A Place Called Freedom (1995)

by Ken Follett

  Then Peg screamed.

  Mack ran for the trees, expecting a bullet to slam into his back.

  There was a bang, followed by another.

  He felt nothing. The shots had missed him.

  Before more shots came he stopped in his tracks and raised his hands in the air.

  He had done it. He had given Lizzie her warning.

  He turned slowly, keeping his hands up. It’s up to you now, Lizzie, he thought. Good luck, my love.

  Jay stopped when he heard shooting. It had come from behind him. It was not Lizzie who had fired, but someone back in the clearing. He waited, but there was no more gunfire.

  What did it mean? McAsh could hardly have got hold of a weapon and loaded it. Anyway, the man was a coal miner, he knew nothing of guns. Jay guessed that Lennox or Dobbs had shot McAsh.

  Whatever the truth, the all-important task was to capture Lizzie.

  Unfortunately, the shooting had warned her.

  He knew his wife. What would she do?

  Patience and caution were foreign to her. She rarely hesitated. She reacted quickly and decisively. By now she would be running this way. She would be almost back in the clearing before she thought to slow down and look ahead and make a plan.

  He found a spot where he could see clearly for thirty or forty yards along the bank of the stream. He hid himself in the bushes. Then he cocked the flintlock of his rifle.

  Indecision struck him like a sudden pain. What would he do when she came into his sights? If he shot her all his troubles would be over. He tried to pretend he was hunting deer. He would aim for the heart, just below the shoulder, for a clean kill.

  She came into view.

  She was half walking and half running, stumbling along the uneven riverbank. She was wearing men’s clothing again, but he could see her bosom heaving with exertion. She carried two rifles under her arm.

  He aimed at her heart, but he saw her naked, straddling him on the bed in the Chapel Street house, her breasts quivering as they made love; and he could not shoot.

  When she was ten yards away he stepped out of the undergrowth.

  She stopped in her tracks and gave a cry of horror.

  “Hello, darling,” he said.

  She gave him a look of hatred. “Why couldn’t you just let me go?” she said. “You don’t love me!”

  “No, but I need a grandchild,” he said.

  She looked scornful. “I’d rather die.”

  “That’s the alternative,” he said.

  There was a moment of chaos after Lennox fired his pistols at Mack.

  The horses were frightened by the close-range shooting. Peg’s ran away. She stayed on, tied as she was, and hauled on the reins with her bound hands, but she could not stop it and they disappeared into the trees. Dobbs’s horse was bucking and he fought to bring it under control. Lennox began hastily to reload his weapons.

  That was when Fish Boy made his move.

  He ran at Dobbs’s horse, jumped on behind him, and wrestled Dobbs out of the saddle.

  With a burst of exhilaration Mack realized he was not yet beaten.

  Lennox dropped his pistols and ran to the rescue.

  Mack stuck out a foot and tripped Lennox.

  Dobbs fell off his horse, but one ankle got tangled in the rope by which Fish Boy was tied to the saddle. The horse, now terrified, bolted. Fish Boy clung to its neck for dear life. It ran out of sight, dragging Dobbs along the ground after it.

  With savage glee Mack turned to face Lennox. Only the two of them were left in the clearing. At last it had come to a fistfight between them. I’ll kill him, Mack thought.

  Lennox rolled over and came up with a knife in his hand.

  He lunged at Mack. Mack dodged, then kicked Lennox’s kneecap and danced out of range.

  Limping, Lennox came at him. This time he feinted with the knife, let Mack dodge the wrong way, then struck again. Mack felt a sharp pain in his left side. He swung with his right fist and hit Lennox a mighty blow to the side of the head. Lennox blinked and raised the knife.

  Mack backed away. He was younger and stronger than Lennox, but Lennox probably had much experience of knife fights. With a stab of panic he realized that close combat was not the way to defeat a man with a knife. He had to change his tactics.

  Mack turned and ran a few yards, looking for a weapon. His eye lit on a rock about the size of his fist. He stooped and picked it up and turned.

  Lennox rushed him.

  Mack threw the rock. It hit Lennox squarely in the center of the forehead, and Mack gave a shout of triumph. Lennox stumbled, dazed. Mack had to make the most of his advantage. Now was the moment to disarm Lennox. Mack kicked out and connected with Lennox’s right elbow.

  Lennox dropped the knife and gave a cry of dismay.

  Mack had him.

  He hit Lennox on the chin with all his might. The blow hurt his hand but gave him deep satisfaction. Lennox backed away, fear in his eyes, but Mack was after him fast. He punched Lennox in the belly, then hit him on each side of the head. Dazed and terrified, Lennox staggered. He was finished, but Mack could not stop. He wanted to kill the man. He grabbed Lennox by the hair, pulled his head down, and kneed him in the face. Lennox screamed and blood spurted from his nose. He fell to his knees, coughed, and vomited. Mack was about to hit him again when he heard Jay’s voice say: “Stop or I’ll kill her.”

  Lizzie walked into the clearing and Jay followed, holding his rifle to the back of her head.

  Mack stared, paralyzed. He could see that Jay’s rifle was cocked. If Jay even stumbled, the gun would blow her head off. Mack turned away from Lennox and moved toward Jay. He was still possessed by savagery. “You’ve only got one shot,” he snarled at Jay. “If you shoot Lizzie, I’ll kill you.”

  “Then perhaps I should shoot you,” Jay said.

  “Yes,” Mack said madly, moving toward him. “Shoot me.”

  Jay swung the rifle.

  Mack felt a wild jubilation: the gun was no longer pointed at Lizzie. He walked steadily toward Jay.

  Jay took careful aim at Mack.

  There was a strange noise, and suddenly a narrow cylinder of wood was sticking out of Jay’s cheek.

  Jay screamed in pain and dropped the rifle. It went off with a bang and the ball flew past Mack’s head.

  Jay had been shot in the face with an arrow.

  Mack felt his knees go weak.

  The noise came again, and a second arrow pierced Jay’s neck.

  He fell to the ground.

  Into the clearing came Fish Boy, his friend, and Peg, followed by five or six Indian men, all carrying bows.

  Mack began to shake with relief. He guessed that when Jay captured Fish Boy, the other Indian had gone for help. The rescue party must have met up with the runaway horses. He did not know what had happened to Dobbs, but one of the Indians was wearing Dobbs’s boots.

  Lizzie stood over Jay, staring at him, her hand covering her mouth. Mack went over and put his arms around her. He looked down at the man on the ground. Blood was pouring from his mouth. The arrow had opened a vein in his neck.

  “He’s dying,” Lizzie said shakily.

  Mack nodded.

  Fish Boy pointed at Lennox, who was still kneeling. The other Indians seized him, threw him flat and held him down. There was some conversation between Fish Boy and the oldest of the others. Fish Boy kept showing his fingers. They looked as if the nails had been pulled out, and Mack guessed that was how Lennox had tortured the boy.

  The older Indian drew a hatchet from his belt. With a swift, powerful motion he cut off Lennox’s right hand at the wrist.

  Mack said: “By Jesus.”

  Blood gushed from the stump and Lennox fainted.

  The man picked up the severed hand and, with a formal air, presented it to Fish Boy.

  He took it solemnly. Then he turned around and hurled it away. It flew up into the air and over the trees, to fall somewhere in the woods.

  There was a murmur
of approval from the Indians.

  “A hand for a hand,” Mack said quietly.

  “God forgive them,” said Lizzie.

  But they had not finished. They picked up the bleeding Lennox and placed him under a tree. They tied a rope to his ankle, looped the rope over a bough of the tree, and raised him until he was hanging upside-down. Blood pumped from his severed wrist and pooled on the ground beneath him. The Indians stood around, looking at the grisly sight. It seemed they were going to watch Lennox die. They reminded Mack of the crowd at a London hanging.

  Peg came up to them and said; “We ought to do something about the Indian boy’s fingers.”

  Lizzie looked away from her dying husband.

  Peg said: “Have you got something to bandage his hand?”

  Lizzie blinked and nodded. “I’ve got some ointment, and a handkerchief we can use for a bandage. I’ll see to it.”

  “No,” Peg said firmly. “Let me do it.”

  “If you wish.” Lizzie found a jar of ointment and a silk handkerchief and gave them to Peg.

  Peg detached Fish Boy from the group around the tree. Although she did not speak his language, she seemed to be able to communicate with him. She led him down to the stream and began to bathe his wounds.

  “Mack,” said Lizzie.

  He turned to her. She was crying.

  “Jay is dead,” she said.

  Mack looked at him. He was completely white. The bleeding had stopped and he was motionless. Mack bent and felt for a heartbeat. There was none.

  “I loved him once,” Lizzie said.

  “I know.”

  “I want to bury him.”

  Mack got a spade from their kit. While the Indians watched Lennox bleed to death, Mack dug a shallow grave. He and Lizzie lifted Jay’s body and placed it in the hole. Lizzie bent down and gingerly withdrew the arrows from the corpse. Mack shoveled soil over the body and Lizzie began to cover the grave with stones.

  Suddenly Mack wanted to get away from this place of blood.

  He rounded up the horses. There were now ten: the six from the plantation, plus the four Jay and his gang had brought. Mack was struck by the peculiar thought that he was rich. He owned ten horses. He began to load the supplies.

  The Indians stirred. Lennox seemed to be dead. They left the tree and came over to where Mack was loading the horses. The oldest man spoke to Mack. Mack did not understand a word, but the tone was formal. He guessed the man was saying that justice had been done.

  They were ready to go.

  Fish Boy and Peg came up from the waterside together. Mack looked at the boy’s hand: Peg had made a nice job of the bandage.

  Fish Boy said something, and there followed an exchange in the Indian language that sounded quite angry. At last all the Indians but Fish Boy walked away.

  “Is he staying?” Mack asked Peg.

  She shrugged.

  The other Indians went eastward, along the river valley toward the setting sun, and soon disappeared into the woods.

  Mack got on his horse. Fish Boy unroped a spare horse from the line and mounted it. He went ahead. Peg rode beside him. Mack and Lizzie followed.

  “Do you think Fish Boy is going to guide us?” Mack said to Lizzie.

  “It looks like it.”

  “But he hasn’t asked a price of any kind.”

  “No.”

  “I wonder what he wants.”

  Lizzie looked at the two young people riding side by side. “Can’t you guess?” she said.

  “Oh!” said Mack. “You think he’s in love with her?”

  “I think he wants to spend a little more time with her.”

  “Well, well.” Mack became thoughtful.

  As they headed west, along the river valley, the sun came up behind them, throwing their shadows on the land ahead.

  * * *

  It was a broad valley, beyond the highest range but still in the mountains. There was a fast-moving stream of pure cold water bubbling along the valley floor, teeming with fish. The hillsides were densely forested and alive with game. On the highest ridge, a pair of golden eagles came and went, bringing food to the nest for their young.

  “It reminds me of home,” said Lizzie.

  “Then we’ll call it High Glen,” Mack replied.

  They unloaded the horses in the flattest part of the valley bottom, where they would build a house and clear a field. They camped on a patch of dry turf beneath a wide-spreading tree.

  Peg and Fish Boy were rummaging through a sack, looking for a saw, when Peg found the broken iron collar. She pulled it out and stared quizzically at it. She looked uncomprehendingly at the letters: she had never learned to read. “Why did you bring this?” she said.

  Mack exchanged glances with Lizzie. They were both recalling the scene by the river in the old High Glen, back in Scotland, when Lizzie had asked Mack the same question.

  Now he gave Peg the same answer, but this time there was no bitterness in his voice, only hope. “Never to forget,” he said with a smile. “Never.”

  Acknowledgments

  For invaluable help with this book I thank the following:

  My editors, Suzanne Baboneau and Ann Patty;

  Researchers Nicholas Courtney and Daniel Starer;

  Historians Anne Goldgar and Thad Tate;

  Ramsey Dow and John Brown-Wright of

  Longannet Colliery;

  Lawrence Lambert of the Scottish Mining Museum;

  Gordon and Dorothy Grant of Glen Lyon;

  Scottish MPs Gordon Brown, Martin O’Neill, and the late John Smith;

  Ann Duncombe;

  Colin Tett;

  Barbara Follett, Emanuele Follett, Katya Follett and

  Kim Turner;

  And, as always, Al Zuckerman.

  Available now at a bookstore near you …

  THE THIRD TWIN

  by Ken Follett

  Published by The Random House Publishing Group.

  The Third Twin is an electrifying contemporary thriller, energized by the chilling possibilities of genetic manipulation and as fully riveting as Ken Follett’s classic World War II thriller Eye of the Needle.

  In her research on the genetic components of aggression for the Jones Falls University psychology department, Jeannie Farrari makes a startling discovery. Using a restricted FBI database, she has located a pair of identical twins who were born, impossibly, to different mothers. When she delves into their backgrounds, forces as powerful as The New York Times and the FBI take notice, and she suddenly finds that her career—and possibly much more—is in danger.

  Who can she trust? Berisford Jones, the powerful mentor who encouraged her research? Or Steve Logan, one of the unnatural twins, a man she is coming to love despite the possibility that he carries within him a genetic predisposition to rape and murder?

  What Jeannie cannot know is that she has stumbled upon evidence of a conspiracy involving a top biotech company, right-wing politicians, and her own university. Their aim is as shocking as it is scientifically and technically possible in the era of genetic manipulation: the reshaping of American society according to their own reactionary, racist, and sexist principles.

  Turn the page for a glimpse of this gripping new novel …

  JEANNIE LEFT THE TENNIS COURT AND HEADED FOR the locker room. As she was passing the hockey pitch, she ran into Lisa Hoxton. Lisa was the first real friend she had made since arriving at Jones Falls a month ago. Like Jeannie, she came from a poor background, and was a little intimidated by the Ivy League hauteur of Jones Falls. They had taken to one another instantly.

  “A kid just tried to pick me up,” Jeannie said with a smile.

  “What was he like?”

  “He looked like Brad Pitt, but taller.”

  “Did you tell him you had a friend more his age?” Lisa said. She was twenty-four.

  “No.” Jeannie glanced over her shoulder, but the man was nowhere in sight. “Keep walking, in case he follows me.”

  “How cou
ld that be bad?”

  “Come on.”

  “Jeannie, it’s the creepy ones you run away from.”

  “Knock it off!”

  “You might have given him my phone number.”

  “I should have handed him a slip of paper with your bra size on it, that would have done the trick.” Lisa had a big bust.

  Lisa stopped walking and looked shocked. For a moment Jeannie thought she had gone too far and offended Lisa. She began to frame an apology. Then Lisa said: “What a great idea! I’m a 36D, for more information call this number. It’s so subtle, too.”

  “I’m just envious; I always wanted hooters,” Jeannie said, and they both giggled. “It’s true, though, I prayed for tits. I was practically the last girl in my class to get my period; it was so embarrassing.”

  “You actually said: ‘Dear God, please make my tits grow,’ kneeling beside your bed?”

  “Actually I prayed to the Virgin Mary; I figured it was a girl thing. And I didn’t say tits, of course.”

  “What did you say, breasts?”

  “No, I figured you couldn’t say breasts to the Holy Mother.”

  “So what did you call them?”

  “Bristols.”

  Lisa burst out laughing.

  “I don’t know where I got that word from; I must have overheard some men talking. It seemed like a polite euphemism to me. I never told anyone that before in my life.”

  Lisa looked back. “Well, I don’t see any good-looking guys following us. I guess we shook off Brad Pitt.”

  “It’s a good thing. He’s just my type: handsome, sexy, overconfident, and totally untrustworthy.”

  “How do you know he’s untrustworthy? You only met him for twenty seconds.”

  “All men are untrustworthy.”

  “You’re probably right. Are you coming to Andy’s tonight?”

  “Yeah, just for an hour or so. I have to shower first.” Her shirt was wet through with perspiration.

  “Me, too.” Lisa was in shorts and running shoes. “I’ve been training with the hockey team. Why only for an hour?”