by Tom Lowe
The voice on the phone was silent.
Johnson said, “Meet me tonight. Midnight. Bring the money. ”
“Where? I ask this only because I may send the police there.”
“Sure you will. Listen, asshole. Be there! It’s an old pioneer village at the corner of State Road 46 and 76 near Pierson. It’s under rehab. There’s a replica of an old
general store. Meet me on the store’s porch. In that letter, Spelling says where he found the murder weapon—your murder weapon. And he tells where it’s been hidden all these years for safekeeping. I know where to find it. Don’t be late.”
Lyle Johnson disconnected, a smile working at the corner of his mouth. He fished out a quarter from his pocket, tossing the coin in the fountain. “My wish is comin’ true.”
TWELVE
Father Callahan walked quickly down the long hospital corridor. Turning the corner, he almost ran into the ER doctor he’d met earlier. The doctor was walking with another man, older, white hair, tired but compassionate eyes. Father Callahan said, “Congratulations on the successful surgery of Sam Spelling.”
The ER doctor nodded. “It was Dr. Strassberg here who performed the operation.”
Dr. Strassberg looked at the priest. A tiny speck of dried blood was in lower part of the doctor’s glasses. He said, “I always ask for a little help upstairs, Father.”
“Indeed. What is Mr. Spelling’s prognosis?”
“Bullet was a clean shot. Hit no major arteries. But the heart was long suffering from atherosclerosis. We did a triple by-pass. He’ll live. How long, though…Father you’re closer to that answer than me. But he’ll be okay. He’ll walk out of here”
“I’ll pray for his recovery.”
The doctors left, and Father Callahan started to dial his cell phone. He saw the tiny battery icon. It was down to the last bar. Two men approached. One was a uniformed officer. The other was African-American, tall, sports coat and tie. His jacket had a slight budge on the left. Callahan recognized him from the ER lobby area. “Excuse me, Father,” said the plainclothes man.
“Yes?”
“I’m Detective Grant, investigating the attempted murder of Sam Spelling.”
“It looks like the offender wasn’t successful. The doctor just told me Sam Spelling is going to pull through. He’s turned the corner with his life. And our Lord had a bit to do with it. ”
“Then we don’t have a homicide, only a shooting. A nurse said you were in his room earlier.”
“I was in the emergency room earlier, too. Not long after he’d been shot.”
“Did he tell you anything?”
“You mean who tried to kill him?”
“That’s a good start.”
“No. He did ask for forgiveness. I listened to a private confession.”
“Might any of that confession lead us to the shooter?”
“I’m not a police investigator, but I highly doubt it. His concern was more of seeking God for strength, love, and ultimate forgiveness for his sins.”
“Did he suggest who might have shot him?”
“No.”
“Father, if you are approached by the media, there are still some TV trucks in the lot, please don’t say anything that will indicate Spelling is still alive.”
“Why?”
“We don’t want the shooter to know he failed.”
“I can’t lie.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
“What are you suggesting, Detective?”
“Spelling’s testimony is crucial in a major trial. If his shooter believes Spelling did die, then he won’t try again. Spelling can heal in a safe area and be brought in to testify in a couple of weeks. Working with the Florida Department of Law Enforcement, and the FBI, we’ve indicated his recovery was not successful.”
Father Callahan was quiet for a moment. “I see.”
“Thank you, Father.”
As the detective and the officer turned to go back down the hall, Father Callahan said, “I was approached by one reporter in the ER earlier.”
“Oh, what’d he ask?”
“I think he saw Sam Spelling making a confession to me, and he wanted to know what he said. Of course, I told him that was confidential. The reporter is with the Sentinel. Said his name is Brian Cook.”
Detective Grant looked up at a security camera a second. He said, “The guy must be new. I know their crime reporters. Don’t recognize the name. Do you have a card?”
“I do. Here you go. My lips are sealed, Detective. Good night.” Father Callahan started to walk down the corridor. Then Grant asked, “Father, there was a Department of Corrections officer posted at Spelling’s door. He’s not there. Have you seen him?”
“Maybe he took a break. Sam Spelling will be in recovery for some time.”
“No doubt. It’s just that Deputy Gleason is here to relieve the guard.”
“If I see him, I’ll pass that along.”
As Callahan walked down the hall, Deputy Gleason noticed that the priest had a slight limp. The left foot. Almost undetectable, but it was there.
THIRTEEN
Charlie Williams paced in his tiny world like a trapped animal. He walked from the steel bars to the thick wall of reinforced concrete, back and forth. A cage, eight by nine feet, had been his home for more than ten years. Soon they would be moving him to another cell, this one closer to the death chamber. At thirty-three, he felt life fifty-three. Face and body now a scarecrow. His hair had turned gray. The dark circles under his eyes never faded. His stomach burned as if a pipe constantly leaked acid. He could feel his rib cage under his skin. Weight dropping because food seemed almost obscene as the state readied him to die.
He stopped pacing and looked at the picture of Alexandria Cole. It sat next to a photograph of Charlie and his mother. In the picture, he was a boy holding his mother’s hand on the banks of the New River in North Carolina. It was where the family went weekends in the summer. It was where Charlie Williams learned to swim—where he was baptized. Now he felt like a man drowning.
He stepped to the small steel shelf, picked up the picture of Alexandria and said, “You know I didn’t do it. You’re probably the only one who knows that—just you and the bastard who really did it. But you can’t tell a soul. I miss you, Lexie. Looks like I’ll be joining you soon, baby. Maybe I can get it right with you in the next world.”
A single tear rolled down his check and splashed across the forever smiling face of Alexandria Cole.
#
FATHER CALLAHAN WALKED out of the front entrance to Baptist Hospital, said good night to a security guard, and looked around for any reporters. Two TV news satellite trucks sat in parking lot, their diesels humming, engineers adjusting antennas while reporters scribble notes and spoke loudly into cell phones.
Father Callahan carried his Bible, umbrella in one hand, and walked from the hospital down the city streets toward his church. Dark clouds rolled over the moon as if a candle had been snuffed out. Lightning flickered in the distance. He opened his cell phone to dial Sean O’Brien’s number. Before he could punch the keys, the phone rang. “Hello,” Father Callahan said.
“Father, this is Detective Grant. I wanted to make sure I heard you correctly. What did you say was the name of the Sentinel reporter?”
“Brian Cook.”
“I just called the Sentinel. The only Brian Cook they have is the food writer.”
“That’s strange. I’m sure that’s the name he gave me. He looked legitimate. Carried a copy of the newspaper folded under one arm. Had one of those reporter’s notebooks and a pen.”
“He probably got the name of the food guy right out of the paper. He’s an imposter.”
“I don’t follow you, Detective.”
“I think the guy you spoke with is the man who tried to kill Sam Spelling.”
FOURTEEN
Father Callahan disconnected with the detective, stopped under a streetlamp to see the numbers on his phone, as the bat
tery grew weaker. He punched in Sean O’Brien’s number. “Sean, are you near? My phone battery’s about to die.”
“Be there soon, Father. Bad storm’s moving your way. It blew down a tree across State Road 44. I’m in my Jeep. I’ll go around the cars and cops. I’ll just be a few minutes late.”
“I just spoke with a detective. He said the reporter who approached me in the ER lobby was an imposter.”
“What?”
“The detective said he believes the man was the same person who shot Sam Spelling. Spelling’s letter says—”
“Father, can you hear me? You’re voice is fading. If you can hear me, I’ll be there very soon.
#
DEPUTY TIM GLEASON was hoping to get a final refill of his coffee when he saw a priest approaching, walking down the long hospital corridor. There was something different about the way Father Callahan walked. The slight give to the left foot was gone. Now he moved with an aggressive step. He had a more determined gait than when he’d spoken with Gleason and Detective Grant earlier.
Deputy Gleason could see the man approaching wasn’t Father Callahan. This man wore a fedora hat. Could be because of the pouring rain, thought Gleason. The priest had wider shoulders, neatly trimmed dark beard and black frame glasses.
Maybe priests have a shift rotation, too. Maybe he was from a different church.
The priest stopped a few feet away from the room door.
Deputy Gleason stood and said, “He’s still out of it, Father.”
The priest nodded. In a low whisper he said, “Sometimes just a voice, the word of God, can penetrate a sleeping man’s soul. The power of prayer aids recovery.”
The veiled, black eyes held on Gleason. The deputy felt tension and embarrassment at the same time. There was something about this priest that didn’t seem right—but he was a man of God, and who was Gleason to judge him?
“Father, I’m a firm believer in prayer for healing the sick.”
“Bless you, my son.”
“Thank you, Father.” Deputy Gleason stepped aside. “You can go on in.”
“Thank you. Please open the door. I hurt my wrist playing tennis.”
FIFTEEN
Sam Spelling dreamed in shades of red, pink, yellow, and purple, like film processed in morphine and projected through stained glass onto the front of his brain. He saw himself in waders fishing a Montana stream, the cool air traveling deep into his lungs. He pulled a bull trout from the water, the iridescent colors bright and alive. Spelling removed the hook and lowered the fish back into the clear stream.
He smiled and slowly opened his eyes. The morphine dripped from the IVs into Spelling’s bloodstream, his vision was like looking though opaque glass, smoky, clouded.
A man dressed in black stood next to Spelling’s bed.
“Father?” he asked. “Is that you, Father John?” Spelling smiled. “You said you’d come back.” He coughed. His chest pounded, his vision growing watery.
“Yes, it’s me. Good to see you again, Sam.”
The voice.
Even through the fog of drugs, Spelling could tell the voice didn’t come from Father Callahan.
Spelling opened his eyes as wide as he could. Focus. The man wore a priest collar, but the face. He couldn’t see the face clearly. Vision blurred from drugs. But the man’s voice was there. He remembered where he’d heard it. “It’s you!”
“Who else?” The man stepped closer and leaned over the bed.
“Get away from me! Guard!” Spelling’s lungs were too weak to scream. He could only whisper. “Why are you here?”
“I think you know why. You are the reason I’m here. You decided to talk after all these years, eh? I’m so disappointed. I compensated you. We had a nice little agreement. Then, after you blew all the money, wound up back in prison, I get a note from you. Clever how you got your letter mailed out of prison without raising eyebrows. Your coding was exceptional—suggesting that I visit your mother’s home to exchange Christmas gifts. Impressive. After I read it, though, I knew you were about to cause me a lot of trouble, and I’d never be safe with you alive because you violated our agreement. Too bad the rifle bullet didn’t take out your heart. I aimed for it.”
Spelling wanted to crawl out of bed. “It was you! You shot me?”
“Even you find it hard to believe. That’s good. Police will never figure it out. When the marshals delivered you to the courthouse to testify in a drug trial, it gave me the perfect opportunity to take you out. No one, not even you, would have suspected it was tied to a murder years before. Timing is almost everything in life…and death. You’ve got a really big mouth that must be sealed…forever.”
Spelling looked to his left and then to his right, his eyes searching. Where’s the emergency button? “Get away from me!” Spelling’s heart hammered in his chest, the pain crushed him in a vice, the taste of metal erupting from his stomach like butane.
“You’ve become quite a liability, Sammy. Having a little heart palpitations, are we? Perhaps it’s time for our bedside prayer.”
“No!”
“You can say a nice prayer in the time it’ll take you to die. And you should begin right now. Shhhh, it’s painless. You will go to sleep. This is how I seal big mouths.”
Sam Spelling struggled as the man placed a wide hand over his mouth and pinched his nose. His lungs burned. He could hear the heart monitor beeping. Faster. Where were they? Somebody! The single handcuff restrained his free arm. He struggled and felt stitches rip in his chest, the heat of his blood flowing across his stomach like warm soup. He could see the digital white light from the monitor reflecting off the killer’s wide eyes—eyes the blackness of coal. He could see his own heartbeat beginning to slow, the reflection fading from the eyes like a flashlight dimming. His mind flashed back to the evil in the eyes he saw when he was dying in the emergency room. Now he saw the bull trout’s eyes, its mouth gasping for air, its body thrusting. He held the trout under the stream, a calmness returning to the fish. Then he released it and watched the trout swim into the cool translucence.
Spelling smiled. The little sparrow with the lost foot had retuned to the windowsill. Spelling saw himself open the window. He reached down and cupped the tiny bird in his hand. It was as light as a cracker and its heart raced. “You’re okay, little bird. You’ve got wings. I do, too.”
Sam Spelling jumped from the windowsill, soaring over the parking lot, flapping his wings, feeling the heat of the morning sunrise as he flew toward the light.
SIXTEEN
Father John Callahan stood in the sanctuary of St. Francis Church and lit seven candles. Lightning, from a storm blowing off the Atlantic coast, illuminated the sanctuary’s massive stained-glass windows. The priest stepped toward a marble statue of the Virgin Mary, made the sign of the cross, and whispered a prayer. He reached inside his coat pocket and retrieved the letter. He wanted to read Sam Spelling’s letter one more time before Sean O’Brien arrived.
As he finished reading, Callahan stood next to the pulpit and folded the letter once in the center of the paper. He opened the large Bible that sat on the podium, and he carefully placed the letter in the first chapter of Revelation, slowly closing the Bible.
Lightning struck close to the church, the sound of thunder exploding and rumbling like echoes bouncing off canyon walls in the night. The lights in the church flickered and faded out. Father Callahan found a lighter, lit a candle, and picked up the church phone. No dial tone. He lit more candles. He plugged his cell phone in the charger just as he heard a noise. He looked up to see the back door to the sanctuary open, the wind blowing rain into the dark alcove.
“Thought I locked that,” he said, walking toward the rear of the church to close the door, the chill of wind and the smell of rain meeting him.
Lightning popped and the wind blew rainwater into the hall. Father Callahan glanced in the direction of the alcove to see a man step out from the shadows, the burning candles tossing a soft light on the left
side of his face.
“Who enters the house of our Lord?” Father Callahan asked.
The man was silent.
Father Callahan assumed the bearded stranger, who wore a hat pulled down low, was homeless, someone needing a dry place until the storm passed. He had always extended a helping hand to the homeless. But as he walked toward the new arrival, he could tell the man was not a homeless person.
He was a priest.
“Welcome,” Father Callahan said. “Glad you could duck out of the rain on a night like this. Just took me ol’ nerves back a notch. Most folks come in the front door.”
The man said nothing.
#
SEAN O’BRIEN LOOKED at the GPS navigation map on the screen in his Jeep. He signaled, pulled off the highway, and drove on the right shoulder. Drivers hit their car horns. One man in a pickup truck gave O’Brien the finger as he sped past the truck.
O’Brien pulled completely off the shoulder, driving through a pine thicket, the limbs slapping at his window, birds scattering. He looked at the navigation map, cutting the wheel to the right and following under the clearing of a high-tension power line for less than a half-mile, and then he drove down a slight embankment that connected to a paved road, SR 46. He tried the priest’s cell again. No answer.
SEVENTEEN
Father Callahan’s cell rang as he turned toward the stranger. “Regardless of your point of entry, I’m delighted that a fellow priest is visiting. Not the best of nights for a social, but please enter our Lord’s house. You must be soaked. I can put on some tea, shot of brandy perhaps. I have a change of clothes that ought to match yours well. What brings you to St. Francis?”