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.