This meant Fawn had one of the legitimate keys, and she had a plausible theory as to where the other one was located: at the cemetery plot in St. Augustine inside the skull of Osceola, if what Sarah Courtland’s 1865 letter to her son Coyle claimed was correct.
With possession of those two keys, and knowing the order of their use, she could bargain for the release of her father.
CHAPTER 40
It was well after 11:00 p.m. when Fawn picked up Ralston. Fawn spent the first half of the trip to St. Augustine catching Ralston up on the ransom demand, finding the key in the lighthouse, not finding a key in Mike’s safe, and of the meaning of the guard room text.
“Ralston, the woman killed in St. Augustine…the one found yesterday. That was Lisa.”
“I know Fawn.” He laid a gentle hand across her wrist.
“The bastard who has my father has Lisa’s phone, and he used it to call me. And Mike is obviously a part of all this.” Fawn involuntarily shivered.
“We’re going to save your father, Fawn.”
A few minutes of silence passed as Fawn sped along the dark road leading to I-95.
“Do you have tools to dig,” Ralston said.
“Got ‘em from Mike’s garage.”
“Have you heard from Mike? Isn’t he returning this evening?”
“No and yes. I doubt the bastard is even in Connecticut.”
“Fawn, the police are looking for Terrence Courtland; just like you tried to tell that detective. They found his fingerprints on Osceola’s marker next to Lisa’s body. You were right. For whatever reason, the man faked his death at the World Trade Center on 9/11.”
“Yeah, well, that still doesn’t account for why Mike never told me about his mother, Elizabeth. Nor does it explain why the key I gave him wasn’t in his safe as we had agreed.”
“I’m sorry, Fawn. I’m sorry about Mike,” Ralston said.
“We’ve got to be careful. Whoever has my father may be watching, and we’re out in the middle of the night with a serial killer running around.”
“Yeah, and we’re going to a cemetery to dig up some bones,” Ralston remarked. “I would never have guessed this when I enrolled as a foreign exchange student.”
Fawn looked at the young man and, for a brief instant, smiled. Then her expression hardened.
They reached St. Augustine at 12:30 a.m. Traffic was light, and they elected to park on a side street adjacent to the Mission of Nombre de Dios and cemetery. The gift shop was dark, as were most other businesses across San Marco Boulevard.
They gathered gear from the trunk of Fawn’s car and moved stealthily onto the cemetery grounds. They reached the winding sidewalk where light was shielded by the covering tree limbs, which cloaked the cemetery.
To the left, a shimmering ribbon of moonlight led across the bay into the darkness of Anastasia Island. It was a still night, and salt air casually inland.
Behind the gift shop, away from the side street, Fawn turned on a flashlight, aiming it low to the ground. She paused, looking out at the blurred shadows of spaced headstones, statues, and markers. Not far away, a large, solid structure stood out: the Mission.
They continued, reaching the ivy-covered structure then angling away. They soon found the marker.
Fawn looked around. They were shielded from San Marco Boulevard and well concealed.
Meticulously, they assembled their tools on the ground. Fawn grabbed a shovel. “I can’t believe I’m about to do this.” Already, sweat streamed down her face. Again, she looked about anxiously, not so much worried about being caught trespassing as knowing a psychotic killer was still on the loose in Northeast Florida. The last known whereabouts placed the murderer on the outskirts of St. Augustine.
Fawn spoke. “Let’s take turns. One digs while the other stands watch. It’ll take us longer, but I’ll feel safer. We’ve still got…” she consulted her watch in the dim light. “Five hours until dawn. That should be enough time, and it’ll also keep us fresh.”
Ralston chuckled.
“What?”
“Using the term fresh when talking about human remains seems to be quite the paradox.” Ralston brushed the dreadlocks from his face. “Ladies first?” he asked, extending his hand, palm up.
“Not in this case.”
As agreed, they dug in shifts. The ground proved to be remarkably hard at surface level, but once past the first 8 to 10 inches, the dirt softened, and the work became considerably easier. The task soon became a monotonous repetition of shoveling dirt and piling it into a spot near the hole. They hoped to return the earth as they had found it, giving the grave an undisturbed appearance when they were done, although covering their tracks was a distant second priority at this point.
The more they dug, the more nervous Fawn became about her theory regarding Dr. Weedon’s motivation to return Osceola’s head to Florida soil; to this plot he once owned. Her assumption was based on speculation, albeit logical reasoning supported by the fact the head Weedon had sent to New York had been a ruse. The only practical motivation for the deception was Weedon wished to fulfill Osceola’s dying wish.
Fawn and Ralston excavated a large area to ensure they did not dig past the remains. It turned into greater effort than either had anticipated. An hour into digging, each shift became shorter as they tired quickly.
At the two-hour mark, the blade of Fawn’s shovel struck something solid. She reached down, brushing dirt away, and found a flat surface. Excitedly, she cleared away more dirt with the shovel as Ralston held the flashlight.
Fawn dropped to her knees, trying to ignore the fact she was probably only a layer of wood away from human bones. Fawn quickly brushed the dirt away to reveal a flat, decomposing wooden surface. She was nearly breathless when she looked up at Ralston. “I need your help.”
Ralston climbed into the hole, propping the light in the corner by wedging the base into the wall of dirt. The two then continued to work, standing to the side, clearing the final layer of dirt off the sodden coffin.
In time, the coffin lid, what was left of it anyway, was ready to be removed. Fawn stepped out of the grave, keeping the flashlight trained downward.
Ralston positioned the crowbar then stopped. “Anything you want to say? Any spiritual incantations so these guys don’t haunt us for the rest of our lives?” His tone carried trepidation and reluctance. Fawn understood that he was truly frightened by what they were about to do. She admired him all the more for his help.
Fawn shook her head. “Let’s get it open.”
Ralston wedged the crowbar in place and leveraged the lid. Like the brick in the Amelia Island Lighthouse, it broke apart. Ralston flung pieces of wood to the side. He had started at the headstone end, reasoning that the skulls would be there, but as the wood splintered free, and more of the dirty inside casing was revealed, they saw bones for several pairs of feet.
An odd smell lifted, engulfing the area; a sickly combination of earth and stench.
“Try the other end,” Fawn said.
Ralston went to work prying the soggy board away from the far end of the coffin. A two-foot, solid piece gave way, intact.
Ralston staggered back and Fawn drew in a sharp gasp. Three skulls were revealed, ashen in the bright flashlight beam, looking up as if fixed upon the intruders. Eyes hollowed, mouths gaping, they looked frozen in unspeakable agony.
Fawn shivered, but she held the flashlight firmly in place, unable to look away from the mesmerizing sight.
And then she saw it: a rectangular box, the size of a skull, lay to the side.
“How will we know which one is Osceola?” Ralston asked, breathing erratically. “We’ll have to take them all.”
“I don’t think so,” Fawn said, still gazing at the box, which appeared metallic. She pointed to it. “Can you…?”
Ralston nodded. The young man turned and reached into the c
offin, removing the box. As he did, the nearest skull, which had been braced by the box, lolled to the side, and the second one, held up by the first skull, did likewise, and so forth with the third skull, like dominos falling.
Startled, Ralston leapt from the hole, still holding the box and breathing excitedly.
“It’s okay,” Fawn caught his arm before he could race off. “The skulls were held up by the box. See?” Fawn shone the light back in the hole to prove the three skulls were not scaling the dirt walls to get to Ralston. Instead, they lay sideways and motionless in the dilapidated coffin.
“I knew that,” Ralston said, still trying to catch his breath.
Fawn looked at the metal box in his hand. It was the perfect size to hold a skull. Then she saw words etched in the metal top. The inscription read:
My brave Seminole friend. I return you to Florida soil as I promised.
Dr. F. Weedon
She had been right.
Using the crowbar again, they worked the box open. Inside, the once poignant and proud head of the most famous Seminole warrior was revealed. It was remarkably well preserved. Although the metal casing was not airtight, it had afforded an extra degree of protection from the elements. The head’s pristine state was probably due in large part to Dr. Weedon, who was said to have embalmed it.
In many ways, it reminded Fawn of a mummified Egyptian. Oddly, though, there was nothing terrifying about it. It lay in bunched cloth. The skin was dark brown, taut, and stretched over the face. The Indian’s long black hair, while disheveled, appeared full, unaffected by time, tied in a ponytail. His eyes were closed with a filmy lid falling inward on one.
Amazingly, drawing the flashlight closer, Fawn could see a distinctive difference in the shading of the face. Exactly one half was darker.
“You know, under different circumstances, we’d be famous right now,” Fawn remarked, still in awe.
Ralston seemed to regard the object before them with more reverence. “It’s wrong to mess with the dead. I understand we’re doing this for a good reason, but can we please get on with it?”
“You’re right,” she said, laying the metal box with the skull on the ground. She reached into her pocket and removed a pocket knife. Fawn extracted a long blade and knelt beside the box. “Please keep the light still.”
Fawn drew close to the skull, examining the inset lid. Obviously there was empty space behind it. She hoped the key would be found inside, although Fawn frankly still considered it unreasonable to think a key would fit in an eye socket, unless of course, this key was smaller than the others.
Nevertheless, she took the point of the blade and began digging at the leathery skin of the eyelid. The flashlight beam momentarily danced, and she knew Ralston was grappling with the morose sight as much as she was struggling with the task she was undertaking. But her resolve was set. She had to find the key. Her father’s life depended on it.
Fawn steadied herself. Again, she cut into the lid. This time it crackled, and the brittle fold of skin fell inward, exposing a shallow hole.
“Let me see the light,” she beckoned.
“Gladly,” Ralston responded. Fawn shined the light into the small opening. The tatter of skin had dropped inward and was braced against something solid. “Ralston, please hand me the screwdriver.”
He complied, and she eased the point into the socket. She scraped the eyelid out, but beyond it, there was nothing more than bone matter.
A wave of disappointment raced over Fawn. “Please,” she begged out loud as she handed the flashlight back to Ralston. Fawn exchanged the screwdriver for the knife, and she went to work on the other eye. The eyelid bulged as if the eye were still resident. Fawn made an incision around the parameter of the eyelid and peeled it away.
“Is that what I think it is?” Ralston said. “That’s impossible. The eye would have decayed long ago. Mummified or not.”
Fawn knelt so that her face was within inches of the skull inside the box. “You’re right.”
“What do you mean I’m right?” Ralston asked, trying to get another look. Fawn was blocking his view. “Is it his eye?”
Fawn sat up. “Yes and no,” she said, rising to her feet.
Ralston gave her a puzzled stare.
Fawn shone the flashlight on her balled left hand. Then she slowly opened it to reveal a large marble.
“A fake eye?” Ralston said.
“Yes.” Fawn pointed to it. “And there’s something inside.”
“A key?” Ralston asked.
“No.” Fawn went to the tools, found the hammer and handed the flashlight back to him. She walked to the sidewalk with Ralston in tow. Without a word, Fawn laid the marble on the cement, drew the hammer back, and smashed the glass eye. A tiny, folded wad of paper lay among the small shards.
“What is that?” Ralston asked.
Ever so carefully, Fawn unwrapped the paper. Protected within the glass ball, it had been kept in perfect condition. Fawn stood, splaying it in the palm of her hand for both of them to see. Fully unfolded, the paper was four inches by four inches.
There were hand-drawn pictures on both sides. She recognized one of the pictures immediately. It was an overhead view of the Castillo de San Marcos, which was less than a quarter mile from the cemetery. The only anomaly to the picture was “II” outside the drawing, with a line aimed from it toward the fort between the southwest and northwest bastions. The “I” on the right was circled.
Ralston had recognized the image as well. “Why would Osceola have a glass marble with a picture of the St. Augustine Spanish fort implanted in his eye socket?” Ralston asked. “And what’s the Roman number mean? And why is that line circled?”
“Are you sure it’s a Roman numeral?” Fawn asked.
“I am. See how the top and bottom of each figure have cap lines?”
“Whatever it is, it’s connected to the western side of the fort by that line.”
Fawn turned the paper over. The picture on this side was far less detailed. It was a shape—squared on the left with parallel lines moving horizontally to form an arch on the right. Another line ran vertically inside the shape, cutting off a fifth of the image on the left. Toward the right, inside the arch, was a small, elongated rectangle.
****
Fawn flipped the paper back to the castillo drawing.
Ralston spoke. “I don’t get it. I thought we were going to find the key. We’re at another dead end.”
Even in the dim light, Ralston could see Fawn wore a satisfied look. “What is it you’re not telling me?”
“Remember when Osceola was captured in 1837 and first incarcerated?”
“In the castillo,” Ralston responded.
“That’s right, and I know from my research he was temporarily held in one of the storerooms on the western side of the fort, at approximately this same location where the line is pointing in the picture.”
Fawn turned the paper over to the second picture. “Now look. Nothing, right?”
To Ralston, it still looked like the sideways profile of a large bullet, with a small rectangle sketched close to the head.
“But look now,” Fawn said, rotating the small diagram ninety degrees until the head of the bullet faced up.
“It’s a picture of the storeroom at the fort!” He recognized the low shelf, arched ceiling, and high window that were all characteristic of the expansive first-floor rooms inside the 1600s structure. “But what does it mean?”
“It means, my friend, Osceola must have had the JS key on him when he was captured and taken to the castillo for his short stay in 1837. What I hope it means is that he was fearful the key would be discovered on him, so he hid it somewhere in that storeroom’s wall. The fort is made of coquina, a byproduct of shells. Osceola could have carved a hole into the wall, placed the key inside, and closed it up.”
&n
bsp; Ralston spoke. “So how do you propose we breach a fort with a raised drawbridge and 20-foot-plus walls?”
“The only way we can: as tourists. We’re not going to be able to get in until it opens in the morning, which is 9:30 as I recall. We’ll have two and a half hours to find the key before the noon deadline.”
“Even if it is somewhere embedded in the wall of that storeroom, do you really think we can find it?”
Fawn looked down for a moment then back at Ralston. “I’m 100% certain, because I have no choice,” she said solemnly.
****
Returning to Fawn’s house on Amelia Island would have consumed several hours. Instead, they opted to remain in St. Augustine. This way, they could get some sleep before arriving at the castillo.
Fawn considered calling Dr. Lohan, asking if he could put them up for the night, but she feared the archaeologist would hit her with a flurry of questions that she was not prepared to discuss. Instead, they parked on a side road and slept in Fawn’s car.
CHAPTER 41
Fawn woke Ralston at 6:30 a.m. They drove to the public parking garage and waited for the Welcome Center across from the fort to open.
Their sodden clothes were riddled with dirt stains from their activity the night before. Without a change of clothes, they would have to clean off to the extent they could before entering the castillo.
Several minutes after 8:00, Ralston entered the Welcome Center and went to the men’s bathroom. Fawn followed, heading for the women’s bathroom.
When they met outside some time later, both had cleaned up so that they were at least presentable. Fawn’s shirt was splotched with water.
“Nice look,” Ralston scoffed.
“I’ve never wanted a shower so badly in my life, except for the night I spent in the ditch outside the north bastion of Fort Clinch.”
“How are we doing on time?”
Fawn checked her watch. “8:41; there’s still awhile until the fort opens.”
Three Keys to Murder Page 29