The towel rack dug into her shoulder.
His gaze roamed over her red satin pajamas. “Want some breakfast?”
“No.” He’d squelched any appetite she might have had.
“Carrie, Carrie, Carrie. What am I going to do with you? Force you to eat, I guess.” He started for the kitchen. “Pancakes, waffles, or eggs? Choose one, or I’ll make you eat all three.”
“Eggs,” she said, picking something familiar.
“Good. Come and keep me company.”
Awkwardly she leaned against his kitchen counter and watched him work.
He pulled a carton of milk out of the refrigerator—the refrigerated refrigerator—and cracked egg after perfectly white egg into a bowl, different from the muddy-brown eggs Zach’s chickens laid. In the same amount of time it took him to find the electric beater and attachments, hook the mixer to the electrical socket, and turn it on, she could have beaten the eggs with a fork. But then he turned a knob on the stove, which took far less time than it took to drag in Jeff Kovach’s chopped wood—usually green and smoky—try to light it five times with cheap government matches, and wait for the fire to burn hot enough to cook.
While he worked, he chatted away about his car, job, and himself. She nodded here and there, pretending to listen as her thoughts wandered to the twisted turn of events that had landed her in his over-furnished home. The unfairness of it sliced like a knife. How did she deserve to be safe and free instead of Amber and Zach, or Greg and the women in Rochelle? If she’d just listened to Greg—or even Jeff Kovach months ago—none of this would have happened. She could have prevented this nightmare. How would Amber and Zach ever forgive her?
How would Greg?
Careless Carrie yet again, and what was her reward? Omelets and a king-sized bed?
Her eyes filled.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” Jamansky said, glancing over his shoulder.
She couldn’t answer because, while she felt responsible for so much, some of the blame—or rather, most of the blame—rested on David Jamansky. Clear back with that raid in March, he’d set their clan on a path of destruction. Like dominoes on a table, things kept toppling one after another until there was nothing left.
How dare he make her breakfast? How dare he smile and pretend to care about her after he’d destroyed everything she loved?
How many Jamansky’s were in the world, destroying people’s lives? Who trained them? Why did they get to decide who lived and who died, who could be happy, and who had to live in a hell-like state for the rest of their lives, however short that was?
“Hey, whoa.” He set down the spatula and came to her. “Carrie, hold on. No tears today.” He reached up to wipe her cheeks, but she flinched away from him. “No tears,” he tried again, “because I have good news. I did a little digging last night, and guess what? I can definitely get Zachary out tomorrow morning.”
Her watery eyes lifted. “What?”
“Tomorrow morning you’ll have your brother back. Isn’t that great?”
It was beyond great.
Zach.
She wiped her cheeks. “And Amber?”
“The place Amber is staying is giving me some issues, but don’t worry. We’ll have her back soon.”
Soon. She clung to that word. “Thank you, David.”
He cocked his head, ice-blue eyes regarding her. “Why are you always surprised when I help you?”
He wouldn’t like her answer, so she didn’t bother.
“Can I ask you something?” he said. “Why weren’t you home when I came back to see you?”
She shrugged.
He stepped closer, close enough that she felt the need to back up. She ran into the counter.
“I wanted to make sure you were okay,” he said. “I even brought you Chinese food, but you weren’t home. Why? Were you scared of me?”
Her entire clan was. They’d voted against her seeing him. What would he think of that?
He leaned forward until he was just inches from her. “Are you…still scared of me?”
Her stomach flopped. Definitely scared, but for a new reason. His eyes had a glazed over, dopey kind of look. The kind Greg got sometimes—right before he kissed her.
“Don’t be scared,” he whispered.
In a motion slow enough to match the speed of her brain, he closed his eyes and started to lean down to her.
“David!” she shouted, twisting out of his reach.
“Carrie,” he purred back. Then he moved again. Instead of letting him back her into another corner, she spun into the wide-open kitchen.
“David, stop.”
“Why?”
“I…I’m not interested,” she said, borrowing Greg’s blunt line.
“Interested in what?” He might have pulled off the innocent response if the skin around his eyes hadn’t tightened. He understood her well enough.
“I’m already involved with someone,” she said anyway.
He straightened to his full height, giving her a little space. “So am I. Wow, Carrie, you didn’t think I was going to…” He shook his head. “I’m just trying to help you out. I’m dating someone. Man. You need to relax.”
He walked back to the stove. “Let’s get you some food before you pass out on me.”
The second breakfast was over, he left for work, leaving Carrie alone in his claustrophobic house—or not so alone since he left his dogs to keep guard. She couldn’t stand to watch television like he suggested, nor could she bear to read a book. But free time meant thinking and thinking meant torture. Too many people hurting—and dying—with no way to help.
So, she decided to snoop.
Jamansky kept his curtains drawn in the front room, but through a small crack, she could see his driveway. As long as she could see that crack, she felt comfortable exploring to find out everything she could about David Jamansky.
At first, she opened a few cupboards. Then desk drawers. Soon she was digging through anything she could find, checking that crack in the curtain every few seconds. She didn’t even know what she was looking for until she found it.
She stopped on a small map in his study. It was more than just a map, though. It was a directory of his neighborhood. The front showed every street and home within the government housing, spanning six streets. But the true gold mine lay on the back. Numerically by house number, the directory listed every person in every housing unit with corresponding phone numbers.
She ran her finger down until she found the two she wanted:
Ashlee Lyon.
Oliver Simmons.
Carrie glanced out the crack again. Driveway still empty.
Her pulse raced. Jamansky’s dogs didn’t care about her snooping around, and apparently Jamansky wasn’t in the mood to check on her. She wasn’t daring enough to leave and search Oliver or Ashlee’s homes, especially since they lived a few streets over from where she was, but she was brave enough to try something else.
Crossing the kitchen, she picked up the phone and heard a dial tone for the first time in six years. Another check of the window, and she started dialing. One number after the next.
If Oliver really had moved to Virginia and requested a permanent transfer, he would have taken everything with him. There would be definite signs that he wasn’t coming back.
An answering machine came on, and with it, her friend’s quiet, nervous voice.
“Hello. This…this is Oliver Simmons. I’m not available right now, but…leave me a message and I’ll call back. Uh, thanks.”
Heart sinking, she clutched the phone. “Oh, Oliver. What did he do to you?”
With that, she went back to searching the house, even more desperate.
thirty-eight
JAMANSKY TRIED TO PUSH CARRIE’S rejection from his mind. Gutsy of her, considering her compromised citizenship. He could end her new freedom with the flick of his wrist. He wondered if he should have forced the moment, but part of him enjoyed the chase. She obviously wanted him. She would
give in eventually. Her fear of him just heightened the intrigue. Maybe tonight. Or tomorrow after he returned her brother. Her blue eyes and broken heart would overflow with gratitude.
Heading into a meeting with Mayor Phillips didn’t improve his mood. He pushed his way into the mayor’s office, clutching the letter with the requested information.
“What are we going to do?” Jamansky asked by way of hello.
Mayor Phillips looked up from sharpening his pencil. “About what?”
“I’ve been gathering paperwork for two days, and it’s not even close. We still have too many holes.” Jamansky dropped into the nearest chair. “They’re claiming Simmons’ affidavit is null and void because of his status. Do you have any idea how much I owe?”
“I’m not sure why you’re having issues,” the mayor said. “They already cleared my list.”
Jamansky sat up. “You sent your list already? Why didn’t you tell me?”
Mayor Phillips inspected the tip of his pin-sharp pencil. “My list was far less substantial than yours. Apparently…I owe nothing.”
“Nothing?” Jamansky shot to his feet. “I owe an entire year’s salary and you owe nothing? You backstabbing liar! We said we would submit together.”
The mayor’s small, beady eyes narrowed. “This whole scheme was your idea. You assured me every precinct was running things this way, and the commissioner wouldn’t care. You were the one who made the acquisitions and finagled the department transactions, so now it’s only fair that you sort it out.”
“I see.”
And he did, finally seeing the mayor’s whole sordid plan. His blood boiled with fury. “Let’s get something straight here, Lucas. You will not throw me to the wolves on this one. Am I clear?”
Mayor Phillips set his pencil aside. “Don’t forget who sprung who from prison.”
“After leaving me rotting for a month! You will not stab me in the back to save your own skin. If I go down, I’m taking you with me!”
“Off your meds again, are you, David?”
Jamansky stormed around the desk and yanked the mayor up by his freshly starched collar. Then he rammed his gun against the guy’s fat chin.
“Wait!” Mayor Phillips said, hands flying up. “Wait. Obviously, I meant that you’re better at deciphering the information, that’s all. I’ll do whatever digging you want. Actually, I do have some good news. I just got a call from Naperville.”
Chest heaving, Jamansky glared at him. “More lies.”
“No, it’s not. Release me, and I’ll tell you.”
Jamansky dropped him back onto his chair, but he didn’t park his gun. He wanted Mayor Phillips to remember who really ran this precinct.
“We’re having a special visitor to these parts,” the mayor said. “President Rigsby himself is coming to rally the trainees.”
“And I care because…?”
“Because he wants a demonstration. They called asking for any local convicts sympathetic to the rebellion, those we’ve found who are traitors to the state.”
Jamansky’s eyes widened in understanding.
“That’s not even the best part. They’re looking for people to join the firing squad.” Smiling wickedly, Mayor Phillips nodded. “You’re welcome.”
As David Jamansky drove to Joliet, he unbuttoned his shirt pocket and pulled out a picture. He set the photo on his dashboard as he drove.
All was not lost.
Not yet.
The feds had given him two weeks before they would suspend him—or worse—but it might be enough time. And with this newest possibility, he felt like things might work out after all. He couldn’t wait to share the news.
Even before he sat down on his side of the partition, he pressed the newest picture up to the glass.
“Carrie wanted to say hello,” he said.
The color drained from Oliver’s already-pale face. Personally, Jamansky loved seeing his arm around Carrie’s shoulders, her dressed in red satin, skimpy pajamas, tucked into his side like she belonged to him. But the terrified look in her eyes was a nice touch.
In another world, a kinder one maybe, Carrie and Oliver Simmons might have been happy. They were both quiet and reserved. Easy to manipulate. Obviously, Greg Pierce had seen those qualities in Carrie, too, and moved fast.
Jamansky wanted to tack up the same picture in Logan Pond, just to rub it in Pierce’s face, but he didn’t need the guy breathing down his throat more than he already was. Pierce would be out for blood if he knew where Carrie really was—something Jamansky couldn’t afford. He’d paid the guards in Rochelle handsomely to leave his name off Carrie’s release forms. Even if Pierce went searching, he couldn’t trace her to him.
In three days, Special Op Gregory Pierce would finish off Oliver Simmons anyway. All Jamansky needed now was a signature and Oliver would end up in front of a federal firing squad. Sadly, this picture with Carrie would have to be for Oliver’s eyes alone.
Maybe he’d send Pierce the other one of her in orange. “Oh, did I say Rockford? I meant Rochelle. No sign of her in Rochelle either? Well, you know how it goes. Another misplaced prisoner. Darn government paperwork. I’ll keep looking. Don’t worry. I’ll have her out by the trial.”
He had both men right where he wanted them thanks to the lovely—but infuriating—Carrie Ashworth.
Oliver Simmons seemed to shrink on his small stool. He’d started his prison sentence out as a gangly, balding man. Now he looked shorter, more bent at the shoulders, and he’d lost twenty pounds he didn’t have to lose.
Jamansky knew all too well how that felt. The hunger that never ended. The paralyzing defeat of sleeping in a virtual cement box.
He couldn’t wait for Simmons’ execution. A public one, too. Rigsby wanted to make a statement. Jamansky just had to make sure he stood in front of the right prisoner when they handed him the gun.
“Isn’t Carrie a vision in red?” he said into the phone. “The satin slides along her soft skin, covering just enough to keep things interesting.”
Ignoring that, Oliver squinted to see better. “Where was this taken?”
“That right there”—Jamansky pointed—“is my bed. She’s an angel when she sleeps, an absolute vision with her golden hair spilled out over my pillow. Do you even know what she looks like when she sleeps, Simmons?”
Oliver clutched his phone so hard his knuckles turned white. “I thought she was in prison!”
“Oh, I got her out. I told you I would. And now…” Jamansky stroked her face. “She’s my little pet.”
“Why are you doing this?” Oliver whispered.
“The feds called, demanding the first payment. Care to guess how much?” Jamansky’s muscles tightened. “You should know since you submitted the totals.”
Oliver leapt to his feet. “What am I supposed to do?” He slammed his hands on the glass. “I signed your affidavit!”
“Which is void because of your sentence!”
“Then get me out of here,” Oliver said. “I’ll do whatever you want, but I can’t do anything when I’m stuck here.”
“Oh, yes you can. How much money do you have?”
Oliver’s eyes widened. “None. I have nothing. I used all of it to buy Carrie’s house.”
“Liar!” Jamansky roared into the phone. “You have two days to scrounge up some money, or I will personally slit Carrie’s lovely white throat while she sleeps. Sleep on that tonight, Simmons. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
thirty-nine
ZACH LOOKED DOWN THE LONG row of bunk beds. He’d already counted them twice, but he quickly counted them again. Twelve beds on one side of him. Thirty-four on the other. Counting his own bunk, that made forty-eight beds in his row. The spacious room held three rows which made—he quickly calculated—one hundred-forty-four beds in all. Carrie would be proud of his math. One hundred forty-four beds with one hundred forty-four boys, one hundred forty-three of whom were asleep.
Or so it seemed.
Zach would nev
er sleep again. Not if he could help it. He didn’t know how he’d do it or what the Guinness World Record was for going without sleep, but he figured he could make it a good week before he dozed off. Even then, he’d only take ten-minute catnaps in the middle of the night when all the others were sleeping anyway.
If only I’d been this smart the first night, he thought as he stared up at the dark ceiling. Maybe then he wouldn’t have woken up to a pillow damp with tears, or a room full of laughing boys. One loud redhead said Zach had cried like a girl. That was all the motivation Zach needed. He couldn’t control their laughing, he couldn’t control the nightmares, but he could control the tears. He’d stay awake for the rest of his life if he had to, because the dreams tonight were sure to be ten times worse.
His ankle surgery was scheduled for the morning.
He’d put it off, faking sick earlier in the week. After they did the x-rays, Dr. Wheeler scheduled the surgery for the next day, wanting to get it done as quickly as possible. Being smart, Zach woke up the next morning groaning and clutching the back of his head. That perplexed Dr. Wheeler, who claimed he was too young to get the virus. But it worked. They postponed things. Unfortunately, they just started him on the shots instead—something Zach hadn’t anticipated. They hadn’t even let him miss work. Finally, he gave up the charade.
His days of postponing the surgery were over.
Dr. Wheeler promised it wouldn’t hurt. He said Zach wouldn’t feel a thing—at least during the surgery. But how could it not hurt to have your ankle bone sawn in half and bolted back together? The bolts would stay in there forever, too. Like they were turning him into a robot.
Flat on his back, Zach squeezed out the tears he refused to cry. But then he realized what a bad idea it was to close his eyes. They were getting harder to open. So he started again down the long rows, that time counting by twos.
Two, four, s i x…, e i…g…h……t……
Citizens of Logan Pond Box Set Page 115
