The Kiwi Target

Harriet Oldshire who was born fifty-nine years ago in Te Anau. According to records on file, she later emigrated to America.”
    A sudden warm feeling flooded Peter and made him anxious for more information. “I’m sure she was my mother,” he said. “Is there anything on file concerning her marriage?”
    “No, sir, not here. But our people in Te Anau have located a lady currently living there who is her younger sister.”
    An almost totally forgotten, deeply buried memory surfaced in Peter’s mind. “Martha,” he said.
    “Yes, sir, that’s what I have here. One of our lads spoke to her earlier today. She confirmed that her sister Harriet had married a man named Ferguson, an American.”
    Peter drew a deep breath. “Sergeant, this means a great deal to me. Can you tell me how to reach her?”
    The sergeant consulted his notebook once more. “This lady, who would be your aunt, I believe, is Mrs. Martha Glover.” He wrote carefully on a blank page and then tore it out. “Here is her address and telephone number.”
    “Did you tell her I was here?”
    “No, but she may very well have heard. Almost everyone else has.”
    Peter did not know why he had attracted so much notice, but he had no time to concern himself with that. “How close is Te Anau to here?” he asked.
    “Quite close. You could easily drive over in the morning.” As a fresh wave of emotion hit him, Peter rose to his feet. “If you’ll excuse me I think I’d like to try calling her right now.”
    “Good luck,” the sergeant said, and picked up his tea cup. Peter went quickly into the lobby, where he picked up a phone and gave his call to the hotel operator. While he waited, he stood very still, letting his mind find its own path.
    A richly accented, mature voice came on the line. “Martha Glover here.”
    “Good evening, Mrs. Glover. My name is Peter Ferguson, and I believe that I’m your nephew.”
    “Peter! Then it’s true! Where are you?”
    “In Queenstown.”
    “Why, that’s close by. How soon are you coming. Tell me quickly.”
    “Tomorrow, if you’d like. I could drive over in the morning if that’s convenient.”
    “Of course it’s convenient! I can’t wait.”
    “I’ll try to leave about nine,” he said. He added his good-byes and then hung up with a genuinely warm feeling.

    In the morning he rose fairly early, had a good breakfast, and then drove to the local police station. Sergeant Woodley was expecting him.
    “I spoke with Mr. Winston this morning,” he said. “I’m to tell you that Inspector Jarvis has issued a report absolving you from any blame for the highway incident.”
    ‘I’m very grateful,” Peter responded. “Is there anything new on the subject? Naturally, I’m interested.”
    “Yes, Mr. Ferguson, but it’s a police matter at the moment. Now—” Woodley turned to a desk behind him and picked up a piece of paper—“I’ve drawn a little map for you.”
    It had been carefully done to show both the highways to be followed to Te Anau and the location of the house within the small community. “If you get lost when you arrive, anyone will be able to show you where the Glovers live. They’re well-known locally-’ Peter accepted the map, spoke his thanks, and got back into his car. Minutes later he was out of Queenstown and on the open road. As he drove through the attractive countryside, he was freshly aware that ever since he had come to New Zealand, something had been hanging over him.
    He remembered several occasions when his identity had seemed to create some kind of undercurrent. He very much hoped that his aunt, when he met her, would be able to clear it up.
    In less than three hours he reached Te Anau, a small community on the shore of a magnificent lake. Two blocks before the water, he found the street he wanted and turned right. He rounded a gentle bend and found a small sign with the right number at last. He turned left up a short driveway and was astonished to find himself on the grounds of an impressive estate. The house was almost a mansion. A little awed, he got out of his car and walked toward the front door.
    Before he was halfway there, it was opened by a remarkably attractive woman. As he approached her, he saw that her face was still virtually unwrinkled. It was a face he almost seemed to recognize, one that was burned in his memory. “Good morning,” he said. “I’m Peter Ferguson.”
    “I know,” the woman answered. “I can see it in your face. I’d