The 24th Letter

TWENTY-SIX

“Doctor Silverstein, phone call, Doctor Silverstein,” came the announcement of the hospital’s PA system.

Detective Gant looked at O’Brien and asked, “Why do we need to find the corrections guard immediately?”

“Because the guard was eavesdropping when Spelling was confiding-confessing to Father Callahan. If this guard heard enough, meaning enough information to link back to the person who killed Alexandria Cole-maybe he spoke with Spelling when he was partially sedated, somehow managed to get even more information from him. I don’t know, but I’m thinking that now he might have the identity of the man who killed Spelling and Father Callahan.”

“Maybe the guard is somehow tied in with the perp. He could have knocked off Spelling and killed the priest.”

O’Brien shook his head. “I don’t think so. But it’s plausible that if he somehow discovered the perp’s real identity…just maybe he could have contacted him.”

“But why would a department of corrections guard do that?” Dan asked

“The same reason that Sam Spelling did…greed.” O’Brien pinched the bridge of his nose. His eyes burned. “Let’s walk and talk as we head to Spelling’s room.”

Anita Johnson didn’t feel the hand touch her shoulder. She lay on the couch with a knitted blanket pulled up over her shoulders, the bluish light from the television flickering across the room. An open bottle of sleeping pills was on the coffee table. A few pills were scattered across the glass top. One of the pills had turned into a milky liquid and lay dissolved in the condensation left from a sixteen-ounce can of Budweiser.

The hand touched her shoulder again, this time more forceful.

“Mommy, I’m scared,” said the three-year-old boy. He stood at his mother’s side and tried to keep from crying. Summer storms were rolling in again, the approaching thunder sounding like bombs in the distance, growing louder.

“Mommy, wake up.”

Anita slowly opened her eyes and tried to focus on her son. “Hey, baby…what you doin’ up, huh? You supposed to be sleepin’.”

“Thunder scares me.”

“It’s okay, sweetheart. Crawl under the blanket with me.”

“Where’s Daddy?”

Anita felt her heart jump. She tried to focus on the digital numbers glowing from the DVD player. She closed one eye. 1:37 a.m. “Oh, God.”

“I’m sleepy, Mommy.”

“I know, Ronnie. Let Mommy stand up and check on something, okay? You sit here and keep our spot on the sofa warm, okay, baby?”

The boy nodded and climbed on the couch.

Anita got up, steadied herself against a wall, and walked into the kitchen. She slowly pulled back the curtains and looked out onto the dirt driveway.

Lyle Johnson’s truck was not there.

Anita touched her fingers to her throat. She felt sick. Darkness and nausea rose around her in a flash flood of emotions. Her eyes welled with water, tears streaming down her cheeks like trapped water through a cracked dam.

He’s not comin’ back. He’s never comin’ back.

She could hear the sounds of frogs calling as the rain grew closer. She flipped on the porch light and looked through the parted curtains again. Only her seven-year-old Toyota was in the driveway.

There was something in the road. Maybe it was the outline of a parked car. Was it really a car or are the damned pills causing hallucinations? She strained to see the object as a blanket of clouds engulfed the sky.

Then the mobile home was covered in darkness.

Thunder rolled like a distant drum.

“Mommy, I’m scared.”