Maybe she had the child and raised it somewhere else. Away from Phoenix. Away from anyone who'd know. More silence. Jack could almost hear Wyatt's mind working through the implications.
Under her maiden name. Wyatt said slowly. Webb. Marcus Webb. Jesus Christ.
Wyatt's breath came out in a rush. That would make him Franklin's son. My cousin. Family. And he's been looking for the locket because because his mother probably told him about it before she died.
Told him about Franklin. About the evidence. About what really happened. Jack paused. He's not trying to destroy the evidence, Wyatt.
He's trying to understand it. To know the truth about his father. Wyatt was quiet for a long moment. What are you going to do? I'm meeting him tomorrow.
6:00 a.m. El Lobo bar. Alone. He asked for just the two of us. Jack. I know.
But if he's Franklin's son, if he's family, then I owe him the truth. I owe him the chance to know his father. Even if it's 50 years too late. You're assuming he doesn't already know. What if he knows exactly who he is and he's trying to protect the Webb family name?
What if he wants to destroy that evidence to keep his grandfather's crimes hidden? Jack had thought about that. Then I'll deal with it. But I don't think that's what this is. I think this is about a man who just found out his whole life was built on a lie.
Who just discovered his real father was murdered. Who's trying to make sense of it all. You sound pretty sure. I am. Because I've been that man.
When I found out my father hid the truth for 50 years. When I realized everything I thought I knew about him was incomplete. I understand what Marcus is going through. I understand it perfectly. Wyatt sighed.
You want back up anyway. No. But I want you to do something else. What? I need you to find out everything you can about Marcus Webb. Real information.
Not just what's public. I need to know if my theory is right. If there's any proof that Linda Webb had a child. Birth records. School records.
Anything. That's a tall order for 10 hours. You know people. People who know people. People who can access records that aren't supposed to be accessible.
You're asking me to break laws, brother. I'm asking you to help me figure out if the man I'm meeting tomorrow is family or enemy. There's a difference. Wyatt was silent. Then.
I'll make some calls. But Jack. Yeah. If this goes sideways tomorrow, if Webb turns out to be something other than what you think he is, you call me. Immediately.
You don't try to be Ironwood. You don't try to handle it alone. You hear me? I hear you. I'm serious.
Your mom is already in the hospital. I'm not letting you end up there, too. Or worse. I'll be careful. That's what every man says before he does something stupid.
Wyatt's voice softened. But I'll do the digging. Give me till 5:00 a.m. I'll text you what I find. Thanks, preacher. Don't thank me yet.
And Jack, whatever happens tomorrow, remember who you are now, not who you were. The line went dead. Jack sat on the shoulder of the highway for another few minutes. Cars passed occasionally, headlights sweeping over him and then gone. Anonymous travelers moving through the night, each with their own stories, their own destinations, their own secrets.
He thought about his promise to his mother, about not becoming what he'd been, about staying true to the man he'd spent 32 years trying to become. But he also thought about justice, about truth, about finishing what Franklin Morrison had started and what his father had been too afraid to complete. The two didn't have to be in conflict. He could honor his promise and still do what was right. He just had to be smart about it, had to think instead of react, had to choose his battles and his methods with care.
He could be Jack Morrison and still get justice for his family. He just had to remember which one he was. Jack started the Harley again, pulled back onto the highway. Phoenix sprawled ahead of him, all light and heat and human density. Somewhere in that sprawl his mother lay healing.
Somewhere out there Marcus Webb was searching for answers to questions he'd only just learned to ask. And somewhere in Jack's jacket pocket, a locket the size of his palm held secrets that could rewrite 50 years of history. Tomorrow at 6:00 a.m., all of it would come together, for better or worse. Wyatt's garage sat on the south side of Phoenix in a neighborhood that hadn't gentrified yet and probably never would. Honest work, working people, the kind of place where a motorcycle repair shop could survive on skill and reputation rather than trendy branding.
Jack pulled up just before 10:00 p.m. The lights were still on. Through the bay windows he could see Wyatt bent over an engine moving with the slow precision of someone who'd done the same job 10,000 times and still found satisfaction in getting it right. Jack knocked on the side door three times. Pause. Two times.
Old signal from the old days. The door opened immediately. Wyatt stood there, 70 years old but still built like the boxer he'd been in his youth. Gray beard down to his chest, arms tattooed with faded ink that told the story of a life lived hard and somehow survived. Iron Wolf, Wyatt said, not surprised, not anything, just stating fact.
Preacher. They looked at each other, brothers in everything but blood, connected by a past that had shaped them both. You look like hell, Wyatt said. Feel worse. Good.
Means you're thinking instead of just reacting. Wyatt stepped aside. Come in. I already started making calls. Jack stepped inside.
The garage smelled like home oil and metal and the honest sweat of labor. Three bikes in various states of repair, tools organized with military precision, a small office in the back with a cot and a coffee maker and a shelf of books that would surprise anyone who thought bikers didn't read. Wyatt gestured to a pair of folding chairs, grabbed two beers from a mini fridge, handed one to Jack without asking. They sat. I called Tommy Hernandez, Wyatt said.
You remember Tommy? Records clerk, Maricopa County. Not anymore. He's with the state now, vital records, birth certificates, death certificates, all that official paper trail [ __ ]. Wyatt took a long pull from his beer.
I asked him to look for any births to a Linda Webb between 1972 and 1973. Arizona and surrounding states. And? He's looking. Said he'd have something by midnight.
Wyatt leaned back, chair creaking. But I also called someone else. Someone who might know more than any record could tell us. Jack waited. Margaret Sullivan, Harriet Sullivan's older sister.