By bob cullen
In the late hours of August 4, 1962, two phone calls emanated from the same home in Brentwood, Los Angeles. Six hours later, the home was a death scene. And the site of an unreported child abduction. No charges were ever laid. And no arrests made. Some claim, there was never any real investigation. To this day speculation remains.
Each calls attracted immediate response. In the first, a mother pleaded for her baby son. In the second, the same caller threatened to blackmail the child's father, the President of the United States.
The recipient of the first call, an elderly lady in her seventies, widely respected and known for her Christian beliefs and charitable causes, promised and delivered support. Within twenty-four hours the matriarch established a quarter million-dollar trust fund for the grandson she'd never meet.
The second call sparked massive panic. On taking the call, the Attorney General, the President's brother, feared the consequences of such a disclosure. It could destroy his brother. And even worse, bring an end to his own political aspirations.
Protection of the President assumed priority. The threat must be silenced. But how? The man who'd taken the call phoned Massachusetts. His father, would know what to do, and more importantly, who could do it.
Within twenty-four minutes, the patriarch advised his son: "Everything's fixed. She'll cause no more problems. Just tell your brother this is the last time. Negotiating with these pricks comes at a heavy cost. We can't afford to allow them to own the President." The old man hesitated. His voice quivered. There was more than concern. The listener detected fear.
"If this keeps up, one day your brother may find himself at the wrong end of one of their bullets. And who knows who'll get the blame for that?"
One witness to the events of that August Sunday remained alive, Veronica Waters. Now in her mid-seventies, and diagnosed with cancer she knew her time for confession was dwindling. It was now, or never. She owed it to the actress. She owed it to the world. And most of all, she owed it to the baby boy. Her boy. Her mind swept back more than five decades.
Veronica's memories remained as vivid today as on the day of the event, August 2, 1962. Veronica had assisted a doctor in the delivery of a healthy baby. The obstetrician pronounced both mother and child in excellent health.
Forty-eight hours later, Veronica watched another doctor, one she didn't know as he focused his attention on the child's mother. He announced his task was straight forward. The woman was out of control. She had to be sedated. Veronica interpreted his intent. This doctor wasn't talking temporary solution, he was referring to absolute finality. Survival wasn't an option. The truth could never be told. A lie was contrived. It would be told and retold time and again. And sadly, it would, for the most part be believed.
Several days later, Veronica read the coroner's interim report. Her anger exploded. It was no barbiturate overdose. Who was peddling these lies? Who were they protecting? She believed she knew. There was no mention of the baby. She knew why.
That recollection eased her conscience. Veronica remembered the words of the doctor. 'The child will not survive the week.' She also remembered the abduction, her brother and the rescue action they mounted. And the little boy they named Carl Lindsay.
Her thoughts swept back to the actress. She didn't suicide. She was murdered. Veronica knew. She was there. She recognised the names of the three drugs listed on the glass vial she later extracted from the bedroom waste basket. Veronica had since learned it was the same combination of drugs being considered for use in death penalty executions. Veronica now understood. It wasn't murder. It was a cold-blooded assassination.
Who had authorised it? That was only part of Veronica's dilemma. Who would listen to the claims of a dying woman? Probably no one. But it was truth and it needed to be told. History needed correction.
Veronica remembered. She closed her eyes and retreated fifty years. Still she could picture the doctor inserting the syringe into the sealed glass vial. She watched it fill with its lethal concoction. Seconds later she saw the needle penetrate the patient's skin. The image of the beautiful woman's spasms haunted her every day. Some memories were beyond erasing.
*
1962
A sense of decency forced Veronica's response. She reached her decision. It was irrational, even criminal, but she couldn't standby and do nothing. No child deserved to die for the sins of its parents. She made one phone call. It connected to her brother, Richard, just two days out of prison.
Veronica arranged a meeting with Richard. She pleaded for his assistance. She couldn't do this on her own. And it had to be with a partner she trusted. She could think of no one else. Together they could take the child and raise him as their own. Alone she lacked the courage, the capability and the commitment.
The memory of the doctor's words drove Veronica on. She'd overheard the doctor mention the baby's hidden location. And his threat. The child will not survive the week. With or without Richard, she would act. She'd not allow this child to die. Her plan was simple. Grab the baby and disappear. End of story.
Richard offered little encouragement. Instead he outlined the problems.
"Sister, do you have any idea of what you're getting us into? Or the consequences we'll face? Kidnapping is a capital offence, punished by life in prison or the chair."
"But we're saving the child's life, Richard. We're the good guys here," Veronica argued.
"Good guys go to prison too, Ronnie. Especially when they piss off the big boys running Washington. And right now, there's no one bigger than the Kennedy's." She had told him the entire story in the belief he'd assist.
"And there's no one in greater need than this baby," said Veronica. "If you won't help me, I'll do it by myself."
"It's just a kid, Ron."
"An innocent kid." Her brother's attitude infuriated her. Then she saw his smile. He was simply winding her up.
"Arsehole."
"If we're going to do this," Richard's opening words suggested commitment yet Veronica sensed conditions were forthcoming. "We do it my way. And there'll be no shortcuts. Understood."
"We've only got two days."
Dressed in her hospital uniform, Richard's idea, Veronica walked unchallenged into the orphanage. A nurse was a nurse. And the orphanage staff changed regularly. She located the nursery, and the baby. He was sleeping.
Her plan to run in, pick up the baby and run appealed. But as Richard argued it lacked logic. Credibility was essential. And that is where Richard excelled. His ideas flowed quickly. They were criminal in intent but creative genius in practice. The suggestion to forge a letter in Hoover's handwriting was brilliant. It utilised Richard's criminal skill.
Forgery was his area of expertise. Next, he insisted they search the orphanage for paperwork pertaining to the child. The more detail they possessed the greater their chance of avoiding detection.
Where would the documentation be kept? The administration office was the obvious starting point. Located adjacent to the main entrance, it was unlocked and it lay in darkness. Security wasn't a practiced necessity back then. The name Lynsie Sanders was stencilled on the door beneath the title, Matron. Her major flaw became obvious, tidiness rated lower than security. Personal papers lay scattered on her desk. Mid pile, Veronica located the documents she sought.
A sealed envelope sat with the unsigned adoption papers and birth certificate. Veronica picked up the envelope and stepped out into the lighted and empty hospital entry. She sliced opened the sealed envelope with her fingernail. It contained a single folded monogrammed sheet of paper. The name embossed in the stationery stunned the reader.
But not as much as the message it conveyed. It provided details of a bank account for a quarter of a million dollars. A bank account made out to the child born on August 2nd in the home in Brentwood. Veronica then saw the signature beneath the account details. The mother of the President. Veronica told no one of its existence. Not even her brother. He would have demanded his share, as payment. She resealed the envelope, minus its contents. Veronica slid the note into her pocket. She'd see the child received the entitlement promised to him by his paternal grandmother. How this could be arranged though, she didn't know.
She then returned to the office and collected the other documents. Richard offered the thumbs up. Veronica next headed to the nursery, grabbed her baby's medical chart, his bedcoverings and the stuffed bear at his feet. After handing them to Richard, she gathered up the child she'd helped deliver a few days earlier and fled into the night.
In its place, she left the note Richard had prepared. In so doing she employed one of her brother's pet theories. When you bluff, bluff big.
'The child of Miss M's has been placed in protective custody at my instructions. Should you have any queries, contact me directly.' The handwriting was the unmistakeable scrawl of the FBI Director. And his signature, J Edgar sat below the message.
In the months following, the money often tempted. Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars would support her forever. Just as quickly, her conscience squashed that idea. This was about the baby. She might be a kidnapper, but she wasn't a thief.
| Author Notes |
Sorry, this is a little long.
Having failed to locate an Agent, I've decided to offer it for critique to my friends on Fanstory. Hope you enjoy the read. Feel free to offer criticism. Positive feedback helps the writer. I hope to post a chapter every day till Christmas and I look forward to all suggestions. Thank you Thank you. |
By bob cullen
2015
Jackson Moffatt never once contemplated initiating a search for his biological parents. He wanted no part of any parent who had so obviously wanted no part of him. Nor did he want their money. The trust fund remained untouched. Well, almost untouched. And multiplied many times over.
For more than fifty years Jackson lived in accord with this philosophy. Then in his fifty-third year all hell broke loose. He became the target of a pursuit. Not once, not twice but now for a fourth time. He tried disappearing. Relocated three times and changed names twice. All to no avail. Each time they found him. There was no escape.
*
Jackson found a blood-stained envelope addressed to Jackson Moffatt, the name he'd legally adopted less than six weeks earlier. It was pushed beneath his front door. There was no sender information. Nor was the envelope stamped. It had been hand delivered sometime during the night. They'd found him again.
What should he do? Run again? Futility hit home. One couldn't outrun the devil. Precedent proved that. Three times he'd tried. And three times in the space of one year, he'd failed. How had they found him so quickly? And what was it about him that attracted such interest? Jackson had no idea. What did they want from him?
Then there was the question that troubled most. Why now? He had arrived on this earth a half century ago. John Fitzgerald Kennedy was President. A man named Hoover ruled the FBI. And landing on the moon was still a dream.
As a baby, he'd been found abandoned on the front steps of an orphanage. These details had come from his mother. His adoptive, and real mother.
Until a year ago, Jackson had lead an uneventful life. Lonely, perhaps. But lonely by choice. What then triggered this insanity? What knowledge did he possess that justified such an irrational pursuit?
The same question emerged yet again. Why now? Still an answer eluded him.
*
Jackson again scanned the envelope. This one was different. It contained a message written in a child-like scrawl. 'DNA will prove who U R.'
His anger exploded to new heights. Who had access to his DNA history? And what secrets would this information reveal? Who was he? And who were these pursuers? What did they want? Could they be bought off? He doubted it. Money wasn't their motivator.
He ripped open the envelope and saw a single sheet of A4 paper containing five lines. The fears intensified as his memory regressed more than thirty years to the trio of events that had in so many ways determined his reclusive lifestyle, and motivated his decision to flee California.
Fact one: You were adopted
Fact two: Your dad died in a trucking accident
Fact three: Your mum vanished without trace
Coincidence or conspiracy
It's not too late to discover the truth
Facts one and three were true. Not so number two. His dad had, in fact died in prison.
Jackson pocketed the note. This was the fourth time in the past year he'd received anonymous mail questioning his past. Now though wasn't the time to ponder those questions. Work called. He was already late. A thousand thoughts flooded his brain. Who were these people? And what did they want? The five-lined message bounced around in his head. He tried to absorb its message. What were they implying?
And what truth? Other than the error in how his father died there was no challenging the quoted facts. His birth mother had, for reasons unknown to him, surrendered him at birth. Not an unusual situation for an unmarried woman in the pre-pill and morally righteous era of the early 1960's. Adoption was the sensible option. It freed the mother of responsibility and offered the child opportunity and future. At least in theory.
And yes, his adoptive mother vanished. Just prior to his twenty-first birthday.
*
Ten months ago, on receiving the first letter, Jackson employed a private investigator. Money wasn't a problem. He had found his nest egg decades ago, weeks after his mother vanished. Each discovery of the investigator confirmed the obvious. Lies had been told. He wasn't who they said he was. Who then was he? And, why the secrecy? Who were his biological parents?
Abruptly the investigator vanished. The weekly reports stopped. Jackson's calls went unanswered. Then he received a call that terrified him. It was short and brief. "Your snoop's dead and you'll be next. So back off or die. We know where you are, and we're coming."
How had they found him in Vancouver? Had the investigator provided his address? Before he died?
That led to Jackson's second panicked disappearance. Atlanta became his new home. He travelled light with just two possessions, his bank details and the investigator's detailed report on the orphanage, the investigation and the staff. Jackson now recalled the information contained. It was stored on a USB stick. And in his memory.
The investigator had been thorough and organised. The report's first section dealt with the orphanage. A series of indented comments followed:
Orphanage;
1) Orphanage records have been deleted. The one exception being the retention of the name of the young woman who allegedly found the baby, Jennifer Palmer.
2) One witness located. Elderly woman, now in her seventies. Maria Pontasova worked in kitchen at time of child's arrival. Maria's English was limited but her memory remained precise. She remembered the baby found abandoned on their doorstep fifty years earlier. She recalled a scribbled note was pinned to the outside of the crib. It provided a date of birth, August 2nd, 1962.
3) Child was less than a week old. He didn't have a name. It did however carry a message. 'Born of lust, not love.'
4) Miss Palmer who discovered the child identified a black sedan, possibly a Ford speeding from the scene with its licence plates concealed.
5) Miss Palmer vanished within days of child's arrival. A body was located several weeks later hanging from a tree in an area of regenerated forest some ten miles from the orphanage. Based on physical resemblance and the clothing worn the body was identified and matched to Jennifer Palmer.
Police Investigation:
1) Original officer, Davy Davidson removed from investigation. FBI assumed control. Why?
2) Davidson aired his anger to Miss Pontasova. She claimed he refused to accept official finding of Palmer's suicide.
3) No inquest into young woman's death.
4) No attempt made to identify young woman.
5) Less than two months later, in October 1962 Police Officer Davidson was killed in a bungled drug raid.
Unresolved Questions:
1) Why did FBI take control?
2) No family ever came forward to claim body of Miss Palmer. She was never ever positively identified. And cremation ensured there'd be no evidence available for forensic investigation in the future. Who authorised the cremation?
3) Why did the FBI push the theory Miss Palmer was the child's mother? Miss Pontasova mentioned this. She also stated and I'll use her words exactly. 'I know I don't talk so good, but my eyes see real good and I'm telling you one thing, Jennifer's hips weren't wide enough to pass a peanut let alone a baby. And me and God knows who was telling lies.' Based on her evidence, which in my opinion is beyond any doubt, one can only ask; What was the FBI's motivation? Were they merely interested in concealing the real mother's identity?
The Matron:
1) Lynsie Sanders, a Hospital Administrator with a rock solid and no-nonsense reputation. Once again, Miss Pontasova provides the basis for this assessment. Her staff loved her, but feared her at the same time. She ran her hospital like a military General.
2) M/s Sanders suffered a fatal heart attack about two days after the child went missing. There was no autopsy. Her medical records are no longer available.
3) The home and office of M/s Sanders were searched by FBI. Allegedly documents were confiscated and never returned. And others were 'allegedly' altered.
| Author Notes | Jackson Moffatt believes he was adopted as a child. Now, at 53 he finds himself the target of pursuers. He doesn't understand why. |
By bob cullen
Jackson's reflections concluded. Once again, he was in the present. The fourth line of the scribbled note, Coincidence or Conspiracy demanded reassessment. Jackson now sided with its second option.
From line four, Jackson switched back two lines. It was untrue? His father died in a prison cell. Hanged. Suicide, according to the prison investigation.
Jackson called on his memories of his dad, Ricky Lindsay. And his mom, Ronnie, short for Veronica, Lindsay. He was only nine when Ricky went to prison the last time. Jackson remembered his mum's crying but not much else. From out-of-nowhere another memory emerged. His mum and dad had always had separate rooms. Mum explained it was because of dad's snoring. Jackson had his doubts, he'd never heard his dad snore.
There had been no funeral. Jail inmates were interned by the state. Jackson never got to say good bye to the man he knew as dad. He reached back in time. To the one question his mother never answered. 'What did he do, Mum?' Why wouldn't she reply? Was she attempting to spare him the truth? 'He saved our lives,' was a non-answer. To this day, Jackson wondered was that the only lie? Or was it all a lie?
Fact three was true. He remembered it. The woman he'd called mother had mysteriously vanished, never to be seen again weeks prior to his twenty first birthday. Again, there was no farewell. Two weeks later Jackson headed south. San Diego became his new home. It remained close enough to LA, but far enough removed to allow a new life. The young man was truly alone for the first time.
Three decades later he fled to Canada. The arrival of the first message, and the panic it evoked forced the relocation. Running was irrational but remaining was impossible.
Jackson contemplated his options. Again, he read the latest, and fourth message. Should he respond? How did one correspond with someone they didn't know? Waiting for them to approach offered no appeal. Should he disappear again? Or should he just end it all? He had no doubt the pursuit would continue.
Curiosity held no interest. The past was the past. It couldn't be changed. Would knowing the circumstances of his birth bring happiness? He doubted it. Would it produce wealth and fame? He already had wealth, more than he would ever need and he certainly didn't want fame. He just wanted to be left alone.
Another thought emerged. Could it be a case of mistaken identity? Reality quickly dented that line of argument.
There could be no confusion. As in the two previous instances the letter was addressed to him. Different names, but both him. Why? And who knew of the misfortunes he'd endured. He'd told no one. Friends were a liability a jinxed man couldn't afford. The message did however contain one unwritten but undeniable truth; every person he had ever truly loved had met with a tragic end.
There was only one possible explanation. The pursuers also had a copy of the Investigator's file.
Morning traffic soured the mood of Jackson. The Dallas road network was worsening. In his unfocused state, he failed to see the pedestrian. He heard the thump. Someone had walked into his passenger's side rear door. He turned in time to see the window panel cave in.
He stopped and jumped from the car. Car horns blasted into life. This was peak hour, no time to stop. The pedestrian was gone. A quick search yielded nothing, the damage was minimal, a smashed window. No witnesses came forth. The traffic lights turned green. The choir of car horns grew louder.
His eyes swept the footpaths, firstly on his side of the road, no one. He breathed more easily, no casualty, no ID check and no insurance claim. He noticed a car speeding off in the opposite direction. Three things stood out. The vehicle was silver, an older model Toyota and it had its licence plates concealed. The third fact convinced Jackson this was no coincidence. It was a stage-managed event. And he sensed some connection to the five-lined message he'd received overnight. Logic surrendered to irrationality, and fear to panic. How had they found him?
Jackson attempted to reconstruct the scene. He travelled the same route morning and evening, a commute of ten miles and thirty-five minutes twice a day. And as regular as clockwork, the same bottlenecks occurred morning and night. City bound traffic slowed at this intersection regardless of weather. It was for many drivers, the time to light another cigarette. Or blast their horn.
Should he turn and make chase? Not possible. By the time he turned, the pursuers would be half way to Fort Worth.
The more he thought, the angrier he became. Who were these people meddling into his past? It was none of their God damn business. Why wouldn't they leave him alone?
The ever-present alternative of suicide returned. Would anyone miss him?
Jackson saw the half brick that had shattered the window. Three elastic bands wrapped another envelope around the brick. He saw the name, Jackson. Printed below his name were six words. "We know about the bank account."
He didn't go to work, he kept driving. It was California all over again. He'd require another new name. Silently he pondered. Jackson Moffitt would be no more. A truck bearing the name of Morgan's Furniture sped past. That solved the Christian name. What fit with Morgan? The name of the actor, Morgan Freeman came to mind. Inappropriate. He wasn't a free man, he was being hunted. That would do it. Morgan Hunt.
*
Knowledge of the bank account introduced a new dimension of fear. Its existence was known to only two people, himself and the investment broker. And, of course the IRS.
Jackson had learned of his wealth several weeks after his mother vanished. By then it had almost trebled, he was on his way to becoming a millionaire. He walked away from it. He saw it as blood-money, the payoff of a guilty parent. He wanted no part of it.
Time and investor shrewdness maintained an after tax average growth of better than seven and a half percent. Now fifty-three years on, the account that was opened with a quarter of a million dollars maintained a balance exceeding eleven million dollars.
What he'd long considered a burden, now became a potential source of escape. Would money provide the anonymity he sought? Could he access the account without anyone knowing?
Memory provided the answer. He could. Did he still have the bank account details? He located the note in his wallet. He unfolded it and saw the numbers. He was surprised to see the date, his twenty-first birthday. More than thirty years had elapsed, thirty-two to be precise. How quickly time passed?
A series of questions rushed into his head. How much would he need to disappear, forever?
Would eleven million be enough to ensure anonymity? Where could he go? For some reason, England appealed. He preferred a cooler climate. They spoke the same language. The people were said to be reserved. He liked that too. He settled on England. Jackson Moffitt and Texas would be no more.
By bob cullen
Jackson settled on the new name he'd chosen earlier. Morgan Hunt sounded good but it presented a whole load of difficulties. How did a man without a social security identity obtain travel documents? His birth certificate bore the name of Carl Lindsay. His driver's licence and credit cards named him as Jackson Moffatt. And while there was a legally traceable connection between the two names, it would take time to establish the link. But time wasn't a commodity he held in abundance. He was being pursued by ruthless killers who had now found him four times. Without a passport, he was effectively a prisoner within his own country. Awaiting his own execution, he truly was stymied. Escape wasn't possible. At least not in a conventional manner. He'd have to find another way.
For the first time in Jackson's life, money wasn't a problem. He had wealth, more than he would ever need. But he also had an enemy, an enemy who knew his past and wanted him dead. Maybe because of that past. What triggered this insanity? And why now, fifty-three years after his birth? A new thought emerged. Could it have something to do with his father? That wasn't possible, Rick had died in prison almost forty years ago.
Anger intruded yet again. Not knowing intensified his fears. Running and hiding never brought solution, peace only came with resolution. Could that be achieved? These people had to be confronted. How though do I confront someone I don't know? And can't see?
Logic forced a reassessment. Had they wanted to harm him, surely, he would now be dead. Twice in the past two days they had been close enough to kill him. The brick through the car window could so easily have been a grenade. It would have been all over. Obviously, they didn't want him dead. What then did they want?
If they weren't enemy, who then were they? Friends? People with a shared interest. Jackson racked his brain. That too made no sense. That scenario offered as much appeal as a shark attack. Friends didn't terrorise. What then did they want?
Was there anyone he could call on for assistance? Loners, and that's how he now pictured himself, had few friends. Could the police assist? Reality intervened. Police, or policing bodies, the FBI to be precise had fabricated and factualized the Orphanage evidence. The private investigator's evidence established the facts. The FBI's lies became the documented, and legally accepted version of events.
What proof did he have? None. Jackson Moffatt was officially a no one. A paranoid man with a habit of changing names and locations, twice in the past year. Sure, there were links to previous names, Carl's Jackson and Mason Wallace, but Moffatt didn't exist, he had no social security identity. That detail had been forfeited less than a year ago, the day he'd received the second anonymous letter. The same day he surrendered his adopted name, Carl Lindsay.
He reached for his phone and accessed the internet. In an instant, he was connected to his bank. There had to be some mistake. The balance read zero.
His eleven million had vanished. Been stolen.
Depression enveloped Jackson's every fibre. His F meter went into overdrive. He had no friends, no family, no funds and now no damn future. In one word, he was fucked. And angry as all hell. He opened the car window to hurl the offending phone from the car. No, first he was owed an explanation.
He pulled to the side of the road. Raised the phone to his ear.
"Mutual Savings and Investments. How may I assist you?" The young lady sounded bright and enthusiastic.
"I need to speak with the manager."
"Would that be Savings or Investment, sir?
"There's eleven million dollars missing from my account." There was genuine desperation in the voice of Jackson.
"Do you have the account details, sir."
He read off the note in his hand. "One moment, sir."
Two minutes later, a young female voice responded.
"Mr. Lindsay, Carl Lindsay? My name is Paige Bryson, I have your details here in front of me. Three days ago, you wired a request for those funds to be deposited off-shore. The Cayman Islands was your chosen destination. That transaction was actioned overnight."
"I did no such thing."
"Mr. Lindsay, I have your authority in front of me. It was password generated and documented. There's been no mistake on our part." The young woman then checked for the bank's authorizing signature. A smile settled on her face. There was no mistaking that signature, it was her own.
"It's not possible..." the called disconnected. He opened the door and threw the phone into the bush.
Reality offered one escape.
Jackson took the first off-ramp and headed away from the city. Time was of no significance. Nor was direction. Ninety minutes into his journey Jackson saw what he needed. A hardware business. He quickly made his purchase, a rubber hose. All he now required was a location. By midday he'd driven through a small farming community. He'd not eaten but there was no hunger.
Farmland gently gave way to forestry. He saw a rough track heading off the road. He veered onto it and drove a half mile until the track became impassable. He alighted from the vehicle and attached the hose he'd just purchased to the exhaust. Then he used plastic shopping bags to seal up the back window smashed by the brick.
It was time. He'd die a Texan.
| Author Notes | About 5% into the story. |
By bob cullen
To most people retirement comes as a reward for long and loyal service. In the case of Tyler Spellman, it hadn't been his choice. He hadn't retired, he'd been retired. Dismissed on orders from above. No explanation. No expressions of gratitude for a job well done. And no farewell. Not even a face-to-face with the Director. And she had been a friend, or at least he believed that had been the case.
How wrong he'd been? She was just another Judas. Intent on survival. Her survival. She distanced herself from him sending instead two fully-armed security guards. They carried a warrant of dismissal bearing his name and authorised with the seal of the Director, Meredith Paslow. Along with an instruction to vacate the building immediately. Tyler's anger surged.
He was being treated like a criminal. Convicted without a trial. With neither charge's laid, nor accusations voiced. And allowed no right of reply. What had he done?
Apart from issuing a non-negotiable order to leave, the security guards stood over him as silent as the Buckingham Palace Beefeater Guards.
Tyler's initial instinct was to argue. His colleagues would stand with him. A quick glance around the office negated that thought. His support base had vanished. The only other occupants were armed soldiers positioned at each door. Where was Ashe when he needed him?
Hostility raged within him. He'd given his all to Homeland. Risked his life on countless occasions. He'd never once failed to obey an order. All in the service of his country. And how had they responded? They sacked him. And now they waited to escort him from the building. Like a common criminal.
For three weeks Calin went to ground. He told no one of his intentions. Or his whereabouts. Not even Jess. He needed time to think and to plan.
This was the second time Homeland had betrayed him. At least this time there'd been no termination order. At least not yet. Should that situation change, he'd be ready.
Where was Ashe? He tried the phone. There was no service. The link had been severed. Another action that could have emanated from only one source, the betrayer Paslow. She was one of the three people who possessed knowledge of this phone's existence. It had been established months earlier on culmination of the Aristotle investigation. An emergency backup. One phone to Ashe, one to Meredith and the third to Calin himself. The unthinkable entered his thoughts.
Did this mean Ashe too was involved in the betrayal? Could anyone be trusted? Calin attempted to rationalise, not an easy task when the brain is submerged in alcohol.
Ashe was more than friend. But then so too was the Director. Ashe had risked his life to save Tyler, (he had to stop thinking of himself as Calin) and Jess in the golf course shootout. He'd also experienced and survived betrayal. Time though had seen him vindicated. By Meredith. Nothing made sense. Tyler came up with a solution. He stopped thinking and increased his drinking.
Tyler remembered the night well. He was well on the way to drunk when the doorbell chimed. He was in no mood to socialise. Ready to kill more probably summed up his mood. He ignored the melodious ring. Over and over it rang. A recognisable voice then shattered the silence.
"Open the fuckin' door, brother." Tyler jumped to his feet. Some people couldn't be denied. In the absence of logic, Tyler wondered if the visitor was here as friend? Or assassin? Intoxicated beyond fear, Tyler almost welcomed the relief death would bring.
"If they find out you've come here, you're dead. Go home Ashe."
"Partners don't desert in times of trouble, brother." He charged through the door. "Get me a beer. We need to talk."
"The talking's all done. I'm finished. They've made that abundantly clear."
"You're quitting without a fight, are you?"
"Aren't you forgetting one little fact?" Tyler's voice was rising. Anger and alcohol were a dangerous mix, but at this moment he didn't care. "They white-anted me to cover their own arses. I was the patsy, the easy out."
"It's called Washington roulette. They load the gun and aim it at the nearest head."
"Are you attempting to justify their action?" If that's your aim, you can fuck off now." Tyler was itching for a fight.
"Tyler, you know me better than that. I'll never defend betrayal, even when there is no alternative."
"What do you mean, no alternative?"
"It was you or Homeland, Tyler. And that's why I'm here. Meredith wanted you to know the truth."
"Why couldn't she tell me herself?"
"Her every action is being monitored." Ashe answered. "As you know Washington is alive with Judas's who'll show you affection one day and knife you the next. That's precisely what happened with Calin Roberts. He was yesterday's hero but today's out-of-control madman. Meredith had two choices. Step down or dismiss Calin. She chose to step down, I talked her out of it."
Tyler was on his feet. "Why?"
Homeland can survive without you or me. But without Meredith, it falls into the clutches of one of Parnell's deputies. And then it dies."
As unpalatable as it was, Tyler accepted the explanation. It was true. "Why then couldn't she tell me?"
"Her every action is being monitored."
"What triggered the attack on Calin Roberts?" Tyler asked.
"A Senator, who has since been linked to Aristotle and subsequently fled, we suspect to Greece, forwarded a document to a Senatorial Committee detailing the alleged and illegal apprehension of Aristotle. And the information was spot on which means there's still a leak at Homeland.
"While Meredith managed to have most of the information suppressed, there was sufficient detail tabled to set off a barrage of questions. Questions that demanded answers. And answers that required credibility. But there could be no truth. Truth could well have triggered a major international incident." Tyler didn't want to hear this. It justified Meredith's decision.
"Meredith was left with no option. Someone had to take the fall."
"Why me?"
"Calin Roberts had been identified and you were the current face of Calin. And I guess it came down to the question of who did Homeland most need, you or Meredith?"
"Who made the final decision?"
"Does that matter?"
"To me it does."
| Author Notes | Chapter 3 wasn't promoted. Lack of funds. Chapter 4 is a flashback to the days after Calin was dismissed from Homeland Security. |
By bob cullen
Like medication eases a headache, time had lessened his animosity. Five years, Texas and the joys of fatherhood had provided an inner peace. Life took on new meaning and memories now revolved around family. Family and the freedom of forty acres. While never forgotten, the past was just that, passed. And a way beyond change.
Calin Roberts had been relegated to history. Both personally and bureaucratically. The name removed forever from the computerised files of Homeland Security. Details of the actions he'd undertaken would however, live forever in the memory of Tyler. Some things were too deeply ingrained to ever allow any deletion. In the eyes and arguments of Departmental authorities, Calin Roberts now never existed. And the files relating to the missions he'd undertaken contained new deletions.
To Tyler, Calin had never died. He'd been betrayed, but never beaten. Tyler maintained the same rigorous fitness routine Calin had pursued throughout his time at Homeland. Every day he ran eight miles. He'd located a bush track through a vast wooded wasteland. It provided every difficulty an endurance runner sought. There were steep hills and even steeper valleys, fallen trees to clamber over, treacherous potholes that tested ankles and knees, creeks and streams to cross and of course, one of the few things in life that truly terrified Tyler, snakes.
One day, Tyler hoped to introduce his son to this hour-long torture test. That though, was many years off; his son had just celebrated his second birthday. He loved the feeling of freedom the run engendered. True peace, the sound of the birdlife and wind rustling through the trees. And most of all the absence of the intrusion of man and his noise making machines.
Today that peace was invaded. The sound of silence had yielded to the irritation of an annoying automobile engine. There was no road within miles. This could mean only one thing, trouble.
Tyler ran to investigate. At first glance, the vehicle appeared unoccupied. The rear passenger-side window was smashed but sealed at least temporarily with plastic shopping bags.
As Tyler drew nearer to the car he saw the hose. He pulled it free from the exhaust. The driver was slumped, either dead or unconscious on the front seat. Tyler tried the doors. They were locked.
On the ground, he saw every thief's favourite key, a large rock. The driver's window caved in. The man was breathing, just. Tyler lifted him out of the car and laid him on the ground. He applied mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. The man's breathing improved and then his eyes opened. Tyler recognised despair and anger.
"Don't talk," Tyler ordered. "Just lay back and get some clean oxygen into your lungs." The man was crying. He wanted to die.
Tyler headed back to the car. On the back seat, he saw a note wrapped around a brick. He retrieved it and read. 'We know about the bank account.' He carried it back to where the man lay.
Tyler's senses swept into overdrive. In an instant Calin Roberts was back. Memories and responses, he'd not employed in more than five years assumed control. He knew what needed to be done. And he knew how to do it. What though would Jess say? Could he keep it from her? No.
Calin, and that's how Tyler now saw himself, understood the need to establish facts. Moreover, he understood the need to assert authority. And it had to be done immediately. The man's traumatised state would make the task easier. Calin experienced no guilt. The sooner information was discovered the sooner it could be acted upon.
The message wrapped around the brick required clarification. And the man on the ground was the only source available. Would he be prepared to co-operate? Or had the ability to fight been crushed? The attempted suicide suggested defeat had been conceded.
"Care to talk about this?" challenged Calin on showing the brick in his hand.
"No."
"Wrong answer, cowboy." Calin's glare matched his tone. Anger was obvious. "In my line of work, you don't win by running away."
"But you just might stay alive."
"Slumped in that car there you didn't appear all that interested in staying alive."
"What I want doesn't matter anymore, I'm a dead man. The decision's been taken out of my hands."
"Who have you pissed off?" Intuition told Calin the man wasn't a thief. He was however truly terrified, to the point of attempting to end his own life.
"I don't know."
"Tell me about the bank account. Who did the money belong to?"
"Me." Calin sensed the stranger was holding back. Calin needed to know the truth.
"Where is it?" snapped Calin.
"I don't know." His statement made no sense. He had to know.
"Can't the bank can tell you where your money is?"
"The bank says it complied with legally delivered instructions to transfer the funds offshore yesterday." The stranger was now sitting up. His back leaning against the car door.
"Who authorised the transfer?"
"They claimed it was the account holder, Mr. Carl Lindsay. That was my original name. But it's a lie, I've only corresponded with them once and that was a few months ago. I needed to pay the private investigator." The mention of an investigator intrigued Calin. Who was he and what was he investigating? There was so much more Calin needed to discover.
"Before we discuss the investigator, tell me about the money. Where did it come from? Was it acquired legally? Or was it the result of criminal activity?"
"I believe it was a trust fund established in the early 1960's. Around the time of my birth. Possibly by my biological parents."
"How much are we talking about?"
"Around eleven million." Calin studied the man. He wore a business suit. A shade over six feet, his dark hair was well groomed. His appearance suggested successful yet his demeanour
screamed failure. Calin watched the man who'd tried to suicide climb to his feet. He was crying. Talking followed. The confession continued for several minutes.
"Did the bank provide you with a name to contact?"
"No, but I did speak to a young woman named Paige Bryson. She advised me to arrange an appointment where the matter will be sorted out."
"Let's get going, soldier. We'll continue the conversation while we walk." He offered his hand to the yet-to-be identified stranger. "Maybe it's time I introduced myself. My name is Calin." He chose to provide his long forgotten military name. This could well become a job for Calin Roberts.
"Jackson Moffitt. Where you're taking me?"
"Someplace where we can talk."
"What if I don't want to talk?"
"Your choice, friend. But maybe you should consider the alternatives before you make any decision."
"I've got no alternatives. Every time I run, they find me." Calin hadn't seen fear like this in years. Since his time in the Military. Only it hadn't been the military, it was Homeland Security.
"Have you ever thought you just might be running the wrong way?"
"And I suppose you know the right way?"
"No, but based on my own experiences and the little I know about your case, I'm not so sure they want you dead, at least not yet."
"That's easy for you to say. You're not the one being chased."
"Jackson, pursuit is a circumstance I know well. And I've been on both ends of the chase. I've been a soldier operating in places I wasn't welcome. And I've been hunted down as a traitor in my own country. In both cases, the pursuers were issued with an order to kill. And elimination is the first rule of pursuit. Never waste an opportunity.
"In the past couple of days, your pursuers have missed two simple execution opportunities, last night when they dropped the letter in your mail box and today when they put the brick through your window. They haven't executed. That tells me, their intent is to terrify, not kill. Why?
"It begs the question. What are they after? And for me, the answer's simple. And it's not the eleven million."
"What then is it?"
"I keep going back to the five lines on the note." Jackson had produced the note and its envelope when slumped against the car. "And the very first line. You were adopted. I don't understand that comment. To me it's irrelevant. Hundreds of thousands of people were adopted. But the scribbled note on the envelope adds to the intrigue. DNA will prove who U R." Calin halted and faced his companion. "I believe they need you alive. And I'll bet it's something to do with your biological parentage."
"Could you tell me where we're going?"
"I live a couple of miles from here. Guess you could say Texas saved my sanity. It delivered a peace I didn't know existed." That peace had a name, Jess.
Calin reassessed his companion. The stranger was frightened, perhaps terrified better explained it and he appeared to be telling the truth. Either that or he was a gifted liar.
"What did you do?" asked Jackson.
"There are some things I can't discuss. And my past is one of them. Let's just say I was based in Washington and while there I got to work with some very important and powerful people. And maybe some of these friends might prove helpful now."
"What if I don't want their help?"
"Then I guess I'll have to arrange to hand you over to someone else."
"Why can't you just leave me alone?"
"Tell me the truth and I just might do that," Calin replied. He needed time to think. But he couldn't think if Jackson kept talking. How can I shut him up? Running, of course. First though, he'd establish the rules. "But if you lie or refuse to cooperate, you'll confront your worst ever nightmare." Calin was now running. "Keep up with me.
| Author Notes | This is the second novel featuring Calin Roberts. A former employee of Homeland Security, Calin finds Jackson Moffatt attempting suicide. Jackson tells what prompted his desperation. Calin offers help. |
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