Nameless (24 page)

“Okay, folks,” Worth shouted. “Who is Kurt Trenton? Has he been reported missing? Find everything you can on who he is and where he is. The name sounds familiar. This guy may be a regular in the media. Start there.”

McBride read the e-mail’s last paragraph once more, his tension compounding with each word. Twelve hours. The time was cut shorter again and the difficulty level had been escalated. As promised by Devoted Fan’s previous communications. McBride’s hands shook as he sent the e-mail to the printer.

He’d made his decision, he was in. There was no other option. Any hope of this thing having a happy ending had just vanished. At six this evening Worth had announced McBride’s reinstatement on all local news channels and still the e-mail had come.

It was just as McBride had surmised. This was far bigger than him. Somehow he was the linchpin, the connecting thread, but he was certain each one of these victims was somehow involved … somehow a part of the story Devoted Fan wanted to tell.

Before getting up from the computer, McBride decided to try one last effort to end this before anyone else was put at risk. He opened a reply box and started to type.

One by one the agents in the room gathered behind him, including Worth.

Devoted Fan,

You must have seen the news release. I have been reinstated. There is no need to continue your valiant efforts. I am back and I have you to thank.

McBride

“Do you think that will accomplish anything?” Worth asked.

McBride glanced up at him. “Maybe, maybe not. Only one way to find out.” He hit the send button.

Less than a minute passed before the announcement that he had mail sounded. McBride clicked the necessary tabs to open it.

McBride,

Yes, I saw this on the news. It was very exciting. I feel that you and I together have accomplished the first step. But I fear that we have not yet shown them just how invaluable you are. I am certain this ploy will not last if we do not carry on with our mission. Rescue Trenton and you will be very close to the end of your trials. With these final challenges you will truly be exalted to the glorious position you deserve.

Devoted Fan

“Davis, Aldridge”—McBride pushed away from the computer and looked to the two agents—“see if you can nail down the location these clues are alluding to. Run the phrasing through the system, particularly the part about justice and injustice. We’re going to have to make every second count on this one.”

“If he follows the same MO,” Grace offered, “the location will be highly visible.”

McBride nodded. “That’s right. Prioritize your findings with high-profile locations at the top of the list.” He walked to the printer to retrieve the hard copy of the e-mail. “Pratt, as soon as we know who this Trenton is, see if he ties in with either of the other victims.”

“Working on it,” Pratt called out.

“I’ll work with Pratt,” Grace offered. “At least until I have something from Schaffer.”

McBride nodded, using the opportunity to take a long, unhurried look at her even as she turned her back and walked away. She’d gone home to shower and change. The burgundy suit was different from the others, tighter, just a tad shorter. More of those killer shoes, these a perfect match to the suit. He followed the path of her toned legs from her ankles to just above her knees.

His pulse reacted to the X-rated images of all the things he would like to do to her.

Later … when he wasn’t scared shitless that he would let someone die.

He stared at the e-mail, read the puzzling lines once more.

“ … holds life in his hands … he is not God …”

“This Trenton,” McBride announced, “is a doctor.” He looked from Pratt, to Grace. “A doctor with a major God complex.”

Grace looked away first but not before he saw the glow of pride in her eyes. At first the idea baffled him, then he realized what it meant. She was proud of him. That unfamiliar feeling constricted his chest once more and he shook his head. The rookie had latched on to some unexpected real estate that he hadn’t even realized was on the market.

The last time anyone had owned a piece of his heart, he’d been a kid.

He just hoped the lady understood the kind of shitty neighborhood she’d bought into.

Grace abruptly swiveled away from the computer where she worked next to Pratt. “I’ve got him.” Her gaze homed in on McBride’s. “Dr. Kurt Trenton, forty-eight years old, five eleven, one-sixty, gray eyes, salt-and-pepper hair. Cardiac surgeon.”

“Not just any cardiac surgeon,” Pratt added, twisting around to face McBride as he evidently landed the info as well. “This guy was one of the country’s leading transplant surgeons. He’s been on
Good Morning America.
”

“Is,” Grace clarified with a glance at Pratt, “the leading transplant surgeon.” Her attention fixed back on McBride then. “On Tuesday he’s scheduled to perform a rare procedure, an autotransplant, on former Alabama Governor Donald Shelby. Only two people have survived the procedure. In both cases, Trenton was the surgeon.”

“News flash,” Pratt cut in, apparently determined to one-up his colleague, “the procedure got moved up. The surgery’s scheduled for nine
tomorrow
morning.”

A new load of pressure settled onto McBride’s shoulders. Now there were two lives depending upon his ability to pull this off.

“Tell me about this autotransplant,” he said, striding toward where Grace and Pratt worked. “Why can’t someone else do it. What’s the big deal?”

Grace clicked a few keys. “Shelby has a tumor or mass of some sort in a heart valve. The heart has to be stopped with chemicals, removed from his chest, and placed in a bucket of ice and water. The patient’s life will be sustained by a heart-lung machine while Trenton removes the tumor and makes the necessary repair to the heart. Then the organ is placed back in the chest and reconnected. Few surgeons would even attempt the procedure and, as I said before, Trenton is the only one who has been successful at it.”

“If we don’t find Trenton”—McBride dared to say the words aloud—“then Shelby dies too.”

Worth strode into the conference room. “I just received calls from the chief of police as well as the mayor. Dr. Kurt Trenton’s wife reported him missing one hour ago. Birmingham PD discovered his car in the parking garage of UAB Hospital.”

“Your next call,” McBride warned him, “will come from the governor.”

A frown drew Worth’s brow into a pucker. “What do you mean?”

Worth’s secretary burst through the door. “Sir, I’m sorry to interrupt but Governor Wiley is on the line for you.”

Timing. It was all in the timing. Devoted Fan had a statement to make. He had just moved from a side note in local news to prime time.

Monday, September 11, 3:00 A.M.
Six hours remaining …

Davis rushed to where McBride sat reviewing schematics of every hospital in the city. He’d already gotten a citywide layout showing where every church was located. Hospitals and churches: the two most likely places for a miracle to happen. And most larger hospitals had chapels.

Worth had been pacing like an expectant father. The pressure was on. If Trenton wasn’t found, former Governor Shelby would most likely die. His condition was deteriorating by the minute.

“Sir … Agent McBride?”

McBride looked up, startled at being addressed that way. “Yeah, Davis, what have you got?”

“I may have something on that phrase ‘justice is everywhere and threatens injustice anywhere.’” He shuffled the pages in his hand. “During his stay in a Birmingham jail, Martin Luther King wrote a letter using a variation on that phrase.” Davis read from his notes, “‘Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.’”

Martin Luther King. Oppression. The fight to be equal. Lines from Devoted Fan’s e-mails tumbled one over the other into McBride’s head.
“God. Worships his fame. He must be humbled.”

“I don’t think he’s alluding to a jail.” McBride studied the wording of the e-mail again. “He talks about God and Trenton believing he is God, holding life in his hands …‘awaits death just as the One he would pretend to be once suffered so selflessly.’”

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 McBride 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 an 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 …” McBride 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.” McBride 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,” McBride 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’s.”

McBride 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, capital
O
if you’ll notice”—he tapped the e-mail—“Trenton pretends to be?”

“You’re right,” Grace agreed, then shook her head. “But not just any church,
the
church.”

McBride tossed the e-mail aside, anticipation soaring. “Where the likeness of Mr. King still watches over from the park, reminding all that ‘oppression 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 McBride—“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 McBride 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 McBride’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.”

McBride 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,” McBride said, remembering the circus outside. “We’re going to need Birmingham PD to hold those reporters back until 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 road block 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 Explorer. As promised, barricades had been put into place by Birmingham PD at each end of the block, preventing the reporters from following.

4:55 A.M.
Four hours, five minutes remaining …

When they arrived at the corner of Sixteenth Street and Sixth Avenue, the Reverend Simmons waited on the steps leading into the historic church.

McBride 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, Grace followed more slowly. She didn’t have to say a word, McBride could read her surprise right there on her face in the glow of the street lamps. Time was balls-to-the-wall short, 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.

If he was wrong and Trenton wasn’t in this church … there likely wouldn’t be enough time to narrow down another location before time ran out. Trenton would die and so would Shelby.