Page 66 of The Devoted Game
Aldridge joined the conversation, tapped the pad where he’d written his notes. “There’s a monument, a statue of Martin Luther King in Kelly Ingram Park.” Aldridge looked from Ryan to Davis and back. “Should we search the park?”
“Wait.” Grace pushed away from her station and stood. “The Sixteenth Street Baptist Church is there. You can’t get any more high profile. The church is a historic landmark. It was the hub of the civil rights effort—part of Birmingham’s history is written in the blood of four little girls who were killed in that church as part of the movement to oppress blacks.”
. . . Oppression is evil . . .
But this oppression wasn’t about race, it was about money. Financial means ... security. Rich versus poor. Just like the Byrne girl at that high-society cemetery and the Jones woman at the blue-collar steel mill. The girl born with the silver spoon in her mouth; the woman who worked hard for every dollar.
Trenton was a renowned surgeon. It would take big money or the right kind of insurance to obtain treatment from a surgeon of such status.
“Okay ...” Ryan said slowly. “Trenton’s class, in a sense, oppresses the poor by having the best of everything while the working man only gets what’s left over.” Ryan scrubbed a hand over his stubbled chin. “Trenton has the God complex we talked about earlier. He, according to Devoted Fan, is in bad need of humbling.”
“His arrogance is documented in a number of newspaper articles,” Grace contributed.
“He holds life in his hands by selecting some patients and turning others away, probably based on their ability to pay,” Ryan considered aloud.
Worth butted in. “Those kinds of statements have to be kept in this room,” he admonished. “We can’t go around disparaging friends of the governor.”
Ryan ignored Worth, locked gazes with Grace. “The church.” He nodded as if he needed that physical acknowledgment to confirm the thought. “That has to be it. Where else would we find the One, capitalOif you’ll notice”—he tapped the email—“Trenton pretends to be?”
“You’re right,” Grace agreed, then shook her head. “But not just any church,thechurch.”
Ryan tossed the email aside, anticipation soaring. “Where the likeness of Mr. King still watches over from the park, reminding all thatoppression is evil.”
“Talley,” Worth called out, “find out who the reverend at Sixteenth Street Baptist is and wake him up. We don’t have time or”—Worth’s attention settled on Ryan—“the necessary probable cause for a warrant. We need an invitation to take a look inside that church.” Worth turned to Aldridge then. “Get Birmingham PD to rendezvous there ASAP.”
To Ryan, Worth said, “You really think this is it? Time is fast running out on us, McBride. We have to find this guy. If we don’t, we’re going to be in a world of shit.”
Birmingham PD was scouring the city one hospital, morgue, church, and neighborhood at a time. But the sweep was broad, not focused, because they didn’t know exactly where to look. And, like Worth said, time was their enemy. The good doctor’s survival depended upon Ryan’s conclusions. If he was wrong about the Sixteenth Street Baptist Church ...
“This is the one,” he told Worth with as much certainty as he could muster. “Grace and I aren’t waiting, we’re going now. We’ll meet the reverend at the church entrance.”
“Just don’t go inside without him.” Worth fixed Grace with a stern look. “Find Agent Arnold. Take him with you. He’s a damned good agent, and the fact that he’s African American will prevent the two of you from looking like a pair of white feds pushing your weight around.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ryan had to remember that there was a history of racial problems here ... one that appeared to be in the past, but no one wanted to risk going down that road. Least of all him.
“One other thing,” Ryan said, remembering the circus outside. “We’re going to need Birmingham PD to hold those reporters backuntil we’re out of here. I don’t think you want any of them showing up at the church.”
“I’ve already taken care of that. When you leave the parking lot, you’ll get a five-minute head start before the roadblock is lifted.”
Grace rounded up Arnold, and the decision was made to take his sedan. It was a dark charcoal and far more nondescript than her silver SUV. As promised, barricades had been put into place by Birmingham PD at each end of the block, preventing the reporters from following.
4hours, 15minutes remaining...
4:45 a.m.
When they arrived at the corner of Sixteenth Street and Sixth Avenue, the Reverend Simmons waited on the steps leading into the historic church.
Ryan surveyed the area when he emerged from the car. Dark, quiet. But something in the air had his senses on alert. Those old instincts were humming. If they were all lucky, that was a good sign.
He leaned against the car, lit a Marlboro, and gestured to the reverend. “Explain what we need.” He looked from Grace to Arnold. “I’ll catch up.”
Arnold hustled up the steps, while Grace followed more slowly. She didn’t have to say a word; Ryan could read her surprise right there on her face in the glow of the streetlamps. Time was balls-to-the-wall short, so what the hell was he thinking taking a smoke break?
Because he needed it.
His hand shook as he lifted the cigarette to his lips and took another deep drag.