Freedom's Child (23 page)

My name is Freedom and I stop the motorcycle beside a car with New York plates. When I turn it off, the silence is deafening. I can just about hear the burning of the stars above me. Ahead, a building of loose siding, rotting in isolation. Behind it, a silhouette formed by moonlight, the steel of an old power plant etched against an icy sky, a long and distant curtain of steel and hazardous waste. I think about letting the air out of the Delaneys’ tires; that’s what instinct tells me to do. But then they might have to take me to her. Things might not end well if I do that. Actually, I don’t see them ending well at all.

I stand in front of their car and my bike. I force my shoulders upright, leave the fear behind. I build up the rage, the determination I have for getting my daughter out of here. It all collects into a ball in the pit of my lungs and rises to my throat.

“Matthew!” I scream with all the power I have in my windpipe. “Here I am.” An animal scurries in the tall grass beside the warehouse. There’s no other response but for the high-pitched squeaks of bats that zip from a few trees. “Matthew!”

I breathe it in. The night. The cold. The darkness. God help anyone who stands in the way between me and my daughter.
Remember
,
you are not a sad case anymore, you are not Nessa Delaney. And don’t revert back to Nessa when in their company. You are Freedom. You are strong, unbreakable. You are the monster they fear, their worst motherfucking nightmare
.

But still, there is no answer.

My phone vibrates with a text:

Come inside
.

I have to use all my might to push open a sliding wooden door; I grunt with the force. Bundles of hay and farming equipment decorate the abandoned space, the smell of years-old gasoline seeped into the ground. The door slamming open sends an echo through the warehouse, a gust of wind blowing back. Stillness.

My steps make the floorboards creak; moonlight pierces the spaces between the wooden planks that make up the walls. I listen for any kind of life, but instead I’m met with the wind hissing through the space. Somehow, though, I can feel Rebekah here, like a sweet breath that stands out from such a bleak place. I smell the trace of cigarette smoke when I hear the steps above me. A loft, Matthew front and center, looking down on me.

“Nessa, Nessa, Nessa.” His voice calm.

I look up at him. Don’t let him see me sweat, see me tremble. “I’m here.”

His smile slices through the shadows; I feel it in the roots of my hair. “So you are.”

“And Rebekah?”

“But of course, love.” He looks over his shoulder. Luke and John join Matthew at the edge of the loft, a landing with no railing. The brothers manhandle Rebekah by the elbows, her hands tied behind her back, a hood over her face. She screams, but there must be something in her mouth. I think my heart stops beating. This is my daughter. This is her, in the flesh, at the hands of the most psychotic people to have ever walked the planet.

“We have a deal?” I call up. “I’m unarmed, alone. Just let me have her, and I’m all yours. You have my word.”

“Your word?” He laughs. “Sure.”

“Don’t—” I start to scream. But before I can, the men push her from the loft. She screams. I run. It’s natural, perhaps my first push of maternal instinct. Like a ton of bricks, she falls on top of me, but I break her fall. I can’t catch my breath on the impact, but hearing the men’s footsteps run down to me does the trick.

I lift Rebekah up by the back of her pants. “I need you to stand, honey.” I whisper to her. The men charge us like a wall, shadows becoming more recognizable the closer they get. I push her in front of me, but she falls; one of her legs is not working. I reach for the gun. It’s not there.
Where the fuck is it?!

There’s nothing to defend myself with: no wooden beams, no crowbar, nothing convenient like you see in the movies.
Think, Freedom
. But there’s no time to think. I get in front of her and try to gently shove her with my back.

I unbuckle my belt and yank it through the denim loops of my pants. A line of rope burn bites my hips. As soon as Matthew’s face is close enough to see, I use the buckle’s end to whip him across the face. I can feel the sting from here. Luke and John try to tackle me, but I rip through the darkness with the leather strip, my aim impressive, even to me. “You stay the fuck away from her!” I scrape the floor with my boot, hoping to find the gun with my foot. In the corner of my eye, I see Rebekah feel her way out with her shoulders, head covered and hands still tied. She finds her way out the door.

Matthew raises his hands. “This is my revenge, boys.” He brings his hand to his face. “Go get our niece.” They follow her.

We’re alone. When he looks back at me, I feel nothing but the abyss that replaces his soul. My heel shifts the gun on the ground. Only felt like forever to find it. I whip him again, hard enough that it sends pins all the way up to my elbow, this time across his chest, just to keep him back for a second while I fetch the pistol off the ground. He grunts, but I can’t tell if it’s in pain or pleasure.

“Looks like it’s just the two of us,” he pants.

“Why couldn’t you just leave her alone?” With my finger on the trigger, it takes everything in me not to let it move.

“It wasn’t her I wanted to begin with. I only wanted you.” In the shadows, I can see his grin curl upward. “It was all a means to get to you.”

“Yeah, well, here I am.”

“So I see.” It could have been romantic, given any other place. At any other time. With any other person. Under any other circumstances. I swear I can feel the welts start to rise on his skin. Instead of words, our minds race to twenty years ago, the same memories but different experiences, different perspectives. The silence gets under my skin, I can’t take it. Not only do I want to break it, I want to shatter it so it can never be repaired again.

“Rebekah isn’t your niece.” I let the gun down and take a step closer to him. “She is your daughter.” I put the gun in my jeans to show him I have no intention of shooting him. I reach over and take his hand. Mine fits perfectly in his. My words seem to have stopped his breath.

“That night…” His voice raspy, choking at the attempt to whisper.

“Yes, that night.” I put my palm on his chest, feel his heart race. I imagine myself ripping inside of him and squeezing the blood from his heart until it simply stops. I kiss his collarbone and press my body against his. I think about the oils of his skin staining my lips and the thought makes me want to gag.
Move slow. Don’t be too jumpy around him. Gain his trust, even if it’s for this second. As much as you hate him, gain his fucking trust
.

“When we made love…” His voice is unchanging.

I kiss a trail from his shoulder to his back, fight the urge to pull his spine out with my teeth from the base of his neck.
Get behind him, that’s the plan. Keep him enthralled. I’m holding the cards. Seduce him. Stay calm
. “I think about that night all the time,” I say. In this, I tell the truth. I caress his torso from behind him.

He can’t finish his sentences, just lets them trail off into the hollowness of this place. “Our daughter…”

“
My
daughter.” In a rapid sweep, I put the belt around his neck and pull hard enough that we both fall down. Lying on my back, he wriggles on top of me, his back on my chest. I wrap my legs around him and pull until his kicking and thrashing becomes random jerks and spasms. When I let go of the belt, I feel the life return to my face, to my airways.

It drains me for a moment; my attempts to push him off me are weak. He’s not dead. Only because killing him wasn’t my intention. Matthew isn’t worth it, isn’t worth the spit on my shoe. I press my fingertips onto the artery in his neck to confirm he’s alive. His pulse is faint but present. That’s what counts.

I check the gun in the back of my pants. Not putting the belt back on.
No, that can stay around Matthew’s neck, a leash for the dog that he is. I’m not going to leave him here. I’ll use him as ammo, use him as bait. Pull
.

His backside scrapes against the sawdust and hay. It’s not as simple as dragging him across the ground; I have to give a few firm yanks to pull him forward. Dead weight. I remember this heaviness from when I dragged his own brother, my husband’s corpse, across our home. When I leave the warehouse, the chill of autumn dries the sweat of my brow. Luke and John can’t see me yet, not from the trunk of the Delaneys’ car. I pause for half a minute to catch my breath. The distance between us is short, but the darkness is deep. They taunt and push Rebekah around like dogs fighting over scraps. Two words dominate the millions of thoughts that ricochet inside my skull:
Get Rebekah
.

I become fixed at the concept, unstoppable. I find that I cannot plan my next move, don’t really think about it. I run on autopilot, like my mind can’t think of what to do next but my body does. I’m going to have to just let my body lead the way. Because all I can think about is getting Rebekah the fuck out of here.

“Well, well,” they call out when they see me, all whistles and
hollers. But what they don’t see is their brother’s unconscious body dragging behind me, his neck at the other end of my belt. When they do, they freeze; Rebekah falls to her knees, sobbing.

“Open the trunk,” I tell them. I put the toe of my boot on the buckle of the belt to hold it on his neck, make them see me give a good tug with my right hand. With my left, I aim the gun at their faces and scream, “I said open the fucking trunk.”

They look at each other. Right, like either of them know what to do in a situation like this. Luke is the one to open the trunk. “Get in.” They don’t seem angry. They don’t seem scared. They only seem to be taking me seriously. They crawl in, stiff in the fetal position. I take the keys. “And your phones.”

“You’re not going to get away with this, you stupid—”

I interrupt John’s sentence by slamming the trunk door down on them. I shoot out the tires, then throw the car keys into the tall grass as far as I can. Rebekah leans against the car, her cries stifled by a burlap hood. “Rebekah.” I help her up. There’s no time for introductions; Matthew’s starting to wake up and the boys are making quite the racket.

“Follow my voice.” I get on and start the bike before helping her on behind me by keeping my arm on her so she feels my fingertips at the top of her chest. I pinch her clothes and pull her closer. “We need to hurry. Use the good leg and get behind me on the bike. I’m getting you out of here.”

I haul ass. With her hands still behind her back, Rebekah squeezes me with the insides of her thighs to maintain her balance as I speed out of there. She screams in pain through the bandanna tied around her mouth, her cries coming out of her ears. “Hang tight!”

I breathe for the first time leaving La Grange, a gulp at the air where I never felt more alive. But I’m not in the clear yet. I’ll have to stop soon.

I turn when I see a grassed-over trail that leads through the forest, maybe five miles from the warehouse. I go in as deep as the path
takes me until I’m sure we’re safe. When I turn the bike off, I listen to hear if anyone’s following. So far, we’ve made it. I use my heel to put the kickstand down and help Rebekah off the bike. She cannot walk after the fall. I carry her and lean her against a tree. “You’re OK. You’re safe now.”

I sit beside her in the pitch black and lean my back against the same tree as her. I can’t even see my hand in front of me. I take off the hood and I feel my back pockets until I find a lighter. I use it to untie the knots on Rebekah’s wrists. And so this is it. This is my first meeting with my daughter.
My daughter
. While circumstances of the reunion are far from ideal, thank God she’s safe. Thank God she’s OK. She frees her hands, rips the bandanna from her mouth. She pants and swallows the fresh air, coughing to catch her breath. It’s too dark to see her face.

“Relax, now. You’re fine,” I tell her.

She forces steady breaths, her gasps wet with spit and snot. “Who the hell are you?” she demands.

“My name is Freedom.” I don’t know what to say yet. This wasn’t how I planned it. But I’m OK with this. As long as she’s away from the Delaneys. It takes all that I have not to grab her, to hold her tight, to run my hands through her hair. It takes all that I have not to sob like a baby into her neck, to breathe her in.