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.
Johnson 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,
