Oliver eyed him skeptically.
“Or…I’ll support you,” Greg amended. “Carrie will, too.”
“Yeah, because getting fired right now is such a great idea,” Oliver said, motioning at Carrie in the government hospital bed with her yellow card around her neck.
“Hey, I’m here, aren’t I?” Greg said. “We can get creative.”
“Even if I wanted to, I’m not allowed to quit. Patrolmen who quit conveniently disappear.”
“All the more reason to bug out,” Greg said. “Speaking from experience, there’s somethin’ vastly refreshing about livin’ off the radar. We’ve got plenty of empty houses in Logan Pond, and I heard a rumor that one was recently purchased, too, which gives us twice the garden space and twice the space to hide during raids.”
Oliver shook his head, but the tiniest smile played at the corners of his mouth. “You’re crazy.”
“You and me both.”
Sighing, Oliver studied Carrie’s sleeping form. “I’ll do my best to come back tonight. I’ll also try to stop by the neighborhood to check in.”
“Thanks,” Greg said. “Tell everybody I’m workin’ on gettin’ a cure.”
“How?”
“Not sure yet, but I’ll figure somethin’ out.”
Another shake of the head as Oliver moved toward the door. Before he left, he turned back with a long, sad look. “Take care of her.” The way he said it implied more than just the immediate future.
Sobered by that, Greg nodded. “Keep safe, and don’t let Jamansky push you around.”
“I will.” Pointing at Greg one last time, Oliver said, “Don’t wake her up.”
* * * * *
“Look who finally showed up,” Jamansky sneered, pinching that same nerve in Oliver’s shoulder he loved to aggravate.
Half asleep, Oliver jerked out of his grasp. “Sorry, sir. My pager battery died, and I didn’t realize it until I got here.”
“I don’t care if you have car problems,” Jamansky said. “You report to me, not Ashlee. You call me if you have issues, not her. Am I clear?”
Oliver had no idea what he was talking about, but he nodded. Car problems was a better excuse than being sick anyway—the excuse he’d planned to give. Patrolmen weren’t allowed to get sick, at least not in Jamansky’s precinct. Oliver would thank Ashlee later for bailing him out.
Jamansky glared at him. “I’m writing you up on formal charges, Simmons. Any more of this, and you’ll lose that car.”
“Yes, sir,” Oliver said while thinking, Go back to prison you traitor pond scum.
As Jamansky left, Oliver grabbed his mug and sipped what was left of his luke-warm coffee.
A movement on the other side of the office caught his eye. Ashlee Lyon was waving him over. Oliver dragged himself over to her counter.
“Officer Simmons,” Ashlee said, sounding formal, “can you help me with this file?”
“Sure?” It came out as a question because she spread a blank travel permit in front of him.
As he looked at it, she leaned close and whispered, “Everything okay with your friend? Did it work?”
“So far,” he said softly. “She’s there now.”
“Wonderful. I tried to hold David off as long as I could. Sorry about the car excuse. It was all I could think of. I told him you called in the middle of the night, and then later found a mechanic who was able to fix your car already, so you’re all set. Is that okay?”
It was as lame as the lies he’d fed the hospital staff, but for whatever reason, karma seemed to be on his side. “That’s great. Did he suspect anything about you being gone last night?”
She shook her blonde head.
Another relief. “Thank you, Ashlee.”
“No problem,” she said with another smile. “Let me know if you need anything else.”
“Actually…” The second the word was out, he changed his mind. “Never mind.”
She turned. “What?”
“Nothing. Sorry.” She’d already done too much—she already knew too much.
Ashlee cocked her head and looked up at him beneath her thick, black lashes. “Just ask me, Oliver. It’s okay.”
He took another sip of coffee and avoided her steady gaze. “Can I borrow some money? Carrie’s medical expenses are a lot, and I, I…I’m out of money.” He felt like a desperate fool, but he kept going. “I swear I’ll pay you back with my next paychecks. I’ll even pay interest—a lot of interest—if you can just help me out.”
She studied him with an unreadable expression.
“Never mind. Sorry,” he said. “It was inappropriate to ask.”
“You really love her, don’t you?”
He sighed. “I shouldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“It’s…not a relationship that can work.”
“Oh, I know all about those,” Ashlee said with a sad smile. “But she’s legal now. You’re free to love her.”
“No, it’s not that. Carrie, she…” He took another sip. “She loves someone else.” He couldn’t say who because Ashlee not only knew Greg Pierce—and kind of had a thing for him—but she also thought Greg had died on a special op assignment.
Instead of nodding as if his answer was completely obvious—who wouldn’t love someone besides Oliver Simmons?—she actually looked surprised. “After all you’ve done for her?”
“Yes. I mean, no. It’s…complicated.”
“Ah. I know about that, too. But don’t give up on her. You deserve happiness.” Standing a little straighter, she said, “How much money do you need?”
He stared at her. After hearing how pathetic he was, begging money for a woman who didn’t love him back, she still wanted to help? She grabbed her purse from her desk. Glancing over her shoulder to make sure they were still alone, she pulled out a fat wad of bills.
“Will this cover it?” she asked.
His eyes widened. She hadn’t even counted the money. She just held the wad out to him. When he couldn’t move, couldn’t budge, she grabbed his hand and placed the money inside.
He jolted as her cool skin touched his.
“You’ll pay me back,” she said. “I’m not worried.”
The money felt heavy, and Oliver was at a loss for words.
She closed his hand over the wad. “You shouldn’t be so surprised when people do something nice for you. You’re nice to everyone else. In my opinion, this world needs more people like you, Oliver Simmons. Which reminds me.” She scanned the room again and lowered her voice. “I might have found something to help you on that other project. The one with David and the mayor. Look at this.”
* * * * *
David Jamansky’s insides shook like flood waters ready to burst a dam. He tapped his pen on his desk as he watched Ashlee and Oliver Simmons through the small security screen. The audio wasn’t great. He’d missed quite a bit of the conversation, but he pieced together enough. The lies. The money. The betrayal.
He’d kill them both.
“David doesn’t know that I know,” Ashlee was saying. “But I heard him and the mayor talking, and I think this might be what you need.”
Oliver flipped through the papers. When he replied, his whiny voice was too soft to hear. Not that it mattered. Jamansky knew exactly what those papers were. He snapped his pen in half, splaying dark ink all over, but he restrained himself from going out there because he suspected there was more to their little budding relationship.
He just needed proof.
Through the small screen, he watched Ashlee slide the papers beneath a stack of empty travel permits, hiding them. Out of sight but easy to find. Then she followed Officer Simmons to the door, smiling a wide smile Jamansky recognized easily.
The whore.
The two of them ended up below the camera mounted on the wall, out of sight but closer to the microphone. David was finally able to hear both sides of the conversation.
“How long will you be at the hospital this time?” Ashlee as
ked.
“Not sure,” Oliver said.
David leaned toward the screen.
“Well, good luck,” Ashlee said. “I’ll tell David you’re having more car problems.” And then she stepped back into view. “Tell her I hope she feels better.”
David didn’t know who “she” was, but when he found out, he’d make them all suffer.
“I will,” Oliver said. “Thanks again. I’ll find a way to repay you. For last night and this, too.”
Last night?
Oliver Simmons left the station. Still, Jamansky waited, inked-fist clenched. A plan was forming in his mind, but he had to verify something first. Ashlee disappeared into the bathroom a few minutes later. She’d be primping that fake blonde hair for a while.
Jamansky strode out of his office into the front room. He pulled out the sheets Ashlee had hidden beneath the empty travel permits and cursed loudly. For all her supposed love and devotion, his girlfriend had ratted him out.
He fed the papers into the shredder and turned back to straighten the stack, debating how soon to confront her: now, and watch her squirm up another lie, or later, when the trap had been fully set?
Something caught his eye.
Another sheet was half-pulled out of the bottom of the pile. It was filled with tiny writing. Legal jargon. Something else Ashlee had hidden.
Jamansky held it close and read the small print. It looked like a deed to a home in Shelton, which was a strange thing for Ashlee to hide from him. But then he read the date, the address, the owner’s name, the buyer’s name, and the notary’s signature at the bottom.
“Well, well, well,” Jamansky said slowly.
Two of the names made him want to hurl Ashlee’s computer against the wall, but the top name, the owner of this home in the Logan Pond subdivision, had Jamansky smiling for the first time.
Carrie Lynne Ashworth.
“Found you,” he whispered.
When Ashlee came out of the bathroom, David Jamansky was leaning against her desk, waving the deed in the air.
Ashlee glanced at the stack of empty travel permits. Her hands flew to her mouth. Terror flashing, she started to back up, searching for the door. Jamansky stormed across the office and grabbed her before she could escape. She screamed as he shoved her against the wall.
“You will tell me exactly what you know,” he said, “and you will tell me right now.”
“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.
He slapped her like she’d once slapped him, only harder, hard enough his hand stung. Crying out, she doubled over. But then she straightened, chin held high. Her cheek was red from his handprint, but her eyes spit fire.
“We’re through,” she said.
“Oh, no, Ash babe,” he said. “We’re just getting started.”
He knew she was going to run, he could see it in her traitorous eyes, so he grabbed her wrists and pinned her against the wall.
“I’ll make this easy on you,” he said in her face. “You and I are going to visit Mayor Phillips and let him know what you think you’ve found. But first, you’re going to tell me everything you know about Oliver and Carrie Ashworth or I will snap your neck.”
fifty-seven
GREG WATCHED THE NURSE adjust Carrie’s IV. For some reason it had stopped flowing right, and the nurse didn’t want to start a new IV since it had taken so long to get this one into Carrie’s weak veins.
“Come on,” she said, adjusting the needle.
As the nurse jiggled it in and around the back of Carrie’s pale hand, Greg felt the world go in and out. His forehead felt cold, his hands, clammy, and his empty stomach rolled at the sight of the needle jiggling around the skin. But he forced himself to keep watching. The nurse had added the medicines to the clear bags and tubing hanging above Carrie’s head—things Greg wouldn’t have access to in the clan. Still, he needed to learn all he could about this medicine. He just needed the nurse to speed up.
“There,” the nurse finally said. “Yes. There we go.”
The IV was flowing again.
Greg sat back and wiped his hands on his jeans. He hadn’t passed out. He was still a man.
The nurse taped the IV on Carrie’s hand and scribbled notes in a chart. She had been ridiculously punctual, coming in every hour at exactly ten minutes after the hour. But she had never asked who Greg was or why he was there instead of Oliver. In fact, she barely spoke to him, but he got braver with every visit, asking more questions—like if they offered pills for people who had horrible veins. He had no idea if his grandma had bad veins and only hoped she already had her own IV. But he needed something like pills that were transportable, something for the others in the clan that was administer-able by a clueless, needle-fearing guy like him. Unfortunately, the nurse gave vague answers, and whenever he asked if Carrie’s meds were working, she told him the doctor would be in soon. Only the doctor never came, and Greg was slowly going mad.
Five hours.
A cruel form of torture for a man who struggled to sit and do nothing even on a good day.
“When will the doctor be in?” Greg asked again. “Miss Ashworth’s father is anxious for a report.”
At that, the nurse gave him a nervous glance. “I’m not sure, but I’ll go check.”
With the room silent again, Greg watched each blip of Carrie’s pulse, each drip of the medicine, each rise and fall of her chest, analyzing whether a single thing had improved. In his limited knowledge, nothing changed except the seconds on the clock. Time became his enemy. She should be getting better by now. She had shifted in bed a few times, and maybe that was an improvement, but when he called her name or rubbed her hand, he got nothing.
The door creaked open. It wasn’t the doctor. It was a man, an older gentleman with wrinkled clothes, tired eyes, and long, graying hair pulled back in a ponytail. Greg’s stepdad looked like he’d been hit by a bus.
“Greg?” Richard whispered, looking around.
“Come on in,” Greg called.
Richard entered the small room. “I wasn’t sure if I had the right spot. Wow. A room to yourself? I’m jealous. They have us packed in downstairs.”
“Special privileges for the supposed daughters of officials,” Greg said. “How’s Grandma?”
“It doesn’t seem like the medicines are helping—at least not yet. What about here?”
“Same,” Greg said. The despair rose up in him again. He brushed some hair from Carrie’s forehead.
“She looks better,” Richard said. “At least better than she did downstairs. Where did you get that?” he asked, pointing to Greg’s tag.
Greg flipped his lanyard over to show him the Asian lady. “Looks just like me, doesn’t she? Poor lady, may she rest in peace. Were they able to get an IV into Grandma?”
“They didn’t even try.” Richard rubbed the back of his neck. “Apparently, they’re running out of equipment, so she and your grandpa get shots every two hours. They finally gave your grandma a bed, but your grandpa is stuck in a chair.”
“And you?” Greg leaned down to eye his stepdad. “No offense, but you’re not lookin’ so hot. You’ve started, too, haven’t you?”
Richard waved that off. “I’ll be fine, but I was hoping Carrie had progressed more than this by now. They’re kicking us out in the morning, and at this rate, your grandma—”
“Morning?” Greg cut in. “Why?”
“Money. Always money. Which reminds me, I promised I’d give Oliver money to help with Carrie’s costs, but we already don’t have enough, and I doubt your grandparents will be better by morning, so I’m not sure what to do.”
“Great.” Although if his grandparents were on shots instead of an IV, that answered his other question. He could steal shots—in theory. He could administer shots. In theory.
He just had to find them.
“Well,” Richard said, “I don’t dare leave May and CJ for too long, but I wanted to check in here. We’re in room 259 if you need us. En
joy your solitude—and your chair. I’ll check back later.”
“Richard?” Greg asked as he turned to go. “What if this doesn’t work?” The meds. The money. Carrie’s supposed father. Since climbing into Oliver’s car trunk, Greg hadn’t allowed himself to consider that this might all be for naught, that he could still lose her—lose them. But at some point, he might have to accept the writing on the wall. Things were on a downward spiral.
Richard studied him with a long, tired look before answering softly. “I suppose we’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”
When.
Greg stared at him.
As Richard left, Greg couldn’t stand it any longer. He limped over to Carrie’s bed and sat on the hospital blanket next to her legs.
“Carrie?” He rubbed her arm. “Hey, beautiful. Time to wake up.”
Oliver would shoot him, but he didn’t care.
“Carrie?” he said louder. “Try to wake up for me. Come on.”
Her legs shifted. That was it. But he scrambled back to watch, to see. When nothing else happened, he grabbed her hand.
“Come on. Time to wake up.” Time to ease his fears. Time to move on with life, reaching out to other clans, her garden, Greg, and everything else that needed her. “Ashworths are fighters, remember? I know you can do it.”
Her fingers twitched in his hand, and while her eyelids didn’t open, he saw them moving. He wanted to jump, shout, and strike up the band, but he rubbed her cool skin.
“A little more,” he urged.
With a grimace, her eyes finally cracked open. She squinted and blinked a dozen times against the light even though the room was dim with late afternoon sun. She could still see light. That brought a smile to his lips.
He leaned over her body to enter her line of vision. “Hey, beautiful,” he whispered.
She blinked a few more times before her squinty eyes found his face. A tired smile lifted the corners of her mouth.
“Hey,” she breathed.
One word—a simple word at that—but he grinned like a kid at Disney World.
Her eyes roamed the semi-lit room. They were only open a crack, but he could see more life in those baby blues, more coherency than before. He wanted to kiss her senseless, but he refrained himself to ask, “How’s the head? Any better?”
Citizens of Logan Pond Box Set Page 85
