January 19, 1952 - Canton, Ohio
The morgue was in the basement of Canton General Hospital. Cold. Fluorescent. Smelling of formaldehyde and death.
Officer Morrison met Rick at the entrance. She was in her forties, competent-looking, with the weary eyes of someone who'd seen too many bodies.
"Mr. Forsyth. Thank you for coming. I know this is difficult—"
"Where is she?"
Morrison led him through corridors that all looked the same. Pushed open a door. Inside: a body on a table, covered with a sheet.
"Take your time," Morrison said. "When you're ready."
She pulled back the sheet.
Helen.
Her face was peaceful. Eyes closed. Like she was sleeping. Except for the bullet wound in her chest, visible through the sheet.
Rick stood very still, looking at his wife's body. The woman he'd married. The mother of his son. The person he'd destroyed by being unable to stop fighting.
"Is this your wife, sir?"
"Yes."
"I'm very sorry for your loss." Morrison covered Helen's face again. "We have some questions, if you're able—"
"Who did this?"
"We don't know yet. No witnesses. Security camera footage shows a man approaching Mrs. Forsyth in the parking lot. They spoke briefly. Then he shot her and fled. We haven't identified him."
"Show me the footage."
Morrison hesitated. "Sir, that's not standard—"
"Show me."
Something in Rick's voice made her comply. They went to an office upstairs. Morrison queued up the security tape.
Grainy black and white footage. Helen exiting the grocery store. Tommy holding her hand, swinging a bag of groceries. Both of them laughing about something.
Then a man approaching. Average height. Dark coat. Hat pulled low. Nothing distinctive.
Helen stopped. The man spoke to her. Helen shook her head. Tried to move past him.
The man pulled a gun.
Helen pushed Tommy behind her.
Exactly like Rick had imagined it might happen. Exactly like his nightmares.
The man shot once. Center mass. Professional. Helen fell.
Tommy screamed—silent in the footage but visible in his open mouth, his small body shaking.
The man walked away. Calm. Unhurried. Nobody stopping him.
Tommy knelt beside his mother, shaking her, trying to wake her up.
Rick watched the footage three times. Memorizing the shooter's walk. The way he moved. The professional precision of someone who'd done this before.
"We're doing everything we can to identify him," Morrison said. "If you know anyone who might want to hurt your wife—"
"I do."
Morrison pulled out a notebook. "Who?"
Rick almost laughed. Where would he even start? How would he explain Prometheus Protocol to a Canton police officer? How would he prove that his wife was killed because he'd written letters exposing government conspiracy?
"It doesn't matter," Rick said. "You'll never find him. You'll never prosecute him. This case will go cold within a month."
"Sir, we take these investigations very seriously—"
"I'm sure you do. But the people who ordered this have resources you can't imagine. The shooter's probably already dead. The trail's already cold. You'll file a report. Mark it unsolved. Move on." Rick stood. "Where's my son?"
"With his grandparents. Mr. Forsyth, we really need to ask you some questions—"
"My wife is dead. My son just watched her die. I need to see him. Your questions can wait."
Rick left before Morrison could stop him.
Helen's parents lived in a modest house on Maple Street. Rick had been there once before, when he and Helen were still dating. Her father had been suspicious then. Would be hostile now.
Rick knocked. Edward Henderson opened the door, saw Rick, and tried to close it.
Rick put his foot in the gap. "I need to see Tommy."
"No. You've done enough." Edward's face was red, aged ten years since Rick had seen him last. "My daughter is dead because of you. Because of your conspiracy theories and your inability to let things go. You think I'm letting you near my grandson?"
"I'm his father—"
"You stopped being his father when you chose your crusade over your family!" Edward's voice cracked. "Helen told me. Told me about the letters. About how you couldn't stop even after promising. About how she left you to protect Tommy. And now she's dead anyway!"
"I stayed away. I tried to protect them—"
"By staying away? You protected them by staying away?" Edward laughed, bitter and broken. "You know what would have protected them? Never investigating in the first place. Never publishing documents. Never testifying to Congress. Never making enemies powerful enough to kill my daughter in a grocery store parking lot!"
From inside the house, a small voice: "Daddy?"
Tommy appeared behind his grandfather. Six years old. Face pale. Eyes red from crying. Holding a stuffed bear he'd had since he was two.
"Daddy, is mommy awake yet?"
Rick's heart shattered.
"Tommy—"
"Grandpa said she's sleeping. But she won't wake up. I tried to wake her but she won't open her eyes." Tommy's voice was small, confused. "Can you wake her? You're daddy. You can wake her."
Rick knelt down so he was eye-level with his son. Wanted to reach out, hold him, explain. But Edward stood between them, blocking.
"Tommy, I—"
"The bad man hurt mommy. I tried to stop him but I was too small. I'm sorry I was too small." Tommy started crying. "I tried to wake her but she won't wake up and it's cold and I want her to wake up."
"Tommy, she can't wake up. She's—" Rick's voice broke. "She's gone."
"Gone where?"
How do you explain death to a six-year-old? How do you explain that his mother is dead because his father couldn't stop fighting? How do you explain that evil men kill innocent people to send messages?
"She's gone to a place where she doesn't hurt anymore. Where she's safe. Where she's—" Rick couldn't finish.
Tommy looked at him with eyes too old for six. "Because of the bad man?"
"Yes."
"Will the bad man come back? For me?" Pure fear in his voice. The fear of a child who'd watched his mother die and understood that the world wasn't safe.
"No." Rick made himself speak firmly. "Nobody will hurt you. I promise."
"You promised mommy too. You said you'd keep her safe." Tommy said it without accusation. Just stating fact. The terrible, awful fact that his father had failed.
Edward pulled Tommy back. "That's enough. Say goodbye to your father, Tommy."
"Goodbye?"
"He's leaving. And he's not coming back."
Rick looked at Edward. "You can't stop me from seeing my son—"
"I can and I will. I'm filing for custody. Full custody. And given your history, given what Helen told the divorce lawyer about your conspiracy investigations and your inability to provide stable home, given that you're unemployed and living in a boarding house—do you really think any judge will give you access?"
"He's my son!"
"He's my grandson! And you got his mother killed!" Edward's voice rose. "The police told me. Random robbery, they said. But I know better. I know your past. I know people died around you. Morrison. That Coleman fellow. Your wife. All dead because you can't let go. Can't accept that some fights aren't worth fighting."
"I was trying to do the right thing—"
"The right thing? The right thing was choosing your family! Was being there for your son! Was not making enemies who kill women in parking lots!" Edward's eyes were wet. "My daughter loved you. Married you despite my warnings. Tried to build a life with you. And you destroyed her. Destroyed her by being unable to be normal. Unable to be present. Unable to be anything except Richard Forsyth, crusader against windmills."
Rick had no answer. Because Edward was right.
"Go," Edward said. "Before I call the police and have you removed for trespassing. Go and don't come back. Tommy doesn't need a father who gets his mothers killed. He needs safety. Stability. Things you can't provide."
"Can I at least—" Rick looked at Tommy. "Can I say goodbye?"
Edward hesitated, then stepped aside.
Rick knelt in front of his son. Tommy looked at him with those too-old eyes, clutching his bear.
"I'm sorry," Rick said. "I'm sorry I couldn't protect her. I'm sorry I wasn't there. I'm sorry for everything."
"Will you come to mommy's funeral?"
"If your grandfather lets me."
"Will you come see me after? Will you live with us?"
Rick looked at Edward's face. Saw the answer there.
"I don't think so, buddy."
"Why not?"
"Because sometimes... sometimes fathers can't be with their sons. Even when they want to. Even when they love them very much." Rick's vision blurred. "But I need you to remember something. Whatever happens, whatever your grandfather tells you about me, know that I love you. Know that every choice I made, I thought I was protecting you."
"But you didn't protect mommy."
The simple, terrible truth.
"No. I didn't. And I'll never forgive myself for that."
Tommy thought about this. Then: "I love you too, daddy."
Rick pulled his son into a hug. Held him tight. Tried to memorize the feeling—Tommy's small body, his hair that smelled like kid shampoo, the way he gripped Rick's shirt with small fists.
Tried to memorize it because he knew this was goodbye.
Forever goodbye.
"Be good," Rick whispered. "Grow up strong. Be better than me."
"Okay."
Rick released him. Stood. Looked at Edward.
"I'll leave. I won't fight the custody battle. I won't make this harder for him than it already is." Rick's voice was steady despite the breaking inside. "But promise me you'll keep him safe. Promise me you'll watch for surveillance, for strangers, for anything unusual. Promise me if anything seems wrong, you'll move, change names, do whatever it takes."
"You think they'd—" Edward paled. "You think they'd come after Tommy?"
"I think they killed Helen to teach me a lesson. I think if I keep fighting, they might kill him to teach me another one." Rick looked at his son. "So I'm done. Completely done. I'll disappear. Stop fighting. Stop investigating. Stop existing. That's the only way to keep him safe."
"Then go. Disappear. And never come back."
Rick walked to the door. Turned back one last time. Tommy was watching him with those eyes that had seen too much.
"Goodbye, Tommy."
"Goodbye, daddy."
Rick left. Got in his car. Drove three blocks. Pulled over.
And finally, finally, let himself break.