The 24th Letter

NINETY-FOUR

O’Brien was silent. He turned off the Jeep’s headlight.

“Sean, are you there?” asked Lauren

“I’m here.”

“I could only hear the rain on the roof of your car. We’re sending back-up.”

“You can’t get here in time. The local P.D. would turn it into a circus. All I need is to find the buried box. Manerou doesn’t know where Spelling hid it. I’ll call you when I find it.”

The rain turned to hail. The stones were the size of peanuts, ivory-colored rocks bouncing off tombs of gray. They pounded the canvas roof of O’Brien’s Jeep. He drove slowly, straining through the bursts of lightning to follow the narrow road. At the end of the road, before it hooked left and turned into a coquina shell path, O’Brien saw the statue of the angel. Even in silhouette, he knew it was the one Spelling had described. O’Brien drove the car over a half dozen graves to get it off the road, to hide it behind a mausoleum. He shut off the interior dome light, picked up his Glock, took a small utility shovel out of the back, and walked toward the statue.

O’Brien stood behind a giant oak tree, out of sight from the road, and waited for the next burst of lightning. It came within seconds. He looked the length of the road to see if anyone was walking toward him.

Nothing. As O’Brien stepped around the tree, lightning hit the treetop. A branch broke off, crashing through the limbs. He dove out of the way, coming up next to a

Lowe, Tom

The 24th Letter ((Mystery/Thriller)) headstone. His vision blurred. His heart felt like it had stopped for a moment before the hammering started again in his chest. The hair on his arms and the back of his neck stood. His vision floated for a second, the words on the headstone coming into focus:

Dottie Spelling

Loving Mother

Born 1940 — Died 1996

Broken limbs and leaves rained down on O’Brien. He covered his head with his arms and slowly stood. He darted across the cemetery road and approached the statue. He looked at the statue of the winged angel and thought about the Bosch painting-Saint John of Patmos. The angel in that painting was similar to the statue, her right arm out, hand pointing up, wings extended and look of peace on her face. In the white shimmer of lightning, O’Brien could see a small lake less than fifty feet from the statue.

There was a granite rock about the size of a loaf of bread in front of the statue. He lifted it and set it aside. O’Brien looked at his watch. 5:29 a.m. Less than thirty minutes left.