The 24th Letter

ELEVEN

Lyle Johnson sat in a remote corner of the hospital snack bar and rewrote what he remembered reading in Sam Spelling’s letter. There was only one other person sitting at a table, a woman finishing a piece of pie. She got up and walked to a coffee dispenser less than twenty feet away. Johnson saw that she had left her book and cell phone on the table. He strolled by the table, lifted her phone, and exited the hospital.

Outside, Johnson stepped into a memorial garden with blooming roses and a three-tiered water fountain that splashed into a concrete base dotted with coins. There were no patients or members of anyone’s family outside. He was alone. He sat on one of the benches and thought about what he would say. Not often does an opportunity like this fall into a workingman’s hands. No way to live the rest of life-retiring on a state pension and have to work security for Walmart until you die.

He would do it. He could do it. After all, a stupid con like Spelling had done it, and he’d kept the secret for years. Johnson lifted the stolen cell phone out of his pocket. He knew where the person worked. Spelling had spelled it all out. All he had to do was call-one call to change his life. Easy. Fuckin’ A. Then why was his hand shaking so much he thought he would drop the phone?

Get a grip!

Johnson was surprised. The voice on the phone was calm. Too calm. After he introduced himself, Johnson said, “You seem like a very reasonable man.”

“You have the wrong person, Mr. Johnson.”

Johnson nodded. “I knew you’d say that on the phone. So I’ll do most of the talking. I’m not greedy. I just figure, according to Sam Spelling’s note, if you gave him a hundred grand to keep quiet eleven years ago, your secret ought to be worth even a little more today. You know-inflation-cost of doin’ business.”

“I’ll play along with a prank call for a moment, how’d you get my number?”

“Spelling had your number, pal. In a lot of ways he had your number. Now I got it, but I can be forgetful, very forgetful, just ask my wife. Here’s the deal: you get the written statement I stole from Spelling’s room. I get two hundred grand to go away forever. The state executes Charlie Williams in a few days. A few weeks later, nobody remembers his name.”

“Who else have you shared this prank-this alleged letter?”

Johnson was silent a moment. “Nobody, except maybe that priest, Callahan. And I didn’t share shit with him. He’s the priest that heard Spelling make a deathbed confession. Exactly what he said, I don’t know. But this is a hardcore priest, one of ‘em guys who keep spilled crap between them and God. Nobody else. Don’t sweat it. I have the shit on paper, the statement in Spelling’s own handwriting.”

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.”