“Big, fat Greek sandwiches,” said Dave. “Very nice!”
Nick said, “Hot dog, I save some fish for you, too.” Nick had a small piece of grouper wrapped in foil for Max. “Sean, you want a beer. Look to me like you need one, man.” As Nick ripped off a can of beer, O’Brien’s cell rang. It was Detective Dan Grant.
“Did you reach Spelling’s mother?” asked O’Brien.
“Fed’s may have read the imprint, but somehow they missed the message.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean Tranquility Trail. It’s not a house. It’s a freakin’ cemetery.”
“What?”
“Maybe Spelling’s mother is buried there. Evidence could be buried with her.”
“Sean, I might have blown off a judge’s signature for a search warrant. But to start diggin’ a coffin out of the ground we need a court order to get it exhumed. I know we’re under the gun for Charlie Williams. The death penalty crowds are already gathering at Starke, those for and against. But I’m not about to start diggin’ up graves to find something I don’t even know is buried in one of them.”
O’Brien said nothing.
Dan said, “Keep in mind, that’s a damn old graveyard. Goes back to the Spaniards and French Huguenots settling Florida. Finding her grave at this hour-with a storm coming through-would be like a needle in a haystack thing.”
“I’ll call you back, Dan.” He disconneted. “Nick, you said you were on Patmos as a child.”
“Yeah, man. It’s a religious experience. I feel the need sometimes to return.”
“The Bosch painting-Saint John on Patmos-looked like John was taking notes. The Virgin descending, an angel pointing to her, a ship burning in the harbor.”
Nick took a long pull for his beer. He said, “Rome kicked the holy man out. He lived on Patmos. God told him, either mankind-we get our shit together and learn to get along, or face the end-Omega. Apocalypse. It’s all there in the book of Revelation.”
“That’s it!” O’Brien said, his fingers flying on the computer keyboard.
Nick said, “Sean, relax. You need to go to Patmos, learn to find you inner peace.”
“Right now I’d rather find Sam Spelling’s letter. I know where it is!”
“Where?” Dave asked. He and Nick looked at the computer screen.
“It’s where Father Callahan hid it. He left a direct key to the last book in the Bible: Revelation. Father Callahan somehow knew Manerou was born in Patmos. Look at the screen.” O’Brien pointed to a passage from the Book of Revelation. He said, “In Revelation 13:18 it says: ‘Here is wisdom. Let him that hath understanding count the number of the beast: for it is the number of a man; and his number is six hundred
threescore and six.’ Manerou’s name totals six-six-six in Greek numerology. Father Callahan, an art expert, drew a symbol from Bosch’s painting as he lay dying. Saint John on Patmos. He tried to write Patmos, getting out the first three letters before he died.”
Nick said, “I’m going to mass. This is spooky stuff, man.”
O’Brien pointed to the screen. “The sign of Omega that Father Callahan drew, it’s right there in Revelation 22:13. ‘I am Alpha and Omega. The beginning and the end. The first and last.’ Again, Revelation-the end of the Bible. Omega-the end. I was looking everywhere but there. I bet that Father Callahan hid Sam Spelling’s letter in the Revelation-in a Bible on the sanctuary dais. Less than fifteen feet from his body.”
Dave said, “Maybe Father Callahan didn’t write out the location because he thought the killer might return. He put a lot of stock in you, Sean, to figure this out.”
“I almost didn’t.”
“But you did it, man!” Nick said, tossing a piece of pita bread to Max.
“Charlie Williams as very little time left. I have to go.”
Dave said, “Sean, the riddle of the Sphinx was less of a challenge. But you, my friend, had to travel through all nine circles of Dante’s hell to get to the Elysian Fields.”
“I’m not there yet,” said O’Brien, getting up to leave.
Nick said, “Man, it’s eleven thirty-where you gonna go this hour?”
“To church.”
NINETY-TWO
It was almost midnight when O’Brien parked his Jeep in the back lot at St. Francis Church. The fog had cleared and its wake a cold front was building, the smell of rain coming across the sea of urban sprawl. He took a small flashlight and a leather pouch out of his glove box. O’Brien searched the exterior of the building, found the electric breaker box, and shut off the power.
At the back door, he held the flashlight in his teeth, took a pick from the leather pouch, and worked the lock. There was an audible click, and he opened the door. The inside of the church smelled like candles, incense, and old books. He shined the flashlight on the marble floor, the area he’d found Father Callahan’s body. The bloodstain was gone but the memory was there. Father Callahan dying in front of a podium where he had stood for sixteen years. Stood and spoke of the love of God. Spoke about the line between good and evil. The temptation to cross the line- the will not to, the bridge to come back. The bridge over the river Styx, thought O’Brien.
He stepped up on the platform, and stood behind the large Bible; its pages lying opened and turned to Psalms 23. O’Brien flipped the pages to the end of the Bible, to the Book of Revelation. He turned to Revelation 13:13.
The letter wasn’t there.
Lightning flashed through the skylights, and thunder rolled in the distance. O’Brien found Revelation 22:23. There on the opposite side page from the verse, on a single sheet of folded legal paper, was a letter. O’Brien opened the paper and read Sam Spelling’s words: To Father John and God — My name is Sam Spelling. I am real sorry for my sins. I wish to ask God for forgiveness….and I know now I done some bad things in my life. I hope to make amends. On the night of June 18th, 1999, I was working a deal, trying to score some cocaine at the Mystic Islands condos near Miami, Florida. I was supposed to meet a dealer there. It was the same night Alexandria Cole was stabbed to death. I was sitting in a car in the condo lot waiting for the dealer to show when I seen a man come out of Miss Cole’s condo. But before I go any further, I want to say where the knife can be found in case I get too tired to finish this letter… It’s in the town of St. Augustine. Tranquility Trail — my mother’s grave is there. She always loved that old cemetery and wanted to be buried there. I put the knife in a plastic Tupperware box and buried it right across the road from her grave.. It’s about one foot directly in front of a statue of an angel with wings. I buried it under a rock.
The angel is next to a pond in the cemetery. The angel is pointing with her right hand. Back to what I was saying. I was sitting in a car in the condo lot, waiting for the dealer to show when I seen a man come out of Miss Cole’s condo. He didn’t see me on account I was hunkered down in the car. I could tell he was drunk, almost fell a few times walking toward a truck I figured was his at the far end of the parking lot. I was curious as to what he was doing, and I got out of my car to see what was going on. The man looked like he was getting something out of the truck then he walked across the street to the Whales Tale Tavern. I didn’t think much about it. Went back to my car and I seen another man go into Miss Cole’s place. Wasn’t but a short while before I heard a scream. I saw the man running from her condo. He ran and stopped behind a breezeway, then I watched him go on down to the truck, the same one the other feller opened earlier. Looked to me like the second dude put something in the truck. I got back in my car and followed him as he left.
He went a block and tossed something wrapped in a newspaper…tossed it in a dumpster. I looked in the dumpster, found the newspaper, opened it and found a plastic bag with a bloody knife in it. When I seen the knife in the bag, I knew he’d put some drops of blood in the truck. The man that killed Alexandria a Cole is Christian Manerou, an agent with the FBI. I recognized him from a picture in the paper. He was part of a drug bust earlier involving Miss Cole’s manager. I made a call to him, told him I seen what he did and said for a hundred grand I’d go way and never come back. He agreed. I was sort of surprised he had that much cash, because I would have took less. He wanted the knife, but I told him I’d bury it and keep it as my little secret insurance policy. I pray for Charlie Williams’ soul, and I ask God to forgive mine for what I done. Sincerely, Sam Spelling.
