In the Shadows of Freedom

by C

  At long last, she spotted her family’s mailbox standing at the end of their driveway. The nearest house was about a five-minute walk away. Gazing across the lane, she saw endless mountain peaks. She turned to begin the ascent: their house sat far off the road, on top of a hill, making the driveway always a tiresome hike. She trudged up the gravel path. Large piles of leaves and pine needles had accumulated, so much so that they filled the tire ruts. Why hadn’t her dad raked yet? It was now the first day of November.

  Winded from the steep incline, she passed the crest of the hill and entered their secluded refuge. Here she always enjoyed complete isolation: from the front yard, someone could see no other home or sign of human life. Chiara was likely at the apprenticeship she had at the horse farm a few miles away, but her dad’s pickup truck was parked in its usual spot on the side of the house. It struck Amanda as odd that he hadn’t left for work yet, but she hurried to the porch: she had an incredible urge to see his face and hear his voice. Here she stood, the prodigal daughter, but her dad would run over to greet her with open arms.

  Of course her house key was back in Nikki’s apartment, so she gave a loud knock on the front door. She waited. No response. Perhaps her dad was upstairs and couldn’t hear her? She pounded a bit more forcefully—they really should get a doorbell. She bent down and pulled the spare key from underneath the welcome mat at her feet.

  “Dad?” She walked inside the front hallway and heard the sound of canned laughter. The television must be on in the living room. “Dad?” She peered inside the room.

  A talk show played to an empty room. She went over to her dad’s chair, an overstuffed recliner, worn and threadbare from overuse. His favorite mug, which her mom had given him on his birthday years ago, sat on the end table, half-filled with coffee. Commanding the television to turn off, she listened for sounds of movement. Silence.

  She moved into the kitchen and reeled from a horrid stench. An open gallon of milk sat on the counter, its spoiled, sour fumes wafting throughout the room. Chiara’s chair was pulled out from the kitchen table, a bowl of cereal at her place. A spoon sat in the bowl, the cereal bloated from the moisture of the milk, soggy and entirely unappetizing. Her dad might have let the dishes go, but Chiara was almost compulsive about cleaning.

  Amanda walked toward the reeking milk container with the intention of throwing it out, but the daily calendar perched nearby caught her eye. It belonged to her dad. Tearing the page to the new date was part of his morning ritual—as much a habit as pouring his morning cup of coffee. She picked up the calendar, puzzled … October 18. That was two whole weeks ago. Swallowing uneasily, she picked up the milk jug and walked toward the garbage can on the other side of the kitchen. But there, lying on the floor, was her dad’s cell phone. Had he dropped it? Why would he just leave it there? She snatched it up, swiped in his passcode, and saw that he had a message. She played it back and heard her own voice: “Hey, it’s me. Sorry for not calling you back sooner. I hope things are going okay. … I’ll try to call you tomorrow.”

  She had called her family on Monday. Today was Thursday. She tried to trace the days back in her mind. When had her dad called her last? She had no idea: thanks to the pill, a whole swath of her time in the city was a formless void in which she couldn’t remember what she said or did and when.

  Regardless of that, the dated calendar page, the playing television, the bowl of cereal, the phone inexplicably lying on the floor—these all pointed to one conclusion: something was wrong. For some reason, her dad and Chiara had left very abruptly. Had they gone somewhere, not expecting her return, and were waiting to call her? Yet why would they leave no information? And her dad’s truck … they couldn’t have gone far without the family’s sole vehicle. No, they couldn’t have left, at least not voluntarily.

  No, not voluntarily … but forcibly? She laid a trembling hand on the counter to steady herself. Waves of icy fear poured over her. Twenty-four hours ago, she never would have considered this explanation realistic, but in light of what she had just witnessed and experienced—that the NCP was willing to resort to anything to protect itself—Morgan’s claim about people being abducted now seemed terrifyingly credible.

  No, it was more than credible. It explained everything. Of course the NCP would be concerned about her dad. He was far from being politically correct and made a concerted effort to blast the reigning party, a trait that solidified him as one of the most active members of the local opposition group.

  The government prosecuted only one crime: treason. In the eyes of the NCP, her dad was a criminal.

  Had Ethan known? Did he realize her dad was a target? Did he … help arrange her family’s disappearance?

  No … no, she wouldn’t think about that. … Ethan didn’t matter right now. She only needed her family. She wanted to be with them more than she wanted anything else now. Everything else faded into distant shadows in her mind: Chiara and her dad instantly consumed her thoughts, desires, memories, and feelings. She had always assumed they would be here: she had taken their presence and love for granted. And now they were gone. She couldn’t lose them … she couldn’t lose her dad and Chiara, not like she had already lost her mom. Overwhelming panic began to cloud any rational thinking she had left.

  “Dad!” Her petrified screaming, sputtered with half sobs heaving from her tightened chest, reverberated through the vacant house. She sprinted from the kitchen, up the stairs. “Dad!”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Hound of Hell

  Each step up the stairs raised more desperate questions: Where could her dad and Chiara be? Were they hurt? Were they even alive? At the top of the landing, Amanda’s eyes darted about, even as her heart jackhammered in her chest. No sign of anyone, not a sound or movement anywhere. Amanda sank to the floor, her body shaking from head to foot, violent sobs racking her body. Her family was gone and she, too, was now lost.

  She inhaled between cries, trying to catch her breath, and in that pause, a quiet moment of clarity struck her. Her dad wasn’t the only person speaking out against the NCP; he led an organized group that met regularly. She had never given them a second’s thought. It had always been her dad’s thing, just like painting was hers. But now she clung like a life preserver to the hope of that opposition group: they could help her. Maybe someone even knew information about her family and what had happened.

  She would have to look up some of her dad’s contacts and call them. But first she should make a reconnaissance of the upstairs. Maybe she could find something, some sign or evidence as to what had happened.

  Peering into Chiara’s bright pink room, Amanda felt a lump growing in her throat. Chiara’s bed was unmade, the blankets tossed onto the floor as though she had jumped up and sprang downstairs for breakfast. Amanda rifled through the items on Chiara’s desk and found a blue ribbon hidden under a library book: Chiara had won first place at her horse show a couple of months ago. Amanda covered her mouth and closed her eyes: she never even bothered asking Chiara about the horse show. She had been too busy taking pills and being with … No, she couldn’t think about this now. Time to go to the next room.

  She entered her dad’s bedroom. At first glance, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. The usual mess filled the top of his dresser: a measuring tape, a box of matches, coins pulled from his pocket at the end of the day, crumpled receipts. She rifled through his top drawer and found the pile of cash he liked to keep on hand. Putting the money and matches into her book bag, she moved on to the final room upstairs.

  At any other time, entering her bedroom would have been such a comfort, but not now. Her room looked unchanged, just as she had left it months ago. Ignoring the covered paintings all around the room, she flung off her smoke-filled clothes and replaced them with an old, paint-stained pair of jeans and a black sweatshirt.

  Amanda returned to the kitchen. She picked up her dad’s phone with the intention of looking up his contacts, but her stomach growled: she was ravenous. It had been so long
since she last ate. So she raided the fridge and cabinets, checking to see what she could find: raisins, granola bars, peanut butter, yogurt, a few pretzels and chips. She assembled some semblance of a breakfast and stuffed the balance of the food into her book bag. She didn’t know where the search for her family would take her, but she wanted to be prepared. Then she wolfed down her breakfast, not caring how it tasted, as she flipped through her dad’s contacts, wondering where to start.

  She stuffed the last bite into her mouth and froze: a distant yet very distinct noise invaded her ears.

  The house was silent save the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway. But she distinguished the faint sound of tires crunching on gravel in the near distance outside. Then it hit her: If they apprehended Chiara, why wouldn’t they be searching for Kevin Burrow’s other daughter too? Maybe that was why the taxi driver seemed so uneasy when he recognized her?

  Seized with fear, she hurried to zipper her bag, then flung it on her back and crept down the dark hallway. She peeked out the corner of the living room window, which overlooked the driveway. Seconds later, bright headlights appeared, and a black sedan jerked to a stop in front of the house.

  No marking could be found on the car, nor uniforms on the two men who emerged from the vehicle. But identification was superfluous: the fierce faces and pistols made it crystal clear that the men belonged to the JPD.

  Heart again racing, she edged behind the curtains, not wanting the men to detect any movement, and then crept back to the front door, bolting it closed with her trembling fingers. She froze at the sound of their footsteps coming up the stone pathway to the porch. Two large, black shadows appeared on the hallway rug before her, cast from the small window on the front door.

  She remained motionless, her breath suspended and her body overcome with fear. She clung to the wall, keeping flat and tight against it as their loud knocking pounded the door. The knob jiggled as one of the officers shoved against the door, trying to open it. This was her chance. … She had to leave, now, while they were still in the front of the house.

  Amanda flew through the living room and kitchen to the back door, running as fast as her legs would carry her. She undid the lock just as the JPD officers barged their way into her home. They entered; she fled.

  The backyard was large, and like the front of the house, it was marked by a prominent hill. The hill, for now, provided her cover. She worked her way down the slope and climbed the wooden fence at the bottom that enclosed the large paddock. Rushing into the barn, she found herself desperately pleading: Please, please if You hear me … let the horse be here …

  Boots, Chiara’s horse, stood in the back of his stall, his glossy black coat stained with manure. He looked at her with dull eyes, his leg pawing the ground. She unlocked the door and stepped inside the stall. She could hardly find a place to walk—there were piles of manure everywhere. She peered into the water bucket: empty. The horse was probably dehydrated, but she had no time to deal with that right now.

  She raced to gather all the riding equipment she would need. It could take up to an hour to tack up a horse; she only had a precious few minutes. No time to groom, although the horse needed it. She threw on the saddle blanket followed by the saddle and then tightened the girth. She put on the reins and placed the bit into Boots’s mouth. Even his gums were dry.

  There, she finished. … Shoot, she forgot to do up the throat latch on the bridle. She fumbled with the straps, sweat trickling down her back. She checked to make sure she had everything right and then hurried Boots outside into the paddock. He came eagerly, grateful to leave his prison cell. She found the mounting block and, grabbing the reins, swung herself into the saddle. Boots picked up his head, turning toward the house, and pointed his ears forward. Then she heard it: the vicious barking of a dog, growing ever louder and closer.

  “He’s picked up her scent. She left the house!”

  A monstrous German shepherd, barely contained by his leash, and the two JPD officers appeared at the crest of the hill.

  She tugged at Boots’s reins, giving him a sharp kick. “Go!”

  Boots sprang forward, his flight response strong. At that moment, the dog broke free from his master’s grasp. Deftly jumping between the top and bottom fence rails, he began sprinting after her, his throat filled with hateful growls.

  The wind whipped into Amanda’s eyes, stinging them as they galloped across the paddock, but she kept urging Boots to go ever faster. His hooves pounded the ground in a strong, steady rhythm. The deafening sound of gunfire filled the air and she gasped, flattening herself against her steed, powerless to do anything besides cling and pray. Close behind them raced the dog, not allowing any ground.

  They flew across the field, and the distant fence came into view. They would soon be trapped. Boots led for now, but in these restricted confines, he—and she—would inevitably be painted into a corner.

  The fence came ever nearer, and the horse flicked his ears. That’s right! … Chiara had been working with him, setting up sizable jumps in the paddock to practice. But how high could he jump? Would he be able to clear the fence? Boots’s pace didn’t slacken, so she raised herself in the saddle and moved her hands up the horse’s neck, muscle memory helping the old positions come back to her.

  “Come on!” She held her breath.

  His muscles tensed beneath her, and then he sprang upward in a mighty leap. For a moment, they were suspended midair. In a second or two, Boots carried both of them over the fence, just clearing the top rail and landing on the other side. Shortly behind them, the dog jumped the lower plank of the fence, hot in pursuit.

  They plunged into the forest that lay beyond her family’s property, Boots making his way through the wooded expanse, Amanda dodging low-hanging branches. Yet Boots couldn’t maintain this grueling pace for very long. Already she could sense his stride slowing.

  She managed a glance behind, only to see the thundering shepherd, still following them. Were police dogs always so relentless in their chase? And, more frightening, how could he match a fully grown horse’s gallop for so long?

  Boots, huffing and his coat wet with sweat, began to slow even more. Petrified, Amanda watched the menacing dog thrashing through the forest path, his energy apparently unspent.

  “Faster!”

  But her shout was futile: Boots had given all that he had. The persistent dog had now nearly overtaken them. With his target in such close range, he accelerated his pace and leapt toward her, sharp teeth seeking to bury themselves in her calf. She screamed and jerked her leg away, victorious in her attempt. Yet he surged a second time. This time, he won. His vicious teeth dug into her skin, piercing through in stinging, painful horror.

  At that moment, Boots reared. Their attacker must have clawed him. With one leg already out of the saddle, Amanda fell headlong, crashing onto the dirt floor. From there, she stared into the dog’s wild eyes above her, her fear and pain immobilizing her.

  The snarling hunter pounced, and she futilely raised her hands to her face, cringing. Yet, somehow, at the last possible moment, Boots interceded. Boots reared and struck the dog with one of his hooves, knocking the attacker aside. Like a wounded pup, the shepherd writhed in pain, rolling pitifully on the ground. Approaching the canine again, Boots issued a loud squeal and raised himself once again, this time cracking the dog’s hind legs. Whimpering and howling, the shepherd dragged himself away from Boots in defeat, collapsing underneath a nearby tree.

  Still petrified, Amanda observed the wounded animal. The dog’s breathing sounded strained and heavy, his side rising and falling unevenly with each inhale and exhale. Boots had moved a few feet away and also watched the dog. Amanda stood and inched forward toward the now dying German shepherd.

  She gasped in horror. The dog foamed all around his mouth, and his dark red eyes rolled around, unable to focus on anything. Meanwhile, a strange gurgling sound came bubbling forth from his mouth. The dog began to jerk and thrash himself about uncontrolla
bly. Did the dog have rabies? She shuddered. … That didn’t seem to quite explain it.

  She checked her calf. Thankfully, it didn’t seem like the dog had bitten her very deep. She took off one of her socks and wrapped it like a bandage around her leg. Nearby, Boots pawed the ground. He was well-lathered, especially around his shoulders. She went to him and inspected him for any wounds, but just found some claw marks, which weren’t bleeding too much. She picked up the reins. She would lead him for a while to give him a break.

  “Come on, let’s go.”

  There was no path here; they were blazing their own trail. They had long left anything that looked familiar to her. Thanks to their frantic flight from the German shepherd, she had no idea where they were or where they were headed. For now, though, they were alone and that was enough.

  The leaves waved. A squirrel clambered up a tree a few yards away. Geese, honking to encourage one another, flew overhead and into the distance until they shrank to mere specks and disappeared. She had no plan, no destination. Certain danger behind kept her moving forward into the unknown.

  They came to a small clearing with an adjacent brook nearby, and Boots pulled toward the water, lowering his head and taking a long draught. She let go of the reins and watched him. He was a beautiful animal: his coat shone dark black in contrast to the lower half of his legs, which were marked with white “stockings,” giving the illusion that he wore white boots. The most beautiful thing about him in that moment, though, was that he was Chiara’s horse, her beloved pet. He was the only thing Amanda had right now that belonged to her sister. Amanda stroked his velvety coat. She ran her hand up and down his neck. He looked up at her, water dripping from his mouth, and licked his lips.