“Freund,” he kept saying.
Their inch-long fangs could break skin and crush bones. She braced herself for it, but after an agonizing minute both dogs sat back, no longer looking anxious to rip off her arms.
“There.” Jamansky straightened. “Now you’re friends. Let’s get you some food, boys. Did you miss me?”
Jumping up, his dogs followed him into his kitchen. He flipped on light switches as he went as if it was the most natural thing to do. While he cared for his dogs, Carrie stayed rooted inside the door, unable to move.
Jamansky’s house looked strange, almost foreign. A black leather couch sat positioned in front of a large TV. Beautifully bound books lined tall bookshelves. Pictures dotted the room in various metal frames. Rugs. Curtains. Lamps and tables. Nothing strange in and of itself except for the fact that Jamansky had things, like Carrie once had before the Collapse—like everyone had before the Collapse. His home wasn’t large. Hers was probably triple its size, but hers stood virtually empty. That difference left her feeling claustrophobic.
“Want something to drink?” Jamansky called from the kitchen.
She shook her head.
The odd, eerie feeling went beyond the number of items he owned, because his things didn’t match. One lamp was tall and ornately carved. Another was short and modern in design. The black leather sofa sat next to a brown fabric recliner. Maybe he’d had all those things before the Collapse, but from where she stood, it seemed like he’d benefited handsomely from the hundreds of raids he’d performed over the years. This room—his entire house, actually—felt like a shrine to the downfall of America.
Jamansky came back to her, holding a mug of coffee. “Here.”
She stared at the coffee, yet another foreign thing.
“It’s decaf. Or I have soda or milk, if you prefer. Or…” he added when she still hadn’t moved, “a glass of wine?”
“No. I’m fine,” she said softly. “Thank you.”
Her gaze fell on an elaborate Chinese vase in the corner of the room, at least two and a half feet tall. A blue dragon snaked its way in and around the intricate carvings. It was gorgeous, the kind of vase that probably cost thousands of dollars for some world traveler to ship home. As she stared at it, she wondered if Jamansky had stolen her great-great-grandmother’s porcelain doll that no longer sat beside her mattress.
His eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong?”
Flushing, she said, “You have a nice house.”
“It’s alright. Now that I’m patrol chief, they’re supposed to give me an upgrade, but you know how the government works. Slow and stupid. By the way, that’s my sister. She’s…well…” He ran a hand over his short, blond hair. “She’s my sister.”
Carrie refocused to where he thought she’d been looking. A large frame sat on one of the end tables next to the vase. Jamansky had his arm around a beautiful blonde that was most definitely not his sister. It was his girlfriend—or ex-girlfriend.
Ashlee Lyon.
The photo seemed to have been taken at some party. Jamansky held a drink in one hand and had his other hand on the small of Ashlee’s back in a very un-brotherly way. Carrie hated how easily the lies rolled off his tongue, but she didn’t challenge him. She wasn’t even supposed to know Ashlee. Saying anything might give away Ashlee’s whereabouts.
“She’s pretty,” she said. And surprisingly happy, she thought, studying Ashlee’s face. A far cry from the red splotches she’d had when she had shown up on Carrie’s porch.
His jaw clenched. He hadn’t liked that comment, but he shook it off and motioned to the couch. “Have a seat. You must be exhausted.”
“No thank you.”
“Right. You probably want to clean up first.”
“No, I’m fine.”
He bent down to peer at her. “Carrie, relax. Take a breather. You’ve been through a huge, traumatic event, but it’s over. You’re safe now.”
That depended on his definition of safe. Then again, she couldn’t exactly stay two feet inside of his home, cemented there for the next forty-eight hours.
“Sorry,” she said. “I just…”
His eyes softened. “How about a hot shower? You’ll feel a hundred times better after a nice, hot shower. Speaking of which, I have some stuff for you.”
He left her to retrieve a small bundle from the table. “Here. Hope they fit.”
He held a pile of clothing toward her. A hot pink tank top sat on top of folded beige shorts. A bright blue spaghetti strap poked out of somewhere in the middle, along with other unmentionables. At the bottom were folded-up items of deep red satin. Pajamas? Suddenly she loved her orange uniform. She wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of her life in her putrid, ugly, orange tent.
“Come on,” he said. “Take them. They’re yours now”
She pawed through the pile lamely. The clothes were nothing like her own style—if she even had a style—but the bright, flashy colors screamed of Ashlee Lyon.
Carrie suddenly felt like little Jonah Kovach, on the verge of a toddler meltdown. She wanted her mom’s blue blouse back and her dad’s ratty old sweats for pajamas. She wanted her un-lit house with its ripped couch and empty floors. She wanted her siblings back. She wanted Greg back.
She just wanted to go home.
“You’ll definitely feel better after a shower,” he said. “Come on. I’ll show you where the bathroom is.”
Reluctantly, she followed.
His bathroom was filled with more mismatched items. He opened closets and cupboards, showing her things as he went. “Towels are here, along with shampoo and razors. Use whatever you want. I have plenty.”
When he finished, he flashed her another smile. “Enjoy.”
Then he shut the door behind him.
She locked the bathroom door and, for a long minute, just stood there, trying to come to grips with it all. Two or three days, and then she would have everyone back that she loved.
Dropping Ashlee’s clothes on the counter, she slid down to the floor and wrapped her arms around her legs.
thirty-five
“I’M COMING WITH YOU AND ISABEL,” Richard said, trying to keep up with Greg as he grabbed things from his bedroom.
“Not this time,” Greg said.
Greg peeled off his lucky UNC shirt—a lot of luck it had given him—and tossed it in the corner. Then he searched for his work shirt in the “to-wash” pile, the one he reserved for digging wells. It was stained, stiff with dirt, which made it perfect for where he was headed. He hadn’t shaved in two days which wasn’t long enough to complete the homeless-rebel ensemble, but his long, shaggy hair would have to do.
Richard gasped.
“What’s wrong?” Greg said, looking over his shoulder.
Underneath his gray goatee, Richard’s mouth had fallen into a silent, horrified, “Oh.”
Greg’s back.
In his haste, he had forgotten to turn away.
“I’m, uh…” Richard looked a little sick. “I’m glad your mother never saw your scars.”
Greg, too.
“What’s that one?” Richard said, pointing to his shoulder. “Is that a star?”
Greg looked over the side of his shoulder to where a single star was crossed out in the middle of a circle. “A traitor’s brand. It hurt a lot more than the ones on my back.”
Ironically, that crossed-out star had become the symbol of the rebellion. He’d seen huge paintings of it on a few buildings on the way to Rockford. But even more disturbing was that Isabel had an identical brand on her shoulder, only hers was self-inflicted so she could blend-in with the rebels. Which only proved how crazy she and McCormick were. And Greg had just agreed to help them.
He pulled on his work shirt and grabbed Carrie’s weather journal, shoving it into his back pocket, along with a few syringes of medicine he could fit, should she need them.
“Where’s the pistol?” he asked.
“Back in Ferris.” Richard rubbed his ja
w, still dazed. “CJ has it.”
Figured.
“Whatever,” Greg said. “Tell everybody what happened, then work on finding Amber and Zach from your end. I’ll call every place I can. Oh, and if you see Jamansky, shoot him. Lots of times.”
He started for the stairs but double backed to grab one last thing. His slingshot. Then he flew down the stairs two at a time.
“When will you be back?” Richard called.
“Not until I have Carrie.”
Originally, Isabel had parked near the front of the subdivision to keep from scaring anybody. Little did she know that there weren’t any people left to scare. By the time Greg burst out of his house, she was waiting in her car in his driveway. And oh, what a car.
Instead of heading to the passenger’s side, Greg opened the driver’s door.
Startled, she looked up. “What are you doing?”
“I’ll drive,” he said.
“What?”
Unlike all the patrol cars he’d seen—dark green and boring—Isabel drove a bright red sports car that was as ostentatious as she was. Besides his itch to drive again, to feel the power of a machine beneath him, he doubted Isabel would test this car’s limits. He could be to McCormick, Kearney, and the prison in an hour’s time.
“Out,” he said. “I’m drivin’.”
“Not in a million years.” Her dark brows lowered. “I hope you have something to sit on. Uncle Charlie won’t want you ruining his nice seats.”
“It’s his car? Then I’m definitely driving.”
“Just get in,” she growled. “You’re wasting time.”
Running around, Greg slid into the passenger seat. His thoughts raced as they left the neighborhood, yet Isabel pulled onto the main road going a leisurely, Sunday-driver pace.
“You’re killin’ me,” Greg said. “Go faster.”
She smiled but sped up some. “I’ve missed you, Pierce.”
“I bet. Where’s your phone?”
As she handed it over, Greg started at the top of the list. Isabel didn’t have any numbers for the prisons. Apparently, basic women’s work camps were below the level of criminals she dealt with. So, for each place, he had to call information, get the number, then run through the red tape to talk to the person who kept the list of inmates. It took an aggravatingly long time. The only upside was that Isabel’s caller ID must have still shown up as something official—and intimidating—since nobody questioned Greg or why he needed the information.
Crystal Lake. Montgomery. Rochelle. Aurora. Sycamore. When all of those turned up empty, Isabel helped him brainstorm more. Wheaton. Even Joliet. With each place, Greg’s anxiety upped. He even called Rockford just in case Richard had been wrong before.
Nothing.
He had two women’s camps left when Isabel said, “I need the phone for a minute.”
“Hold on,” Greg said. “I’ve got two more.”
She yanked it from him. “I need to tell McCormick that we’re close. Besides, you’re getting belligerent. That last guy sounded close to tears by the time you were done with him. You know, it’s not nice to yell at strangers.”
Greg took several calming breaths as she called. He still had two more chances. But when Isabel finished, those prisons came up empty as well. Out of ideas, he did the only thing he could think of.
He called David Jamansky.
A woman answered. “Kane County Patrol Offices. Can I help you?”
“I need to speak with Chief Jamansky,” Greg said. “Now.”
“May I tell him who’s calling?”
Greg had several snide responses, but Isabel chimed up. “This is Lieutenant Ryan,” she said from her side of the car.
“And Greg Pierce,” Greg added for good measure.
Let Jamansky stew on that.
“Yes. Of course,” the woman said. “One moment.”
The line went quiet for a few minutes, but when it clicked back on, it was the woman again.
“I’m sorry, but Chief Jamansky isn’t available right now. He’s out for the evening. May I take a message?”
Greg’s blood pressure shot through the roof. “Sure. You tell that low-life scumbag that—”
Isabel grabbed the phone. “What’s your name?” She paused, listening. “Fine. When will Chief Jamansky be available, Ellen?” She listened another moment and shot Greg a worried look. “Is that so? For how long?”
Greg wanted to pound something.
“Well, how about this, Ellen,” Isabel said. “I don’t care what kind of vacation he’s supposedly taking. Find a way to get ahold of him. Tell him that the information he gave Mr. Pierce about Rockford is inaccurate. If he doesn’t correct that information by the end of tomorrow, his career—and yours—are over. Is that clear, Ellen dearest?”
“Tomorrow?” Greg snapped.
Isabel held up a finger. “Yes, have him call this number.”
When she clicked off, she gave Greg a pitying look. “It’s already seven o’clock. Today’s almost over. Supposedly Jamansky is scheduled to be out of the office for the next week. But he’ll call tomorrow, and then you’ll know.”
“Right,” Greg muttered. “Tomorrow. When he feeds me the next lie.”
“Maybe McCormick will know something. There are other ways to find Carrie. Don’t worry.”
Easy for her to say.
As they reached Naperville, Isabel pulled into a neighborhood that looked like Greg had stepped back seven years in time: large, beautiful homes, manicured lawns, even cars—normal cars—dotted the driveways. President Rigsby paid his cronies well.
For the briefest second, Greg wished he’d stayed in his position. Maybe then none of this would have happened.
Commander McCormick stood on his front porch, arms folded, waiting for them. Greg had never seen the middle-aged man wear anything but his all-black uniform littered with medals. Now that he’d quit his job, he wore jeans and a button-down shirt. It didn’t look quite right. He started down the sidewalk and met them in the driveway.
As Greg stepped out of the car, McCormick held out a hand to shake, all smiles.
“Pierce. It appears that you aren’t as dead as I was led to believe. It’s good to see you again.”
Greg didn’t return the sentiment. Instead, he said, “Sorry to hear about your wife, sir.”
That seemed to diminish the commander’s good spirits. “So am I. Let’s get to it. What has Lieutenant Ryan told you?”
“Not much.”
“Then we have lots to cover. Come inside.”
thirty-six
CARRIE COULDN’T BRING HERSELF TO take a hot shower. Oddly, she craved her bucket of freezing water at home. So she settled on a cold shower that soothed her as much as anything could.
Once clean, she fumbled through Ashlee’s clothes for something that would cover her up. It seemed like Jamansky had picked the skankiest of Ashlee’s clothing. The hot pink tank top dipped too low. The beige shorts rode too high. Sadly, the red satin pajamas covered her best. That convinced her to wash her orange tent in the tub. She had nothing but shampoo to clean the heavy, ugly fabric, but she scrubbed away, taking her time. Then she rung out her prison uniform and hung it up to dry. Regardless of what Jamansky had “scrounged up” for her, she would be wearing orange tomorrow.
Once the bathtub finished draining, she heard a muffled conversation in the other room. It jumpstarted her heart until she realized that Jamansky was just watching television. Out of ways to stall, she opened the door and slipped silently out.
David had changed out of his green patrol uniform into jeans and a white t-shirt. On the black, leather couch, he sat with one arm propped up on the back, watching a movie with his dogs sprawled out next to him. The second she opened the door, the dogs’ heads lifted. They stared her down.
Jamansky lifted the remote and paused the show.
“Wow, Carrie, you look…” His eyes roamed over her: wet hair, red satin whatever, and bare legs. “Wow. I bet you feel
a hundred times better.”
She had.
“You know, you don’t have to turn off the water in between washing up. I have plenty of water here, so just leave it running while you shower, okay?”
He had listened to her shower?
“Here.” Swatting his dogs out of the way, he patted the empty spot. “I was just starting a movie. Curl up and relax. It might help you get your mind on”—he smiled—“something else.”
“Actually,” she said, tucking a wet lock behind her ear, “I think I’ll turn in for the night, if you don’t mind.”
“It’s barely eight.”
She looked out the back window. The sun still had another hour before setting. “I know, but I’ve been sleeping on a hard cement floor. I’m exhausted. I wouldn’t be able to stay awake through a movie. I’d probably fall asleep in the first five minutes.”
“I don’t mind if you fall asleep. In fact, I’ll tell you how the movie ends right now. The guy gets the girl—how all good stories end, right?”
“Seriously,” she pressed. The guy couldn’t take a hint. “I’m just tired. Really, very, incredibly tired.”
Sighing, he set the remote aside and joined her near the bathroom door, standing close enough for his potent aftershave to assault her nostrils.
“You’ll like my bed,” he said. “It’s super soft.”
Her pulse spiked. “No, I don’t want to put you out.”
“It’s either my bed or the couch,” he cut in, “and if you crash on the couch, I’ll just carry you back to my bed anyway, so you might as well give in. Unless you want to change your mind about the movie…?”
Begrudgingly she followed him through the dark hallway.
He stopped in his bedroom door. “Wait. I bet you’re starving. I can whip up my famous beef stroganoff in less than twenty minutes. Then you can sleep on a full stomach.” Preempting her protest, he said, “Or do you want a massage first? You look so tense.”
Citizens of Logan Pond Box Set Page 113
