But 6:00 a.m. To the hospital and back would be tight. And more importantly, if the meeting went badly, if things spiraled, he didn't want the last image his mother had of him to be the one heading into danger. Better to see her after, when it was done. When he could tell her he'd kept his promise. Another text.
This one from an unknown number. Tomorrow changes everything for both of us. Be ready. MW. Jack stared at the message, the weight of it, the finality.
Marcus was right. Tomorrow would change everything. 50 years of secrets coming to light. Family connections revealed. Truth, ugly, complicated, painful truth finally exposed.
Jack closed his eyes. Not to sleep, just to think, to plan, to prepare for the conversation that would define everything that came after. At midnight, Wyatt's voice pulled him back. Jack, Tommy sent more. Jack sat up.
Wyatt handed him his phone. The screen showed a document. Old, scanned from paper. A police report from 1972. Investigation into the death of Franklin James Morrison.
Single vehicle motorcycle accident. Interstate 10-mile marker 147. Victim pronounced dead at scene. Blood alcohol content 0.19. Cause of death, blunt force trauma consistent with high-speed crash.
Conclusion, accidental death due to driving while intoxicated. Case closed. But there was more. Notes in the margin, handwritten, different ink. Witness reports inconsistent.
Vehicle debris pattern suggests secondary collision. Recommend further investigation. And a signature, Detective William Reeves. Below that, another note. Different handwriting.
Official, authoritative. Investigation closed by order of Captain Dale Morrison. No further action required. Jack's blood went cold. Morrison?
Dale Morrison? No relation to your family, Wyatt said. Different Morrison. But Tommy found something else about him. Wyatt pulled up another document.
Dale Morrison, Phoenix PD captain, 1968 to 1978. Retired under investigation for corruption. Died 1980. And look at this, his son. Another document.
More recent. Cody Morrison Blake, age 28. Mother Susan Blake formerly married to Dale Morrison. Cody took his stepfather's name after Dale died. Jack stood up.
Cody Blake, the kid who robbed my mother? Not random, Wyatt said. None of this is random. Webb knew exactly who to send. He sent the grandson of the cop who covered up Franklin's murder.
The pieces were all coming together now. Marcus Webb hadn't just been searching for evidence. He'd been building a case. Tracking down the descendants of the men who'd killed his father. Confronting the legacy of corruption that had shaped his entire life.
And somehow that search had led him to Martha Morrison. To the locket. To the microfilm Franklin had died protecting. Marcus knows, Jack said. He knows everything.
The connections, the conspiracies. Who killed his father and who covered it up. Looks like it. So why does he want to meet me? Why reach out?
Wyatt was quiet for a moment. Then, maybe for the same reason you want to meet him. Because you're family. Because you're the only two people left who have a right to decide what happens to that evidence. Because he paused.
Because sometimes the hardest battles aren't fought with fists. They're fought with truth. And he needs an ally for that fight. Someone who understands what he's going through. Jack looked at the documents again.
At the web of corruption and murder and cover-ups that had entangled both their families for 50 years. Tomorrow at 6:00 a.m., Jack said. One way or another, this ends. Or it begins, Wyatt said. Depends on what you both choose.
Jack didn't sleep. Couldn't. Instead, he spent the night reading through the documents Wyatt had gathered. Building a timeline. Understanding the full scope of what Franklin Morrison had uncovered and what it had cost him.
The weapon smuggling operation had been massive. Military surplus sold to criminal organizations. Profits laundered through legitimate businesses. Politicians paid off. Law enforcement corrupted.
A network that stretched from Arizona to Washington, D.C. From 1969 through 1974. Until Franklin Morrison started asking questions. And then silence. Franklin dead. The investigation closed.
The evidence hidden. The guilty men walking free, retiring with honors, dying of old age in comfortable beds. Until now. At 5:00 a.m., Wyatt's phone buzzed again. He read the message.
Looked at Jack. Margaret Sullivan passed away about an hour ago. Peacefully in her sleep. Jack closed his eyes. The last living witness to Marcus Webb's birth.
The woman who'd kept the secret for 50 years. Gone. She held on long enough to tell the truth, Wyatt said quietly. That means something. It means the secret isn't a secret anymore.
It means the protection Linda tried to build around her son, it's gone. Everything's out in the open now. Which means Marcus is vulnerable, exposed. He's got to be feeling that. Jack stood, stretched.
His back popped. His knees ached. 67 years of living all of it catching up to him at once. I need to go, he said. Meeting's in an hour.
You want company? No. This is something I need to do alone. Wyatt walked him to the door. Put a hand on Jack's shoulder. You're a good man, Jack Morrison.
Your mama raised you right. Don't forget that when things get hard. I won't. And Jack? Yeah.
Franklin would be proud. What you're doing. How you're doing it. He'd be proud. Jack nodded.