Oliver gripped the phone so tightly his knuckles strained. “What did you do to her?”
Suddenly, it was Jamansky smiling. “Oh, that’s the best part. I didn’t do this. You did. The second the government found out about your illegal activity, they confiscated all your assets, including Carrie’s house.”
Jamansky pulled the photo back and stroked it, as if stroking Carrie’s hair. “Imagine her horror when she and her siblings waltzed into town and got the surprise of a lifetime. She thought she was getting their citizenship cards worked up. But, no. All three taken in one fell swoop. Isn’t that something?”
Oliver went numb. “Amber and Zach, too?” His eyes darted around the floor, searching for a way to help. A letter? But to where? Which work camp had they sent Carrie to? And how could a letter help anyway? If Carrie’s house had been repossessed, how could he get her legal again when he, himself, would spend the rest of his life locked away?
Oliver looked up. “Let me see it,” he said into the receiver. For all he knew, the picture wasn’t really Carrie at all, but was just another of Jamansky’s tricks, an edited photo.
Jamansky was perfectly happy to comply. He pressed the photo back against the glass.
No matter how Oliver tried to blur his eyes, it was definitely Carrie Ashworth. Only she looked so defeated, so broken. He dropped back onto his stool. Everything he’d experienced the last week flashed through his mind, only worse for her.
He thought not knowing was the worst thing.
He was wrong.
“How do you think she likes sleeping on cement?” Jamansky asked. “It’s a little colder than they warn you about, isn’t it? Smellier, too. I really hope she doesn’t run across any prison gangs either. I hear they’re vicious.”
Oliver ignored the taunts, still studying the picture.
Then he squinted at the other person in the photo. Jamansky had sat across from Carrie in that small room, hands clasped, talking to her. Unlike Oliver’s prison, Carrie’s facility had different visiting rights. Either that or, as Chief of Patrols, Jamansky had special rights. He sat close enough he could have touched her.
Fury clouded Oliver’s vision. “What did you say to her?”
“Oh, I just made sure she knew who was to blame for her arrest. As you can see, she didn’t take the news too well. To your credit, she didn’t believe me at first. She defended you quite nobly—at least for a time. But now she knows the truth. She knows what you did to her.”
Oliver’s mouth worked for a moment.
Nothing came out.
“You know,” Jamansky said in a sudden conversational tone, “she’s not looking too hot. Her coloring is a little off, don’t you think? Her eyes are sunken, too. Say, did she have time to finish that round of medicine? Because I think she might be getting sick again. I’d hate for her to…die or something.”
The knot tightened in Oliver’s gut.
He leaned forward to see if she looked sick, but before he could see anything, Jamansky’s fist closed around the security photo and crumpled it into a tiny wad. He tossed it over his shoulder.
“Drop the charges against me,” Jamansky said into the phone. “Drop them, or she dies.”
So that was it.
Why he had come.
Oliver closed his eyes. If Carrie was getting sick again, she would die anyway.
“Clear my record,” Jamansky continued, “and I might even have her released. I can, you know. I can get her out, get her the medicine she needs. Shouldn’t be too hard. A few signatures here, a few misunderstandings to clear up there, and she and her siblings could be free tomorrow.”
Oliver’s eyes went wide. Tomorrow?
Jamansky waited.
“What…” Oliver cleared his suddenly dry throat. “What do you want me to do? I’m locked up. I can’t do anything.” Even if Reef somehow wrote another letter to the Department of Investigations, how could Oliver rescind anything—especially because that file told the feds exactly where to find proof of everything Jamansky had stolen from them?
“Oh, don’t worry,” Jamansky said. “I’ve drawn up an Affidavit on your behalf. Sign it, and I’ll send it in for you, because that’s just the kind of nice guy that I am. It explains how you fabricated every one of those lies out of spite. And don’t worry. It includes every lie that”—his jaw stiffened—“Ashlee fed you, too.”
Oliver tried to not react. He begged his face to stay neutral at Ashlee’s name, but inside he was screaming with horror.
What had Jamansky done to her?
Jamansky smelled blood and sat forward. “Where is that wench? Where did you hide Ashlee? Tell me!”
Ashlee was gone?
“I don’t know,” Oliver said. “I…” His mind raced, coming up blank. Was this another trick of Jamansky’s?
“Well, when I find her, I’ll be dealing with her next.”
“I’ll sign it,” Oliver said suddenly. “I’ll do it. Just tell me what to do.”
Jamansky shook his head. “I will not be returning to prison. That’s where you belong. So you better pray this works, because if a single charge, insinuation, accusation, or even a stupid parking ticket is left on my record, Carrie will be dead by the end of the week. Ashlee, too. Am I clear?”
Oliver nodded blankly. “Perfectly.”
thirty-two
DONNELLE DIED.
Carrie tried to convince herself that she didn’t know the wild-haired woman very well, so it shouldn’t devastate her. Less than a week. That’s all they’d spent together. Yet Donnelle had saved Carrie those first days.
As Headie Eddie carried Donnelle’s body out, Lisbeth, who wasn’t far behind the same fate, whispered four quiet words.
“Live free or die.”
Carrie closed her eyes against those words. Live free or die. Live free or die. She never wanted to hear them again.
Enough dying.
It was time for people to just live free.
* * * * *
Greg spent the twenty-mile trip home figuring out what to say—or rather, what to do—to the patrol chief. Obviously Jamansky hadn’t thought Greg would visit Carrie. Now Greg couldn’t wait to pound the truth out of him.
He just needed to find Ashlee’s little pistol first. Unfortunately, Richard refused to tell Greg where he’d hidden it.
When the two men reached Logan Pond, Greg stormed up to Richard’s front door and grabbed the note tacked there.
“Still working on Amber and Zach’s whereabouts. Hope to hear back soon. –J.”
Greg’s fist closed over the paper. “I’ll kill him. I swear I will.”
“Let’s just get back to Ferris,” Richard said. “Maybe the others will have come up with something.”
But as they rounded the corner, Greg saw somebody sitting on his grandparents’ porch: a dark-haired, curvy woman.
He stopped.
Greg shouldn’t have been surprised to see Isabel Ryan there. Frankly, he couldn’t believe it had taken her that long to show up. But he felt his life—and Carrie’s—slipping through his fingers.
“Is that who I think it is?” Richard said.
Before his former partner could see them, Greg hauled Richard behind a tree.
“Go,” Greg whispered. “Head to Ferris. Tell them what happened.”
“I’m not leaving without you,” Richard said. “This isn’t a done deal yet. She hasn’t seen us yet. Come with me.”
Greg’s jaw clenched. “I need her help.”
“She’s not here to help,” Richard said pointedly. “I can guarantee that much.”
“Just go.”
Richard folded his arms. “You stay, I stay. We’re in this together.”
“So you’ll go down with the ship?”
Greg’s stepdad gave him a sad smile. “It’s the only way to go.”
The old man acted like he had little else worth living for. Greg should have fought him, but he had no fight left. The two strode out into the open, walking di
rectly down the street toward his grandparents’ home.
Lieutenant Isabel Ryan stood as they approached, arms folded, expression rock hard. She wore all black, but not her federal uniform.
“Pierce,” she said coldly.
“Isabel,” Greg said back.
But the second they reached the front sidewalk, Greg stopped dead in his tracks. Isabel’s favorite pistol—the black one with the little pink trigger—had appeared out of nowhere. It rose to the level of his face.
Richard’s hands shot into the air. Greg’s hands lifted, too, though more slowly. During training, he and Isabel had spent a full day in the shooting range together. He’d never seen anybody shoot like her—not even Jeff Kovach who had been the clan’s best hunter. Her accuracy was off the chart. And now her favorite gun was aimed right between his eyes. Greg waited for her to lower her gun. She didn’t. Not even a millimeter. His blood pressure spiked.
“Explain,” Isabel said.
Greg’s temper snapped. He didn’t have time for her theatrics. The exhaustion and defeat from the last few days—the last few weeks—had soured his mood beyond repair. He glared right back.
“You first,” he said.
The silence between them was charged, neither willing to bend.
Richard, ever the diplomat, spoke instead. “Um…hello. I’m Richard O’Brien. You must be Greg’s former partner, Isabel.”
“And fake wife,” Greg added darkly. “So much for a, ‘Nice to see you, hon.’”
Isabel’s death glare didn’t lesson.
“You know,” Greg muttered out of the side of his mouth, “that little pistol woulda come in handy right about now.”
“Sorry,” Richard whispered, hands still high. Then he spoke loudly again. “You’re not here to arrest my stepson, are you?”
“Thinking about it,” she said. “I’m thinking about taking both of you in, actually. But first, I’m waiting for Pierce to explain himself.”
Greg didn’t like this side of Isabel, the cold, bitter side. True, the two of them had been oil and water during their short time as partners. Still, he thought they’d at least ended on good terms. He’d saved her life. She saved his. They’d been friends.
Or so he thought.
“Why are you here?” Greg said, hands still high. “Does Commander McCormick know I’m alive?”
“Yes,” she said.
He wanted to kick something.
“So he sent you to bring me in?” he said angrily.
“Yes.” Her grip tightened on her pretty little gun, a little too tight for his comfort. “Now your turn, Pierce. Explain to me why some jerk called me out of the blue and said he’d had a nice chat with you. He said you started bossing him around like you were still some special op.” Her dark eyes narrowed. “Did he tell you to call me like I ordered him to?”
Greg was tempted to lie and let Jamansky rot, but he nodded.
“I see. Only guess what? I’ve heard nothing.” She spat the word. “After all I did for you, covering your sorry hide, doesn’t that seem unfair? What happened? I told you not to resurrect yourself unless something—”
“Carrie’s gone,” he interrupted.
Her dark eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“Carrie was arrested. Taken. And I can’t…I can’t…” The emotions hit him all over again. During their short time together, Greg had told Isabel about Carrie. She knew what Carrie meant to him. Now, after all the miles and days of searching, his whole body wanted to collapse and never get back up. He took a slow breath until he trusted his voice to work properly. “I can’t find her.”
The gun lowered a fraction.
“And your mom?” Isabel asked.
The question caught him off guard. Even Richard stiffened next to him. The last time Greg had seen Isabel, he’d been desperate to get home before his mom lost her battle with cancer. Turned out, he was too late anyway. Six weeks too late.
“She’s gone,” Greg said. “Died before I got home.”
“I’m sorry, Greg,” she said, and it looked like she meant it.
He should have been stressed about what she and McCormick were planning for him—more spying, or a lifetime behind bars—but he couldn’t help but think about all the access she had. Things Jamansky didn’t. And if she hadn’t brought the whole squad to arrest him—yet—he still had time.
“Listen,” he said. “I need your help. You gotta help me find Carrie.”
Her dark glare returned. “Isn’t that interesting? Because McCormick wants you to help him find someone, too.”
“Maybe if he scratches my back, I’ll scratch his.”
Her gun straightened. “You’ve always been gutsy, haven’t you? Here I come to bring you in, threaten arrest, and somehow you end up asking me for help?”
“Fine,” he said. “Take me to McCormick. I’ll do whatever he wants. I’ll spy on whoever he orders me to. But first…find Carrie and release her. That’s my deal.”
She huffed. “Look, Greg, I would love to help your precious Carrie, I really would, but I can’t. Not anymore.”
“Don’t play games with me! You have level nine clearance. If that weasel Jamansky can get her out, so can you—probably today.”
Today.
The possibility flooded his mind.
“No, it’s not that. I…” Her shoulders lifted. “I’m not exactly in the best position to help you right now. Neither is McCormick.”
Today. The word kept echoing, making him dizzy with anticipation. He could have Carrie and her siblings back by the end of the day.
Desperate, he said, “I’ll do whatever you want, I swear. Just help me first. Carrie’s in trouble. She’s runnin’ out of time ‘cause she’s sick. This Jamansky guy, the one you talked to, he’s as corrupt as”—he nearly said President Rigsby but remembered who he was talking to—“anybody. He deserves to hang. So, take Jamansky out, get Carrie and her siblings released, and I’ll do anything Commander McCormick wants. No fighting. No attitude. You have my word.”
Not a great deal, but a thousand times better than betraying Oliver.
Isabel watched him with a long, grave face, but for some reason, it was Richard who spoke first.
“Greg,” Richard said slowly, “I don’t think she’s in a position to help you right now.”
“Yes she is! President Rigsby gave McCormick free reign to do whatever he wants. He could probably march into Carrie’s prison and release every single person there.”
“Greg,” Isabel started, voice suddenly pleading. “Uncle Charlie is…” She blinked. “He’s not…”
His gut clenched. “He’s not what?”
Isabel’s gun lowered. “Charlie McCormick is no longer head of the Special Patrols Unit. He resigned on Tuesday.” She paused before finishing. “And so did I.”
thirty-three
GREG AND ISABEL TOOK TURNS explaining all that had happened since he’d run from Kearney’s camp.
“Uncle Charlie and I were actually thinking about tracking you down,” Isabel said. “Once he resigned, I told him where you really were and what had happened in Kearney’s camp. And then I got that strange call. I’d forgotten that I’d placed my personal phone number in your records. It felt like fate had brought you back to us.”
Greg sat on his grandparents’ front porch, head in his hands. McCormick quit his job. He didn’t have power or special access to anything. Neither did Isabel. They couldn’t take down Jamansky. They couldn’t find Carrie. They couldn’t do anything.
“Why did he quit?” he said.
“His wife, my aunt Ashira,” Isabel said, “caught this same virus Carrie had. Only when they went to give her the cure, she had an allergic reaction. She asphyxiated. Couldn’t breathe. Aunt Ashira passed away before the end of the day. Now Uncle Charlie is…well…” She ran a hand over her eyes. “I’m sure you can imagine. He wants revenge.”
Greg looked up. “Revenge?”
“He knows President Rigsby is behind G-979.
He knows what it’s intended to do—we all do. Based on the reports coming in, it’s bad, Greg. Horrific. And not just illegals either. I don’t think even Rigsby could have anticipated how fast it’s spread.” She shrugged. “McCormick can’t forgive him for his wife’s death, so he quit. Now he needs help, and he thinks you’re the one to do it.”
Richard leaned against the porch railing. “Help with what?”
“He needs someone to get him on the inside.” She hesitated. “He wants Greg to introduce him to Kearney and the rebels.”
“Kearney?” Greg said with a mirthless laugh. “The guy who nearly blew off my head?”
“I told him what you said to Kearney,” Isabel said. “How you told Kearney about the government’s plans to spy and infiltrate the rebel groups. I told him how Kearney reacted, how he listened to you, Greg, and actually moved camp.”
“The guy almost killed me!”
She smiled. “But he didn’t.”
Shaking his head, Greg stood. “I don’t have time for this.”
“You can use my phone,” Isabel said quickly. “Call any place you want to find Carrie. And when we’re done, I’ll drive you anywhere you need.”
“Anywhere?” he challenged.
“Yes.”
“If I help you break into the rebellion?”
“Yes.”
Greg looked at Richard, trying to read his thoughts. Richard scratched his graying goatee, looking lost. Honestly, Greg felt a little lost, too. All he knew is that he wouldn’t be resurrected. No green card restored or obligatory military service required. He wouldn’t be forced to betray his fellow illegals again. In fact, he could be helping them fight President Rigsby, the man who had started everything.
That is, if Greg understood correctly.
He turned back to Isabel. “Just to be sure, why does McCormick want to meet with Kearney and the rebel leaders?”
“Because they have the fire, and he has the means.”
“The means?” Greg echoed, still confused.
Isabel’s large, dark eyes locked on his. “McCormick plans to assassinate the president.”
Citizens of Logan Pond Box Set Page 111
