Chapter 6 - The Tape His Father Hid
Ryan stared at Eli as if the old man had changed shape.
“My father?”
Eli nodded.
“Thomas Cole?”
“Yes.”
“That makes no sense. My dad sold insurance. He fished club tournaments on weekends.”
“Before insurance, he shot video for tournament broadcasts.”
Ryan opened his mouth, then closed it.
There were photographs from his childhood he had never questioned: his father beside weigh-in stages, holding shoulder cameras, wearing event credentials. Ryan had always assumed they were hobby pictures.
“He knew you?”
“He knew everybody on that circuit.” Eli rubbed both hands over his face. “Your father was at the old marina the night Mason saw the fish trucks. Mason borrowed his camera.”
Ryan’s voice dropped. “He filmed them?”
“Part of it.”
“Then why didn’t my father go public?”
Eli turned sharply. “Because men with families can be frightened.”
Ryan felt the words like an insult. “You don’t know what he was afraid of.”
“I know exactly what he was afraid of.”
“Then tell me.”
“Losing you.”
Ryan stepped back.
For a moment, anger overran curiosity.
“My dad died believing I thought he was the most honest man in the world.”
“Maybe he was.”
“Honest men don’t hide evidence for twenty-five years.”
Eli’s eyes hardened. “Honest men also fail. That’s what makes them men instead of monuments.”
Ryan left without another word.
He drove two hours to his mother’s house in Rockford.
Susan Cole opened the door and smiled until she saw his face.
“What happened?”
“Was Dad a cameraman?”
The smile vanished.
That was enough.
Ryan entered the house without waiting to be invited.
“Where is it?”
Susan closed the door slowly. “Ryan—”
“Where is the tape?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Mom.”
She looked suddenly older than sixty.
“Your father made me promise.”
“Dad is dead.”
“That doesn’t erase a promise.”
“It might erase the reason for it.”
Susan sat at the kitchen table.
For years, Ryan had seen her cry only twice: when his father was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and at the funeral. Now tears gathered before she spoke.
“Thomas received threats after the 2001 tournament. Somebody followed me home from work. Somebody put a photograph of you in our mailbox.”
Ryan’s stomach turned.
“How old was I?”
“Two.”
“What was written on it?”
Susan whispered, “‘Good-looking boy.’”
Ryan pulled out a chair.
“Did Dad have the tape?”
“He had a copy. He hid it.”
“Where?”
“He never told me.”
“Nothing? No box, no bank locker?”
Susan shook her head, then stopped.
“There was a phrase.”
Ryan leaned forward.
“What phrase?”
“Whenever he drank too much, he’d say, ‘Truth doesn’t float. You have to weight it.’ I thought it was nonsense.”
Ryan repeated it silently.
Weight it.
Fishing weight.
Sinker.
Tackle.
His father’s old tackle remained in the garage.
They searched three hours.
Plano boxes. Rusted hooks. Old cork handles. Packs of plastic worms turned oily with age. A milk crate of videotapes held family birthdays and football games, but nothing from 2001.
Ryan nearly gave up.
Then he lifted an ancient lead-melting pot his father had used to make sinkers.
It was heavier than it should have been.
The bottom plate was screwed on.
Ryan removed four screws.
Inside, wrapped in waxed cloth, was a MiniDV cassette.
Susan covered her mouth.
Ryan sat on the concrete floor.
A label, written in Thomas Cole’s handwriting, read:
HARRISON — JULY 18 — COPY 2.
Underneath was another line.
IF THEY COME BACK, GIVE THIS TO ELI.
Ryan called him.
Eli answered on the sixth ring using the prepaid phone Ryan had bought him.
“We found it.”
Silence.
“Eli?”
“Don’t play it there.”
“Why?”
“Because if Victor ever knew your father kept a copy, your mother’s house may still be watched.”
Ryan almost said that sounded paranoid.
Then he remembered the photograph of a two-year-old boy.
He put the tape in his jacket.
On the drive back to Lake Harrison, a black sedan followed him for thirty miles.
Ryan changed lanes.
The sedan changed lanes.
He exited early.
It exited.
His pulse climbed.
He called Tyler.
“Meet me at Marnie’s. Bring the old tape deck from your studio.”
“Why?”
“Don’t ask. And don’t tell Brooke.”
Ryan turned down a county road, accelerated, then abruptly pulled into a gas station. The black sedan continued past.
He exhaled.
At Marnie’s, Eli was waiting.
Ryan placed the cassette on the counter.
The old man did not touch it.
“That’s Thomas’s writing.”
“You knew?”
“No. I hoped.”
Tyler arrived with a converter and laptop. They locked the doors, pulled the blinds, and played the tape.
The footage was shaky and dark.
A young man whispered behind the camera.
Ryan recognized his father’s voice instantly.
On screen, a fish-hauling truck backed toward a private marina gate. Two men carried insulated tanks toward boats. One was Doyle, younger and heavier.
Then Victor Kane walked into frame.
Ryan stopped breathing.
The audio was poor, but several words were clear.
“…put the biggest six in Carter’s sector…”
“…bets already placed…”
“…official checks the tags tomorrow…”
Then Mason Carter appeared.
He was twenty, thin, furious.
“What are you doing?” Mason demanded.
The camera jerked.
Victor moved toward him.
“You didn’t see anything.”
“I saw enough.”
The recording ended in static.
Nobody spoke.
Ryan looked at Eli.
The old man’s face had collapsed.
“That’s him,” he whispered.
“Mason?” Tyler asked.
Eli nodded.
Ryan reached for the keyboard to replay it.
Eli grabbed his wrist.
“No.”
“But this proves—”
“It proves something.”
“It proves Victor was there.”
“It doesn’t prove what happened after the camera stopped.”
Ryan stared at him. “You still won’t release it?”
“Not yet.”
“Are you insane?”
“Maybe.”
“What are you waiting for?”
Eli looked at the frozen image of his dead son.
“The rest of the truth.”
Marnie whispered, “There was another camera.”
All eyes turned to her.
She swallowed.
“Mason told me the night before you were disqualified. He said Thomas got scared and stopped filming, but a dock security camera caught the launch ramp.”
Eli stood so fast the chair fell backward.
“You never told me.”
“You were trying to save him.”
“Where is the footage?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who did?”
Marnie’s voice broke.
“The tournament director.”
“Harold Finch?”
She nodded.
Eli’s eyes narrowed.
Harold Finch had vanished from professional fishing in 2003.
Most people assumed retirement.
Marnie looked at Ryan.
“He didn’t retire.”
May you like
“Then where is he?”
She whispered, “Victor buried him alive without putting him in the ground.”
