July 10, 1967 - Canton, Ohio
The letter arrived on a Monday.
Thomas Richard Forsyth—Tommy to everyone who knew him—was carrying groceries into his grandfather's house when he saw it propped against the lamp on the hall table. Cream-colored envelope, expensive paper, return address embossed in dark blue: Whitman & Associates, Attorneys at Law, Baltimore, Maryland.
Tommy set down the groceries and picked up the envelope. His name typed formally across the front.
"That came this morning," Edward Henderson called from the living room, his voice weak. Tommy's grandfather was dying—stage four lung cancer, maybe two weeks left according to the doctors. He spent most of his time in the recliner by the window, oxygen tube in his nose, watching the neighborhood like he was memorizing it before he left.
Tommy opened the envelope.
Dear Mr. Forsyth,
This office represents the estate of Rick Forsyth (deceased 1963). You are listed as sole beneficiary of certain property held in trust. Specifically: Safety Deposit Box #247, Baltimore Bank & Trust.
Please contact our office at your earliest convenience to arrange access. As you have now reached majority age (21), the trust conditions have been satisfied.
Respectfully,
Jonathan Whitman, Esq.
Tommy read it once, then set it down on the table. A safety deposit box. From the father who'd abandoned him when he was six. Who'd disappeared for eleven years. Who'd died in some boarding house in St. Louis while Tommy was in high school.
"You going to call them?" Edward asked.
Tommy walked into the living room. His grandfather looked smaller every day, the cancer eating him from the inside. But his eyes were still sharp.
"I don't want anything from him," Tommy said.
"Probably wise." Edward adjusted his oxygen tube. "Your father was... troubled. Best to leave that in the past."
"That's what I thought." Tommy sat on the couch. "Did you know about this? The safety deposit box?"
"Lawyer contacted me when your father died. Four years ago. Asked if you wanted to claim it. You were seventeen. I said no on your behalf." Edward coughed, the wet rattle of damaged lungs. "Figured you could decide for yourself when you turned twenty-one."
"Well, I'm deciding. The answer is no." Tommy picked up the letter, started to tear it.
"Wait."
Tommy paused. Edward was looking at him with an expression Tommy couldn't read.
"Before you throw that away," Edward said slowly, "there's something I need to tell you. About your father. About what really happened."
Tommy didn't want to hear it. Didn't want to spend his grandfather's final days talking about Rick Forsyth, the man who'd let his mother die and then vanished. But Edward was dying, and this clearly mattered to him, so Tommy put the letter down and listened.
"I told you your father was sick," Edward began. "Paranoid. Saw conspiracies everywhere. That he had to go away. That he wasn't... stable."
"You said he had mental problems. That he got Mother killed because he couldn't stop making enemies."
"I lied." Edward's voice was flat. "To protect you. But I'm dying, and you're a man now, and you deserve to know the truth before you throw away that letter."
Tommy felt something cold in his stomach. "What truth?"
"Your mother wasn't killed in a random robbery. She was murdered. Professional hit. And your father disappeared because if he didn't, they would have killed you next."
The room seemed very quiet. Tommy could hear the oxygen machine humming, the clock ticking on the wall.
"That's..." Tommy started, then stopped. "Grandpa, that's insane."
"That's what I thought too. Why I was so angry at him." Edward pulled an envelope from beside his chair. Old, yellowed. "This came a month before your father died. November 1963. Read it."
Tommy took the envelope. Postmarked St. Louis, addressed to Edward Henderson. He pulled out the letter inside, recognized the handwriting from the few cards his father had sent before disappearing—birthday cards when Tommy was five, six years old. Before everything ended.
He read:
Edward,
I'm dying. Heart disease. Weeks left, maybe a month.
You hate me. You should. I got Helen killed. I chose fighting over her safety, and she paid the price.
But before I die, you need to know: I was right. About Prometheus Protocol. About Korea. About Vietnam. Everything I testified about in 1947 was true.
I have proof. In a vault in Baltimore. Tommy will get notification when he turns 21. He can open it or walk away. His choice.
Tell him I'm sorry. Sorry for abandoning him. Sorry for getting Helen killed. Sorry for being the father who chose principle over presence.
But tell him I wasn't crazy. I was right.
—Rick
Tommy finished reading. Set the letter down.
"He died two days after writing this," Edward said. "November 22, 1963. Same day Kennedy was shot. Heart attack in a boarding house. Died alone."
Tommy looked at his grandfather. At the dying old man who'd raised him after his father abandoned him. Who'd given him stability, normalcy, a life.
"And you believed this?" Tommy asked carefully. "That there was some... conspiracy? That Mother was murdered? That Father was 'right' about something?"
"No." Edward's answer was firm. "I thought he died delusional. Still clinging to paranoid fantasies. I threw away his first few letters without reading them. But this one... I don't know why I kept it."
"Because you wanted to believe he wasn't just crazy."
"Maybe." Edward looked out the window. "Or maybe I kept it so I could show you someday. So you could decide for yourself."
Tommy stood up, walked to the window. Outside, ordinary neighborhood. Kids playing. Dogs barking. Normal life. The life he wanted.
"I've already decided," Tommy said. "I don't care what's in that vault. Probably just paranoid ravings. Evidence that proves nothing except he was sick. I'm not going to waste my time—"
"Then don't." Edward's voice was calm. "Throw away the lawyer's letter. Forget the vault exists. Take the Lockheed job. Build your life. That's probably the smart choice."
Tommy turned. "But?"
"But your mother is buried here in Canton. Unmarked case. Still unsolved. And your father died believing he'd been right about everything. And Vietnam is happening exactly like—" Edward stopped, coughed. "Never mind. I'm old. Dying. Probably seeing patterns that aren't there."
"Vietnam is what?"
"Nothing. Forget I said anything." Edward closed his eyes. "I'm tired, Tommy. Let me rest."