O’Brien drove to the cemetery and he called Lauren Miles. “Have you heard from Manerou?”
“About an hour ago. He doesn’t know you’re on to him. He said he would do what he could to ‘help O’Brien’ find Sam Spelling’s mother.”
“Get your guys to run a cell tower location on his last call.”
“Okay. Sean, I checked, Christian is rated as an expert marksman, too. ”
“No doubt. The information your lab got off the letter faded out at the point where Spelling gave the town and street name and said it was where his mother is…what you didn’t get is that fact that’s where his mother is buried.”
“Dead! Do you think Spelling buried the knife with his mother?”
“No, it’s in front of a statue-a winged angel, across from his mother’s grave.”
“How do you know that?”
“I found Spelling’s letter.”
“Where?”
“Before his murder, Father Callahan hid it in a large Bible-in Revelation.”
“Let me guess: Saint John. The disciple who wrote Revelation as dictated by God.”
“The same.”
“Dear God… Where are you now?”
“I’m almost to the cemetery. I’m calling Tucker now.”
O’Brien drove through the rain, the wipers doing little to remove the torrent from the windshield. He punched in Tucker Houston’s number. “Tucker, I found Spelling’s letter. He names FBI agent Christian Manerou as the killer and says the knife can be found near a grave-Spelling’s mother.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m almost to the cemetery. It’s the Old City Cemetery near St. Augustine. Spelling left directions to the spot where he buried the knife in a plastic box. If we’re lucky, it’s still in the original plastic bag Manerou used to carry Alexandria’s blood.”
“The letter alone may be enough to stop the execution. I’ll call the Attorney General. He’s got Governor Owens’ cell number. They’re all on stand-by. Standard procedure during a routine execution. But this thing’s proved far from routine. Governor Owens knows the nation is watching. We’re counting on you to find it Sean, and then Charlie Williams walks.”
Two and a half hours after he started, O’Brien drove up to the gates leading into the Old City Cemetery. He checked his watch: 4:39 a.m. He tried not to think about what Charlie Williams was going through, with less than two hours left on earth, his final meal and his final words. No!
The wind blew through the branches of ancient oaks and the wrought iron gate at the cemetery entrance. There was a plaque in one of the old coquina stone pillars. The cemetery was designated as a national historic place. Circa: 1598.
O’Brien drove through the open gate, down a twisting road that wound its way through graves more than two hundred years older than America. The live oaks almost as old, long branches laden with Spanish moss, stood like sentries to time, the boughs offering canopies to the dead. Through the flashes of lightning, O’Brien tried to make out the names of the small roads that seemed to come around every turn. He pointed his flashlight toward a bent metal sign, paint as faded as an old gravestone. He could read: Tranqu l… Tra l. O’Brien turned left and followed the road more than a half mile.
His cell rang. It was Lauren Miles. “Sean, we got a fix on Christian’s call. Came from a cell tower south of St. Augustine, near the cemetery. Be careful, Sean. If Christian’s not there, he soon will be.”