By bob cullen
TWO
THEN
Recovery progressed at a snail like pace. Some days Clinton felt he was going backwards. And the doc's questions didn't help. The bastard didn't even listen to his replies. He sat there behind his desk, stony faced and in silence with a file in his hands jotting down an occasional note. He displayed little interest. And the questions seemed irrelevant. That bothered him. Who needed to know about his childhood? His problems were about now, not back then. Or how he performed as a man? Fuck him.
Clinton believed he was wasting his time here. Then he reflected, maybe it wasn't so bad after all. Other than the medics there were no enemies here. Realisation forced a rethink. Rehab really wasn't that bad? He was being fed, being paid and being cared for. All he had to do was talk, and talking was one of his better skills. Truth or the truth as he reported it yielded to distorted lies. It made for a better story.
After several months Clinton Stanley was transported to a medical centre in Arkansas and assigned to twice daily therapy sessions. Then he was pensioned off by the Military. There was no welcoming home party, no family. His mother had succumbed to cancer and no one else cared. One day, when he was famous they'd care. And like Ted Bundy, John Wayne Gacy and Jeffrey Dahmer, he vowed he would find fame.
Cast off like an old burned out tank and scuttled onto the scrap heap. Clinton felt used, abused and unwanted. Only it wasn't a scrap heap, it was worse. It was a rehab centre, a prison without wardens and a hell not all that different to Afghanistan. A PTSD psychiatric facility, it was the repair shop for the broken and mentally disturbed soldier. In Clinton's mind, the medical staff's first intent was the catagorising of a patient's mind. More often than not these so-called carers appeared more interested in justifying their own existence.
Clinton sought a rational explanation for his presence here. He found none. It was true, at one time in Afghanistan he suffered severe trauma. That was no surprise. Most soldiers serving there endured some form of stress. He was no different. But he wasn't mad, angry yes, but a long way from insane. And he had healed, at least externally. The inner scars however remained, as deep as ever. Counselling couldn't clear the conscience or ease the guilt. He had to live with his actions. Cunning, deceit and downright denial nullified the worst of the memories.
Step two in his rehab process required the convincing of the doctors that he, Clinton Stanley no longer posed a risk to society. His anger issues were behind him. These controllers of his future moved slowly. Many days they didn't move at all. Would finding God help? It usually did, at least in their eyes. Clinton arranged a meeting with the Chaplain, God's apprentice. He sought forgiveness.
Another box was ticked on his medical record. Discharge moved his plan one step closer. But he couldn't free his mind of the counsellors and their damned indifference.
They provided neither peace nor resolution. Their words were empty, delivered at a thousand dollars an hour. He remained as angry as a cornered snake and just as ready to strike. The rage burned more fiercely than ever. Yet he'd learned how to play the game.
His prime purpose was to plot a path to future fame and to then create a diversion that armed him with the element of surprise and protected against the penalties of the law. Clinton toned down his anger, became a model patient. He portrayed the role with the convincing skill of an Oscar winner. His audience swallowed his every word. The wording on his medical chart took on a positive note.
The library became his research centre. The biographies of his heroes, Gacy, Dahmer and Bundy provided inspiration. He studied their crimes, he intended to be better. And not be caught. His prime ambition was to one day see his story share shelf space with these celebrities. He planned to live long enough to read of his deeds. Maybe he could even write it himself and do a book promotional signing. He might become rich.
He also read extensively on Post Stress Disorder Trauma. Its presence was already noted on his medical history. It could well become his 'get out of jail' card. Diminished responsibility, what a crock of shit, he knew precisely what he was planning. The law was an ass, it protected the guilty. Clinton smiled. The game was so one-sided, fortunately, in his favour.
How soon could he get out of here? He looked at the psychologist occupying the chair on the other side of the table. Today he'd not even taken one note. His expression suggested he was elsewhere. If only he knew what I'm thinking? Clinton continued with his incessant chatter.
NOW
"Do you really think I'll be able to handle the pressures of being on my own?" he asked. It was, he figured the appropriate question, one suggesting uncertainty.
"You're never on your own, Clinton," replied the discharging Sister. "We're here for you always. Remember, we are as close as the phone, any time, day or night." She handed him discharge papers along with a support kit. It contained a phone, a free transport pass, a social security card and a new wallet with five hundred dollars in cash.
He rode the bus into the city contemplating where he should head. Several places were ruled out. For some reason Atlanta attracted his interest. First, it was so vast he could easily disappear. Second, it wasn't too far from Florida and the ocean. Third, it was the home of the Braves, the greatest sporting team on the planet. He'd found his new home. All he needed was an untraceable way of getting there.
Paranoia travelled as his companion. Doubts were intensifying. Who could he trust? The military? No way, already he'd reasoned they were tracking his whereabouts. Why else had they supplied a phone? No doubt it had been fitted with a tracking device. Today, technology had ears and eyes everywhere. Every usage of the transport pass and social security document would also register on some computer terminal. Who had ordered this surveillance? Clinton reached his first decision. He'd trust no one.
| Author Notes | The first chapter has been rewritten and chapter three is in the pipeline. But the dam pipeline keeps clogging. I think I need a plumber. |
By bob cullen
The door closed. In a matter of seconds, the ambulance was on the move. Strapped onto a stretcher, she attempted conversation with the medic seated beside her. Alison didn't want to go to hospital, the abrasions were minor, and the headache would go away. There was an investigation to pursue. She needed to get away from the crime scene, away from the prying eyes and questions of Homeland Security. The ambulance provided that escape.
"What do I call you?" she asked. "Paramedic?" She hoped flattery might elicit a more favourable response to the suggestion she was about to propose.
"Nick will be fine. I do this part-time, I'm studying to be a doctor. How are you feeling, Alison?"
"Been better, but I'm all right, the bleeding's stopped and there's no headache," she lied. "I'm really all right to go. We all know how busy the poor nurses in our hospitals are. They need fewer patients, not more. I don't suppose you can drop me off near my home, can you?"
"I'd suggest you need observation for a couple of hours. Who knows how hard your head hit the ground. Concussion is always a possibility after a head knock."
"My flatmate can look after me." Alison smiled at the thought. Her cat's sole concern was self.
"Can't do, Alison," said Nick. "You have no idea how much paperwork that would entail. But I'll tell you what you can do. Once we complete the documentation at the hospital, there's really nothing stopping you from checking yourself out. Will you be able to get someone to pick you up?"
"I'll take a cab."
"Look after yourself. And if you become nauseous or experience headaches seek medical assistance immediately."
Home would have to wait. She had so many questions, the first being, why had the location's street lighting been in semi-darkness? She considered coincidence unlikely, scepticism set in. Chance seldom played a role in Washington activities. Every happening was planned, by someone. The next question Alison pondered was what was Ashe Morgan doing in Washington, let alone in this neighbourhood? The guy was supposedly scheduled to play a semi-final in Los Angeles in a couple of hours.
Curiosity forced a change of mind. What was in the package? Perhaps she should head home, the one secure place she knew. The cab dropped her outside her apartment block. A glance up to the fourth floor produced instant fear, it was secure no more. The place was ablaze with light. When she'd left for her stroll less than an hour earlier, it was in darkness. Someone was inside. Who? Every instinct screamed it was connected to Ashe's death.
The situation was becoming more sinister by the moment. How did they know her identity let alone her address? Who was in there, the killers or Homeland Security? Why would Homeland undertake such a search? Was she, as an eyewitness considered a threat?
Could the assassins have found out who she was? Could her phone have revealed those details? She knew the answer, yes. With today's computerized technology there were very few secrets.
Who could she trust? As she pondered this question her apartment returned to darkness. Fear near paralysed her. Had she walked into a trap? Had some form of tracking device been installed in her bandaging?
Alison sought someplace to hide. She slipped into a darkened doorway. A sensor light activated, she was bathed in light. She froze and turned towards her apartment. Moments later four men emerged through the foyer door, two wore tradesmen overalls and two were dressed in dark suits. The suits had been at the murder scene. They had arrived in a Homeland vehicle. Paranoia developed. Why had they searched her apartment? What were they looking for? Was it a search or perhaps an installation of surveillance? One positive emerged; they'd not seen her. They strode away from her apartment towards an illegally parked Suburban she'd not noticed.
Would it be smarter to hand over the package and just walk away? Thoughts of the package transferred to thoughts of the victim. What happened to Ashe's body? She saw him fall. Saw the body on the ground. Moments later it was gone. She remembered. The killers had picked up Ashe's body and tossed it into their vehicle prior to speeding off. Why would they do that? Taking a dead body made no sense. Were they attempting to make some form of statement? A second alternative emerged. Was he perhaps still alive? No way, no one survived four bullets in the back. Should she make enquiries? Common sense said no, her journalistic instinct argued yes. The yes won.
Alison made a decision. She'd trust no one and she would go into hiding, for a couple of days, at least. How could she finance her disappearance? Credit cards were no longer available; their usage was too easily traceable. A check in her purse furthered her dilemma, less than $300.
Could she access her bank account tonight? Forty minutes later she entered her card into an automatic teller, the card was swallowed. A message appeared on screen. 'Account access denied.'
She found a McDonalds restaurant. She disappeared into the bathroom, concealed herself in one of the cubicles and removed the parcel from her bra. She opened it, fearing its contents. What had she become involved in?
On first glance it appeared innocuous, a cigarette packet containing a key. Folded inside the box was a scribbled note of just five words, 'beyond help, they're onto us.' A phone number sat beneath the message. She memorised the number and flushed the paper down the toilet. She re-entered the world with more questions than answers. Had she overreacted? Perhaps she should just contact Kent Campbell. She read his name on the card he'd provided. Or should she call the number contained on the note.
Alison reached for her phone. Her pocket was empty, she remembered. She'd lost it when Ashe crashed into her. Thank God for Mr Hennessey, her first editor, he had insisted every reporter carry a back-up phone.
Several minutes later she made a second call, promising her editor the story of the decade.
| Author Notes | Instalment number two of Betrayal from Within, not from Calin's Redemption. Sorry about the confusion. Again I ask for critical assessment. My ego would love six stars but the writer in me seeks realistic, and if necessary harsh feedback. I need it near perfect when the time to submit to Agent's arrives. Thank you. |
By bob cullen
In the months following, the money often tempted Veronica. 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.
TWO
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. It had multiplied many times over.
For more than fifty years Jackson lived in accord with this philosophy. Then in his fifty-third year the sense of acceptance surrendered in the face of chaotic pursuit. He'd became the target of that 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 those pursuing him 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 located 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 discovered his whereabouts 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 law-breaking real mother. She had told him the truth, or, at least a part of the truth. His true identity was never mentioned.
Until a year ago, Jackson had led an uneventful life. Lonely perhaps, but it was 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. It carried a message written in a childlike 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 the recent 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. Suspiciously.
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.
His brain was swamped with a thousand thoughts. Who were these pursuers? And what did he possess that they wanted? The five-lined message bounced around in his head. He tried to absorb its message. What exactly were they implying?
And what was the alleged truth they alluded to? 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, days 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? Did it matter who his biological parents were? It made no difference to him.
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? Had it been tortured out of him? 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 staff and the FBI investigation. Jackson now recalled the information contained. It was stored on a USB stick, on his phone and in his memory.
The investigator had been thorough and organised. The reports all relayed by phone, he seldom committed anything to paper dealt with the orphanage. Jackson listened to them often. The husky voice of the investigator suggested a long time association with tobacco products. Jackson grabbed his phone and selected replay messages. With his other hand Jackson found a pad and a pen. Just in case some comment twigged a new memory.
The gravelly voice on the tape offered neither greeting nor warmth. The man was all business. "Jack," he'd never gotten used to his client's full name. For him, Jack was sufficient. "The orphanage yielded no court acceptable proof but it left a bag of evidence that indicated other evidence had mysteriously vanished. Many files, relating to staff, to mothers and to children awaiting adoption have disappeared." The investigator spoke with the rapidity of a machine gun. Affection too was delivered with the same intensity as the weapon. And he didn't invite interruption. Jackson had discovered that on previous discussions.
"One name however props up regularly, and that name was Jennifer Palmer. It would appear her inclusion was deliberate. She was, in my opinion a convenient scapegoat, or more probably a local loser. Maria seemed to be the only one to remember her." Jackson's pen hadn't yet touched the pad.
"Of all the people I spoke to, Maria is the only one to have any credibility. She was the closest I came to striking gold. Old, with a limited grasp of English, but armed with an elephant's memory. She remembered the baby found abandoned on their doorstep fifty years earlier. She recalled the scribbled note pinned to the outside of the crib. It provided a date of birth, August 2nd, 1962.
"And she remembered the child was less than a week old. He didn't have a name but she told of the message. 'Born of lust, not love.'"
Adopting a more conciliatory and previously not displayed tone, the investigator added. "In defence of others it must be remembered this entire situation goes back fifty years and there's not a whole lot of people left whose memory dates back that far."
"Can we stop there for a minute," asked Jackson. "Can we get back to Jennifer? Didn't you suggest she might be my mother?"
"I've never suggested that, the FBI may have, but here I'd much rather go on their statement. Based on physical resemblance and the clothing worn, the body was identified and matched to Jennifer Palmer.nt of Maria. '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.'" Jackson's pen finally swept into action.
"Before we finish of Miss Palmer, there are a number of important facts to consider. One, she claimed she found the child. Two, she also said she saw a Black Ford with its licence plates concealed speeding away from the scene. Three, she vanished after that. And four, what is the vehicle of the FBI? Black Fords, need I say more."
"What happened to Jennifer?" asked Jackson.
"She vanished, never to be seen again. 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, by the FBI and matched to Jennifer Palmer." Jackson clicked off the message in sheer disgust. Could these claims somehow be verified? Or had fifty years buried the truth forever?
The investigator's next call referred to the police investigation. It too prompted an avalanche of questions from Jackson. The same old raspy voice scratched its path down the line. What Jackson would now give for a face-to-face with the investigator? Dead men though were limited in terms of conversation.
"Davy Davidson was a good cop, a guy who followed the rules and did what he was told. He was the first cop to respond to the call from the orphanage. He challenged the jurisdiction of the FBI in this local investigation. Then he got shafted. There's no other word for it. The Feds needed a scapegoat and Davy was it. It is that simple. Davy aired his anger to Maria Pontasova, telling her the official finding of suicide in Jennifer's case was bullshit. He got moved to another precinct and two months later he was dead. In October of 1962, a Police Officer was killed in a bungled drug raid. The complaints about Jennifer Palmer stopped.
"In a strange coincidence, neither the deaths of Miss Palmer or Officer Davidson attracted the interest of a Coronial inquest," concluded the investigator. Jackson knew, he now had a case. Several questions remained unsolved.
"On another front, I've not been able to discover what triggered the FBI interest in this case. Or who authorised their involvement? But I intend to keep digging. I've got a friend who's got access to files in the Hoover building," he claimed.
"Allow me for a moment to get back to Miss Palmer. I've discovered a number of facts that I find quite disturbing. First up, apart from the FBI identification, no one else ever came forward. No one, not family or friend. To my mind, the young lady was never positively identified. She was then cremated which ensured there'd never be evidence for forensic investigation in the future. And there is no mention of who authorised the cremation.
"My final bone of contention lay with the FBI promoted theory Jennifer was the child's mother. Blood tests would have conclusively proved that assumption. But they were either not done or done and discarded because they disproved the supposition. Again I come back to the obvious discrepancy. Why the push to identify Jennifer Palmer as the child's mother? Were they merely interested in concealing the real mother's identity? Or was it something else?"
One phone tape remained. Jackson now sat consumed by guilt. All these people were dead because of him. People he'd never heard of or known. Depression swept in again. Had he not existed all these innocent people would still be alive. He was about to hear from the final victim and the subject was another of the earlier victims, the hospital matron.
In a way, the gruff and now familiar voice reminded a little of the old tough guy actor James Cagney. "Once more, Maria is my source of information here. Without her help the investigation would have gone nowhere. Her memory is quite astonishing. Lynsie Sanders, a lady in her mid-forties was the Orphanage Administrator. She was, according to Maria a fit and healthy woman who died suddenly two days after the child went missing." The man rarely took a breath. His voice rattled on like a steam train.
"Lynsie was loved by the staff, but feared at the same time. She demanded excellence from her staff. And they responded. I located a death certificate that listed the cause of death as Cardiomyopathy but again no autopsy was performed. And even worse all her medical records vanished. At least these people are consistent. Maria also remembered there was talk among the staff of Lynsie's home being searched but I was unable to verify if that was true. But judging on other events, I'd believe it most likely."
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 was stated in 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 goodbye 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.
| Author Notes | Sorry, this is a little long, around 2,400 words. |
By bob cullen
THREE
Three decades later, they were fifteen years into the new millenium 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 most recent, and fourth message. Should he respond? How did one correspond with someone they'd never met? 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 had a copy of the Investigator's file.
Morning traffic soured Jackson's mood. The Dallas road network was worsening. In his unfocused state, he failed to see the pedestrian. He heard a loud thump. It sounded like the rear door. Had someone 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 halfway 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 three people, himself, the investment broker, and the investigator. 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, 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 would be no more. Morgan Hunt would become an Englishman.
FOUR
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 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. Four times, the ruthless pursuers had located him. 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, maybe because of that past. What had triggered this insanity? And why now, it made no sense. 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, at least, not yet. What did they want?
If they weren't enemy, who were they? Friends, maybe people with a shared interest. Jackson racked his brain. No friend emerged. Friends didn't terrorise. What did this people want? He felt as hopeless as a lone swimmer in the ocean surrounded by a pack of ravenous sharks.
Was there anyone he could call on for assistance? Loners had few friends, and that's how Jackson now saw himself. 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 report established the truth. The FBI's lies became the documented and legally accepted version of events.
What proof did he have? None, Jackson Moffatt was officially non-gratis. A paranoid man who'd twice in the past year changed his identity and address. On adopting the name Moffatt he'd forfeited his social security identity allocated to the baby Carl Lindsay. Sure, there were links to previous names, but they were buried deep. The one possession he'd not surrendered was the bank account.
By bob cullen
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.
With much the same effect as thick fog on vision, depression blinded Jackson's ability to function. His F-meter roared 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. He raised the phone to his ear.
"Mutual Savings and Investments," said the receptionist. "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," she replied.
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. I have the document right here in front of me. 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." In a response the caller would never see, the young woman smiled. Her signature sat at the bottom of the document.
"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 destination. Ninety minutes into his journey Jackson saw what he needed, a hardware store with its door open. 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.
FIVE
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. He'd been 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 own. 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, he must vacate the building immediately. Tyler's anger surged.
He was being treated like a criminal, and convicted without a trial. With neither charges laid nor accusations voiced. Why wasn't he allowed the 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 Tyler 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 he attributed to 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, as an emergency backup, one phone to Ashe, one to Meredith and the third to Tyler himself. The unthinkable entered his thoughts. Did this mean Ashe too was involved in the betrayal? Could anyone be trusted? Tyler 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 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 not 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 asses, 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 Judases' 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. It was starting to make sense.
Calin Roberts was a name he knew intimately. It was a role he'd often filled. Roberts was a name feared around Washington. Yet Calin didn't exist. He was a fictitious character created by a former Homeland Director. Calin was the operative assigned the impossible missions. In his last year with Homeland, Tyler operated exclusively as Calin Roberts.
"Homeland can survive without you, me or Calin. 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?" 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?" Tyler demanded.
"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 | This is my second manuscript featuring Calin Roberts and Ashe Morgan, and a third one is underway. |
By bob cullen
Like medication eases a headache, time had lessened Tyler's 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 forty acres brought. While never forgotten, the past was just that passed, and 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 no longer existed. And the files relating to the missions he'd undertaken, had been rewritten.
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. He'd discovered true peace, the sound of the birdlife, wind rustling through the trees, the freedom to do whatever he chose, 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 and ineffectively 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. The driver's window was closed and the passengers window behind was shattered with jagged shards of glass protruding in all directions. Any approach through there was fraught with risk of being slashed by glass. It would have to be the driver's window.
On the ground, he saw every thief's favourite key, a large rock. The window caved in. The driver was breathing, just. Tyler lifted him out of the car and laid him on the ground. Calin monitored Jackson's breathing. It improved gradually 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. It appeared as if 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 said. His glare matched his tone. He made no effort to conceal his anger. "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 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 I was born, and probably opened by my biological parents."
"How much are we talking about?"
"It's presently valued at around eleven million." Calin studied the man. He wore a business suit. He stood a shade over six feet with dark hair that 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 reverted to his Homeland operative name. He sensed this could well become a job for Calin Roberts.
"Jackson Moffitt. Where are you taking me?"
"Someplace where we can talk," said Calin.
"What if I don't want to talk?"
"Your choice, friend, but I'd suggest it might be wiser to delay any decision until we discuss your situation. Suicide's not always the best alternative."
"I've got no alternatives. Every time I run, they find me." Calin hadn't seen fear like this in years, since his time with 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 I'm hoping one of those friends might assist us 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."
By bob cullen
Conversation ceased. Jackson couldn't talk and run. Calin decreased his pace, Jackson was struggling to keep up. Stamina wasn't his strong point. He slipped further and further behind. Relief came as Calin slowed to a walk.
A desperately out-of-breath Jackson caught up. A house appeared in the distance, several horses grazed in an adjoining field and a woman with two small children was hanging washing on a line. Jackson glanced at Calin and saw a different man.
The face that until now carried a permanent scowl broke into a smile at the sight of his eldest child running towards him. Jackson Moffitt revised his opinion. Perhaps Calin was human after all.
The house was small and compact. Three bedrooms, a kitchen, dining room and a lounge room that appeared cramped with a two-seater settee, one single recliner and a fifty-inch TV. When guests entered, the room graduated from cramped to uncomfortably crowded. The bedrooms were small, big enough for a bed, a chest of drawers and a desk. Arrangements were made to accommodate the visitor. Tonight Jackson would take Ashe's room while the little boy moved in with his sister. Ashe was the lone dissenter to the change.
"I promise to keep it tidy," said Jackson.
"You better," came the reply. Ashe was the only non-smiler.
Outside there was an open barn that was shared by animals and vehicles, a workshop and a garden featuring tomatoes and vegetables. Several fruit trees lined a fence separating this from the neighbour's property.
Jackson felt like an intruder, a stalker invading a space where he had no right to be. Yet he'd been welcomed like a friend. After dinner, the little girl who had run to her father, a precocious four-year-old named Maddison, positioned herself on Jackson's knee and talked non-stop. Her questions continued right up to her bedtime. Uncle Jack had become a major source of interest. Her childish banter brought him an escape from reality, at least temporarily.
Her two-year-old brother, Ashe wanted no part of the stranger who'd stolen his room. He refused to leave the safety of his mother's side.
"It's eight o'clock," said Jess. "And you know what that means."
"Can we stay up a little longer tonight," protested Maddison. "Please mummy. Please."
"He'll still be here tomorrow."
"Please say you'll stay, Uncle Jack?" Mummy's word wasn't good enough. She needed to hear it from Uncle Jack.
"I'll be here. Good night, Miss Maddison. Meeting you has been the highlight of my day." He was rewarded with the most beautiful smile. She turned and headed off to bed. Ashe followed.
"Time to talk," said Calin. He carried three drinks to the table, beers for himself and Jackson and a strawberry Dakari for Jess.
"Why don't we move to the lounge room, it's much more comfortable," said Jess. Calin and Jackson followed her.
"Can we put this off till morning?"
"Planning on running tonight, Jackson?" Calin seated himself next to Jess on the two-seater while Jackson sat on the recliner.
"If I had somewhere to go, maybe I would, but I've run out of options. Right now, I'm fresh out of friends, ideas and places to go."
"Jess and I had a quiet talk and we're prepared to work with you as friends, but that requires a commitment from you as well. First, you must agree to talk to us. Answer our questions and most importantly trust us. Can you give us your word?"
"Before agreeing to anything I have a couple of questions," Jackson replied. "Why should I trust two total strangers? And second, what's in this for you?"
"Really my friend, a man who admits to having no options is generally not in a position to make demands. So, I'd suggest we clarify one point right here and now. Without me, Jackson, you're now dead. So, if saving your life doesn't earn me your trust maybe I should just turn you over to the authorities now."
"Sorry." The back down was immediate. Moreover, it confirmed Calin's belief. Jackson's questions hadn't so much been a challenge for authority but rather the plea of a truly desperate man.
"Jackson, what say we start this conversation again? I am here as a friend," said Calin. "I believe I may be able to locate people who can assist you. But you'll have to co-operate fully with their requirements." Calin offered his hand in friendship. Jackson accepted.
"Back to your questions," Calin continued. "I believe why trust us, was the first. My answer there is simple. There's no one else. You then asked, what's in it for us? A fair question, the answer is nothing, absolutely nothing. Guess that makes us fools." Calin smiled.
"Or opportunists." Mr. Negative was back.
"Listen to me, Jackson." Jess made no effort to hide her anger. She jumped to her feet and stood over Jackson. "My husband might be many things, but opportunist he's not. He's put his life on the line many times for this country and never once has he sought favours in return. He lives by his word, so if that's not good enough for you, I have two words for you, Mr. Moffatt. Fuck off."
Jess studied Calin's reaction. He'd rarely heard her curse. She couldn't help herself, Jackson's attitude infuriated her.
"Maybe Jess, we're going about this the wrong way," Calin interrupted. He rose and stood beside Jess, an arm around her waist. He'd not seen Jess this wound up in years. Calin needed to calm her down. "It might be easier for Jackson if we use the car salesman approach and let him view a comment from a previous client. Someone he might recognise."
"Are you talking about who I think you're talking about?" The worst of her anger had eased. The volcano though was still rumbling.
"Do you think her recommendation would be sufficient to impress a doubter? Should I get out the DVD?"
"You kept it?" said Calin. "It's only one opinion." As he spoke he studied the features of Jackson. The visitor was totally confused by the direction the conversation had taken.
"Of course, I kept it. It stars two of my all-time favourite people." Calin smiled.
By bob cullen
A moment after leaving the room, Jess returned with a DVD. Jackson and Calin had switched seats. She cursed her husband, why had he done that? A moment's thought brought understanding. Another subtle form of intimidation designed to add to Jackson's discomfort.
Jess inserted the disc into the player. The screen on their one luxury, a fifty-inch television mounted high on the wall burst into life. A moment later the Oval Office filled the screen. A sweep around showed the President at her desk and eight not-yet-identified visitors.
President Adriana Tollerson stared into the camera with the comfort of one accustomed to cameras and journalists. She stood and approached the first guest. It was Calin. Jackson stared in disbelief as the President bypassed the normal protocol of a handshake and instead embraced the visitor with what appeared genuine affection. She then stepped back and spoke.
"Tyler Spellman, this room has welcomed more famous visitors than any building I can name. Personally, I've greeted politicians, religious leaders, businessmen, military personnel, entertainers and sporting superstars and never have I felt inadequate, until today." Jackson stared in disbelief.
"Thought you said your name was Calin?" Jess hit the pause button on the DVD remote. The President's voice fell silent.
"I did, and I was. But I also mentioned Washington and some things I can never discuss, Calin is one of those things."
"Why then did you use that name?"
"What I'm about to say is never to leave this room," Tyler said. "Is that understood?" Fire had returned to the eyes of Tyler. Jackson's nod of the head was sufficient for Tyler to continue.
"Truth is Calin Roberts never existed. Calin was, in fact, a fictional creation of one of the senior executives of my employer at the time. An undercover operative, Calin was despatched with a specific order to silence a particularly troublesome Middle Eastern diplomat. The operation proved so successful, Calin was kept on the books. And, on more occasions than I care to remember, I operated as Calin Roberts."
"And he makes you believe you're invincible?" asked Jackson.
"No. Actually it makes me a target."
"Is this Calin character capable of accepting one more challenge?"
"Logic says no, but ego disagrees," Calin answered. "But with the help I hope to arrange we have a chance. But let's take one step at a time, and the first step is establishing factual evidence. We need to know who is pursuing you. And what's motivating that chase. We also need to determine what knowledge you possess that generates this interest?"
"I can't answer those questions."
"Well, I guess that means we have to find someone who can."
"Do you have any ideas, Tyler?" asked Jess.
"Tonight's not the time for planning, Jess. Instead, let's just sit down, enjoy a drink and behave like normal people. Tomorrow we can discuss strategies." He stood and walked to the fridge. He pulled out a couple more beers.
"What if they attached a tracking device to my car?"
"You'll die about twelve hours later than you planned," Tyler answered. He offered a beer to his visitor and proposed a toast. "Here's to death."
"Ignore him, Jackson. His mind is twisted." Jess glared at her husband. "Let me just say the security around this place is tighter than the White House. The man who designed it is paranoid." She pointed to her husband. "No one can get close to the house without our knowing. Nor can they leave."
"To death," toasted Jackson. Laughter lightened the mood.
The conversation flowed easily. Jess and Tyler worked as a team. Jess the inquisitor and Tyler the clown. She talked about Maddison and Ashe, her mum, her nursing and her career in gymnastics. At the same time, Jess delved unobtrusively into his past. The topic of conversation then turned to Calin. How had they met? Tyler listened and interrupted often with a series of inane and unfunny remarks. In his mind, he drew a geographic map of where Jackson had been.
Late in the evening, and six beers later, Jackson stunned them. "You guys are good. I didn't see it at first, but eventually I caught on." The eyes of both Calin and Jess now focused on the speaker. "What say we stop playing games?"
"Jackson, games as you call them, are only necessary when there's no cooperation from one side. So, if you want to avoid them, might I suggest you start by telling us where the money came from?" Jackson sensed the intensity in Calin's voice.
"I've already told you I don't know."
"Can you tell us then when you first discovered the account's existence?"
"Shortly after my twenty-first birthday," Jackson answered. "If I remember rightly, it was a few weeks after my mother vanished."
"How did that happen? Do you know what prompted her to leave?"
"No idea. I awoke one morning and she was gone. No note of explanation, no phone call, just an empty house. All her clothes, along with the few ornaments that decorated her bedroom were gone."
"Ever hear from her or see her again."
"Nothing, she just vanished into thin air." After a brief pause, he added. "About ten days or so later, I woke one morning to find a note pushed under the door. It was typewritten so I'll never know if it was from her, even though it said, Mum."
"What makes you think it wasn't your mother?" asked Jess.
"The spelling for one thing, my poor mother was almost illiterate."
"Tell me about her." Jess's maternal instincts assumed control.
"Before you answer that," Calin interrupted. "Let's get back to the note. "Can you remember what it said?"
"Some things you never forget," Jackson replied. "And the note is one of those unforgettable things. My memory may not be word perfect, but it'll close." He closed his eyes and recited from memory.
'Dear son. I've always feared this day would arrive. Since the day you were born, I've been running, running from the truth and from the FBI. And I'm afraid, they've almost caught up. Carl, you are not my son, Ricky and I kidnapped you at birth. And Ricky was my brother, not my husband. Sorry.
'Don't look for me. There is money for you in the bank.' The details of Bank, branch and amount were included. 'It came from your biological grandmother. God bless her. I'll pray for you every night.'
"Weren't you tempted to go get it?"
"I didn't want it. In my mind, it wasn't my money."
"Did you know how much was involved?"
"I didn't care."
"Let's get back to my question about your Mum, and your Dad too." If nothing else, Jess was persistent.
"Can't this wait until morning?" asked Jackson.
"Let's keep going another fifteen minutes, Jackson. What say we have one last beer?" Jess was already headed to the fridge. As Jess placed the bottles on the tables adjacent to their chairs, Jackson saw the second act of deception.
"You've done it to me again." Jackson made no effort to conceal his anger. "I thought we were drinking together. Explain to me then why I've got six empties on my table and there's only two on yours."
"I wasn't aware it was a contest."
"I'm going to bed before I say something I may regret tomorrow."
| Author Notes |
Jackson Moffatt was dumped on Orphanage steps days after his birth. Days later he disappeared.
Fifty years later, he finds himself the target of pursuit. He doesn't know why. What secrets does his past conceal |
By bob cullen
"What do you think?" asked Jess as they lay in bed. It was their second luxury. King size with a canopy frame hung with sheer drapes. "What's holding him back? Is it fear? Or is there something else? Or could it all be a pack of lies? Maybe the money is stolen. Or funds he has defrauded. And what do you make of the message wrapped around the brick?"
"There is no doubting there's fear, his attempted suicide proves that. But I'm half inclined to believe he has no idea as to why or who could be behind it."
"Do you think he might do a runner tonight?"
"I'd bet my life on it. If he does, though, he won't get far. Observing his pace this afternoon, I'd back Ashe to beat him over a hundred yards." The thought of her two-year-old son outpacing Jackson produced a smile.
"What then are our options?" she continued. "Should we set a trap?"
"I'm one step ahead of you, dear wife. While you cleaned up, I hung rope just inside the garden shed's door."
"You think he'll try to end it?"
"I'd bet my life on it."
"There must be something we can do," said Jess.
"It's all up to him, I'm afraid. We've got to find a way to convince him to trust us with his memories."
"What if he doesn't remember?"
"Speaking of remembering, Mrs. Spellman. When was the last time we made love?"
"About 4.00 am this morning. That was you, wasn't it?"
"Maybe you should check for fingerprints?" She slapped him.
All thoughts of passion faded on hearing the rear door open. Calin agreed with the suggestion of Jess. She would follow Jackson. Maybe Jackson might be more inclined to listen to a woman's line of thinking.
*
Jackson couldn't sleep. His mind raced as he retraced the circumstances of the past twenty-four hours. Overnight he'd received the five lined note. On his way to work next morning his car window had been smashed by a brick. He discovered his money missing. Depression sunk in, he reached his decision to end it all. Calin found and revived him. He then met Jess and the children. The final setback was his inability to trust anyone. Trust simply wasn't in his make-up. Every person he'd ever trusted had failed him. Or they'd been killed because of him.
Self-pity pursued its normal route. First, he'd become withdrawn and tried to run, self-doubt followed, then desperation and lastly anger swept in.
What was his problem? The truth, he doubted that. He didn't know the truth. Was it the fear of involving innocent strangers? He'd never cope if more victims died. He counted the toll, Ricky, possibly his mother, those at the orphanage and the investigator. If anything happened to the two children he'd met tonight, he'd never forgive himself. That provided his answer. All he required was a rope and a tree? And a glance out the window revealed there was an abundance of trees. Then he saw the garden shed. He smiled. Every good garden shed housed a coil of rope. He'd found his escape.
Jess watched Jackson enter the garden shed. Immediately she sensed Jackson's intent. He wasn't planning to run, he wanted permanent closure. She knew what he was after. His emergence confirmed her suspicions. Jackson was carrying a coil of rope. The one Calin had placed there.
Darkness, along with the lightness of foot of a gymnast, allowed her to follow close behind. He never once glanced behind, his every thought obviously focused on what lay ahead. Jess understood that concentration. She'd employed that same intensity so many times on the gymnast's runway.
He stopped beneath a massive oak. Jess stood no more than twenty feet away, hidden behind a smaller tree. She was grateful for his choice. She sensed he'd chosen it deliberately. Even in his desperate state he'd put considerable distance between the tree and the house. He hadn't wanted the children to find him. He stood silent for a few moments and raised his eyes to the heavens. Was he seeking the Lord's forgiveness?
He pinpointed the perfect branch. It hung about fifteen feet above ground level. It appeared thick enough to support his weight. Jackson knotted one end of the rope and then hurled it upwards. It caught the intended limb but fell back to where he stood. He tried a second time. The rope curled over the branch and looped down toward where Jess stood.
"Are you looking for this?" She offered the end of the rope to Jackson.
"What are you doing here?"
"Just making sure you get it right this time, coward." There wasn't a lot of volume, but the sarcasm ensured her words were heard. "And what do I tell Maddison?"
"She wouldn't understand."
"You promised you'd be there tomorrow."
"Lie to her."
"We don't lie to our kids, Jackson."
**
Her statement reduced Jackson to tears. "And we don't give up on our friends." God, he hated this woman. The anger she'd expressed several hours earlier was gone. In its place, she offered compassion. She moved to where Jackson stood and embraced him.
Realisation arrived. He didn't hate her, he hated himself.
"Let's go home, talk to Calin and see what tomorrow brings." Like a scolded puppy, Jackson followed in silence. He studied her intently. Then he reflected on the action he'd attempted. He couldn't halt his tears. He'd failed again. He felt anger, guilt and futility.
Nothing was said on the walk home. Shame, torment and the sense of failure were his lone companions. And they screamed. Why wouldn't they let him die?
Should he apologise? No, fuck them. In a sense, it was their fault. They were prolonging his pain. Could he overpower Jess? She was tiny. He was probably double her weight.
"Don't even think of it, Jackson." The bitch was reading his thoughts. "And I'll give you two reasons. I'm a black belt and if anything were to happen to me, Calin would find you. Then, my friend you would discover the real meaning of pain."
He trundled on, more defeated than ever.
*
Like their guest, Jess and Calin's minds were too absorbed with questions to sleep. There were too many issues requiring solution. Who was this man, Jackson Moffatt? Where had the eleven million dollars come from? Where had it gone? What had happened to his kidnappers? And lastly, who were the pursuers?
How does one re-instil the will to live in someone? It was Calin and Jess realised, a question beyond their understanding. They did however, reach one decision. There was no way they'd abandon Jackson. The man had been wronged and destroyed to the point where he saw death as his one viable option.
"Jess, we're missing something."
"Like what."
"What prompted the decision to suicide? Think about it, Jess. A man intent on suicide doesn't dress for work. If he really wants to die, he jumps off the roof of a high rise, runs in front of a train or truck or he throws himself over a cliff. He doesn't drive himself to work. What triggered it? Was it the brick? Or what happened after the brick? Do we know what happened?" Calin reflected on what Jackson had told him.
"You've gone silent, Calin. Why?"
"We've got to find his phone." He then explained how Jackson had told of calling the bank and the message he'd received regarding the transferring of the funds.
"Could it still be in the car? Maybe there's also a computer or a briefcase."
"I'll check it out first thing in the morning."
"What about his apartment?"
"That too is an option. First though, let's see what he has to offer tomorrow morning."
"Why not wake him now?" said Jess. "Didn't you once tell me an overstressed and innocent suspect is the one most likely to break? Maybe it's time Jackson met Calin the bastard."
"Before we do that, I'd like to make one phone call."
"Who too?" she asked.
"This one will test your memory." When it came to numbers or names, Jess had near photographic recall. "Daniel, I don't remember his last name. He worked with Meredith Paslow."
"Andrews," the name came instantly, as did the number. "It's been five years, Calin. Do you really expect Meredith will respond after all this time?"
"I'll answer that in a few hours."
Step one was achieved. Daniel's phone went to message. 'Ask the lady to call the Afghan vet. She should still have his number.'
"Do you really think she will call?" asked Jess.
"I'd say it's more likely we'll hear from Daniel."
"What can she do to help?"
"I'm hoping she'll be able to identify the last number Jackson called."
"And then what?"
"I'll go pay the bank manager a call."
Less than three minutes later, the phone that had held silent for a half decade buzzed to life.
"Good to hear from you, stranger." Her voice was unmistakeable. There was no hint of admonishment. "What can I do for you?"
"Meet me."
"When," Meredith asked.
"ASAP." Her attitude surprised him. He'd expected a somewhat frosty response. Her last communication with him had ordered his dismissal.
"Where?"
"Remember the pram and the umbrella."
"Give me a time."
"Tomorrow, same time as last time," he said.
"I'll be there." There were no farewells.
Calin had to get to Washington.
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