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.