David Baldacci - The Last Mile

“Accepting your premise, which I don’t necessarily, the answer is yes.”

“And the time of Mr. Montgomery’s arrest was nine-ten in the evening?”

“That’s what the files indicate, yes.”

“And the time of the bombing?”

Pierce’s gaze dropped to the file. Her voice shook slightly when she said, “The best guess was about nine-fifteen.”

“Interesting coincidence,” said Bogart sternly.

“Well, don’t look at me, as I said, I wasn’t even born at the time,” retorted Pierce indignantly.

“And his obituary said that Nathan Ryan was one of the first on the scene,” said Decker.

“I read that too, after Agent Bogart contacted me. I wasn’t aware of it before.”

“But the church was in a predominantly black area. It was nighttime. Why would Ryan have been in the area at all? Did he live close by?”

Pierce shrugged. “I have no idea.”

“You said you know some of the Ryans?” asked Jamison.

“Yes.”

“Could you get us their contact information?” said Bogart.

Pierce looked across at Decker with unfriendly eyes. “Are you really suggesting that this Montgomery person was used as a distraction to get the police on guard to leave their posts so the bombing could take place?”

“No, I’m suggesting that the local police knew exactly what was going on and were ordered to leave their posts to arrest Montgomery so the bomb could be planted and then detonated.”

She paled. “ Ordered ? By whom?”

“Well, that’s for us to find out,” replied Decker.

After several phone calls made to various Ryans in town, they arrived at a small, neat bungalow in a modest surburban neighborhood. The houses were shaded with mature trees, and the laughter of children playing filtered through the air.

Mildred Ryan was in her late eighties and wispy white hair covered her pink scalp. Time had bowed her back and shrunk her frame. She wore large black-rimmed glasses that seemed to swallow her tiny face. She sat huddled in a shawl in a comfortable chair in a bedroom of the bungalow, which was owned by her daughter.

That daughter, Julie Smithers, was eyeing Decker and his group suspiciously as they stood in the doorway of the bedroom.

“I really don’t see what my mother can tell you. It was a long time ago and her memory is not that good.”

Smithers was short, built like a bulldog, and her face held the same stubborn features of that canine breed.

Bogart said smoothly, “We just want to ask a few questions. If she’s not up to it we’ll leave and come back another time.”

Ryan looked up from the Bible she was reading, her finger touching each word. “Just tell them to come on in, Jules, and ask their questions. I’m up for it,” she said in a drawl that signaled her Mississippi roots.

Decker said, “Doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with her hearing.”

“Just don’t overtire her,” warned Smithers.

She left and Decker and the others moved slowly into the room.

Ryan pointed to two chairs, one of which Jamison took, and the other one Bogart offered to Decker. He sat down and slid the chair closer to Ryan. Bogart and Mars stood behind him. She looked up at all of them.

“Haven’t had this many visitors in years,” she said.

Bogart showed her his badge and said, “Mrs. Ryan, thank you for meeting with us.”

“You’re welcome. And what is this about?”

Decker said, “Your husband, Nathan?”

“He’s dead. Long time ago.”

“We know. But we wanted to ask some questions about him. Having to do with the church bombing back in 1968. Do you remember that?”

The shrunken woman seemed to collapse inward even more at these words. “Hell, who could forget? All those little colored children. It... it was such a shame.” She shook her head. “It’s the devil’s work. I said so then and I say so now.”

“We understood that your husband was one of the first on the scene of the bombing. That’s what his obituary said.”

She froze for a moment and then looked up at Decker. “What exactly is all this about?”

“You know that no one was ever arrested for the murders?”

“I know that.”

“Well, we’re here to see if we can find out who did it.”

“They’re all probably dead.”

“Maybe, but maybe not. If they were young back then they could still be alive. Like you are,” he added.

She shook her head. “I don’t know anything about that.”

“But you might know more than you think,” said Bogart.

She looked up and suddenly registered on Mars. “When I said ‘colored’ just now, I didn’t mean any disrespect. Just the term we used back then. Should’ve said African American, or black. I’m sorry, young man.”

“That’s okay,” said Mars.

“It was just different back then,” mumbled Ryan. “Just different.”

“But maybe you can answer some of our questions,” prompted Decker.

“I’m old. I don’t remember much. It was a long time ago. I... I just want to be left alone.” Ryan looked back down at her Bible, her finger moving along the words, her mouth opening as she silently read them.

Decker glanced at Jamison, who said, “Do you read from your Bible every day, Mrs. Ryan?”

Ryan nodded. “I’m on Deuteronomy. The fifth book of the Hebrew Bible. Do you know it? I find young people don’t read the Bible anymore. Rather play video games or watch filth on the TV.”

“Moses’s three sermons to the Israelites,” replied Jamison. This drew surprised stares from all the men, and Ryan as well.

Jamison explained, “My uncle was a minister. I used to help teach Sunday school. The Israelites were on the plains of Moab. They were about to enter the Promised Land. This was after the forty years of wanderings, which was explained in the first sermon.”

“I’m impressed, child,” said Ryan.

“Now, if memory serves me correctly,” continued Jamison, “the third sermon talks about how if Israel is unfaithful and the loss of their lands follows, it can all be made right so long as they repent. I guess that was great comfort to them.”

Ryan was staring at her. “Why?” she said in a fierce whisper.

“Well, like us, the Israelites were only human. They made mistakes. God understood that. So if they fell down, they had another chance to make it right. So long as they repented, repented of their sins. Tried to do the right thing. That takes real strength. And real faith.”

Jamison fell silent and closely watched Ryan.

The old woman slowly closed her Bible, set it on the table next to the bed, clasped her hands in her lap, and said, “What sorts of questions do you folks have?”

Decker gave Jamison an appreciative glance and then turned back to Ryan.

“Do you know why your husband would have been so close to the church that night that he was one of the first on the scene after the bombing? From what we found out, there were houses all around the church, where I’m sure people ran out when the bombing happened. Was he driving by for some reason? Did he tell you about it?”

Ryan cleared her throat and took a moment to drink from a glass of water that sat next to her Bible. “Nathan was a good man. I want you to understand that. He was a good man,” she said more emphatically.

“I’m sure he was,” said Decker.

“Mississippi was falling apart back then. Hell, the whole South was. From the forties to the sixties and on. Riots, lynchings, shootings, things blown or burned up. Folks murdered. Federal marshals all over the place. The National Guard. Coloreds” — she stopped and shot Mars a glance — “I mean, African Americans, demanding things from the whites. It all shook us to our souls. That Thurgood Marshall winning all those court cases. Dr. King marching around like Sherman to the sea. Many folks saw it as the apocalypse.”