Mystery and Crime Fiction posted May 27, 2018 Chapters: 2 3 -4- 5... 

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Jackson flees to Canada

A chapter in the book Calin's Redemption

Jackson flees to Canada

by bob cullen

Jackson Moffatt was found abandoned on an orphanage doorstep less than a week old. Kidnapped within days he vanishes into society. Fifty three years later he finds himself being pursued.

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.


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.

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