Citizens of Logan Pond Box Set

by Rebecca Belliston

  But to his surprise, Jamansky and Oliver appeared at the front door only a minute later. And to his outright shock, Oliver said they had finished searching.

  Giordano gave Greg one last glare before storming outside. He and Jamansky took off down the sidewalk to join the others searching the neighborhood, leaving Oliver alone at the door.

  “Sorry for taking your time,” Oliver said to Greg’s family. “We’re going to search the other homes now. It’s our job to keep you safe, so I’m sure you’ll understand if we ask you to stay inside for the next little while.”

  “You make sure every last one of those vagrants is gone,” Greg’s grandma said with feigned passion. “I mean it. I don’t like the thought of criminals wandering my street at night.”

  Greg had to hand it to her. When push came to shove, she played the part well.

  So did Oliver.

  Even as Jamansky and the others disappeared down the street, Oliver kept up the charade. “That’s why we’re here, ma’am. I recommend you stay inside for the next two hours, and then you’re free to go about your business.” Oliver looked at Greg with his earlier intensity, trying to communicate more than words.

  “Understood,” Greg said. Carrie could go home in two hours. The others, too, but mostly Carrie.

  Oliver paused as if he wanted to say more. He looked beaten down and half dead. His thinning hair pointed all directions like he’d been roused from bed. But, with a weary sigh, he shook his head and followed his coworkers.

  Greg shut the door and fell against it. As his family headed for the window, he surveyed the front room for damage. Other than his shoulder, which ached something fierce, there wasn’t much. No fines. No reprimands. No arrests. True, there might a heap of dead animals out back, but that only meant they were having chicken for dinner.

  “That was too easy,” Greg said. “Why didn’t they check the garage?”

  His grandpa watched out the window. “It’s not over yet. Two hours is a long time.”

  It was eerily silent as the patrolmen searched the sub. As intimidating as dogs could be, Greg decided silent raids were worse. House after house, he watched them zigzag down the street. First Denton Trail, then Woodland Drive. Their guns stayed up, but their arms stayed empty. That is until two of them reached the Kovach’s home. Even then, from a distance it didn’t look like they found much. Jeff couldn’t complain.

  They dropped the stuff in the cul-de-sac by the ashes from last night. For a few minutes, the six patrolmen congregated down there, discussing the situation. Greg figured at least five of the six were severely disappointed. The stuff was long gone. So were the squatters. Disappointed patrolmen were risky folk.

  “If only they knew how close they were to the real loot,” his grandma said, which made Greg’s mom shiver.

  “What are they talking about down there?” his grandpa asked.

  It looked more like arguing to Greg since Jamansky kept throwing his arms around, but Greg didn’t point that out.

  It went on another minute before the group split again. This time Oliver stayed by the ashes and Jeff Kovach’s stuff while the other five started back down the street. The patrolmen no longer zigzagged through the houses but had sights set straight forward.

  Right on the Trenton’s.

  Greg watched as the distance between them and arrest was cut in half. He hoped he was reading the situation wrong, but from his vantage point, it looked like the officers had ditched Oliver and were heading back to his grandparents’ house. Fast.

  Greg thought about how easily Oliver had shot that chicken, the ease of his lies at the door. Oliver was putting on a show, but for which group?

  “Is there any chance,” Greg said, “I mean any chance whatsoever that Oliver has turned on us?”

  His grandpa hesitated long enough to dig a pit in Greg’s stomach. All it would have taken down in the cul-de-sac is one threat for Oliver to cave. Oliver could have spilled everything. The garage. Greg and his mom. The thirty clansmen hiding behind the pond.

  “Where are the guns?” Greg asked.

  His mom spun around. “No, Greg. You can’t fight them. You won’t.”

  He didn’t look at her. “Guns?”

  His grandpa paled. “Terrell and Dylan took them behind the pond. But your mom’s right, Greg. You can’t fight this. None of us can.”

  Greg’s mind raced. His grandma started to cry again.

  As the officers marched closer, Greg hated himself for ever believing in Carrie’s bubble world. He’d known this could happen—this would happen. His mom’s life flashed before his eyes, his grandparents’ lives. The only three people left in the world that Greg cared about, and they were about to be ripped away.

  “I love you,” his mom whispered, reaching for his hand.

  “No,” Greg groaned. There had to be another way. Hide his family in the basement. In the woods. But the patrolmen knew they were there. Even if Greg took responsibility for everything—garage, excess provisions—the emergency laws permitted guilt by association. His family would be arrested with him.

  It was over.

  His mind was a whirlwind of regret. Of anger. His limbs numbed, leaving him as helpless as his family.

  When the five patrolmen reached the Trenton’s lawn, they turned abruptly north and headed down the sidewalk. They didn’t walk up the driveway. They just kept going past the house, past the garage and the huge garden.

  “What are they doin’?” Greg said, nerves strung tight.

  “I think…” his grandma said, “I think they’re leaving.”

  Greg pressed his face to the glass. The five patrolmen passed the next house and disappeared around another corner, heading for the North Entrance of the subdivision.

  “Well, I’ll be,” his mom whispered a minute later.

  A large truck carrying the officers barreled down Denton Trail. It passed their house and turned onto Woodland Drive, heading for the cul-de-sac. Oliver helped load Jeff’s few things into the truck, and then he climbed in as well. The truck circled back around the way it came. Greg’s family ducked out of sight as they passed, but it didn’t matter. Just like that, the patrolmen were gone. Long before the two hours were up.

  For several minutes, nobody moved. They waited for the patrolmen to reappear.

  They never did.

  Greg was the first to break the tense silence. “That was too easy.”

  His grandpa nodded. “And there’s only one reason why.”

  “Oliver,” they said together.

  His mom and grandma hugged each other, laughing and crying in relief. Greg wanted to celebrate, too, but he was stuck thinking through the implications.

  First, if Oliver had that much power to sway things in their favor, this clan had more potential than anybody realized. And second—which was far more disconcerting—was the power Oliver had over their lives. There wasn’t a single clansman who thought the patrolmen would return today, Greg included. Without Oliver’s warning, they would have been decimated. This clan was dependent on Oliver Simmons beyond measure. Not only that, but Oliver knew too much about them: how they lived, where they lived, their faces, names, and even their kids.

  Greg rubbed his tender shoulder.

  They had to keep Oliver happy, but how? In all the years, Oliver Simmons had never asked for a single thing in return. Not a bribe. Not a single payment. Which meant there was only one way, one situation where the awkward patrolman would turn on them. And that led Greg back to where his had thoughts had started.

  Carrie.

  twenty

  CARRIE PACED HER LIVING ROOM. The last day of March dawned bright and sunny, yet her stomach tied its millionth knot. She peeked out her front window.

  Still no Oliver.

  For the last three days, she had helped redistribute the last of the clan’s goods, plan Terrell’s supply run, cook, clean, and basically move on with life. The cold stares persisted, and she’d even grown accustomed to “Careless Carrie.” Jeff
shortened it to “CC,” which caught on like wildfire. People were furious with her, which they had every right to be. May looked like she’d aged ten years, and Jenna had nothing to wear but a nightgown. Carrie offered Jenna her purple shirt and jeans, plus her ugly couch so Jenna didn’t have to sleep on the floor. If anyone should be sleeping on a cold, hard floor, it should be Carrie. Jenna snatched it all up, but even then, she and Jeff hadn’t said more than two civil words to Carrie all week. That put them on par with everyone else. Most of the clan was barefoot, and hungry, and…everything.

  But still no Oliver.

  Carrie turned back to her small class of teenagers. “Sorry. Who can name two US Presidents in office during the Vietnam War? There were five. I only need two. Vietnam? Hello?”

  “What’s the point?” Amber said from her sprawled-out spot on the carpet. Without Carrie’s couch, the six teens had spread themselves around the room. Amber rolled onto her back and twirled a strand of dark hair. “Assuming we live past this week, the best life we can hope for is digging in the dirt and plucking chickens.”

  Maddie sniffed her hands. “Ew. I still smell like dead chickens.”

  Amber glared at her best friend. “At least you didn’t have to clean out the guts. I thought I was going to throw up. I made Carrie finish for me.”

  “Are you kiddin’?” Zach cried. “The guts were the best part! I got to hold a real heart.”

  “Sweet!” Tucker crowed.

  Carrie gagged, remembering the whole ordeal. She didn’t have to smell her hands to know they still reeked. Greg had been in charge of chopping off the heads, a job he seemed to enjoy a little too well. Carrie and Amber cleaned the insides. But the teens were lucky. The parents took pity and sent them home before they skinned and cleaned poor Chocolate, the goat who hadn’t survived the ordeal. When Carrie hoped for more roasts, she never envisioned goat meat.

  With all that had happened, she hadn’t touched the garden which was supposed to be cleared for planting this week. They needed food now more than ever, yet Carrie hadn’t stepped foot in it for three weeks. If only Greg hadn’t turned CJ against her, she could have already had several rows growing.

  She shook out of her thoughts. “Come on, guys. Focus. How about one president from Vietnam? We haven’t had school this whole week. Zach?”

  Zach shrugged. Of course he shrugged. He probably couldn’t name any five US Presidents from any time in history, as proved by his failed quiz last week.

  “JFK,” Amber said behind closed eyes. “Hey, Carrie. Braden told me Oliver was the one who shot Chocolate. Did you know that?”

  Carrie stifled a sigh. “What choice did he have? He couldn’t look like he was helping us.”

  “Seems pretty cruel to me,” Amber said. “Now we’ll never have baby chickens or goats again.”

  “Ohhh,” Lindsey moaned. “I love baby chickens.”

  Not only had the patrolmen wiped out their current food, they’d killed their future supply as well. Butterscotch had whined all week without her pen mate.

  Carrie shut her old AP US History book. “Class dismissed.”

  Zach sat up. “Really?”

  Might as well. They were getting nowhere. Why worry about Vietnam when they had wars of their own? When she’d taken US History in high school, all she had to worry about was her hair, makeup, and whether Stephen Franklin would ask her out. These teens had to slice up chickens and run for their lives. Without shoes. At night. In the rain.

  “Yes. Go ahead,” she said. “We’ll try again tomorrow.”

  The six teens didn’t have to be told twice. They jumped off the floor and headed for the door.

  Zach tried to sneak out between his buddies, but Carrie grabbed his shoulder. “Nice try. You’re staying.”

  “I can’t,” Zach said. “We’re makin’ slingshots like Greg’s today.”

  “Not unless you can name a president from the Vietnam War. Just one.”

  Zach looked at Tucker for help. Sadly, Tucker didn’t know either.

  “Bye, Tucker,” Carrie said.

  She shut the door, handed Zach her old textbook, and pointed him toward the kitchen. “Don’t leave that table until you can name presidents number thirty to forty-five.”

  “What?” he cried. “I only gotta name one!”

  “You only have to name one,” she corrected, hating that Zach had started mimicking Greg’s accent. She went in the kitchen and pulled out a chair. “You had your chance. Thirty to forty-five. You’re the only one in class who can’t do it.”

  He folded his arms. “Why should I? You’re not my mom.”

  The slam knocked the air from her lungs. Not that she disagreed. She was completely inept in comparison, both as a homeschooler and mother, as evidenced by sending the kids away now—and leaving Amber home alone to get Oliver’s report.

  It was another second before she could answer. “When you’re ready, I’ll quiz you.”

  “But I’m hungry,” he whined.

  She grabbed a carrot and set it on his book. It might as well have been a snake for the face he pulled. They’d been eating carrots by the dozens. After that many, they felt like rocks in the stomach.

  “We’ll have chicken tonight,” she offered.

  “Again?”

  He sat, chin in his hands, but finally looked at the textbook. Technically he looked through it and not at it, but it was close enough.

  Carrie checked the front window again, searching every inch of that driveway. Today was Thursday, wasn’t it? She was late picking up Little Jeffrey and Jonah. Then again, Oliver was late visiting, and she refused to leave before she talked to him.

  Assuming she would ever talk to him again…

  …which she couldn’t assume.

  “Don’t worry,” Amber said, still sprawled on the dirty carpet. “He’s coming.”

  Carrie chewed her bottom lip. “What if he’s not? Sasha thinks he decided it’s too dangerous to help us now.”

  Amber peeked an eye open. “Since when do you listen to Sasha?”

  Since Jenna had Sasha talking crazy stuff. Giving up. Moving back to Aurora. Becoming blue cardholders and living off the government.

  Disbanding.

  “But it is dangerous,” Carrie said. “What if his boss found out? What if Oliver was arrested? How would I even know? He could be in prison right now, and I’d have no clue. Or what if he’s mad at me for being so careless?”

  Careless Carrie. She couldn’t believe the nickname took five years to sprout.

  Amber sat up. “You’re not going to tell him it was my fault, right? Because you promised. I know you think he’s mad at you, but he’s not. But if he finds out the raid was my fault, he’ll kill me.”

  Carrie sighed. “I won’t tell him.”

  “Good.” Amber lay back down. “Because he’s coming.”

  Giving up on Oliver, Carrie focused on Zach, who also looked out the window, although for a different reason. He seemed a million miles away.

  “Greg said he might have time for a baseball game today,” Zach said.

  Carrie stifled another sigh. Ever since Greg had offered to play baseball with Zach, Zach had pestered him every day. Can we play? Can we play now, Greg? Can we, can we? It was Greg’s fault Zach had latched onto him with desperation. At first she’d been pleasantly surprised—shocked—by Greg’s offer, but since Greg had turned him down every time since, she figured it was just another way to torture her.

  Picking on her little brother. There wasn’t a faster way to infuriate her.

  Jerk.

  “Greg’s helping Terrell organize the supplies before Terrell leaves tomorrow,” Carrie said. “He’s too busy to play. Not to mention”—she pointed to the book—“you have to study.”

  Zach slammed the book shut. “There. I’m done.”

  Carrie rubbed her eyes. Times like this made her miss her parents fiercely: a mom to nag, a dad to enforce. “Fine. When you can recite presidents thirty to forty-five, you can p
lay baseball with Greg.”

  “Really? You’ll let me play?”

  “Yes—if Greg agrees.” Which was a gigantean if.

  Zach punched the air. “Yes! Greg said we’d get everybody to play. Tucker and Chris, Jeff and Terrell—well, Terrell will be getting supplies—but Braden and Sasha and everybody! Okay, I can do this. Number thirty is…Calvin Cooldritch?”

  “It’s Coolidge, moron,” Amber called from the floor.

  “Calvin Coolidge. Then it’s…” Zach’s face twisted. “Nixon?”

  When Carrie refused to answer, he opened the book and actually looked at it for the first time.

  Carrie’s eyes strayed to the window.

  Still no Oliver.

  With Zach occupied, she went over to her five small containers, the only ones which had survived the raid. She wondered if it was too late to add old sour cream containers to Terrell’s supply list. Not that she had any composted dirt to fill them with—dirt she’d saved since last fall—or seeds for that matter. She couldn’t believe that for the rest of her life, she could only start five plants indoors. She’d never have jalapeños again, or pear tomatoes, or any of the other specialized seeds handed down from her mom. It shouldn’t have bothered her as much as it did. Hobbies were a luxury, not a necessity. People needed food, not cuisine.

  Her carrot-laden stomach growled on cue.

  She bent down to check on the tiny stems. It was a miracle she’d salvaged any from the raid, let alone five. Had the tender shoots even been a few weeks older, more might have survived, but even these five weren’t looking so hot. Three were brown and wilting. The other two weren’t much better.

  Not only had she failed her clan, she’d failed her plants. And her great-grandmother by losing the porcelain doll which would never be passed to Carrie’s own daughter—assuming she lived long enough to have a daughter.

  Her head dropped to the counter.

  Amber sat up. “Do you want me to ask the Watsons for more seeds? Because I will.”