Citizens of Logan Pond Box Set

by Rebecca Belliston

  “It’s fine.”

  “It better be,” Chief Dario growled. “When I told you to train your partners, this is not what I had in mind. If they’re going to shoot someone, tell them to do it before the rebel makes a mess of my station. Why was that man even brought here? He should have been shot on sight the second he attacked you.”

  “I Tasered him, sir.”

  That was the wrong response. The chief stabbed a finger at him. “I don’t want another incident like this happening again. Am I clear, Simmons?”

  Chastised, Oliver nodded.

  Then Chief Dario turned. He caught sight of the four bloody words and swore louder. “Get the cleanup crew in here, stat!”

  As he left, Oliver dropped onto his desk chair. He made the call to Sanitation and then held his throbbing head in his hands. How could he have handled anything better? With the man. With Greg. With Carrie. He closed his eyes, wishing for a deep sleep that could erase the whole day, every last second of it.

  When Portman and Bushing came back in, Portman glared at Oliver as he headed to the bathroom to clean up. Bushing just went to the closet and grabbed the mop.

  “Leave it,” Oliver said tiredly.

  “I can at least clean up the worst of—”

  “I said leave it!” Guilt seized Oliver, and he took a deep breath. “Sanitation will be here soon. They’ll take care of it.”

  Bushing looked almost childlike as he stared at him. He was close in age to Braden Ziegler and looked like he belonged on a tractor, not with a gun. Even Oliver, who was old enough to be the kid’s father, felt too young and inexperienced for this.

  “Why don’t you take a break,” Oliver said more calmly. “I’ll file the paperwork.”

  Bushing bowed out, leaving Oliver alone.

  It took a while to pull out all the right forms. Ironically, dead squatters required more paperwork than live ones. He didn’t know the guy’s name, but the government still wanted to know how he died, why he died, and whether it was caused by disease, rebellion, or something else. Oliver refused to write down rebellion, knowing the reaction that would garner with Chicago in flames.

  For a long time, he stared at the papers, not working, just thinking as his mind swirled from the man, to Carrie and Greg, to the man’s wife, and then back to the haunted look on Carrie’s face when he told her about Greg’s recruitment. That look would torture him for a long time.

  So would the sound of that baby’s cry.

  Live free or die.

  The pain spread down his neck and back. Even his wound throbbed with each heartbeat. Maybe he should get it checked out, but government doctors took too much effort. And time. And money.

  Gingerly, he leaned against the wall and closed his eyes.

  He didn’t know how much time had passed when he jerked awake at a sound. Shouting and shuffling from just outside the station. The cleanup crew. Only they were being awfully loud about it.

  Standing, he stretched his back and moved to where he could see the front doors. A blur of black swarmed outside the offices, men yelling orders. Definitely not Sanitation. They wore uniforms like Oliver’s, only theirs were pure black.

  “Are those federal patrolmen?” Portman asked, coming back into the room.

  “Yes, but why are they in Shelton?” Oliver wondered. “Did you report that squatter as a rebel?”

  “Not yet. Did you?”

  “No.” And even if Oliver had, federal patrolmen couldn’t have arrived so quickly.

  “I hope they don’t see the body,” Portman said. “We left it on the side of the building.”

  Oliver turned. “Hopefully covered.”

  Portman looked sheepish.

  The shouting grew as the federal patrolmen stormed inside. In an instant, it was a blur of black blocking Oliver’s view of the front office. Ashlee cried out in surprise, and he exchanged a worried glance with his partners. But instead of checking on things, he moved toward the holding cell, desperate to block the blood-smeared rebel motto that was sure to get their whole precinct fired.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Chief Dario shouted over the chaos. “What are you doing? Let go of me! Stop. Let go!”

  That did it.

  Oliver sprinted for the front office. He was just tall enough to see over the heads and spot federal patrolmen grabbing Chief Dario. They shoved him against the wall, cheek to plaster. The rest stood back, guns ready.

  “Alphonso Dario,” a new voice said, “you’re under arrest for impeding a federal investigation.”

  Oliver’s blood ran cold. Arrested? But that wasn’t all. That voice was familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it. How did he know that voice?

  Ignoring the pain, he stretched up taller to see and spotted a thick shock of blond hair.

  He jerked back.

  It couldn’t be.

  It couldn’t.

  Terrified, but desperate to know, he jumped to catch a better glimpse. Mayor Phillips stood in front of Chief Dario, for some reason a part of his arrest. But that’s not who had Oliver’s mind racing. Next to the mayor stood a man Oliver planned to never see again in his life. A tall, blond patrolman.

  David Jamansky.

  The guy Oliver had ratted out.

  Months ago, Chief Dario had refused to believe his own patrolmen could be involved in illegal trading, but Oliver showed him the logs from the raid on Carrie’s neighborhood. The last Oliver had seen Jamansky was in that dark schoolyard neighborhood with Greg, where Jamansky threatened to kill Oliver if he didn’t return the supplies. David Jamansky and his partner had been rotting in a heavily guarded prison ever since.

  And now the feds were arresting Chief Dario.

  Oliver backed up. That couldn’t be Jamansky out there. It couldn’t.

  He slinked into a corner, looking for a door, a window, anything, as the federal patrolmen dragged Chief Dario from the building.

  “Sir?” Bushing said. “Are you okay?”

  Before Oliver could answer, a flood of federal patrolmen swarmed the back room.

  “Which one is he?” one of them called.

  David Jamansky sauntered back, taking his own sweet time. Unlike the federal officers, he wore his green uniform, the one identical to Oliver’s. He scanned the room and found Oliver in the corner. His face darkened.

  “The older one there,” Jamansky said. “Escort those two young ones outside while I take care of this one.”

  The federal patrolmen jumped into action. Half moved to Portman and Bushing while the others grabbed Oliver and slammed him against the wall. Pain exploded in his already-sensitive skull. Confusion. Dizziness. Something warm oozed down the side of his face.

  “Officer Simmons,” Jamansky said in a sing-song voice. He was smiling the kind of smile that made Oliver’s skin crawl. “It is so good to see you again.”

  Sweat poured down Oliver’s face, mixing with the blood. The guy had the look of an actor and the mercy of Attila the Hun.

  “Looking good, Simmons. But wait. What’s this?” Jamansky reached out and fingered the two gold bands on Oliver’s arm. “You betray me, and that scumbag Dario gives you a promotion? I don’t think so.”

  In one swift move, Jamansky ripped the gold bands from Oliver’s sleeve. Then he tried to press them to his own arm. They flopped right off, but he smiled anyway. So did Mayor Phillips.

  Mayor Phillips.

  Still pinned, Oliver suddenly understood. The missing piece. Jamansky and the mayor had been working the black market together, padding both of their pockets. Mayor Phillips must have been the one to spring Jamansky from prison, and now the mayor would help Jamansky slit Oliver’s throat.

  “Too bad about Chief Dario,” Jamansky continued. “Interfering with a federal investigation is a major crime.”

  Federal investigation?

  As if reading his mind, Jamansky nodded. “Mayor Phillips assigned me to infiltrate the black market. Years of undercover work I did, and Chief Dario blew it all to smithereens
. Isn’t that right, mayor?”

  Mayor Phillips nodded, looking almost bored. The mayor was twice Jamansky’s age, but for some reason Jamansky was running the show, scheming up some ridiculous story that no one would believe. It didn’t escape Oliver’s notice that Jamansky’s former partner, Nielsen, hadn’t returned with him. How convenient.

  “Let’s be honest,” Jamansky continued. “You also had a hand in my arrest, didn’t you, Simmons?”

  I’m dead. I’m dead. I’m dead.

  Oliver’s knees would have given out if the federal officers didn’t have him pinned against the wall in vice-like grips.

  Jamansky lunged.

  His fist swung wide and slammed into Oliver’s gut. Oliver grunted, wind flying out of him. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t double over. He stayed pinned, gasping for air which didn’t come.

  “Answer me!” Jamansky screamed.

  Oliver’s vision darkened. The world faded in and out.

  He needed air.

  Suddenly he dropped. The federal patrolmen loosened their grip, allowing him to fall to his knees.

  Oliver gasped and heaved.

  Jamansky crouched next to him, breathing heavily himself. “I spent a lot of time in that smelly prison cell, thinking about you, Simmons. I bet you didn’t know that. It gave me time to wonder if perhaps you were just an innocent bystander in Chief Dario’s mess. Maybe he just used you as his pawn. In fact, I’m impressed you stood up to me and Nielsen. I always took you for a coward, but what you did, that showed guts. However”—his voice took on a sudden edge—“you nearly ended my life, and so now I own you. I’m going to need someone to do my every bidding. Do you understand? You cough the wrong way, and you’ll only wish they hauled you off with Dario today. Capiche?”

  If Oliver didn’t have Carrie and her clan to protect, he would have willingly followed the chief out those doors. But on the floor, head bleeding, lungs burning, he couldn’t think to do anything but nod.

  Straightening, Jamansky motioned to the others. “You can leave. I have command of this station now.”

  “Do you still need me, Chief Jamansky?” the mayor asked.

  Chief Jamansky?

  Oliver closed his eyes, sick.

  “No, I’m all set,” Jamansky said. “We’ll meet in the morning about the new changes.”

  As the mayor left with the others, Jamansky looked down at Oliver. Then he gave him a last kick in the gut. Not hard, but Oliver still cried out in pain.

  Jamansky smiled. “I have the feeling you and I are about to become best buddies, Simmons. What do you think?”

  The word slave came to mind.

  Jamansky offered him a hand up. Oliver looked at him like he’d gone mad. Using the wall, he pushed himself up. Every part of him screamed in agony.

  As he stood, he caught sight of the four bloody words.

  Live free or die.

  “What is that?” Jamansky said, following his gaze. His voice turned shrill. “What is that? Why is that in my precinct? What happened?”

  “A squatter,” Oliver said weakly. “Dead now. The cleanup crew is on their way.”

  “Those rebels will not take over my area. Not on my watch. Where was that squatter arrested?”

  Oliver couldn’t hold himself up anymore. He fell onto his desk chair. “Here in Shelton. In that Ferris neighborhood. He was the only squatter I saw, though,” Oliver amended, which was technically the truth.

  “Burn it.”

  “What?” Oliver said, struggling to understand much of anything.

  “Burn the house down,” Jamansky said. “They’re burning our buildings, so you’ll burn theirs. You. Not we. Hear the distinction, Simmons?”

  He heard it but didn’t understand. Burning homes wasn’t allowed. The government had confiscated those homes after the financial collapse. That made the homes government property. Oliver wasn’t allowed to burn government property, not even if rebels were sighted.

  “Report to me when it’s done.” Jamansky patted Oliver’s cheek like a grandmother would pat a child. Then, whistling to himself, he walked out to find his new office.

  Oliver couldn’t move. Hot blood pulsed through his veins. Burn down the house? How? He didn’t even know where to start. And what if that woman and her baby were still there?

  He stared at the smeared words on the wall: Live free or die. His mind supplied the rest of the rebel’s motto. There are things far worse than death.

  A fine sentiment with one huge, glaring problem:

  The dead can’t help the living.

  sixteen

  CARRIE WAITED TWO DAYS. And then five. She waited for Greg to tell her. She saw more smoky trails in the sky from fires, each closer than before. Each was a slap in the face that Greg was heading out into that civil war. But Oliver said that Greg wanted to tell her in his own way, so she waited.

  She made herself available in private places: early in the morning in her yard, or late in the evening in his grandparents’ garden. He lived across the street from her. She knew he could see her. A few times, she caught him watching her from his upper bedroom window, but he didn’t come. She told herself it was okay. He would tell her when he was ready. He would.

  Except he didn’t.

  Saturday, when the clan packed up all their things and scrunched into May’s house for the first sweep with Oliver’s partners, Carrie tried to catch Greg’s eye. The Trenton’s house was stuffy and full with summer bearing down on them. She spent time all evening talking to Greg’s family, but anytime she headed his way, he disappeared.

  Now it had been a full week without word. Even stranger, she hadn’t heard a single whisper about his recruitment from anyone else. In a clan as small as theirs, news like that would have circled a dozen times.

  She wasn’t the only one Greg wasn’t telling.

  But an hour ago she did the calculations. Greg had to walk to Naperville, a two or three-day trip on foot. Which meant he’d be leaving any day—any minute—to make it in time. The pain sliced through her. He was just going to up and leave without a single goodbye.

  “Hi, Kristina,” Carrie said at the Ziegler’s door. “Have you seen—”

  “Amber isn’t here,” Kristina interrupted. “She’s with Lindsey, but don’t ask me where. If you find them and Braden’s with them, will you send him home?”

  “Sure.” Only Carrie wasn’t looking for Amber. “Have you seen Greg?”

  “No. Why?” Kristina looked suspicious. She hadn’t been as close to Jenna Kovach as Sasha had been, but she was still part of that married group, the one shunning Carrie.

  “No reason. Thanks.”

  Carrie got halfway down the porch when she suddenly turned back. “Kristina, I’m sorry about how things have been lately. I know times are hard—and possibly getting harder—but I want you to know that I never meant to hurt anyone.” She hugged herself. “Especially Jenna.”

  “I know you didn’t mean any harm.” The rest was implied: But that doesn’t change anything.

  “I miss Jenna,” Carrie said quietly. “I wish things hadn’t happened like they had.”

  Kristina’s expression finally softened. “Jenna’s death wasn’t your fault, Carrie. You shouldn’t blame yourself.”

  Then why was everyone else?

  Carrie sighed. “Do you think Jeff is okay? Do you think he made it to North Dakota?”

  They both scanned the neighborhood as if they could see beyond to where Jeff walked, trekked, and searched for his parents. He could have been arrested, dead on the road, or halfway there, and they would never know the difference.

  “I’m praying he makes it back to his boys,” Carrie said. “And…back to us.”

  That seemed to surprise Kristina Ziegler. Probably because Carrie and Greg had taken the brunt of Jeff’s violence. But she nodded. “Me, too.”

  Some of the coldness melted between them.

  Carrie gave a quick wave. “I better go. If I see Braden, I’ll send him home.”
<
br />   She trotted down the street, heading for the front of the sub to Mariah and Richard’s house. Terrell said Greg was with Niels Ziegler chopping wood, but he hadn’t been there, and he wasn’t working on the Dixon’s well either. Greg couldn’t hide forever—or he could after he left for training, but she refused to let him run away before he even left. His mom’s house was the last place she could check. Carrie hadn’t tried there yet because Mariah seemed to sleep a lot these days. Carrie hated to disturb her. And there was a chance Greg hadn’t told his mom yet.

  No.

  Greg would have told Mariah right away. He told his mom everything. The whole clan probably knew, but he’d sworn them all to secrecy.

  The bitterness clawed at her. Even if she and Greg had no romantic future together, he was still her friend. She deserved to know, and she deserved to hear it from him.

  Richard and Mariah lived in the farthest house, right next to the north entrance. Carrie didn’t knock on their front door. Instead, she strained, listening for any sound inside.

  What was she thinking, barging in on Mariah right now? Surely this was the last thing she needed. But Richard walked down the stairs and spotted her through the window. He pulled open the door with a smile.

  “Hello, Carrie. What can I help you with?”

  “Have you seen Greg?” she asked softly in case Mariah was sleeping.

  “Yes. He’s upstairs with his mom. Come on in.”

  Of course Greg was here. He’d probably wanted to spend every last minute with his mom before saying goodbye—possibly forever. And Carrie wanted to intrude on it for what? Her wounded pride? Her broken heart?

  “That’s okay,” she said. “Can you tell Greg to come find me when he’s done?”

  He never would, though.

  “Nonsense. Come on in,” Richard said. “Mariah will want to see you, too. Just head upstairs. They’re in the last bedroom on the right. I’ll be up after I rinse these out.”

  Carrie noticed the blood-stained rags in Richard’s hands.

  “How is she today?” Carrie asked.

  The joy faded from his face. His eyes darted up the stairs before he answered. “She’ll be happy to see you.”