In the Shadows of Freedom

by C

  What was presumably Ethan’s office sat before her. Breathing a small sigh of relief, she walked in. But what did she expect anyway? It’s not like he would have dead bodies piled in here.

  And there was her painting, lying face down atop his massive desk.

  But her relief plunged right into despair: a carving knife lay discarded next to her painting, and tiny shreds of canvas lay strewn about the desktop like confetti. Trembling, she picked up the canvas and turned it around. The beautiful woman’s face in the puddle was utterly destroyed. He had used the knife to rip and shred it, leaving a gaping hole in her beloved painting.

  Tears streamed down her cheeks unchecked, and her mind grappled for some kind of rational explanation. It escaped her, though, leaving her reeling from what had been stolen from her. She gathered the tiny shavings of what had once been the beautiful lady’s face, like the ashes of a beloved kin, now cut and severed. She let them fall from her hand, still in disbelief. Why? … WHY?

  The pain, overwhelming in its intensity, engulfed her. Never had she felt a sensation like this before: to have been hurt so deliberately and profoundly by the one she had loved like no other.

  The realization stifled her, yet the pill’s lingering influence fanned the flames of a growing fury, unmatched by any she had previously known. The suffering within her spewed forth into a fury so potent, so encompassing that all her desires fueled into one: revenge. She wanted to wound Ethan as much as she could … to make him experience all of her excruciating pain and a million times more.

  Like a chainless lion, she raged upon everything that was his. Stacks of neatly piled papers, thousands of dollars of audio equipment, a priceless lamp of exquisite Italian glass, brand-new commercial-grade computer monitors, Swiss-made leather chairs—these she pounced upon, ravaged, and destroyed.

  Then her eyes fell upon his laptop. It was his work computer. Three simple, yet haughty letters were etched upon the casing: NCP. She raised the marble paperweight, about to smash the laptop with it. But … no. His career at the NCP meant everything to him. It was more than just a job; it was his livelihood, his frame of reference, his system of belief. She wouldn’t destroy the computer. She would steal it. It would inflict more pain on him to know that his work … his precious projects that should bring him power and fame … all of it was in the hands of someone else. She didn’t give her actions a second thought; after all, Ethan himself had taught her that stealing was subjective and could be justified. And so, taking the laptop and her painting, she dashed from the carnage of the room.

  Arriving in the living room, she threw her sketchbook and the laptop into her book bag and then, clutching the ruined painting close to her chest, rushed out of the apartment. She barreled down the steps, never looking back. She had come here mere hours ago, gripped with a despairing fear that she would never be welcomed back inside. Now she left, fleeing, with every desire never to return.

  She had no money for a cab or even the subway. Walking was her only option. Her most pressing concern at that moment was Ethan’s Anaconda rearing its arrogant head, the unforgiving headlights pinpointing her escape. But, in her fury, she almost felt ready to confront him.

  She couldn’t return to her own apartment. Nikki would be there, and she was just as much a part of this as Ethan. Everybody Amanda knew, in fact, was part of it. Everybody but one person. And now she ran to find him.

  Amanda raced beneath clear black skies. There were no stars out, but a full moon cast an ominous glow about the vacant Upper West Side. Why were the streets so empty? Wasn’t this the city that never sleeps? She hurried, knowing it must be close to midnight. Morgan would not be in the cathedral at this time, but he would return tomorrow, as he did every day. She could safely pass the final hours of the night in the sanctuary of St. Patrick’s. This horrible night would give way to day, and with morning would come Morgan. The stinging, caustic words she had flung upon him earlier in the day returned to haunt her.

  He’ll forgive me … he has to forgive me … why wouldn’t he forgive me? She chanted the phrases in rhythm with her feet as they pounded the concrete.

  She reached the Midtown section and reassured herself that it wouldn’t be far now until St. Patrick’s. Panting from the fast-paced run, she slowed to a walk. Just a few more blocks and she would be safe. Moving down the sidewalk, the night air around her became warmer. She slowed her pace even more, pressing her hand to her forehead. Was she feverish? Another block later and the waves of heat increased, but she still couldn’t place their origin. She turned the corner, and the heat became even more intense—and, along with it, the unmistakable sound of crackling, hissing, and burning. She resumed her fast pace, unease growing within her.

  The skyscrapers obstructed any clear view of what lay ahead, but now—amidst the tall rooftops of office buildings and high-rise apartments—she could distinguish bright orange flames climbing high into the dark October sky. The heat and noise escalated with each step that brought her closer to St. Patrick’s. Now dread drove her forward.

  She stopped across the street, gazing from the curb. St. Patrick’s stood before her, engulfed in flames. One half of the cathedral was missing. A massive hole filled the space where one steeple used to stand. Its twin now crumbled with a deafening roar, clouds of smoke and dust billowing forth. The intense heat made beads of sweat trickle down her forehead. The smoke suffocated her, but she couldn’t move. The few remaining stained glass windows burst, and broken shards of glass showered down to the sidewalk, her right arm rising to shield her face from the sharp fragments.

  Amanda sensed movement on the other side of the street and looked through the dust and smoke. A small crowd of people—the Unfit—stood gathered there, watching. And there, in the back of them …

  “Morgan!” She ran toward him. “Morgan, what happened?”

  He looked at her, apparently not at all surprised to see her there. “Can’t you recognize evil when you see it?”

  “How did this happen?”

  “There was a meeting at the cathedral tonight. A large group of people gather here regularly to organize opposition to the NCP. This bombing is the NCP’s way of sending a message to us and to anyone who dares to stand in their way of radical liberty.”

  “How can you be sure? Where are the firefighters? Where’s the JPD?”

  “The JPD won’t help us! This was done by the JPD.”

  He and the others held a silent vigil, beholding the destruction. She stared blankly ahead, the story at last coming together. Nikki and Ethan both spoke of a large upcoming project for the NCP … Amanda had spotted Chloe scouting out St. Patrick’s … Ethan had left mere hours ago for some urgent task …

  “Morgan!” Amanda wrung her hands, wild panic in her voice. “I know who did this. I was so wrong about you! I was so wrong about everything. Please!” She grabbed his arm. “Please help me. I want to fix things. I want to join you. I know I’ve messed up … more than you realize. But I can give you information, tell you all about them. Please!”

  “There is one thing you can do. But you have to promise me that you will do it.”

  “Anything. Just tell me.”

  “Leave.” He stared at her, his blue eyes cold. “I want you to leave the city.”

  “Leave? Look, I know I made mistakes. I can imagine why you want nothing to do with me anymore. But please don’t send me away!”

  “You promised! You have to go! Now!”

  “In the middle of the night?”

  “Go back home. Take the 1:00 a.m. train from Grand Central. You can make it if you leave immediately. You’ll transfer at Poughkeepsie and then, after the train, take a taxi the rest of the way.”

  “I—I can’t.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t have any money left.”

  “Here.” He pulled a wad of bills from his pocket and thrust them into her hands. “That will cover the expense. Now go!”

  “You don’t even want to say goodbye?”
/>   “We have no time. Go!”

  She turned, tears flowing, and ran toward Grand Central, the hellish flames of St. Patrick’s bidding her a permanent farewell.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Going Home

  Amanda sat alone by the window, the train hurtling northward and the city growing more and more distant. Soot peppered her hair, and the stench of smoke permeated her clothing. Everything had changed so drastically and so jarringly: she existed in a numbing state of shock. She felt like she had stepped outside the present time and place and witnessed the fallout of her actions as though all of them belonged to someone else. She found it easier to pretend that she was a mere actress, and that sometime very soon, the play would end, the curtain would fall, and she would remove herself from this horror.

  Was it possible that just this morning she had strolled through the beautiful autumn air, walking to St. Patrick’s, and had stood admiring the building, desiring to snap a picture of it? If only she could return to that moment. If only she could remove herself from her perdition. But she had done this, and in many ways, she had set into motion the events that snowballed into this tragedy.

  She replayed that final encounter with Morgan over and over again. The train was empty, discarded soda bottles and gum wrappers the sole artifacts of travelers gone by. So she let her tears flow unchecked. She wished Morgan’s reaction had been different, but she didn’t blame him for what he did. Everything had changed. In that desperate ploy to convince Ethan not to leave her, she had given herself to him in a way that could not be undone.

  One day, a few months ago, she’d rode on a crowded bus to the city to begin a new life. Now she rode away on a deserted train, away from broken hopes and dreams. Popping pills, skipping classes, emptying her bank account, ending her friendship with Morgan, sketching that horrific face on her Portrait of a Mother … she had done these things of her own choosing. No wonder Morgan wanted her out of his life. Many times he had tried to encourage and convince her to choose the better path. In return, she had insulted and rejected him. Now it seemed only fair that he would sever their friendship.

  In her self-absorption, she had failed to ever gain even basic details about Morgan. Despite their connection, she had no way of reaching him. Where did he live? What was his number? Not that it mattered much now: in her frenzy, she had left her phone behind in Ethan’s apartment.

  Following Morgan’s final instructions, she prepared to transfer at Poughkeepsie to the Adirondack train. She faced a long layover, however; her next train wouldn’t depart until 5:30 a.m. She passed the early-morning hours in the drafty, desolate train station, similarly cold and empty inside. Morgan had described zombies: the living dead. Had she become that? Had she chosen that life?

  Daylight broke, and she began to watch commuters lining up to enter the morning train headed into the city. She joined the smaller crowd on the opposite track. The plush seats aboard the northbound train were a welcome change compared to the wooden benches in the station, and she appreciated this fleeting comfort, leaning back and curling her legs underneath her on the seat. The train departed, and she turned her painful thoughts toward Ethan.

  Even here, miles outside the city, the littlest remembrance of him plunged her heart into boiling torment. He had betrayed her, destroyed her, and no matter how far she fled, she could never run far enough. She looked at the ruined painting beside her. … She couldn’t come up with a single motive for his cruel deed. Why would he hurt her so purposely and deeply? Amanda looked at the empty spot on the canvas where the lady’s face should be, and her vision blurred once again with tears. Ethan had used her, like this canvas—and then discarded them both. She had the sudden urge to drench her mouth with disinfectant, to somehow erase the feel of his corrupting kisses on her lips. He was not confident; he was self-centered and cocky. He was not brilliant; he was cunningly deceptive. He did not love her; he loved to use her.

  Was any of it ever real or genuine? Did she even truly know this man she thought she loved? She couldn’t have. How could she ever fall in love with a man who orchestrated bombings and presided over murders and persecutions? Maybe the Ethan she knew never even existed. All those moments of happiness, of belonging, of feeling loved … they had been a mask, a grand ruse. Those pleasant feelings lacked any substance: they had all been manufactured, illusory sentiments that had now vanished like the ephemeral effects of the pill, leaving her even more empty and alone. It was just the shadow of love.

  She couldn’t sleep, so she stared out the train window, recognizing the familiar territory of the majestic Adirondacks—home. It had changed since late summer, when she had left for the city. The grass had turned brown, burnt from the heat and dying in the cooler autumn weather, the threat of frost looming closer each night. The trees provided a stunning display in the early-morning light: bright oranges, blazing reds, and golden yellows, but she turned her eyes away. The reds and oranges reminded her of the flames that had consumed St. Patrick’s.

  The train approached the station at Westport. Good old Westport: “A gateway to the Adirondacks,” as the town motto boasted. It was her gateway to home. That was her sole comforting thought. She hadn’t seen her dad and Chiara in months, and at this moment, she desperately wanted to be with them. Their unconditional acceptance would be a healing balm for her waywardness and their house an ideal refuge from the trauma of the city. She didn’t know what explanation she would provide or what details she would relay to them. But, ultimately, it didn’t matter: their love was greater than her errors.

  The pull of home motivated her to hurry off the train. Unexpectedly, she found a taxi waiting outside the station and entered it, sighing with relief to be on the final leg of the arduous journey. She glanced at the driver. He wore a Yankees cap, which shadowed his thick black eyebrows.

  “Where to, miss?” he called over the country song playing on the stereo.

  She pulled the remaining bills from Morgan out of her pocket, counting them. It wouldn’t be enough to get her all the way home, but it would at least get her mostly there. She could walk the rest of the way.

  “Fort Christopher, please.”

  “The real boonies, huh?” He took a swig of coffee, placed the Styrofoam cup back in the holder, and put the car into drive. “So where you coming from?”

  “South.” She looked out the window, hoping to give him the pointed hint that she didn’t wish to speak with him.

  “You from around here?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Nice, quiet area. Great place for fishing and you can’t beat the views. I like it. … Been here about eight years now.”

  The twangy song came to its close, and the DJ came back on: “It’s a pristine fall day out there, folks. Really couldn’t ask for better weather. High’s going to reach 63 by the afternoon; slight chance of rain this evening. We’ve got a short commercial break, but stay with us for another forty-minute block of today’s best country! Right here on your WP 104.7!”

  The driver removed his gaze from the road and studied her in the rearview mirror. “You know, your face looks awfully familiar. What’s your name?”

  “Amanda.”

  “Last name Burrow?”

  The little hairs on the back of her neck rose, and her glance shot upward, meeting the man’s scrutinizing stare. Her gut instinct told her to lie, and so she shook her head no. “Amanda Johnson.”

  “Huh.” He scratched the stubble on his chin. “I could’ve sworn you were Kevin Burrow’s girl.”

  “No … the name doesn’t ring a bell.” But her response was a little too delayed.

  The taxi driver fell silent, his face now bearing a pensive frown.

  Amanda’s pulse began pounding, and she commanded herself to calm down. Her dad met all kinds of people through his construction work. Unlike her, he was an extrovert who made friends effortlessly. This taxi driver was very likely one such friend.

  Outside the window, familiar sights greeted her: Scoops, where th
ey would get ice cream in the summer … the single-pump gas station … Supermarket Saver, bedecked with pots of mums and grinning scarecrows … all of Fort Christopher’s meek array of services and amusements. And in every direction, like silent giants overlooking the sleepy town and its dwindling population: mountains. Everywhere mountains. They were the skyscrapers of Fort Christopher.

  “So, uh, where you headed to, exactly?” The driver kept shifting his hand position on the steering wheel.

  “I’m just visiting a friend a few miles down the road.” She pointed in the opposite direction from her house. “You can just drop me off here at the corner of Follen and Larch.”

  “Nah, I’ll drive you. Just give me the address.”

  “Thanks, but it’s such a nice day that I prefer to walk.”

  Once parked, she gave him the money (all that was left of the cash from Morgan) and hurried out of the car. She struggled to keep a relaxed, normal pace. About thirty yards away, approaching Upland Avenue, she dared to peek behind her, just to reassure herself that everything was fine. But the taxi was idling, and its driver stared at her.

  Her unease grew with each step. What was the driver’s problem? She couldn’t do anything, however, except walk. At last, ten paces later, the car engine roared to life, gradually fading into the distance. She waited a solid fifteen minutes—just to be extra careful—then swiftly retraced her steps, crossing the street past the old barber shop and then beginning her trek on Tillinghast Avenue, which would lead her home. She tried to shake off the unsettled feeling that had come over her. Soon she would be on terra firma and could tell her dad about the weird episode. He would likely get a good laugh out of it, reassuring her that the taxi driver was an old buddy of his.

  Each time a car passed, she looked up to see if it was the taxi back again, but each time she was wrong, and as the minutes ticked by, her panic subsided. The farther she walked, the greater the distance between the houses … and the larger the plots of land. The sidewalk had long ago ended, and gone were any streetlights. Now she treaded on familiar territory: backcountry roads that winded and curved, lined with old oaks and maples. Shadows filled the potholes dotting the surface of the road, moving snatches of light. The branches above shuddered in the silent breeze. The dead leaves crunched beneath her feet. She had missed this.