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
Lowe, Tom
The 24th Letter ((Mystery/Thriller)) 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
