Freedom's Child (15 page)

Officer Mattley can’t stop staring at the dirt ring of sweat on Captain Banks’s collar and the white that collects in the corners of his mouth; they’re hypnotizing. His blond hair whips across his lazy eyes; it moves even after his head stops. Mattley doesn’t have to listen to his actual words to know what he says as he paces the office. Barking. Sweating. Mattley’s already watched his face burn through sixty shades of red.
I fucked up, I know
, Mattley thinks.
I fucked up big-time, Cap’n
. He feels like a child being reprimanded in elementary school over a careless mistake.

“And Freedom Oliver, no less,” Banks yells in the closed office with the blinds down, not that they stop the other officers and staff from trying to get a glimpse of the golden child that is Mattley having his ass handed to him. “Leave it to the town drunk to steal your firearm and car.” Banks takes a deep breath as he plants his ass in his desk chair.

“Sir—”

“I can’t listen to it, Mattley.” Banks lowers his head and raises his hands. “You’re suspended until further notice.”

Mattley thinks about Freedom and what the hell might be going on in her mind, and he finds himself wondering why he cares about
her so much, what makes her different from anyone else he’s ever known. He thinks about the eyes that will burn a hole through him once he leaves this room. But more than anything, he thinks of racing right to the Whammy Bar, because chances are, that’s where she’ll be.
What a friggin’ mess
. But he bites his tongue: doesn’t say a thing.

“Hand me your badge,” says Banks.

Mattley reaches for it only to find it’s gone. “Fuck.”

“Goddamnit, Mattley.”

He wants to keep his nose to the floor but forces his head upright as he leaves the office. The others pretend to be busy at nothing at all, the rumors coming to a quick halt the second he steps out. And he knows they’ll resume as soon as he leaves.

Mattley kicks himself in the ass, curses as his shoes tap on the asphalt toward his pickup truck. He grips the leather of the steering wheel and rattles it with bellows that draft from the crevices of his teeth. And yet he’s not angry with her, with Freedom. No, he’s mad at himself for being so stupid, for letting his feelings for her interfere with his duties.

Even though Mattley quit smoking years ago, back before Richie was born, he always kept a spare in his center console, in the event of one of those hard days that come once in a while—the random rape victim, the dead child—but now seems just as good a time as any. And he hates that he loves the way he can still smell her hair on his skin, that his tongue still twitches in excitement at the thought of kissing her. He closes his eyes, rests his forehead on the steering wheel, and blows the smoke into his lap as the truck warms up. And then the taps on his window.

“Officer Mattley?”

“Not anymore.” He lifts his head and steps out to two men in suits. “Smells like something federal to me.”

The two men pull their badges from their coats. “I’m U.S. Marshal Lenny Gumm and this is Marshal Raymond Howe from Portland.”

Mattley slams the car door and plays stupid. “And to what do I owe the pleasure?”

Howe, with his permanent half-smile, nods toward the precinct. “Why don’t we take this inside? Need to talk to the boss, anyhow.”

Mattley stretches his arm and does a curtsy for the sake of theatrics. “After you.”

Mattley knows that nothing about the night is the fault of Captain Banks, but he can’t wait to see his face when the Feds knock on his door, especially given his mood. It’s common knowledge that small-time police departments clash with Feds. And like Mattley, Banks can smell who they are before they can even say “Good evening.”

“What the hell is this all about?” Banks curls his lip.

“Department of Justice,” Mattley interrupts with a smile over the ludicrousness of the night. “U.S. Marshals.”

Banks grunts as he closes the door behind the Feds and offers them a seat. “What does the Department of Justice have anything to do with a fire?”

“Anything you can tell us about it?” Gumm narrows his brow.

“Nothing, until the fire chief can start an investigation,” Banks says as he unbuttons the collar of his shirt. “Off the record? There’s a woman who lives there, senile. Wouldn’t be the first time she left the stove on; that’s what’s running through the rumor mill so far.”

“Yeah, well, we don’t go by what runs through the rumor mill where we come from, with all due respect, sir.”

Banks’s nostrils flare out as he clears his throat. Mattley can almost see the outburst rise to his lips before one occurs. “I’m sorry, I still don’t see how this would involve DOJ.”

“We don’t care about the fire, Captain Banks.” Howe shimmies to the edge of his seat and leans forward. “We’re interested in Freedom Oliver.”

“That lush?” Banks scoffs. “You don’t think she had something to do with causing that fire, do you?”

“No, but we think she may have been a target.”

“A target for what?” Mattley asks from the file cabinets behind the Feds.

As if previously rehearsed, Gumm and Howe simultaneously pull out their notepads. They notice Mattley’s interest. “Has Freedom ever said anything that might raise a red flag? Something about her past, perhaps?”

Mattley raises an eyebrow. “The only things she ever says are the incoherent babblings of someone who wants to drink herself to death.”

“Nothing? Nothing at all?”

Mattley clenches his jaw at their skepticism and cuts his answers short. “Nope.”

Gumm pulls out a folder with a pile of mug shots, grabs the attention of Banks and Mattley alike. “Tell us if you’ve seen any of these upstanding citizens around here.” One by one, Gumm places the faces of the Delaneys, including Lynn and Peter, on Banks’s desk. But neither one can identify them. “We need to find Freedom before these guys do.”

Banks looks up to Mattley as if what’s about to come out of his mouth is going to be painful. “I have to say it.” Banks rubs his brow. “Freedom just stole a patrol car and a cop’s firearm.” He swallows hard. “She’s in the wind.”

“Not surprising,” Howe says and pulls out a phone. “Can’t you just track the GPS in the car?”

Again, as if the words were small knives that slice at the corners of his lips, “We don’t use them here.”

Mattley can read the Feds’ thoughts:
Stupid small-town cops
. Howe looks up to Mattley. “I take it it was yours?” He smirks as Mattley turns his head away. “Don’t be too hard on yourself. It’s not the first time. Not for Freedom. She can charm anyone she wants. She’s been doing it for years.”

“I assure you, there’s nothing charming about that woman,” Mattley reacts.
But I can still taste her
, he thinks to himself.

Howe rises from his seat and paces the office on his cell. He commands, “We need an APB on a stolen patrol car, calling for backup from Portland on a fugitive who is armed and considered extremely dangerous.”

“Freedom’s not dangerous,” Mattley says and tries to get in front of Howe to stop him from making the call. “I mean, if she’s going to hurt anyone, she’s only going to hurt herself. There’s no need to get the Feds here, you’ll just scare her off.”

“Who? Freedom?” Gumm laughs from the chair. “Nothing scares that woman off. She’s a cold-blooded cop killer.”

“What.” Mattley’s surprise comes out completely deadpan. “She’s no killer.” They can barely hear him. He knows he’ll be caught in his own lie. “She was falsely accused, she never killed her husband.”

Banks’s jaw hits the ground. And now Mattley wants to rip the smirks clean off their chins.

“So she
has
talked to you?” Gumm smiles. Mattley shakes his head and grinds his teeth. “So you know all about Nessa Delaney?”

“Never heard the name,” Mattley growls.

Howe pulls out an old mug shot of Freedom. The arrest plate reads
DELANEY, NESSA
. Mattley has to squint and study the eyes to realize that it’s her, from decades ago when she was in her early twenties. Gumm begins, “Once upon a time, Freedom Oliver was sweet little Nessa Delaney of Mastic Beach, New York.” Banks examines the photo after Mattley. She’s hardly recognizable. Gumm speaks like he’s reading from an instruction manual. Most Feds do. “And then Nessa Delaney gunned down a well-respected cop of the NYPD.”

Howe pulls out a police academy portrait. Gumm continues, “This is Mark Delaney, husband of Nessa Delaney. And these?” He waves his hands over the montage of criminals like he’s some federal wizard in Hogwarts, Oregon. “These are the rest of the Delaneys, the ones that want her dead more than anything else in this world.”

“She’s a protected witness…” Banks trails off.

“That’s right.”

“Then why are you telling us?” Mattley asks. “No one’s supposed to know that.”

“Because the second she committed a federal crime, like, let’s say, stealing a patrol car and police-issued firearm”—Gumm takes Freedom’s file and tears it in half—“she left the program.”

“She said that the guy who did it was released from prison just the other day.”

“The guy who did it, this cop’s brother Matthew, just served
her
time. Just like your little girlfriend planned.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means she killed a man and got away with it,” Howe yells. “And not only did she get away with it, but she had the wrong man locked away for it for nearly two decades.” Howe goes on. “
That’s
who you’re dealing with. This Freedom nonsense? She’s dangerous. She’s cunning and calculating, and she’s always, I mean
always
, two steps ahead of you.” His words hang in the air. “Dismissed with prejudice…means she can’t be charged for it again.”

“Only in the good ol’ U.S. of A.,” Gumm offers. “Land of Freedom.” The Feds begin to leave. “It’s like Jesus once said.
Freedom
is just another word for nothing left to lose.” He smiles. “Didn’t Jesus coin that phrase, Howe?”

“Think so.”

“You guys can think about that. We’ll let you know if we find her.” Gumm gives Mattley their card, a not-so-subtle hint for Banks and Mattley to stay out of their way. In truth, Gumm and Howe were more than happy to have her expelled from the Witness Protection Program. They were sick of having to come all the way down there from Portland, constantly giving her warnings, through one ear and out the other. There were people out there more deserving of such relocation, waiting for ages, when ungrateful people like Freedom had it handed to her.

“Where are you guys going?” Mattley follows.

“To the Whammy Bar.” Howe tucks the files in his jacket. “If she’s not there, the Delaneys should be.”

The moon tries to break through a smoky canopy that covers the picturesque view of the ocean. Pinpoints of silver light shoot through the pine branches and over Passion’s body as she winds down the roads that line the cliff’s edges, on her way to Sovereign Shore. Her white fur coat follows behind her; Passion’s chased by rabbits. The chill of autumn bites at her cheekbones, makes her eyes tear. Gunsmoke’s bike vibrates under her, her nose close to the gas cap as she hums “(Sittin’ on) The Dock of the Bay” to keep her nerves at ease. The glow of a speedometer shines off her sequined suit that looks more like a bikini as the Harley bawls through the night. With the ocean to her left and the cliff side to her right, she focuses on a double yellow line.

Meanwhile, with the knowledge that the Feds are on their way there, Mattley races through the back roads to beat them to the Whammy Bar. He flicks another cigarette out the window. Trying not to make a habit of it again, he unwraps three sticks of spearmint gum at seventy miles per hour and chews. And at the Bend of Beelzebub, the notorious strip of road that swallows the lives of speeding teenagers and buzzed bikers, he falls back to second gear. But wait…
Did I just see Passion pass me in a bikini on a fucking bike?
He
merges onto the next soft shoulder and makes a U-turn to follow, and while he’s already lost her through the knots and turns, he has an idea of where she’s going: to Freedom’s favorite place in the world to get drunk. Sovereign Shore.

Passion makes the right onto a dirt lot lined with driftwood fence posts. The lot opens up to the cliff top roped off with signs of danger. Passion parks the stolen bike near the stolen police car, and on the other side of the ropes, near the edge that stands a good hundred feet above sharp boulders and the shore, is Freedom.

My name is Freedom
and I hear the exhaust of Gunsmoke’s motorcycle from down the road; the headlight dances with the curves of the cliff’s edge and beckons my attention, my focus. And suddenly, I hold my breath. Because I really don’t have a plan since my original one turned to shit. All I know is that I have to stay in motion; I have to move. If I don’t, I’ll jump. I’ll crash. I’ll die. Even if it’s just a few inches, a few minutes, I have to get closer to finding my daughter.

Passion parks the bike near the police car. I see her shadow and hear those harpoons as she walks toward me. “I hope you’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking,” she calls out.

I smile and step a few feet back from the edge. My voice is low, I’m not sure she hears me through the wind. “I’m not going to jump.” Our footsteps wring rainwater from a blanket of reds and yellows and browns of fallen leaves as I meet her. “The car’s still warm, if you’re cold,” I offer. Her fingers feel like frozen bones wrapped in leather as she hands me the keys to Gunsmoke’s bike. “I don’t have a lot of time. I’m gonna have to get out of here.”

“Any idea where you’re going?” she asks, her voice soft through the fog that surrounds us.

“East,” I tell her. “East, to the ends of the Earth.” And somehow, I think the ends of the Earth are exactly where I’m going to end up. I walk to the bike and she follows. I peek inside a leather pouch on
the side of the seat, one bolted on with silver studs reflecting in the moonlight. Inside, a burned spoon and a stack of ten thousand dollars, give or take.
Shit
. I zip it back up before Passion can see.

“To me, that’s only Sallins Street.” She tries to laugh. I pull a smoke from my bra. Passion lights it for me. The spark lights up the shadows around us, illuminates the demons in our eyes. Then the slews of a truck race on the parking lot behind Passion.
Who the fuck is this?
Mattley jumps out, practically before the vehicle stops. He marches toward us before I can even get the first drag of my cig. He looks pissed. I take Passion’s arm and step in front of her. I reach down my underwear and grab the coldness that is Mattley’s piece and point it toward his head.

He stops dead in his tracks and puts his hands in the air. And I hate having to do this, really, I do. But I see no choice. Like I said, I just have to be moving. I will keep going. I will not be stopped. “Is this what it is, Freedom?” he snaps, in a way I’d have never imagined coming from the placid copper. “You’re gonna kill another fucking cop?”

And there I was, feeling bad. But this? This sloppy accusation, this fucking assumption, this topic he knows nothing about? Who the hell does he think he is? Gumm and Howe must be around here, because I only told Mattley I was charged with killing my husband, never mentioned him being a cop. The fire would have surely brought the whippersnappers out this way, anyway. “Only if you stand in my fucking way, James.” It’s the first time I ever use his first name, and it feels so foreign on my tongue. I take a shot, but I don’t actually aim for him. I miss his head by a few inches, just to show him I’m not fucking around.

Passion screeches behind me and pulls at the back of my shirt. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“You’re out of your goddamn mind,” Mattley roars from the pit of his lungs.

“Old news, James. Old news.” I step sideways toward the bike. “Now, I’m going to need for you to get out of my way.”

“Freedom,” his silhouette cries. A tear runs down my cheek. It could be anger, it could be sadness, I’m not sure. Either way, it brings a pang to my gut. Pieces of my heart seem to rise to my throat, but I swallow them. I can’t let anyone see that all I want to do is tell him I love him, but what’s the point? I won’t because as a glutton for punishment, I can’t let a good thing like Mattley happen. There are no happy endings, not in any of my stories, not in real life. Life doesn’t want to see two people like us together in each other’s arms. And it never will. Such is life.

“I’m sorry.” I point the gun toward his truck and shoot out the tire. I reach in my pocket and throw him the keys to the cop car. “This way you can’t cross state lines, not in a cop car and not in a truck with flat tires. Take Passion home.” I turn around, hop on Gunsmoke’s Harley, and turn the ignition.

Just as I’m about to leave, he walks to me. “At least take this.” He worms out of his black bomber jacket and drapes it over the handlebar. I look up at him and he turns his head away. My stares hurt him. His avoidance hurts me. And as I give Passion a little nod of gratitude, I leave.

With my back to Painter, Oregon, I ride east into the night.

“I’m coming, Rebekah. I’m coming.”