Page 81 of The Devoted Game

It is such a shame that when someone or something grows older, many times it is set aside for a newer model.

Flesh and blood, brick and mortar, nothing is respected for its true value.

Unfortunately for Agent Worth, the tearing down of the old could destroy him as well. Amid a cloud of controversy, the old sometimes falls, ending many, many stories.

Perhaps the fall is inevitable. In the end, it is only the truth that really matters, not the story at all. Not even a century of stories.

This is the final test, Agent McBride. I trust you will not fail. Agent Worth is counting on you. He is hanging by a thread. This time I do have one minor condition: No one but you and Agent Grace are to enter the scene. I will be watching; any failure to adhere to that condition will result in great calamity. You have six hours ... starting now.

Sincerely,

Devoted Fan

“Does any of the phrasing reach out to anyone?” Pierce asked.

Six hours.

That phrase reached out and grabbed Ryan by the throat.Hell.

“I’ll run the phrasing against any historic landmarks in Birmingham,” Pratt volunteered. “Brick and mortar ... stories.” He shrugged. “Controversy.”

“So far, historic landmarks appear to be his crime scene of choice,” Grace explained to Pierce. “If Worth is at risk of falling, as suggested bythe email, then we’re looking for a location with more than one floor or an elevation of some sort.”

Lila Grimes appeared at the door, her eyes red and swollen. “I thought you might need my help,” she offered. She cleared her throat. “Agent Worth’s cell calls have been forwarded here. I’ll take those calls until he ... he returns.” She hesitated, seemed to gather her composure. “There was a call from Agent Schaffer. She’s faxing a number of letters she found in Agent McBride’s files.”

Schaffer. The boot lady. “Thanks,” Ryan said to the distraught assistant as he pushed out of his chair. He strode over to the fax machine, which had already whirred to life.

Davis joined Ryan. “Sir, I may have found a connection between a name on the fan list and Dr. Trenton.”

Ryan shifted his attention to Davis. “What kind of connection?”

“It may not be relevant,” Davis qualified, “but—”

“Agent Davis,” Pierce interrupted, “if you have an update, we’d all like to hear it.”

Davis looked from Ryan to Pierce. “Yes, sir.” He pivoted and addressed the room. “Agent Arnold and I have been narrowing down a fan mail list.” He gestured at Ryan. “Fan mail for Agent McBride.” Davis adjusted the tie he’d loosened sometime earlier in the night. “Anyway, we found a name, Martin Fincher. Fincher’s wife was a transplant patient a couple of years ago. Dr. Trenton was the surgeon of record.”

Ryan felt that old familiar tension ripple through him. “There has to be a connection to the others as well,” he urged. “One isn’t enough. Look harder.”

Davis nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Where’s Agent Arnold?” Pierce wanted to know.

Davis seemed a little less nervous with the second question. “He’s going door to door down the list of names. That was SAC’s order. I was supposed to catch up with him, but then the news about Agent Worth came in and ...”

Pierce nodded. “I understand. You should locate Arnold now.” Pierce surveyed the room. “I don’t want anyone going anywhere alone. We work in pairs.”

Ryan mulled over the idea of Devoted Fan as Martin Fincher with a wife in ill health. If it was about something Trenton did or didn’t do ...

“Pratt,” Ryan said, “wake up someone on Trenton’s staff. Find out how the surgery on Fincher’s wife turned out.”

“Will do.”

Grace joined Ryan at the fax machine. “What did Schaffer find?”

Remembering what he’d come to the fax machine for, Ryan grabbed the stack of pages. Six in all. He read the note from Schaffer on the lead page:Discovered one letter from this same guy in your fan mail file. Found five others, unopened, in the bottom of one of the boxes shipped to you. Whoever packed the boxes just tossed the letters in and then shoved your files on top of them. You just can’t get good help anymore.

Ryan appreciated her cutting sense of humor. The part of his brain that wasn’t in shock at the idea of having only six hours wondered what color boots Schaffer had on. Purple? Green? Pushing aside the distraction, he shuffled to the first letter, read it, then read the next and the next after that. The adrenaline searing through him turned to ice.