Russell remembered Frank Bellamy as a man who could repair almost anything.
Carburetors.
Boat engines.
Broken radios.
Once, when Russell was nine, Frank fixed a bicycle chain with a nail because they were six miles from home and had no tools.
“He was around all the time,” Russell said.
We sat in my kitchen long after Walter should have gone home.
Nobody suggested ending the conversation.
“Did he work at the garage?”
“Off and on.”
Walter stared at the old photograph.
“Thomas Bell.”
Russell looked at him.
“You knew him by that name?”
“Not until the FBI brought him in.”
“When?”
“1980.”
“And you never realized Thomas Bell was Frank Bellamy?”
“He used both names.”
“That is not an answer.”
Walter rubbed his forehead.
“Frank Bellamy was his ordinary name. Thomas Bell was the identity used in federal paperwork.”
“So he was undercover?”
“Informant, not agent.”
“Against Mercer?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Walter glanced toward me.
“Because Mercer had killed his brother.”
Another body.
Another secret.
Rebecca had gone home briefly to check on her family, leaving Russell and me with Walter.
The house felt too quiet without her questions.
“Who was Frank’s brother?” I asked.
“Samuel Bellamy.”
Russell frowned.
“I remember Dad mentioning Uncle Sam.”
“Not your uncle. Just a close friend.”
“What happened to him?”
“His body was found in Illinois in 1978.”
“Police thought Mercer did it?”
“They suspected. Couldn’t prove it.”
“So Frank agreed to work with the FBI.”
“Yes.”
“And Riverglass was partly meant to prove Mercer killed Samuel.”
“Yes.”
The blue bag’s importance grew with every answer.
It had not contained ordinary financial evidence.
It contained the machinery of a federal case involving murder, corruption, and multiple families already tied together by blackmail.
“What did Caleb mean when he said Frank survived?”
Walter shook his head.
“I believed Mercer killed him.”
“When?”
“After Riverglass collapsed.”
“No body?”
“No.”
“Then why assume he was dead?”
“His car was found near the river with blood inside.”
“Whose blood?”
Walter looked embarrassed.
“They didn’t have modern testing.”
“So you don’t know.”
“No.”
Russell leaned back.
“Did my father know Frank was an informant?”
“Yes.”
“How close were they?”
“Very.”
“Close enough that Dad helped him?”
“Yes.”
“With Riverglass?”
Walter nodded.
Russell stared toward the dark kitchen window.
“I remember Dad disappearing.”
Walter looked at him.
“When?”
“The week after I left the hospital.”
I watched Russell.
“Where did he go?”
“Nobody told me. Mom said he had work in St. Louis.”
Walter’s face changed.
“No.”
Russell turned.
“What?”
“Thomas wasn’t in St. Louis.”
“I said my father.”
“So did I.”
A chill moved through me.
“Russell’s father was Thomas?”
Walter realized his mistake.
“No.”
“You just called him Thomas.”
“I misspoke.”
Russell stood.
“No, you didn’t.”
Walter said nothing.
“Who was Thomas Bell?”
“Frank.”
“You just answered as though Thomas was my father.”
“Russell—”
“Who was Thomas Bell?”
Walter’s eyes closed.
For perhaps ten seconds, the old man simply breathed.
Then he said, “The FBI files became complicated.”
“That is not a human answer.”
“Thomas Bell was a shared operational identity.”
I stared.
“For more than one informant?”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“Two.”
Russell’s voice went low.
“Frank and my father.”
Walter nodded.
The secret expanded again.
Thomas Tate, Russell’s father.
Frank Bellamy.
Both using documents associated with Thomas Bell.
“So when the FBI listed Thomas Bell missing,” I said, “they could have meant either man.”
“Yes.”
“Which one disappeared?”
“Frank.”
Russell looked almost relieved.
Then Walter added, “At first.”
The relief vanished.
“What does that mean?”
“Your father vanished three days later.”
Russell stared.
“For three days.”
“Yes.”
“Where was he?”
“I don’t know.”
“You always know enough to say you don’t know.”
“I genuinely don’t.”
“What did he say when he came back?”
“Nothing to me.”
Russell laughed harshly.
“That sounds like the family tradition.”
I moved closer.
“What do you remember?”
He looked at me.
“My father came home at dawn.”
“How old were you?”
“Seventeen.”
“You were recovering.”
“Yes.”
“Did you see him?”
“I heard the truck.”
His eyes narrowed with memory.
“I went downstairs.”
Margaret had been asleep on the couch because she was afraid to leave Russell alone.
Thomas entered through the kitchen wearing clothes Russell did not recognize.
Mud coated his boots.
One sleeve was torn.
There was blood near the cuff.
“Whose blood?”
“I asked him.”
“What did he say?”
“That he cut his hand.”
“Was his hand cut?”
Russell shook his head.
“My mother woke up and saw the blood.”
“What did she do?”
“She started crying.”
Walter looked down.
“She knew.”
Russell turned.
“Knew what?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Stop.”
Walter looked up.
“Your mother came to me that afternoon.”
“And?”
“She said Thomas had done something unforgivable.”
“What?”
“She wouldn’t say.”
Russell paced once across the kitchen.
“My father was the quietest man I knew.”
“That didn’t mean he had no secrets.”
“No. Apparently none of our parents had hobbies except lying.”
I understood his anger.
Every recovered memory turned a familiar adult into a stranger.
I had been experiencing the same thing with my mother and father.
“Did Thomas know Caleb existed?” I asked.
Walter nodded.
“Eventually.”
“Did he know Caleb was Margaret’s son?”
“Yes.”
“How did he react?”
Walter surprised me.
“He wanted to bring Caleb into the family.”
Russell stopped pacing.
“What?”
“He loved Margaret.”
“That sounds more like Dad.”
“He told her none of it changed their marriage.”
“Then why didn’t she contact Caleb?”
“Because Caleb refused.”
Russell’s face softened slightly.
“He knew she was his mother?”
“By then.”
“And he didn’t want her?”
Walter shook his head.
“It was more complicated.”
I almost laughed.
Everything was.
“What did Caleb want?”
“Money at first.”
“Like Leon.”
“He had been raised by Leon.”
That explained without excusing.
“Did Thomas give him money?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Enough that Margaret became frightened.”
“Why?”
“Because Caleb started asking for information too.”
“What information?”
Walter looked toward the Riverglass file.
“About the operation.”
Russell’s head lifted.
“Caleb was working for Mercer.”
“Yes.”
We had been talking to a man who had been inside the conspiracy from the beginning.
A man who knew my mother’s car, the blue bag, and Frank Bellamy.
“Then Caleb knows exactly what happened.”
“Some of it.”
“Maybe all of it.”
Walter shook his head.
“Leon never trusted anyone fully. Not even his son.”
My phone buzzed.
A text from Caleb.
ONE HOUR. OLD RIVER LANDING. COME WITHOUT WALTER.
I showed Russell.
He read it twice.
“No.”
“He’s offering something.”
“He’s ordering you somewhere isolated.”
“Not necessarily alone.”
“He said without Walter.”
“He didn’t say without you.”
Russell almost smiled despite himself.
“You always looked for loopholes.”
“It kept life interesting.”
“I’m coming.”
Walter said, “Neither of you should.”
We both looked at him.
He sighed.
“Right. I’ve lost that vote.”
The old river landing had not been used commercially in decades. Concrete ramps disappeared into muddy water beneath cottonwoods.
Russell drove.
Neither of us told Rebecca until we were halfway there.
When I called, her reaction was predictable.
“You’re meeting the son of a dead criminal at an abandoned river landing?”
“When you phrase it that way—”
“There is no better phrasing.”
“Russell is with me.”
“That does not improve things.”
Russell leaned toward the phone.
“I’m offended.”
“Good.”
She made us promise to keep the call connected through my earbuds.
That was the compromise.
Caleb Mercer was already waiting when we arrived.
He stood beside an old black sedan.
He was taller than Leon had been in the photographs, thinner, with gray hair cut close to his scalp.
His face resembled Margaret Tate’s around the eyes.
Russell saw it too.
He stopped walking.
Caleb studied him.
“My mother’s other son.”
Russell’s jaw tightened.
“My mother had a name.”
“I know.”
“You could have contacted her.”
“I did.”
Walter had not told us that.
“When?”
“1988.”
“What happened?”
“She wanted me to come home.”
“And?”
“I told her I already had one.”
“Leon’s?”
Caleb gave a bitter smile.
“If you can call it that.”
I stepped forward.
“You said Frank Bellamy survived.”
“He did.”
“How do you know?”
“I drove him.”
“Where?”
“Across the river.”
“When?”
“August twenty-third, 1981.”
The day the blue package disappeared.
“Was he injured?”
“No.”
“Then why leave blood in his car?”
“It wasn’t his.”
Russell stared.
“Whose?”
Caleb looked at him.
“Your father’s.”
Russell went still.
“What?”
“Thomas Tate was injured.”
“When?”
“During the fight.”
“What fight?”
“At Walter’s garage.”
Russell shook his head.
“My father disappeared after I got out of the hospital.”
“Because he was looking for Frank.”
I interrupted.
“Why?”
“Because Frank stole the blue package.”
The claim contradicted everything we had just learned.
“Frank took it from Russell’s truck?”
“No.”
Caleb looked at me.
“Evelyn did.”
I felt a flash of anger.
“You told me she had the real bag in her car.”
“She did.”
“Then Frank stole it from her?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because Frank had discovered Harlan was corrupt.”
“That sounds like a reason to preserve the evidence, not steal it.”
“Frank no longer trusted the FBI.”
“Did he trust Walter?”
“No.”
Walter had been correct about at least one thing: fear had contaminated everyone.
“What did Frank plan to do?”
“Expose Mercer himself.”
“With federal evidence?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Chicago.”
Russell frowned.
“Why Chicago?”
“Journalist.”
“Name?”
“Eleanor Voss.”
The name was unfamiliar.
“Did he get there?”
Caleb shook his head.
“My father intercepted him.”
“At Walter’s garage?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“Frank had hidden the bag. Leon thought Thomas Tate knew where.”
Russell’s voice hardened.
“And?”
“My father beat him.”
I watched Russell absorb the image of his father bleeding.
“Was Frank there?”
“Yes.”
“Did he help?”
Caleb smiled strangely.
“Frank caused it.”
“What do you mean?”
“He hit Thomas first.”
“Why?”
“Because Thomas had told Mercer where to find him.”
Russell shook his head.
“No.”
“Your father betrayed Frank.”
“No.”
Caleb’s gaze did not move.
“Thomas was afraid Leon would come after Margaret and Russell. He offered Frank instead.”
Russell stepped toward him.
“That is a lie.”
“Probably the same thing your father told himself.”
Russell’s hands curled.
I touched his arm.
Not to restrain him.
To remind him I was there.
“Finish,” I told Caleb.
Caleb looked at me.
“Thomas tried to take it back. He warned Frank that Mercer was coming. They fought.”
“Then?”
“Leon arrived.”
My stomach tightened.
“And?”
“Everybody started lying.”
“That is not an answer.”
Caleb looked toward the river.
“Frank escaped with me.”
“Why would you help him?”
“Because I hated my father.”
Simple.
Believable.
“Where was Thomas?”
“On the garage floor.”
“Alive?”
“Yes.”
“And Leon?”
“Looking for the package.”
“Did Frank have it?”
Caleb shook his head.
“He had already given it to Evelyn.”
We were back to my mother.
“When?”
“That afternoon.”
“Why her?”
“Because nobody would suspect her.”
Apparently everyone had underestimated Evelyn Turner.
“What did she do with it?”
“I don’t know.”
“You told me it was in her car.”
“It was. Earlier.”
“So where did it go?”
Caleb looked at the river.
“That is what Leon spent the rest of his life trying to discover.”
Russell spoke.
“What happened after you drove Frank across the river?”
“We went to Illinois.”
“Where?”
“A farmhouse.”
“Whose?”
“Someone he trusted.”
“Did he stay there?”
“For three days.”
“And then?”
Caleb’s expression changed.
“He disappeared.”
“You mean Mercer found him?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you ever see him again?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know he survived?”
“I heard his voice eleven years later.”
All three of us went still.
“Where?”
“On a phone call.”
“Who did he call?”
Caleb looked directly at Russell.
“Your father.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“You were there?”
“Yes.”
“What did Dad say?”
“Almost nothing.”
Russell’s voice lowered.
“What did Frank say?”
Caleb remembered.
“He asked one question.”
“What?”
“Did Mary Louise ever learn what Evelyn did with the package?”
I felt the river wind against my face.
“Frank asked about me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because the package was never really about Walter, Mercer, or the FBI after August twenty-third.”
“What was it about?”
Caleb looked at me for a long time.
“Your mother added something.”
“To the package?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“A confession.”
“Whose?”
Caleb shook his head.
“I never saw it.”
“But Frank did?”
“Yes.”
“What did it confess?”
“He told Thomas that if the truth came out, two families would be destroyed.”
Russell’s voice was rough.
“They already were.”
Caleb glanced at him.
“Not like this.”
I stepped closer.
“What did my mother confess?”
Caleb looked toward the water.
“I don’t know the exact words.”
“You know something.”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“She confessed that the shooting in the alley wasn’t the first time she fired Robert’s gun.”
My chest tightened.
“When was the first?”
“1979.”
“The garage burglary?”
Caleb nodded.
Russell’s face changed.
“What happened?”
Caleb answered quietly.
“One of the burglars was shot.”
Walter had never mentioned anyone being injured.
“Who?”
“Samuel Bellamy.”
Frank’s brother.
I stared at Caleb.
“You said Mercer killed Samuel.”
“That’s what everyone was supposed to believe.”
“And you’re saying my mother shot him?”
“I’m saying Evelyn was there.”
“Did he die?”
“Yes.”
“Did she kill him?”
Caleb looked directly at me.
“I don’t know.”
The distinction mattered.
Then he reached into his coat.
Russell immediately moved between us.
Caleb stopped.
“Relax.”
He withdrew a small cassette.
Older than the one from the bank.
A handwritten label ran across it.
8/79 — GARAGE.
“Where did you get that?”
“My father’s effects.”
“What’s on it?”
Caleb held it toward me.
“The night Samuel Bellamy died.”
I did not take it immediately.
“Why give it to me?”
“Because Leon kept one thing right.”
“What?”
“Insurance.”
I took the cassette.
“Does it prove my mother killed Samuel?”
Caleb’s expression was unreadable.
“No.”
“What does it prove?”
“That Robert Turner confessed to doing it.”
Click here to continue reading: PART 11: My Father’s Recorded Confession Sounded Final Until One Background Voice Revealed Why He Had Taken Responsibility for Another Person’s Gunshot
A Twelve-Dollar Toaster Led Me to the Silver Heart I Had Watched Vanish Beneath the Mississippi Forty-Three Years Earlier
Part 10 of 47
