The twenty-fourth letter
© Posetselsky A.A. ... Translation into Russian, 2014
© Edition in Russian. Registration. LLC "Publishing house" E ", 2017
* * *To my daughter Ashley
Acknowledgments
One of my favorite parts of the craft is expressing gratitude and thanking those who helped me, and there are quite a few of them. The St Martins Press staff are extremely talented and I have been extremely fortunate to have been able to benefit from their guidance and experience. All of them - from the sales department to the editorial staff - are excellent specialists. My deepest thanks to Ruth Kevin, Thomas Dunn, Tony Plummer, David Rothstein, Elizabeth Kagler, Rafal Jibek and Bridget Hartzler. I would especially like to thank the Executive Editor Bob Berkel for the help. He is a true master of words.
Others have contributed to this book: Detective Sarah Gioelli, Detective Aaron Miller, Dr. David Specter, Father Roger Hamilton, E. Brian Philips and my agent Phyllis Westberg.
Writing work, especially if you do it after a working day, is very time-consuming. Family has always been my main source of inspiration. I am forever grateful to its members for their love and support. Thanks to my kids Natalie, Cassie, Christopher and Ashley. You are amazing, talented, and I am proud of you. I would also like to thank my son Chris Lowe for creating the previews for my book and developing my website. I am amazed at his creative skills. His company is located at www.suite7productions.com.
I express my gratitude and love to my wife Carey, who supported me during the creation of this book and made this difficult work easier. Carey has an extraordinary sense of storytelling that matches her talent for inspiring enthusiasm and encouragement that has been manifested in all of my books. Keri, you are my inspiration.
I am grateful to the booksellers who took the time to introduce my work to readers. And thank you, reader. If you have just joined us, welcome! If you've returned to dive into the new adventures of Sean O'Brien, I'm very glad you're here.
Assistant Marshal Bill Fisher had never done this before, and after that morning he swore to God that he would not do it again. He never allowed an inmate to smoke a cigarette before a trial, but Sam Spelling was accommodating and polite all the way from Florida State Prison to Orlando County Court. And they got there ahead of time. Journalists crowded at the entrance to the back of the court. Maybe, Assistant Fisher thought, it wouldn't hurt if Sam Spelling smoked half a cigarette.
Spelling was the main witness in a public prosecution hearing against a bank robber who turned into a drug dealer. Since Spelling is helping the government, and at a risk to himself, who will be hurt if he quickly smokes a cigarette? "Maybe the guy will calm down and it will be easier for him to testify." Fisher and the second marshal escorted Spelling up the worn steps to the rear exit of the court.
At the top of the stairs, Spelling scanned the adjoining alley, the vans and sheriffs' cars parked around the perimeter. Spelling's dark, sleek hair was slicked back. Two white scars wriggled over his left eyebrow, broken like lightning, the consequences of continuous violence. He had a sunken, birdlike face, a hooked nose, and a grim look from reddened turquoise eyes. Spelling squinted at the morning sun and said:
“Very grateful for a smoke break, sir. I quickly, just to calm my nerves. And then I’ll go to court and say things that Larry will go straight to where I’ve already spent a hell of a lot of time. The state promised that he would travel to another prison. And if not, sooner or later he will bang me, himself or hire someone. So this smoke break will help me a lot in my witness stand.
* * *The crosshair caught the back of Sam Spelling's head as he appeared at the top of the stairs. The sniper looked through the scope and waited for the right moment. He knew that a 7.7 mm bullet would leave an inlet no wider than the diameter of a school pencil. But on the way out, he will smear Spelling's face on the mortar that holds the centuries-old granite blocks together.
The sniper did not expect the witness to turn around when he reached the entrance to the courthouse. Even better, now you can put the bullet right between his eyes. Through a powerful sight, he saw the light of a lighter. Enlarged, it seemed like a small fire in the marshal's hand. The sniper watched Spelling hold a cigarette with his shackled hands, a bluish-white smoke drifting through the crosshairs. Spelling inhaled deeply, and the shooter began to slowly pull the trigger.
And then the victim nodded, coughed, turned her head and stepped back.
Then the sniper aimed at the chest and pulled the trigger. Sam Spelling collapsed like a cut-off puppet. The bullet smeared the wall with particles of lungs and muscles. Scarlet streams of blood crawled over the white granite, shining under the rays of the morning sun.
Sam Spelling knew that one day he would go to hell. But I didn't know that this day would come today. Emergency hospital staff mended a bullet wound in the chest, evened out the erratic pulse and pumped a ton of all kinds of chemistry into Spelling. Then they chained him to a gurney and drew the curtain.
Sam tried to focus on the false ceiling. Concentrate on small holes. They looked like tiny black stars against an all-white sky. He couldn't remember the last time he slept under the stars. Or just staring at the stars.
The cardio monitor squeaked. Slower and slower.
"Where are they?"
Sam felt a throbbing in his chest, nausea in his stomach, bile in his throat. It gave off medicinal odors of copper and sulfur. The black stars grew dim. The sound of the monitor was like the sound of the keys of an out of tune piano. Spelling's heart was trying to start life and catch up with lost time.
“No one should hear their own death! Where are they? At least someone! "
There was a taste in his mouth, as if someone had put out the bull on his tongue. Sweat poured onto the flat pillow.
"Better than pillows in the cell!" My neck muscles were tied in a knot.
Now the pain was coming from the chest over the left shoulder and down the arm. Spelling tried to raise his head and see if the guard was still standing behind the curtain. The monitor continued to beep. "Damn loud."
“Why can't they hear? Someone! "
The room was covered with blackness, and then Sam Spelling didn't care, because he was no longer there. A black whirlpool captured him and sucked him through the wide throat of the drain into the cloaca of absolute darkness.
The twenty-fourth letter
© Posetselsky A.A. ... Translation into Russian, 2014
© Edition in Russian. Registration. LLC "Publishing house" E ", 2017
* * *To my daughter Ashley
Acknowledgments
One of my favorite parts of the craft is expressing gratitude and thanking those who helped me, and there are quite a few of them. The St Martins Press staff are extremely talented and I have been extremely fortunate to have been able to benefit from their guidance and experience. All of them - from the sales department to the editorial staff - are excellent specialists. My deepest thanks to Ruth Kevin, Thomas Dunn, Tony Plummer, David Rothstein, Elizabeth Kagler, Rafal Jibek and Bridget Hartzler. I would especially like to thank the Executive Editor Bob Berkel for the help. He is a true master of words.
Others have contributed to this book: Detective Sarah Gioelli, Detective Aaron Miller, Dr. David Specter, Father Roger Hamilton, E. Brian Philips and my agent Phyllis Westberg.
Writing work, especially if you do it after a working day, is very time-consuming. Family has always been my main source of inspiration. I am forever grateful to its members for their love and support. Thanks to my kids Natalie, Cassie, Christopher and Ashley. You are amazing, talented, and I am proud of you. I would also like to thank my son Chris Lowe for creating the previews for my book and developing my website. I am amazed at his creative skills. His company is located at www.suite7productions.com.
I express my gratitude and love to my wife Carey, who supported me during the creation of this book and made this difficult work easier. Carey has an extraordinary sense of storytelling that matches her talent for inspiring enthusiasm and encouragement that has been manifested in all of my books. Keri, you are my inspiration.
I am grateful to the booksellers who took the time to introduce my work to readers. And thank you, reader. If you have just joined us, welcome! If you've returned to dive into the new adventures of Sean O'Brien, I'm very glad you're here.
Assistant Marshal Bill Fisher had never done this before, and after that morning he swore to God that he would not do it again. He never allowed an inmate to smoke a cigarette before a trial, but Sam Spelling was accommodating and polite all the way from Florida State Prison to Orlando County Court. And they got there ahead of time. Journalists crowded at the entrance to the back of the court. Maybe, Assistant Fisher thought, it wouldn't hurt if Sam Spelling smoked half a cigarette.
Spelling was the main witness in a public prosecution hearing against a bank robber who turned into a drug dealer. Since Spelling is helping the government, and at a risk to himself, who will be hurt if he quickly smokes a cigarette? "Maybe the guy will calm down and it will be easier for him to testify." Fisher and the second marshal escorted Spelling up the worn steps to the rear exit of the court.
At the top of the stairs, Spelling scanned the adjoining alley, the vans and sheriffs' cars parked around the perimeter. Spelling's dark, sleek hair was slicked back. Two white scars wriggled over his left eyebrow, broken like lightning, the consequences of continuous violence. He had a sunken, birdlike face, a hooked nose, and a grim look from reddened turquoise eyes. Spelling squinted at the morning sun and said:
“Very grateful for a smoke break, sir. I quickly, just to calm my nerves. And then I’ll go to court and say things that Larry will go straight to where I’ve already spent a hell of a lot of time. The state promised that he would travel to another prison. And if not, sooner or later he will bang me, himself or hire someone. So this smoke break will help me a lot in my witness stand.
* * *The crosshair caught the back of Sam Spelling's head as he appeared at the top of the stairs. The sniper looked through the scope and waited for the right moment. He knew that a 7.7 mm bullet would leave an inlet no wider than the diameter of a school pencil. But on the way out, he will smear Spelling's face on the mortar that holds the centuries-old granite blocks together.
The sniper did not expect the witness to turn around when he reached the entrance to the courthouse. Even better, now you can put the bullet right between his eyes. Through a powerful sight, he saw the light of a lighter. Enlarged, it seemed like a small fire in the marshal's hand. The sniper watched Spelling hold a cigarette with his shackled hands, a bluish-white smoke drifting through the crosshairs. Spelling inhaled deeply, and the shooter began to slowly pull the trigger.
One of my favorite parts of the craft is expressing gratitude and thanking those who helped me, and there are quite a few of them. The St Martins Press staff are extremely talented and I have been extremely fortunate to have been able to benefit from their guidance and experience. All of them - from the sales department to the editorial staff - are excellent specialists. My deepest thanks to Ruth Kevin, Thomas Dunn, Tony Plummer, David Rothstein, Elizabeth Kagler, Rafal Jibek and Bridget Hartzler. I would especially like to thank the Executive Editor Bob Berkel for the help. He is a true master of words.
Others have contributed to this book: Detective Sarah Gioelli, Detective Aaron Miller, Dr. David Specter, Father Roger Hamilton, E. Brian Philips and my agent Phyllis Westberg.
Writing work, especially if you do it after a working day, is very time-consuming. Family has always been my main source of inspiration. I am forever grateful to its members for their love and support. Thanks to my kids Natalie, Cassie, Christopher and Ashley. You are amazing, talented, and I am proud of you. I would also like to thank my son Chris Lowe for creating the previews for my book and developing my website. I am amazed at his creative skills. His company is located at www.suite7productions.com.
I express my gratitude and love to my wife Carey, who supported me during the creation of this book and made this difficult work easier. Carey has an extraordinary sense of storytelling that matches her talent for inspiring enthusiasm and encouragement that has been manifested in all of my books. Keri, you are my inspiration.
I am grateful to the booksellers who took the time to introduce my work to readers. And thank you, reader. If you have just joined us, welcome! If you've returned to dive into the new adventures of Sean O'Brien, I'm very glad you're here.
Assistant Marshal Bill Fisher had never done this before, and after that morning he swore to God that he would not do it again. He never allowed an inmate to smoke a cigarette before a trial, but Sam Spelling was accommodating and polite all the way from Florida State Prison to Orlando County Court. And they got there ahead of time. Journalists crowded at the entrance to the back of the court. Maybe, Assistant Fisher thought, it wouldn't hurt if Sam Spelling smoked half a cigarette.
Spelling was the main witness in a public prosecution hearing against a bank robber who turned into a drug dealer. Since Spelling is helping the government, and at a risk to himself, who will be hurt if he quickly smokes a cigarette? "Maybe the guy will calm down and it will be easier for him to testify." Fisher and the second marshal escorted Spelling up the worn steps to the rear exit of the court.
At the top of the stairs, Spelling scanned the adjoining alley, the vans and sheriffs' cars parked around the perimeter. Spelling's dark, sleek hair was slicked back. Two white scars wriggled over his left eyebrow, broken like lightning, the consequences of continuous violence. He had a sunken, birdlike face, a hooked nose, and a grim look from reddened turquoise eyes. Spelling squinted at the morning sun and said:
“Very grateful for a smoke break, sir. I quickly, just to calm my nerves. And then I’ll go to court and say things that Larry will go straight to where I’ve already spent a hell of a lot of time. The state promised that he would travel to another prison. And if not, sooner or later he will bang me, himself or hire someone. So this smoke break will help me a lot in my witness stand.
The crosshair caught the back of Sam Spelling's head as he appeared at the top of the stairs. The sniper looked through the scope and waited for the right moment. He knew that a 7.7 mm bullet would leave an inlet no wider than the diameter of a school pencil. But on the way out, he will smear Spelling's face on the mortar that holds the centuries-old granite blocks together.
The sniper did not expect the witness to turn around when he reached the entrance to the courthouse. Even better, now you can put the bullet right between his eyes. Through a powerful sight, he saw the light of a lighter. Enlarged, it seemed like a small fire in the marshal's hand. The sniper watched Spelling hold a cigarette with his shackled hands, a bluish-white smoke drifting through the crosshairs. Spelling inhaled deeply, and the shooter began to slowly pull the trigger.
And then the victim nodded, coughed, turned her head and stepped back.
Then the sniper aimed at the chest and pulled the trigger. Sam Spelling collapsed like a cut-off puppet. The bullet smeared the wall with particles of lungs and muscles. Scarlet streams of blood crawled over the white granite, shining under the rays of the morning sun.
Sam Spelling knew that one day he would go to hell. But I didn't know that this day would come today. Emergency hospital staff mended a bullet wound in the chest, evened out the erratic pulse and pumped a ton of all kinds of chemistry into Spelling. Then they chained him to a gurney and drew the curtain.
Sam tried to focus on the false ceiling. Concentrate on small holes. They looked like tiny black stars against an all-white sky. He couldn't remember the last time he slept under the stars. Or just staring at the stars.
The cardio monitor squeaked. Slower and slower.
"Where are they?"
Sam felt a throbbing in his chest, nausea in his stomach, bile in his throat. It gave off medicinal odors of copper and sulfur. The black stars grew dim. The sound of the monitor was like the sound of the keys of an out of tune piano. Spelling's heart was trying to start life and catch up with lost time.
“No one should hear their own death! Where are they? At least someone! "
There was a taste in his mouth, as if someone had put out the bull on his tongue. Sweat poured onto the flat pillow.
"Better than pillows in the cell!" My neck muscles were tied in a knot.
Now the pain was coming from the chest over the left shoulder and down the arm. Spelling tried to raise his head and see if the guard was still standing behind the curtain. The monitor continued to beep. "Damn loud."
“Why can't they hear? Someone! "
The room was covered with blackness, and then Sam Spelling didn't care, because he was no longer there. A black whirlpool captured him and sucked him through the wide throat of the drain into the cloaca of absolute darkness.
When the nurse drew back the curtain, she didn't even realize that Sam Spelling was still alive.
Father John Callahan couldn't get used to it. Departure of the last rites is not easy for a person who, at fifty-seven, is able to drive the ball straight into the goal from the center of the field. Callahan was a fighter by nature. Death must be fought, and the young man must fight it with all his might. And never admit defeat. People just need time to figure it out.
Father Callahan — a ruddy face with a heavy, strong chin and eyes the color of young foliage — pondered this as he walked in the rain. He stepped over the cables from the telephone van and entered the emergency hospital. Inside, he noticed four police officers - one was drinking coffee, the others were filling out reports. A plainclothes man, African American, stood in the corner talking to one of the police officers. Callahan thought it was a detective. The blonde TV reporter tinted her lips with pink gloss.
The priest folded and buttoned his umbrella. The tired nurse looked up from the table and looked at Father Callahan.
“Bad day,” he said.
“It turns out that eleven years ago you sent a completely innocent person to jail…” To say that such news is not pleasant means to say nothing. Former investigator of the Miami Police Homicide Department, Sean O'Brien, who decided to settle in a quiet place after his wife's death, will never be able to find peace of mind if he does not restore justice and save the death row inmate. There is almost no time - less than four days are left before his execution. However, the only witness to those long-standing events falls prey to an unknown assassin. The priest who accepted the confession of this witness also perishes. Before his death, the holy father was able to leave signs that could lead to the right track. It remains only to decipher them ...
The work was published in 2010 by Eksmo Publishing House. The book is part of the series "DETECTED. The Mystery That Conquered the World". On our site you can download the book "Twenty-fourth letter" in fb2, rtf, epub, pdf, txt format or read online. Here you can also, before reading, refer to the reviews of readers who are already familiar with the book, and find out their opinions. In the online store of our partner, you can buy and read a book in paper form.