The 24th Letter

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.”