire space before entering. To her relief, the canister was still sitting upon the table. She hurried toward it; mindful the clock was ticking. She grabbed it, desperately wanting to open it, but knew this was not the time.

  Ten minutes later, after considerable difficulty negotiating the handholds while maintaining her hold on the canister, Fawn stepped from the opening into the stairwell. Daylight was rapidly approaching, and light pierced inside the bastion. She checked her watch: 6:43. She reasoned that the earliest anyone would probably arrive for work at the fort would be 7 a.m. That left a little over 15 minutes to accomplish her task.

  Taking the block of wood and hammer, Fawn returned to the gallery entrance where the brick was withdrawn at the apex. She stared at it curiously for a minute, unsure how to proceed. Somehow, she had to get it to return to its original state so the opening in the bastion stairwell would seal itself. On a whim, she brought the block of wood to the recessed brick and tapped it firmly with the head of the hammer. Incredibly, the brick fell, returning to its original position, appearing as if it had never been unseated. A scraping grind bellowed from inside the bastion. When the sound stopped, Fawn checked the stairwell. Indeed, the wall was back in place: it was an engineering marvel.

  Content, Fawn gathered her things—rope, hammer, flashlight, block of wood, canister—and departed through the same window in the bastion as she had arrived. It seemed with each passing second, the landscape glowed more freshly with morning light.

  She returned to the edge of the weed-covered trough. Curiosity got the better of her, and she lifted the canister, staring at the grime that caked the outside. She lightly tapped it and, for the first time, realized the container was not made of some metal. It was glass. Using her nail, she was able to scrape through to the surface and create a small clear area. Fawn took the flashlight and brought the beam to it.

  A ghastly eye socket glared back at her, and she nearly dropped the container. It was all the proof she needed. She eased the canister down amidst the foliage, made sure it was adequately covered, and then moved to the water’s edge. She tossed the hammer, flashlight, and gathered rope into the bay with a heave. Then she quickly returned to the bastion opening, scanning the rampart above to ensure no one had seen her. Back inside, she only had to wait until 9:00 a.m. when the park officially opened to make her escape.

  Fawn’s plan to get the canister out of the fort was going to require help. She made the phone call long before the fort opened. It went against her original plan of not involving others, specifically Ralston, but she saw no other solution.

  Fawn found a corner of the bastion and huddled into it. In the dim light, she took stock. She realized how tired she was, how caked and uncomfortable her clothes were from hiding in the soggy trench last night. Her fingers were scratched from sliding along the brick, as was her back, even though her shirt had not torn. Her hair was disheveled and snarled. Dirt and dust clung to her clothes like glue. Before leaving, she would need to find the restroom and make herself somewhat presentable so as not to raise suspicion.

  As she awaited the opening of Fort Clinch, Fawn began mentally poring over Sarah Courtland’s 1865 letter to her son Coyle. She tried to recall every possible detail, visually memorizing the information as best as she could.

  She struggled to maintain her focus as another realization kept creeping into her thoughts. She shuddered at the thought that the current-day killer might have knocked her unconscious, and she wondered how close she had come to being the next victim.

  At 9:15, Fawn stood impatiently in the north bastion, looking around like any other tourist would. She had decided not to risk searching for a bathroom for fear of being seen looking like a waif, so she did the best she could with a handkerchief and a comb. She kept vigil from the opening of the bastion, keeping watch down the long gallery. She was relieved when she saw the distant figure of a dark man enter the far end of the gallery pushing a baby stroller.

  Ralston emerged onto the grass. Fawn walked from the bastion and met him.

  “You know you owe me an explanation,” he said.

  “I owe you big time,” she said with a forced smile. Her head still ached, and she knew she looked like hell.

  Minutes later, after loading the glass container with the skull into the stroller and covering it with blankets, they walked to the parking lot. They presented themselves as a couple who had a baby covered beyond view, and thus attracted little attention. Fawn let out a tremendous sigh of relief as they spotted Lisa Fortney’s idling vehicle.

  The Fortneys’ stroller was folded and placed in the trunk. Fawn took the passenger seat, and Ralston climbed into the back seat with the canister.

  Lisa looked at Fawn with raised eyebrows. “Don’t tell me you’ve been inside that fort the entire—”

  Fawn held up a silencing hand. “Please, Lisa. Can we just go?”

  Lisa looked at the frumpy woman beside her and wrinkled her nose. She waved her hand before her face to clear the air. “Yeah, I think we better.”

  Ralston spoke solemnly. “There’s been another killing. At Guana State Park south of Jacksonville Beach. Same characteristics. Police are saying that it’s murder victim number five.”

  ****

  Minutes later, Lisa let Fawn and Ralston off at the Atlantic Recreational Center parking lot. Fawn managed to fend off Lisa’s barrage of questions with an adamant promise to answer them in the coming days.

  The two climbed in Fawn’s car with the container between them. Fawn could no longer suppress herself. As she started the engine, her thoughts spilled out excitedly. “Ralston, it’s unbelievable,” she said, navigating onto the main thoroughfare.

  “You found something. I knew it! You looked like you were about to burst when I saw you standing in the bastion. What were you doing there, anyway? Lisa told me she’d dropped you off late yesterday afternoon. You stayed all night inside the fort, didn’t you? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You were right, Ralston. There’s a secret room inside the fort. Jeez, I don’t even know where to start,” Fawn said. Her headache had subsided marginally, and she felt more awake than she thought possible.

  “I found it. The skull of Osceola. It’s in
this glass container. I can hardly believe it myself.”

  “Holy shit,” Ralston whispered.

  “Wait, there’s more, so much more,” Fawn swallowed. “I had the letter; the very letter Sarah Courtland mailed to her son Coyle in 1865. The letter divulging that Coyle’s real father was Osceola, which Lawrence Courtland discovered unopened in his attic in 1969. It was with the skull.”

  “Had the letter?” Ralston remarked.

  “I was knocked unconscious. Someone took it before I could finish reading.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yes, just a vicious headache that’s finally beginning to fade.”

  “Fawn, it may have been the killer. If he or she is somehow connected to the skull, the letter, as all indications appear, you may have been in the killer’s space. You’re lucky to be alive. You should have let me go with you.”

  “Whoever it was took off with the letter.”

  “Does the letter provide any clues to who the killer might be?”

  “No, but it told an amazing story,” Fawn said, turning down her street. “Before I go on, I need to show you something.”

  Inside Fawn’s house, Ralston took a seat on the couch. Fawn disappeared. She returned carrying a cigar box.

  “Do you have class today?” she asked, taking a seat beside him. She had taken two aspirin and washed her face and hands. “This is going to take time to explain.”

  “Are you kidding?” he said, pointing to the glass container sitting on the coffee table before them. Ralston had rubbed a section clean, making the skull clearly visible. “You just found the skull of Osceola. Class can wait.”

  Fawn grinned. “I need to give you some family history. When my father, Juan Velarde Cortez, was a boy living in Puerto Rico, his grandfather passed away, leaving Juan a unique gift.