“Eddie,” Carrie called loudly, “my friend is really sick. Can you help her? Or is there a doctor who can? Look at her on our bottom bunk. She’s very sick.”
“She’s not the only one,” Headie Eddie said, handing washcloths through the next set of bars. “Why do you think we’re on lockdown?”
Carrie glanced around to what she could see of the prison, cell after cell of trapped women. Lockdown would have been a good idea if they were treating the sick ones—or at least quarantining them from their cellmates.
As he moved off, Carrie went back to Donnelle. She flipped the washrag on her forehead. Donnelle looked so pale, so lifeless.
When Headie Eddie circled back a few minutes later, collecting the washrags, Carrie struggled back to the bars.
“Please,” she said, “My friend is not doing well. Can she get medicine? Can you at least ask around? There has to be something you can do.”
He ignored her. “Marge, don’t make me fight you for your rag today. Do you want breakfast or not?”
Crazy Marge stuck her tongue out at him. Apparently, she didn’t trust anyone without hair.
“Come on, Marge,” he said. “Not today, alright?”
With a glare, Marge extracted her rag from inside her orange uniform and threw it at him. With that, Headie Eddie started off.
“Wait!” Carrie called through the bars. “This isn’t just some flu or strep throat. This is the G-979 virus, I know it is. If she doesn’t get help, she’ll die.”
He held the collection bucket to the next group of women.
“Do you want her to die?” Carrie said. “Do you want them all to die?”
“Probably,” Lisbeth said, behind her. “More open beds.”
Anger coursed through Carrie’s tired veins.
“So that’s your job?” she yelled at him. “Lock us in here like caged animals until we die? We live on government property because we’re too poor to afford anything else, and suddenly that’s a death sentence?”
From around the prison, women started yelling. “Yeah, animals!” “Let us out!” Their shouts echoed off the cement walls. “Give us meds!” “Let us out!”
Headie Eddie whirled around and stormed back to Carrie with such fury, she fell back a step. He swung, slamming his nightstick against the metal bars. The force of it left both ears ringing.
“Silence!” he yelled. “Before I have to silence you.”
So much for being the nice guard.
Carrie’s eyes stung. “She’s going to die. This isn’t something you can just recover from. We’re all going to die unless you help us.”
Something changed in his dark eyes. A flash of guilt. But it passed quickly. He walked off and left them alone, locked inside of their cell.
“You’re going to kill us all!” Carrie shouted.
He didn’t turn back.
* * * * *
Greg jumped to his feet. He watched Richard stride out the front prison doors in a hurry. Richard had only been inside for maybe five minutes, way too fast to have seen Carrie.
Greg’s heart pounded with a mixture of disappointment and rage. He knew Richard couldn’t pull this off.
He knew it!
He wanted to sprint out to meet him but didn’t dare risk being seen out in the open, so he waited, pacing back and forth in the woods while his insides felt ready to burst.
“What happened?” Greg said the second Richard was within hearing distance.
Richard just kept walking. Even when he was close enough to explain, he kept going, passing up Greg and heading back the direction they’d come.
“Let’s go,” Richard said.
Greg snagged his arm, stopping him. “No way. If you can’t get in to see her, then I will.”
“No need.”
“Why? What happened? I told you to get in no matter what!”
“Carrie’s not here!” Richard snapped.
That pulled Greg up short. “What?”
Richard’s jaw tightened under his gray goatee. “They have no inmate by the name of Carrie Ashworth at this location. In fact, they haven’t had a single prisoner here from Shelton in over a month.”
“What? No. That can’t be.”
“I saw the list of inmates myself,” Richard said. “They’re closed to new prisoners because of overcrowding. Carrie is not here, Greg. I’m sorry.”
“But Jamansky said she was in Rockford!” His mind raced. “Is there another work camp in this area?”
“Not for women. The guard told us to try one of these places.”
Richard handed Greg a slip of paper. Greg recognized several of the places because Ashlee had already mentioned them. All six of them. In six entirely different cities around Illinois.
The weight of it hit him, full force.
Carrie wasn’t here.
His gaze dropped to the box of medicine Richard held. No cure. No release. Greg couldn’t even bully his way inside because Carrie wasn’t here anyway.
“No,” he said. “It’s gotta be a mistake. We just came twenty miles. How did this happen?”
“You really have to ask?” Richard said darkly.
Understanding slammed into Greg like a ton of bricks.
Richard nodded. “I’d bet my last dollar that Chief Jamansky just sent you on a goose chase.”
thirty-one
JAMANSKY WALKED INTO THE STATION. Fat, old Giordano looked up from his desk.
“You seem happy, chief,” Giordano said.
Jamansky loosened his tie. “It’s been a good week. A great week, actually.”
“That’s a change,” Giordano said.
True. Ever since his arrest in the spring, it had been one problem after another. But now things seemed to be falling into place.
Finally.
Giordano stapled some papers together and pushed away from his desk. “Anything you need from me? I’m heading out on patrols for the night.”
“No. Actually, yes.” Jamansky turned. “You’re on northern Shelton tonight, aren’t you?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“There’s a subdivision on the western outskirts, one of Simmons’ old areas. It’s called Logan Pond, not very large. As of a few days ago, twenty or more illegals lived there, but a little bird told me they’ve abandoned it. I don’t believe him. Leave the dogs behind and take Portman, Bushing, and whoever else you need to do a full, silent sweep.”
“Will do.”
“Good. Oh, and Giordano?” Jamansky said.
“Yes, chief?”
David Jamansky smiled again. He’d nearly fired Giordano and Ellen for their hand in everything, almost ruining Jamansky’s perfect plan. But now that things had shifted, and he had Greg Pierce, Oliver Simmons, and Carrie Ashworth in the palm of his hands…
“I’m giving you a raise,” he said.
Giordano’s brows lifted on his beefy forehead. “Wow. Thanks, boss.”
Whistling, Jamansky left him and walked back to his office. He sat in his plush, leather chair and kicked his feet up on his desk. It had been crazy putting everything into place. He probably needed to take notes on all he’d done—and promised—just to keep track.
Rockford. Not Rochelle. He was still congratulating himself on coming up with that quick answer.
Pierce had given him a day to figure out where Amber and Zach were. Jamansky didn’t need a day. He already knew, but he posted a note on that house in Logan Pond that said, “Still working on Amber and Zach’s whereabouts. Hope to hear back soon. –J.”
Easy.
Not so easy had been yelling at the idiotic Rochelle prison guard, demanding that they give Carrie medicine. He couldn’t have her dying on him. Not now. It would ruin everything. He lost a pretty penny bribing the guard, but again, task completed.
The only thing that irked him was Ashlee Lyon. Every time he even thought his girlfriend’s name, he wanted to rip her house to shreds. Not even her parents knew where she’d disappeared. How had Oliver Simmons turned Ashlee aga
inst him so quickly, so completely? He didn’t know, but with luck, they’d find her body washed up on some lake shore.
If he ignored that aspect of things, he felt pretty good. It had been a very busy, very good week. And if things went well in the next few days, it would only get better.
Ellen knocked softly on his door.
“Enter,” he said.
“Chief, sir,” Ellen said, “two federal patrolmen delivered this for you today.”
He looked up. “What is it?”
“Not sure, but I told them you were out for the day.”
She handed him a letter-sized envelope. He set it on the corner of his desk and sat back again, hands behind his head. His next step needed to be even more careful and calculated. One wrong misstep, and it could all blow up in his face.
“Um…sir?” Ellen said, still in the doorway. “I believe that letter is important. You might want to take a look.”
His eyes narrowed. “Have you been reading my mail again?”
“No.” She gulped. “Of course not.”
Liar. He hated that woman. Ashlee Lyon might be a lousy clerk—and even lousier girlfriend—but at least she knew her place.
Sighing, he grabbed the envelope and read the return address.
“Department of Investigations?” he read, perplexed. He’d never received a letter from them before. Of course, he hadn’t been Chief of Patrols all that long either.
Tearing it open, he slipped out several typed sheets of paper.
He read the cover letter, hardly understanding what it meant. So he read it again. And then again.
His blood began to simmer. At first, he thought Greg Pierce had been behind it, but Pierce couldn’t have known any of the things listed in the letter. But someone else did.
Two someones did.
Jamansky thought back to the whispered conversation he’d overheard in the township office, how Ashlee and Oliver Simmons had huddled close, thinking nobody knew of their treachery and deceit. Accomplices in his demise.
His hand slammed down on his desk with a sudden thwack.
“I’ll kill him!” he roared. “I swear I will kill them both!”
Ellen jumped back. “Sir?”
“Get my keys!”
* * * * *
“Wait,” Oliver said. “You wrote what to her?”
Reef slapped him on the back. “You’re welcome.”
Oliver pictured Ashlee Lyon reading that letter—Reef’s bold, flirtatious words. The floor dropped out from under him. “No, no, no. You don’t understand. She and I aren’t…We’re not…” He huffed angrily. “We’re coworkers!”
“Maybe not anymore.” Reef winked at him.
Oliver couldn’t worry about Ashlee’s reaction. So what if she thought he was a total fool? Nothing new there. He had to focus on what he could: getting Ashlee the message. That was what was important.
The guards came around and told them to clear out. Lunch break was over, but Oliver continued to fret. Served him right for trusting a smelly, lonely guy like Reef.
Halfway through potato number two hundred and twenty-seven, a guard approached.
“Follow me,” the guard said, motioning to him. “Someone wants to see you.”
Oliver didn’t like the sound of that. His ulcers knotted in his empty stomach.
The guard led him through halls and doors Oliver had never seen while he tried to figure out who wanted to see him. Hopefully not someone with another branding iron. The skin on Oliver’s shoulder still burned.
Stopping at a door, the guard swiped his card across a scanner. He ushered Oliver into a small, narrow room with stools lining each side in long rows. Each stool faced a Plexiglass partition with dividers and a phone on each side of the glass. Three other inmates sat on different stools down the line. Each of them talked on the corded phone to people on the other side of the glass.
A visitor’s room.
Oliver could think of a handful of people who might visit him, but only two or three he actually wanted a visit from.
“Station number six,” the guard said, pointing.
Curious and somewhat frightened, Oliver sat on the small stool. The other side of his partition was empty. He didn’t want to get his hopes up on who the visitor might be. It couldn’t be Ashlee Lyon. Not yet. She couldn’t have received the letter yet. Unless she had come on her own, but why would she? It had to be someone else. Hopefully not his uncle. Not that his Uncle Gerard was a horrible person, but the drunken judge only talked to Oliver when he needed money—which Oliver no longer had. Maybe someone from Logan Pond? Carrie or Greg? Could he be that lucky?
His leg bounced nervously under the small counter. The summer heat had baked the building, sending sweat trickling down his back. He wiped his forehead, somewhat brushing his thinning hair to the side. He hadn’t seen a mirror in a while and didn’t want to.
When the door finally opened on the other side, Oliver’s leg stopped bouncing. His pulse stopped, too.
A patrolman stormed in, tall, blond, and searching for the right station. When he spotted number six with Oliver behind the Plexiglass, his face reddened.
Jamansky stormed right up to the glass and slammed a piece of paper against it.
“What is this?” he shouted, loud enough that the three other inmates and their visitors turned.
Terror seized Oliver for the space of two seconds until he realized what the paper was, who it was from, and what it meant. Then suddenly he was smiling. He couldn’t help it. Being in a maximum-security facility had some advantages. The thick, bulletproof glass separated them. Jamansky couldn’t do anything to Oliver that he hadn’t already done.
Oliver read the letter smashed up against the glass.
TO: CHIEF OF PATROLS, DAVID ARTHUR JAMANSKY,
An investigation has been reopened into potential illegal activity involving yourself and Mayor Lucas Phillips. You have been placed on probation pending further review.
Please send in the following files:
Probation? Even better than Oliver had hoped. The mayor, too. Oliver practically grinned as he kept reading.
The letter listed seventeen different incidents spanning the last two years, suspicious activities Jamansky had been involved with. Each had a date and a request for information. Some Oliver recognized, like number eleven:
11) List of items procured during March 31 sweep of Logan Pond Subdivision, Shelton Township. Along with list, send in patrol logs and payments sent.
That one felt good—incredibly good since the raid on Logan Pond had haunted Oliver long enough. With the help of Greg, he’d been able to turn it back around on Jamansky. Jamansky even spent a few weeks in prison until he got Mayor Phillips to spring him. Now, tides had turned again.
But other incidents Oliver had never heard of, some from years ago. Which could only mean one thing. When Reef wrote to the Department of Investigations, Oliver told him to mention the file Ashlee had set up on the mainframe network. It held every allegation and bit of evidence they needed to pin Jamansky down. Oliver hadn’t been given the chance to follow up with Ashlee, but obviously, she’d done more digging on her own.
But how had they opened an investigation so quickly? Reef had only sent the letter earlier that week. Had Ashlee contacted the feds even before that?
Oliver’s smile widened.
Seventeen full incidents. Ashlee Lyon was brilliant. Hopefully Jamansky never put two and two together that she’d been involved.
Suddenly Oliver hoped Reef hadn’t sent Ashlee’s letter yet. Oliver needed to change it. He had to warn her, beg her to run or find somewhere to hide out until this blew over—maybe even until they yanked Jamansky from office, however long that took.
Goodness, what if they arrested Jamansky, and Jamansky joined Oliver inside here?
“I will rip you to shreds!” Jamansky yelled. “I will cut you to pieces!”
The glass muffled the shouting, but the guard grabbed Jamansky’s arm and ordered him to
sit on the stool and use the phone.
Jamansky’s murderous glare stayed on Oliver, probation letter still smashed to the glass, until he finally dropped onto the stool and grabbed the side phone.
Oliver almost didn’t pick up his own phone. What could Jamansky say that already hadn’t been said? Then again, Oliver had a thousand questions of his own. Had Jamansky gone to Carrie’s house? Had he arrested the whole clan? Had he gone after Ashlee, who feared her abusive boyfriend even before all this?
Jamansky’s scowl deepened, waiting.
The second Oliver picked up the receiver, Jamansky yelled, “Drop the charges! Now!”
Oliver held the plastic phone away from his ear until the shouting stopped. Then he calmly—and somewhat smugly—said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. As you can see, I’m stuck in here. Sorry. My hands are tied.”
As he said the words, his whole body filled with exultation. Even his cracked ribs seemed to repair themselves at the sight of their inflictor’s distress. Not only were the feds investigating Jamansky, but Mayor Phillips, too. Oliver couldn’t have been happier.
“Are you sure?” Jamansky said. Then he rammed something else against the glass, a different paper, smaller in size. No, not a paper.
A picture.
Oliver squinted to make out the somewhat-blurry photo. It had been taken from an upper angle, from a low-quality security camera in the upper corner of a room. It showed two people in a small white room sitting directly across from one another. One was Jamansky, hands clasped in front of him. The other was a woman in an orange prison jumpsuit.
Oliver’s gut dropped to the floor.
No, no, no!
He stared at the woman’s honey-colored hair, limp and hanging in her face, the slump of her slender shoulders, her petite nose, soft lips, and curved chin. He would know that profile anywhere.
His heart felt like it had been pierced by a bullet.
“Carrie looks good in orange,” Jamansky said. “Doesn’t she?”
Citizens of Logan Pond Box Set Page 110
