The 24th Letter

FIFTY-THREE

O’Brien set his internal alarm clock for 6:30 a.m. He stretched out on the hard mattress in his motel room and listened to the air conditioner shift gears. The old machine blew alternately warm and cold air across the room, the air smelling like it was filtered through a used vacuum cleaner bag.

He watched the pulse of a lavender neon motel vacancy light spill through a long horizontal strip where a piece of Venetian blind was missing. Between the deep noises from passing semi trucks and the rattle of the air conditioner, he drifted off to sleep.

In his dreams, O’Brien was in a medieval setting, a cathedral. It was in a remote area-fields of dark flowers at the edge of an ancient forest, trees and trunks all the color of dark green olives. The massive wooden door on the front of the cathedral opened slowly. It made no sound. O’Brien didn’t walk into the cathedral, he floated in-his body settling on a pew carved from stone. No one was there. Then O’Brien saw something scurry between the pews.

He knelt down, the floor cool and damp on his hands and knees. O’Brien looked beneath a stone row and saw a large rat. The animal stared at O’Brien, its eyes the size and shape of marbles, but the color of fire. Then the rat morphed into an elfish figure, a small gnome-like man with a face as old as time. The little man snarled at O’Brien and darted out into the fields of black flowers.

The interior of the cathedral turned from gray to a shade of lemon yellow. O’Brien looked toward the front of the church and saw something descend from an open window. He slowly walked toward it. The figure was that of a young woman with delicate features. She had wings that folded behind her back when she reached the floor. The angelic figure smiled, closed her eyes demurely, and floated toward the pulpit.

From the open doors, a hawk flew in and landed on the back of a stone pew. O’Brien turned around and watched the bird move its head, following the floating motion of the woman.

In the next instant, O’Brien was on a high bank overlooking a harbor with ships in the bay. The water was the shade of tea. It was late in the evening and a dark cloud was dropping, revealing the moon. O’Brien could see the image of the woman floating out of the moon, this time he could see her face, the face of the Virgin Mary.

“Who are you?” O’Brien heard himself say. “Where am I?”

He reached out to touch the figure and touched wet paint on a canvas. He looked at his fingers, the tips dripping in flesh tones, and he looked back at the woman in the painting. Her face was smeared.

O’Brien sat up in bed. His heart hammered in his chest. Sweat rolling down his sides, over his rib area and into the sheets.

He looked at his watch: 6:30 a.m. Somehow the inner timepiece always went off when set. It always managed to stir him from the dark.

O’Brien showered, changed into a fresh shirt and jeans, then headed for the Jeep. He drove a few miles until he came to a Seven-Eleven on Arthur Godfrey Road, where he parked to use a pay phone. He called

the Waverly Condos to report loud noises coming from 1795.

Soon he crossed MacArthur Causeway, turned south, and pulled next to The Corner Cafe for breakfast. It had the feel of a wannabe Irish pub and restaurant-a dozen green and white booths and as many tables. The tired bar had a single customer and an older bartender with the nametag JESSE clipped on with only one clip holding it. The place smelled of bacon, beer, and cigarettes.

A forty-something waitress with a smokers’ hack, picked up a menu, yellowed under the scratched plastic, and led O’Brien past the bar to a corner booth. A television over the bar was tuned to a channel broadcasting the Today show.

“Need a few minutes or do you know what you want?” asked the waitress.

“Eggs, scrambled. Wheat toast, potatoes and black coffee.”

“Be right back with your coffee, darlin’.”

O’Brien handed her the greasy menu, and after she walked away, he picked up his cell and began typing an email to Dave Collins. He attached the image of the moon and the cloud he shot. Dave, attached is the moon image you may remember me mentioning last night. Do you think it resembles what F Callahan drew? I’ve seen it- or something like it somewhere. A painting. Very old, I think. Probably Renaissance or before. Could have a bird of prey in it. Maybe you can do a little research…see what you can find, ok? Thanks. How’s Max?

The waitress brought O’Brien coffee. “Order will be up in just a minute.”

O’Brien nodded and sipped his coffee. He opened the case file to read. When he got to the transcript notes from Judy Neilson, Alexandria Cole’s roommate, he read something he’d forgotten. Responding to a question about how often Jonathan Russo came around their apartment, Judy said, “Too much. And then he stopped coming over. I don’t know why. Alex didn’t want to talk about it. I think she thought I’d tell Charlie. Anyway, then Alex started getting calls and she’d have to go. She hated going. Said the guy was creeping her out. She’d come back from meeting him, in a motel, I guess, and take long showers. One day, when I heard her crying in the shower, I sat her down and we talked. Said she’d thought about suicide. I told her if her life had gotten that bad, it was time to do something else. Cut your losses and run. She was killed three days later.”

O’Brien re-read the statement. He sipped his coffee and thought about what Judy had said. Something wasn’t coming together. Why would Russo meet Alexandria at a hotel? He had a private office in his club, a Mediterranean-style house on the bay. When Alexandria was killed, she was twenty-four years old, not prime age for a pedophile.

O’Brien’s cell rang.

“Where the hell are you?” asked Detective Ron Hamilton.

“Breakfast. Ron, I have Russo’s confession on tape.”

“And we have a warrant for you. Russo’s attorney swore out the warrant.”

“What charges?”

“For starters, aggravated assault, battery, destruction of property, and grand theft.”