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“Welcome. I’m Pastor Carter, though I prefer just Molly. I’m happy to have you join us today.” Her generous smile lit her entire face.

  “I’m Lisa Waldren, and I only slipped in at the end.”

  “Yes, I noticed. We don’t have many white ladies pop in at the end of the service. You stick out in this crowd.” Molly laughed.

  “I suppose I do,” Lisa said.

  “But you’re welcome here anytime.”

  Molly waved toward a family leaving the sanctuary. She picked up a hymnbook from the pew in front of Lisa, placing it back in the holder.

  “I actually came to meet you,” Lisa said, moving to the aisle. Why did she feel like that shy girl again, meeting another little girl? It was as if the years between their first encounter had disappeared.

  “Has my fame spread far and wide?” Molly said.

  “I was hoping to talk with you. Whenever it’s convenient.”

  Molly nodded with a gentle smile as if such requests happened often. “Now works just fine for me, if it works for you. Would you like to talk here or in my office?”

  “Your office, if you don’t mind.”

  Lisa followed Molly from the sanctuary and down a long carpeted hallway, passing classrooms with different age groups posted on signs next to the doors. They reached a simple office, lined with books, that looked out onto a garden area.

  “Have a seat,” Molly said. She pointed to a small couch. She pulled her office chair around and away from the desk to be adjacent to Lisa. “What can I do for you, Lisa?”

  “I believe we met when we were children.”

  Molly’s eyebrows rose, and she tilted her head to study Lisa.

  “I grew up in California. I think I’d remember you. What was your name again?”

  “Lisa Waldren. But it was before you moved to California.” Lisa pulled the snapshots from her satchel, realizing they explained their background better than words. “My father took these at a rally in Fort Worth in 1965.”

  “What is this?” Molly asked, taking the photographs. Her face registered surprise as she looked at them, then deep concern. She stood with the photographs and closed the office door. “Your father took these?”

  “Yes. That’s me beside you.”

  “How did you find me?” Molly studied Lisa.

  “Let me explain.” Lisa realized she’d approached this completely wrong. “I’m a federal prosecutor, and my father is retired FBI …”

  “The FBI and a federal prosecutor hunted me down. Are you trying to make me feel really nervous about this?” Molly laughed, but her face reflected concern.

  “I can usually interview people much better than this.” Lisa shook her head. “But first can I just confirm that this is really you?”

  “Yes. That’s me, and my mama is in the white hat. Aunt Hattie is beside her. And so this is you?”

  “Do you remember?” Lisa asked, leaning forward to view the photos again.

  “Sure do. You were the first white girl I ever talked to. Don’t you remember?”

  Lisa shook her head. “The entire event is hazy, I guess. I don’t remember enough that means anything.”

  Molly leaned back in her chair with her eyes on the images in her hand.

  “I remember chunks of it. That shooting and all that.”

  “You remember the shooting?”

  “What is this about? Why did you hunt me down? Why does it matter now?”

  A knock sounded on the door, and a middle-aged woman peered inside.

  “This is my assistant, Miss Ginny,” Molly said.

  Lisa noticed that Molly slid the snapshots under a file folder.

  “Well, hello, what’s this? We got a white lady joining the church?”

  Lisa shifted in her seat. She didn’t know if Miss Ginny expected her to respond, or Molly. In the Northeast, Lisa was accustomed to being “color blind.” There wouldn’t be mention of her being white.

  “We’re just having ourselves a little chat,” Molly said.

  “Oh, I’m sorry to interrupt. You a friend from California?” The woman stepped inside, filling the doorway with her round shape.

  “No, I live in Boston now, but I grew up in the Dallas area,” Lisa said. She glanced at Molly, then back to the woman.

  “You don’t sound Southern anymore. But then, you don’t look Southern either.” Miss Ginny laughed as if there was a joke Lisa should understand.

  “Did you need something, Miss Ginny? Remember, when the door is closed, it means I’m in a private meeting.”

  Miss Ginny portrayed more embarrassment than Lisa thought she really possessed. “Oh my, I apologize, that’s right. I was just checking in before I go on home. My man is making his mama’s secret fried chicken recipe, but then I guess your friend here would expect me to go home and eat fried chicken. And look if we aren’t doing just that!” She burst into more laughter, slapping her hands together.

  Lisa couldn’t think of any way to respond. She hoped her mouth wasn’t dangling open.

  “Thank you, Miss Ginny. I’ll see you in the morning.” Molly raised her eyebrows at the woman as if to send her on her way.

  “All right, I’ll leave you two, then. Have a good day, and if you do want to join the church, we’d love to have you.”

  “Thank you,” Lisa said.

  Miss Ginny winked at Molly and closed the door with an exaggerated ease.

  “Sorry for the interruption. Miss Ginny’s mother was the church secretary for decades, and she’s trying out the position for the next three months. It’s been a challenge,” Molly said.

  Lisa smiled. “I imagine it is, but she’s quite entertaining.”

  “That’s true. Now back to these.” Molly picked up the snapshots from beneath the folder.

  “Yes. We were searching for you to try to get some information.”

  Molly appeared lost in thought. “Your father is retired FBI, and you’re a federal prosecutor?”

  “That’s right. But do you mind telling me what you remember about the shooting?”

  Molly frowned, then looked squarely at Lisa. “So are you and your father finally going to get to the truth of what happened that day?”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  I’m trying to reach William O’Ryan,” James said into his cell phone. He leaned close to the computer screen at the list of contact numbers for the news conglomerate in New York City.

  James had considered different routes to reach the reporter, then simply called the number he found for the cable news headquarters on the Internet. A company receptionist connected him to O’Ryan’s assistant.

  “Mr. O’Ryan isn’t in the office right now; may I take a message?”

  “He and I met years ago in the late sixties. I’m James Waldren, a retired special agent with the FBI. Is this the best way to contact him?”

  “Yes, Mr. Waldren. I’ll make sure he receives this message.”

  James left his number, wondering if he would really hear back. William O’Ryan had moved up in the world from the green idealistic journalist James had met decades ago. The last time James had seen him was when Peter Hughes had committed suicide.

  Now O’Ryan was a big shot living in New York. He hosted a wildly successful news program, offered political commentary, and had authored numerous New York Times best-selling books. The pictures of O’Ryan on the website presented him as an intelligent, suave reporter. James last remembered a young man still somewhat in shock at Peter’s funeral. The kid had tried to save Peter even with blood gushing from a gunshot through Peter’s head.

  James set the phone down as he read more about O’Ryan. It made a beeping noise, which probably meant the battery was going dead, though the bars looked fine to him. He moved a stack of papers to cover the noise.

  The official FBI photograph of Special Agent Peter Hughes stared up at him from the wall. After all these years, it still didn’t sit well with him that his former friend was dead, or that Peter had been a traitor to the Bureau and essentially to J
ames and his family as well. James had believed he knew the man like they were brothers. They couldn’t have been closer, and yet Peter had lived a secret life that James’s FBI skills never once detected.

  “I’m almost done,” Rosalyn yelled from outside, tapping on the workshop window. For the past few hours she’d been moving around outside the house on a ladder.

  “Are you sure you don’t want my help?” he yelled back.

  “You’ll mess it up!” Rosalyn laughed, and she was probably right.

  She had become skilled at installing obscure cameras inside and outside her clients’ homes, in their cars, at their businesses, or even on their bodies. That morning she’d decided to check the house for bugs and to wire James’s house and workshop with security. Now they’d have monitors in the house and workshop and cameras covering the entire property. James shook his head at the prospect.

  His sight fell again on Peter’s photograph. They’d spent years not just working together but sharing every detail of life. Peter was family. He had loved Lisa, saying she was the child he didn’t have. James had trusted the man with everything.

  The bitterness of betrayal had faded with the years. Now he just wanted to know why.

  Peter was at the rally that day. James had been surprised to see him and waved at his partner from across the street. Peter motioned that he’d be there in a moment, but they didn’t see each other again until after the shooting.

  James had never believed Peter was tied to the event. He agreed with Lisa’s contact, Sweeney, that there had been a cover-up. He just never knew why. His own boss shut down his quest for answers. Then he was demoted without cause after he pushed for answers surrounding Leonard Dubois’s arrest. He might have still sought answers, until the final straw that made him turn his head and look shamefully away, though he still didn’t regret the decision.

  Now he had to reconsider everything. Peter sat in the thick of it. Friendship may have clouded him years ago, then anger and hurt. Then burying his head took over the rest.

  What did you know? And why didn’t you tell me? James picked up the photograph. He also needed to rethink the fact that Peter was the person who got him on the trail of the JFK key.

  “Hey, Dad, are you out there?” Lisa’s voice came from beyond the workshop door.

  James pulled off his glasses as the door creaked open and afternoon light beamed in.

  “Yes, come in. I didn’t know you were coming by.”

  “I called, but it went to voice mail. Your mailbox is full.”

  “Darn thing.” He groaned as his eyes adjusted to the flood of light. Then he saw that his daughter wasn’t alone.

  “Dad, I’d like you to meet Pastor Molly Carter,” Lisa said as the smaller woman reached out to greet him.

  “Just Molly, please. I can’t get my congregation to do so, but I prefer it.”

  James brushed off his hands and strode toward the woman. Her smile faded as she viewed the covered walls.

  “You weren’t kidding. You two are investigating this,” Molly said. She took James’s outstretched hand and shook it.

  “You really did find her,” James said as Molly gazed around the workshop. She grimaced at the wall of crime scene photographs.

  “I was as surprised as you,” Lisa said.

  “We should go inside for tea or coffee,” James suggested as Molly glanced at him, then back at the newest photo of Benjamin Gray dead on the street. The woman was a minister, after all, and his workshop wasn’t the best accommodation for such a guest.

  “Good idea, Dad,” Lisa said.

  They made small talk on the walk back to the house. James asked Molly where her church was located. She asked if they attended a house of worship.

  “I’ve been dragged to services by the woman I’m seeing,” James said. He noticed Lisa’s glance of surprise.

  James wanted to get to the real questions with Molly. Had she seen who shot Benjamin Gray? Did Lisa already know that answer?

  He opened the gate to the backyard and walkway leading to the house. As the women passed him, James was struck by the presence of the two little girls in the snapshot he’d studied for countless hours. Here they were walking with him as grown women. A week ago he’d have never imagined this moment would occur. But the big question loomed: What did Molly Carter remember?

  Once inside the house, James invited the women to the living room. He checked the front window and grimaced at seeing the car parked across the street. It hadn’t been around all morning, nor had James seen it outside Lisa’s hotel when he’d driven by there late in the night and again before sunrise.

  “Let me get the teakettle on the stove,” he said, hurrying to the kitchen. He returned a few moments later with a basket of individual teas and teacups.

  “Dad, sit down with us. I can help with all of that,” Lisa said. “My father is trying not to go into interrogation mode.”

  “This is an interrogation?” Molly said it lightly, but James caught a trace of suspicion.

  “No, I didn’t mean that. Just my father and I find it difficult to make small talk or polite conversation when we want answers. My son and his friends call me Bad Cop.”

  This wasn’t going well. James could see the unease growing in Molly. With all Lisa’s training and experience, she wasn’t helping Molly gain her trust. Lisa sat at the edge of the couch, back straight and obviously uncomfortable.

  “That must make you Good Cop,” Molly said to James. “Lisa said you’ve been looking for me, and I’m still a little creeped out that you two found me from that photograph. My cousin thinks the government is keeping secret files on Americans, and it appears to be true.”

  “I was surprised it was possible myself,” James said.

  The teakettle whistled from the kitchen, and Lisa went to retrieve it.

  “What does it say about my belief in people that I jumped in the car with your daughter when she told me about your mission to free that inmate on death row? Then I ended up in a strange workshop with people who have Big Brother accessibilities.”

  “Want to see my badge?” James asked.

  “That’s okay. Your daughter showed me her credentials. But I don’t understand why you’re both doing this.”

  Lisa returned with the kettle and poured hot water into each cup, then disappeared from the room.

  “In my gut, I’ve known that Leonard Dubois didn’t kill Benjamin Gray. I’ve known it for almost fifty years. He has an execution date now, and he wrote to me. Somehow he found out or maybe he’s known since the trial that I didn’t think he was guilty of killing Benjamin Gray. This is his last chance. If we fail, the state of Texas will put Leonard Dubois to death in a matter of weeks.”

  Molly stared at him with black eyes probing him. Then she dipped a bag of tea into her steaming cup of water, swirling it around. Lisa returned from the kitchen with bowls of cream and sugar with tiny spoons he’d last seen in the back of the silverware drawer.

  “I wish I could help,” Molly said.

  James was surprised by the disappointment he felt.

  “What do you remember?” he asked.

  “The dress I wore that day. It was pretty and brand-new. As was my mama’s new hat. I wanted a hat too, but Mama said I didn’t need one with such a fancy dress. Then I remember meeting Lisa. I’d seen white girls before, of course, but this was the first one I talked to. I liked her dress as well.” Molly smiled at the memory. “In my recollection we looked more like princesses than the photos reflect. Then came the sound of a firecracker. My mama and aunt were screaming. Mama grabbed me from a man who was shouting something—I think that was you.”

  James nodded. “I was trying to get you girls onto the ground, and your mama was screaming at me. I shouted that I was FBI, but I’m sure a white man holding her daughter was terrifying. She grabbed you away and took off running.”

  Molly nodded. “Yes, we ran down the street. Mama and Auntie were screaming, and I had no idea what was happening. For a while
I thought it was our fault.” Molly motioned toward Lisa.

  “Ours? Why?”

  “I didn’t know someone had been shot. I thought all the chaos occurred because I was sitting next to a white girl and her father was taking our picture.”

  “Oh no,” Lisa said, sitting in a chair across from Molly.

  Molly laughed to herself. “You know how children get confused about things like that. When we got home it was several days before my granddaddy explained what had happened. Even so, it was quite a long time before I befriended a girl who wasn’t black.”

  “I can imagine,” Lisa said.

  “So you didn’t see a shooter or anything like that?” James asked.

  “I believe I saw Benjamin Gray on the ground, but I’ve heard the story enough that I’m not certain of that memory.

  “My mother is ill now. She’s in her late eighties, but her mind is crisp. Over the years when we talked about that day, she would tell me the same story. We were watching the parade, and we met a little white girl and her daddy taking pictures. Benjamin Gray went by us, and Mama was excited to see him ’cause he was important. But then she was looking for my uncle, who was marching in the parade farther down. We heard gunshots … then she saw the white man holding me. She screamed and tore me away while he was shouting that he was a policeman. Guess she didn’t get that exactly right. It’s always been the same story, until recently.”

  James waited, anxious for the point.

  “Then last year Mom brought up something I’d never heard before. I was worried about her memory at first.”

  “What did she say?” James asked.

  “She said it was a white man who shot Benjamin Gray.” Molly studied his reaction.

  “A white man?” Lisa’s eyes also jumped to James.

  “Why didn’t she tell you that earlier?” James asked.

  “I asked that. She said she was afraid. My father was convinced we’d all be killed if she came forward or told anyone that story. He was furious that she’d told some cop at the scene. The way the police acted back then, especially that day, there was no way she’d admit that she saw white men with guns shooting up a black event. My daddy made her promise never to speak of it again. He was so paranoid that we left Fort Worth to live with his sister in California only weeks later.”