The name in my mother’s letter was Eddie Shaw.
Russell read it once.
Then again.
“No.”
I remembered Eddie immediately.
Everyone who knew Russell in 1981 knew Eddie.
They had been friends since elementary school.
He was smaller than Russell, quicker to laugh, always carrying a deck of cards or a pack of gum.
He had driven me home twice when Russell’s truck would not start.
He had sat beside Russell after football practice.
He had known where we met by the river.
He knew Russell wanted St. Louis.
He knew I was frightened of being abandoned.
“He was your best friend.”
Russell shook his head.
“No.”
“That is what Mother wrote.”
“He hated Mercer.”
“Maybe.”
“He hated everybody involved in gambling.”
“You were seventeen. How would you know?”
“Because his father lost money to them.”
I kept reading.
Eddie began carrying messages for Leon during the summer of 1981.
At first, my mother wrote, Eddie believed he was only helping Leon collect gambling debts.
Then Leon discovered Eddie’s access to Russell.
To me.
To our families.
“He listened to us.”
Russell sat on the basement step.
I remembered one evening at the river.
Russell and I had argued because I was afraid he would leave after graduation.
Eddie arrived halfway through.
I had forgotten that.
He brought sodas.
Made jokes.
Later Russell walked me home.
Within days, my mother told me Russell had run away with another girl.
Leon knew exactly which lie would hurt me most.
Abandonment.
Russell looked at the floor.
“I told Eddie about asking you to come to St. Louis.”
“Mother says he told Leon.”
“Why?”
“Money.”
Russell shook his head.
“Eddie’s family was poor, but he wasn’t—”
“People do things at seventeen they spend lifetimes explaining.”
He looked at me.
“That sounds generous.”
“It isn’t.”
I continued.
Eddie told Leon about Russell confronting my father.
He told Leon when Russell would be at Sycamore Street.
He told Leon where Russell parked the red truck.
My breath caught.
“The photograph.”
Russell looked up.
“What?”
“The blue package in your truck. Someone knew where it was.”
“Eddie.”
“He could have taken the photograph.”
“Or told Mercer where to find it.”
The letter confirmed part of it.
Eddie had followed Margaret from Walter’s garage.
He saw her move the bag into Russell’s truck.
He photographed it.
Then informed Leon.
“But Caleb said Mother took the real bag,” Russell said.
“She did later.”
“So Eddie photographed it before Evelyn moved it.”
“Yes.”
The timeline finally aligned.
Margaret hid the bag in Russell’s truck.
Eddie photographed it.
My mother learned what had happened.
She removed the real bag.
Someone substituted an identical one.
“Who replaced it?” I asked.
Daniel, standing across the basement, answered.
“Robert.”
I turned.
“You knew?”
“Not until years later.”
“Why?”
“To buy time.”
My father placed a decoy in Russell’s truck so Mercer would believe the evidence remained there.
That explained why the Polaroid could show the bag while the real package later sat in my mother’s car.
“Did Eddie know?”
Daniel shook his head.
“No.”
“So Leon thought Russell still had the real evidence.”
“Yes.”
Which led to the August twenty-fourth order to eliminate Russell.
A chain of teenage confidences had nearly gotten him murdered.
Russell looked sick.
“Where is Eddie now?”
Rebecca searched.
There were several Edward Shaws.
Then Russell supplied a middle name.
Patrick.
She found him.
Edward Patrick Shaw.
Age sixty-two.
Cape Girardeau County.
Still local.
Occupation: insurance broker, retired.
Alive.
Russell stared at the address.
“I’ve seen him.”
“What?”
“Years ago.”
“When?”
“Grocery store. Maybe ten years back.”
“Did you speak?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“He saw me and left.”
At the time, Russell assumed Eddie felt awkward about their friendship fading.
Now the encounter meant something else.
My mother’s letter continued.
Eddie confessed to her in 1987.
Six years after the separation.
That was the same year she told Daniel she regretted what she had done.
Eddie had gone to her house drunk.
He admitted Leon paid him.
He said he never knew Russell would be hurt.
Never knew Harlan had been ordered to kill him.
Never intended anything beyond passing information.
My mother believed his remorse.
I was less interested in his remorse than his silence.
“He could have contacted us.”
Russell nodded.
“He knew where I was.”
“He knew where I was too.”
“He chose himself.”
“Yes.”
That was simpler than the elaborate justifications of our parents.
Fear explained silence.
It did not erase responsibility.
My mother wrote that Eddie begged her not to tell us.
She agreed.
I stopped reading.
Russell stared.
“She protected him.”
“Yes.”
“After everything.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
The letter answered.
Because I had already done enough damage, and I was afraid revealing Eddie’s betrayal would send Russell after Leon.
Russell laughed bitterly.
“She still decided for us.”
“Yes.”
Even her regret remained controlling.
That hurt more than discovering the original lie.
She understood what she had done.
Then repeated the pattern.
The final paragraph said Eddie possessed one item she could never recover.
A notebook.
“What notebook?”
Daniel stepped closer.
“Leon’s?”
I read.
Eddie kept a pocket notebook during the summer of 1981. He wrote down every message Leon asked him to carry, every payment, every place, every name. He told me he kept it because he feared Leon would someday blame him for something worse.
Evidence.
“Does he still have it?”
Russell was already standing.
“We’re going to ask.”
It was nearly midnight.
Rebecca objected.
I agreed with her.
Russell did not.
Eventually we compromised.
Morning.
No surprise confrontation.
We would call Eddie first.
Daniel stayed at the farmhouse with the black case.
Rebecca took digital photographs of every document.
I brought my father’s unopened letter home.
I did not read it that night.
Some truths deserved daylight.
At eight twelve the next morning, Russell called Eddie.
A woman answered.
“Shaw residence.”
“Is Eddie there?”
“Who is calling?”
“Russell Tate.”
Silence.
Then the woman said, “Oh.”
Not who?
Not which Russell?
Oh.
“He told you about me.”
Another pause.
“My husband has been expecting this call for years.”
“May I speak to him?”
“He’s at St. Francis.”
Russell’s expression changed.
“The hospital?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“Stroke.”
“When?”
“Yesterday afternoon.”
Hours before we opened my mother’s letter.
“Can he speak?”
“Sometimes.”
“Would he see me?”
The woman became emotional.
“He asked for you.”
Russell closed his eyes.
“When?”
“This morning.”
We drove to St. Francis.
The same hospital system where Russell had once been treated, though the original building was long gone.
Eddie looked nothing like the boy in my memory.
Stroke had pulled one side of his face downward.
His hair was thin and white.
His wife sat beside him.
When Russell entered, Eddie began crying.
Russell stopped near the door.
Neither man spoke.
Forty-five years stood between them.
Finally Eddie lifted his functioning hand.
Russell did not take it.
“Why?”
Eddie struggled.
“Sorry.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“Leon.”
“I know about Leon.”
Eddie’s eyes moved to me.
“Mary.”
“Yes.”
His crying worsened.
“I’m sorry.”
I remained where I was.
“What did you tell him about me?”
Eddie swallowed.
“Everything.”
“Why?”
“Money.”
At least he did not invent nobility.
“How much?”
“Twenty dollars. Fifty. Sometimes hundred.”
Russell looked stunned.
“You sold us for twenty dollars?”
Eddie closed his eyes.
“Yes.”
His wife covered her mouth.
Apparently she had not known everything.
“Did you photograph the blue bag?”
“Yes.”
“Did you tell Mercer Russell had it?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know it was federal evidence?”
“No.”
“Did you know Harlan planned to kill Russell?”
“No.”
“Did you know my mother lied to us?”
Eddie opened his eyes.
“Leon told her what to say.”
“Why?”
“To keep you apart.”
“Why did he care?”
Eddie struggled to speak.
“Russell leaving… with you… ruined leverage.”
“What leverage?”
“Evelyn.”
Leon still wanted control over my mother.
As long as I remained nearby, he could threaten me.
If Russell took me away, that leverage weakened.
“So Leon separated us to keep me close to Mother.”
“Yes.”
My mother then cooperated because she believed separation would protect me.
Leon had weaponized her fear perfectly.
Russell asked, “The notebook.”
Eddie’s eyes widened.
“You have it?”
He shook his head.
“Where?”
“Safe.”
“What safe?”
“Office.”
“Combination?”
Eddie looked toward his wife.
“Ruth.”
She stared at him.
“You told me never to open that safe.”
He nodded.
Tears filled her eyes.
“What have you done?”
Eddie could not answer.
Russell softened slightly.
“This isn’t her fault.”
Ruth looked at him.
“I know.”
She gave us the combination.
Before we left, Eddie reached toward Russell again.
This time Russell took his hand.
Not forgiveness.
I could see that.
But acknowledgment.
Eddie whispered, “Your dad saved me.”
Russell froze.
“When?”
“Eighty-one.”
“From what?”
“Harlan.”
My pulse quickened.
“Explain.”
Eddie struggled.
“After crash… Harlan knew… I took picture.”
“The crash Robert caused?”
Eddie nodded.
“Harlan came after you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Loose end.”
“Where did Dad find you?”
“Bus station.”
“What did he do?”
“Put me on bus.”
“Where?”
“Memphis.”
Russell stared.
“My father saved the person who betrayed me.”
Eddie began crying again.
“He didn’t know.”
“Did you ever tell him?”
“No.”
Of course.
Russell released his hand.
At Eddie’s old insurance office, Ruth opened the safe.
Inside were tax records, cash, a revolver, and a small black notebook held together by a rubber band.
Russell did not touch it.
I did.
The first pages contained dates and initials.
L.M.
D.H.
W.T.
R.T.
E.T.
Payments.
Locations.
Short instructions.
Then August 18, 1981.
R.T. going to Turner house at 7:30.
Photograph truck.
Tell L.M. package still there.
Below that:
D.H. says if boy opens bag, no choice.
The implication was clear.
Harlan was already prepared to kill Russell.
Then another entry.
8/19.
Evelyn says boy must believe Mary refused him. L.M. says tell Evelyn girl must believe boy ran.
Russell stared.
“There.”
The architecture of our separation in one line.
Then the next entry changed everything.
8/20.
Robert paid me $200. Says keep telling L.M. package is with Russell until he can move Mary.
My father had paid Eddie too.
Not to betray us.
To mislead Leon.
“Dad knew Eddie was involved.”
Russell whispered.
“At least by August twentieth.”
I turned the page.
8/21.
Robert says plan changed. Mary staying. Russell must leave.
I stopped.
My father had decided Russell had to leave.
Not my mother alone.
“Why?”
The next line:
D.H. knows hospital. Leon wants both kids watched.
Then:
Robert says send Russell north. Evelyn refuses. Margaret says she’ll do it.
Russell stared.
“My mother tried to send me away.”
“Yes.”
Another entry.
8/22.
Russell found locket. Won’t leave.
That was the day Russell searched the river.
“He was watching you.”
Russell nodded.
The final pages became frantic.
8/23.
Blue package gone.
Frank gone.
Thomas looking for Frank.
Caleb crossed river.
Then August 24.
D.H. hunting Russell.
Robert following.
And beneath it:
Walter says Riverglass dead.
The next entry:
Robert hit D.H. car.
Russell safe for now.
Then one line underlined three times.
L.M. says Robert will pay with Mary.
My stomach turned.
Russell looked at me.
“What happened after August twenty-fourth?”
I turned the page.
August 25.
Mary leaving town with parents.
That was true.
My parents had taken me to my aunt’s house in Kansas City for nearly a month.
They told me I needed distance from the humiliation of Russell leaving.
In reality, they were hiding me from Leon.
Then Eddie’s next note:
L.M. furious. Says Evelyn broke deal.
“What deal?” Russell asked.
I turned another page.
There was no answer.
Only a later entry.
September 3.
Robert met L.M. river landing.
September 4.
Robert came home alive.
September 5.
L.M. gone.
Leon Mercer had disappeared temporarily after that.
I remembered Walter saying Mercer vanished for periods.
“What happened at the river landing?”
Russell asked.
The notebook contained one final 1981 entry.
Eddie had written it in larger letters.
ROBERT KNOWS WHERE DANIEL IS.
My father knew Daniel Mercer was alive.
Leon apparently learned that too.
And suddenly the September meeting at the river was no longer merely about me.
Robert had spent seventeen years protecting Daniel’s new identity.
Leon had discovered the secret.
My phone rang.
Daniel Mercer.
I answered.
“Where are you?”
His voice sounded strained.
“At Eddie Shaw’s office.”
“Leave.”
“Why?”
“The farmhouse was searched.”
My heart jumped.
“The black case?”
“Safe.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where are you now?”
“Moving.”
“Daniel—”
“Mary Louise, listen carefully. The person looking for that case knew George Bellamy’s hiding places.”
“Caleb?”
“No.”
“Patricia?”
“She’s in custody.”
“Martin?”
“No.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because the person left a message.”
“What message?”
Daniel breathed heavily.
“One sentence.”
I waited.
“He wrote, ‘Robert should have let me drown.’”
My skin went cold.
Only a handful of people knew what happened in 1964.
Daniel had survived.
Robert had saved him.
Leon was dead.
Harlan was dead.
“Who would write that?”
Daniel answered with a name I did not expect.
“Leon.”
“That’s impossible.”
“I know.”
“Leon Mercer died in 1996.”
“Yes.”
“You attended the funeral?”
“No.”
Walter had.
“Was there a body?”
A pause.
“I don’t know.”
I looked at Russell.
“Daniel, are you saying Leon might still be alive?”
“I’m saying somebody wants us to believe he is.”
The line crackled.
Then Daniel added:
“And whoever searched the farmhouse took one thing.”
“What?”
“Your father’s letter.”
The letter Robert Turner had written to me.
The one I had deliberately left unread because I wanted daylight.
Except Daniel had been mistaken about one detail.
I touched my handbag.
My father’s letter was still inside.
If the intruder had taken an envelope believing it was Robert’s letter to me, then he had stolen something else from the black case.
Something Daniel had mistaken for my father’s final words.
And whatever was inside that stolen envelope was important enough for someone to break into the farmhouse looking for it.
Click here to continue reading: PART 17: The Envelope Stolen From the Farmhouse Wasn’t My Father’s Letter, and Its True Addressee Pulled Eddie’s Notebook Into the Present
A Twelve-Dollar Toaster Led Me to the Silver Heart I Had Watched Vanish Beneath the Mississippi Forty-Three Years Earlier
Part 16 of 47
