The 24th Letter

TWENTY-THREE

Lyle Johnson pulled off Highway 29 onto the gravel road leading to the old pioneer village, reached across the seat and felt for his pistol. He turned off the headlights and slowly made his way about a half-mile until he came to the entrance. There was no gate, only an old Florida farmhouse the Volusia County Historical Society used for an office. The faded sign read:

Volusia Pioneer Village amp; Museum

An Authentic 19 th Century Replica of a Florida Farm Community

Open Monday — Saturday 10:00 a.m.- 4:00 p.m.

Johnson was an hour early. He wanted to arrive in plenty of time to stake out the grounds. One street lamp hung near the office, the light illuminated a few of the old buildings scattered nearby. The rest of the grounds and buildings were in black and white and shades of gray, silhouettes standing under the oak trees in the moonlight.

From the gravel road, Johnson could see the replica of and old country store, a Burma Shave sign painted on one wall. Not far from the store was a cypress-hewn barn. A steam engine sat frozen in time on rusty rail tracks beside a reproduction of a train depot. The sign hanging from the side of the depot read: DeLand, Florida, Pop. 319. The rest of the grounds consisted of share-cropper shacks, a tiny white clapboard church, a one-room schoolhouse, and a small barnyard where a cow and a pony stood quietly.b Johnson could see two large peacocks pecking at a cornhusk. A few chickens roosted under an A-frame platform that looked like a doghouse for birds.

Johnson parked behind some bushes, beneath a lone pine tree. He pulled the overhead bulb from the dome light in his pickup truck. He worked the pistol under his belt, gently opened the door, and got out.

There was movement.

A bat flew in and out of the light cast from the streetlamp. It attacked large moths that orbited the light.

Johnson’s heart beat faster. His hands were damp and clammy as he folded a copy of Sam Spelling’s letter and put it in his button-down shirt pocket. He walked across the gravel road to the side entrance. His eyes scanned the shadows. The gate was unlocked. Johnson pulled it toward him. The rusty hinges made a squeaking noise. An owl, sitting on a wooden fencepost, lifted its wings and flew into the dark. The pony snorted and walked a few steps before standing like a statue in the long shadows.

Johnson swallowed dryly, a mosquito whining in his ear as he walked through the open gate and headed toward the general store. He hesitated when he came to the store’s front porch. On the heart-of-pine porch were three chairs and a long wooden bench. There was a bushel of Indian corn near one chair. Garden tools from a century ago, the metal ends turned up, sat in a wooden barrel. There was a hoe, shovel, and a pitchfork.

Johnson looked around, his eyes searching the dark paths between the aged buildings. A breeze blew through the trees and turned the blades of a wooden windmill. The windmill groaned and stuttered, like the hinges and slats on a barn door creaking. The wind nudged the blades, and the shallow water pump sputtered and coughed, then burped up tannin water from under the sandy soil. Johnson could smell the odor of sulfur as the water trickled down an open pipe where it spilled into a horse trough.

He glanced at the moon shining through the windmill’s slowly turning blades.

The pony whinnied.

Hang tough. Remember what the Marine Corp taught. Know your enemy. Approach him with respect and surprise, if possible.

Johnson stepped onto the porch, the slats of pine groaning under his weight.

Just sit tight and wait. You have the goods. You’ve mailed the insurance policy.

A peacock shrieked. Johnson pulled the pistol out and pointed it toward the sound. The call was a long, mournful cry. Johnson’s heart raced. His hand trembled. He felt a drop of perspiration roll from one armpit and down his side.

“Hold both hands up!”