"The clerk downstairs did exactly what he should have," Becky says.

Apparently you don't look convinced.

"The sealed-file rule on original birth certificates in the case of adoptions is a good one, counselor."

"And when it's important, so is another rule: nothing ventured, nothing gained."

"Important?" Becky taps her fingers on her desk. "In the case of adoptions, nothing's more important than preserving the anonymity of the biological mother." She glances toward a coffee pot on a counter. "You want some?"

You shake your head no. "My nerves are on edge already."

"Decaffeinated."

"All right, then, sure, why not? I take it black."

She pours two cups, sets yours on the desk, and sits across from you. "When a woman gives her baby up, she often feels so guilty about it… Maybe she isn't married and comes from a strict religious background that makes her feel ashamed, or maybe she's seventeen and realizes she doesn't have the resources to take proper care of the child, or maybe she's got too many children already, or… For whatever reason, if a woman chooses to have a child instead of abort it and gives it up for adoption, she usually has such strong emotions that her mental health demands an absolute break from the past. She trains herself to believe that the child is on another planet. She struggles to go on with her life. As far as I'm concerned, it's cruel for a lawyer or a son or a daughter to track her down many years later and remind her of…"

"I understand," you say. "But in this case, the mother is probably dead."

Becky's fingers stop tapping. "Keep talking, counselor."

"I don't have a client. Or to put it another way, I do, but the client is…" You point toward your chest.

"You?"

"I think I…" You explain about the drunk driver, about the deaths of the man and woman that you lovingly thought of as your parents.

"And you want to know if they were your parents?" Becky asks.

"Yes, and if I've got a twin – a brother or a sister that I never knew about – and…" You almost add, if I was born a Jew.

"Counselor, I apologize, but you're a fool."

"That's what my wife and uncle say, not to mention a cop in Redwood Point."

"Redwood Point?"

"A small town forty miles south of here."

"Forty or four thousand miles. What difference does any of this make? Did Esther and Simon love you?"

"They worshipped me." Your eyes sting with grief.

"Then they are your parents. Counselor, I was adopted. And the man and woman who adopted me abused me. That's why I'm in this office – to make sure other adopted children don't go into homes where they suffer what I did. At the same time, I don't want to see a mother abused. If a woman's wise enough to know she can't properly raise a child, if she gives it up for adoption, in my opinion she deserves a medal. She deserves to be protected."

"I understand," you say. "But I don't want to meet my mother. She's probably dead. All I want is… I need to know if… The fact. Was I adopted?"

Becky studies you, nods, picks up the phone, and taps three numbers. "Records? Charley? How you doing, kid? Great. Listen, an attorney was down there a while ago, wanted a sealed adoption file. Yeah, you did the right thing. But here's what I want. It won't break the rules if you check to see if there is a sealed file." Becky tells him the date, place, and names that you earlier gave her. "I'll hold." Minutes seem like hours. She keeps listening to the phone, then straightens. "Yeah, Charley, what have you got?" She listens again. "Thanks." She sets down the phone. "Counselor, there's no sealed file. Relax. You're not adopted. Go back to your wife."

"Unless," you say.

"Unless?"

"The adoption wasn't arranged through an agency but instead was a private arrangement between the birth mother and the couple who wanted to adopt. The gray market."

"Yes, but even then, local officials have to sanction the adoption. There has to be a legal record of the transfer. In your case, there isn't." Becky looks uncomfortable. "Let me explain. These days, babies available for adoption are scarce. Because of birth control and legalized abortions. But even today, the babies in demand are WASPs. A Black? An Hispanic? An Oriental? Forget it. Very few parents in those groups want to adopt, and even fewer Anglos want children from those groups. Fifty years ago, the situation was worse. There were so many WASPs who got pregnant by mistake and wanted to surrender their babies… Counselor, this might offend you, but I have to say it."

"I don't offend easily."

"Your last name is Weinberg," Becky says. "Jewish. Back in the thirties, the same as now, the majority of parents wanting to adopt were Protestants, and they wanted a child from a Protestant mother. If you were put up for adoption, even on the gray market, almost every couple looking to adopt would not have wanted a Jewish baby. The prospects would have been so slim that your mother's final option would have been…"

"The black market?" Your cheek muscles twitch.

"Baby selling. It's a violation of the anti-slavery law, paying money for a human being. But it happens, and lawyers and doctors who arrange for it to happen make a fortune from desperate couples who can't get a child any other way."

"But what if my mother was Scot?"

Becky blinks. "You're suggesting…"

"Jewish couples." You frown, remembering the last names of parents you read in the ledgers. "Meyer. Begelman. Markowitz. Weinberg. Jews."

"So desperate for a baby that after looking everywhere for a Jewish mother willing to give up her child, they adopted…"

"WASPs. And arranged it so none of their relatives would know."

All speculation, you strain to remind yourself. There's no way to link Mary Duncan with you, except that you were born in the town where she signed the agreement and the agreement is dated a week before your birthday. Tenuous evidence, to say the least. Your legal training warns you that you'd never allow it to be used in court. Even the uniform presence of Jewish names on the birth certificates from Redwood Point that August so long ago has a possible, benign, and logical explanation: the resort might have catered to a Jewish clientele, providing kosher meals for example. Perhaps there'd been a synagogue.

But logic is no match for your deepening unease. You can't account for the chill in the pit of your stomach, but you feel that something's terribly wrong. Back in your hotel room, you pace, struggling to decide what to do next. Go back to Redwood Point and ask Chief Kitrick more questions? What questions? He'd react the same as Becky Hughes had. Assumptions, Mr. Weinberg. Inconclusive.

Then it strikes you. The name you found in the records. Dr. Jonathan Adams. The physician who certified not only your birth but all the births in Redwood Point. Your excitement abruptly falters. So long ago. The doctor would probably be dead by now. At once your pulse quickens. Dead? Not necessarily.

Simon and Esther were still alive until three weeks ago. Grief squeezing your throat, you concentrate. Dr. Adams might have been as young as Simon and Esther. There's a chance he…

But how to find him? The Redwood Point Clinic went out of business in the forties. Dr. Adams might have gone anywhere. You reach for the phone. A year ago, you were hired to litigate a malpractice suit against a drug-addicted ophthalmologist whose carelessness blinded a patient. You spent many hours talking to the American Medical Association. Opening the phone-number booklet that you always keep in your briefcase, you call the AMA's national headquarters in Chicago. Dr. Jonathan Adams? The deep male voice on the end of the line sounds eager to show his efficiency. Even through the static of a long-distance line, you hear fingers tap a computer keyboard.