Citizens of Logan Pond Box Set

by Rebecca Belliston

  “It’s nice to see traitors like Simmons get what they deserve,” Jamansky continued. “Don’t you think?”

  The guy still thought he and Greg worked on the same side of the law.

  “You’re gonna send Oliver to President Rigsby’s demonstration, aren’t you?”

  Jamansky smiled. “Thank me later. So, does Simmons know you stole Carrie from him? Did you tell him that’s why you’re stabbing him in the back, or can I tell him for you?”

  He must have known he wasn’t going to get a response because he just handed Greg a set of papers. “Sign these.”

  Greg flipped through the documents containing all sorts of accusations against Oliver Simmons. Some were true—assisting illegal clans—but plenty weren’t. Jamansky had created a total smear campaign to get Oliver in front of the federal firing squad.

  “The guy helped a few peaceful people survive the Collapse,” Greg said. “He kept some women and children from starving. How does that make him a traitor to the country?”

  Jamansky’s eyes narrowed. “Those people were illegals, living illegally on government property. They knew the consequences of their actions, and so did Simmons. Sign the papers.”

  He held a pen toward Greg.

  He took the pen, gaze traveling over the papers one last time. As he read, something dark built inside him. Thinking of Oliver Simmons in front of a firing squad—in front of Jamansky—had his blood pumping iron-hot.

  Greg snapped the pen in half.

  Ink splattered everywhere: Greg’s jeans, the floor, and even Jamansky’s pristine, green uniform. Swearing, Jamansky jumped back. He wiped his pants, smearing the ink further.

  Greg threw the broken pieces on the ground. “I’m not signin’ a thing.”

  “We had a deal, Pierce!”

  “I’m done makin’ deals.” Greg pointed at him. “And so are you.”

  With that, he started down the hallway.

  “You’ll never see Carrie and her siblings again!” Jamansky yelled after him.

  Greg sped up. He had to get to Jamansky’s house before Jamansky could. His mind raced through the fastest way to disable Jamansky’s car. Slash the tires, but he had no weapon. He’d have to sabotage the engine, but—

  “Grab him!” Jamansky yelled.

  Guards grabbed Greg from every corner.

  Jamansky stormed down the hallway. “Search him. Make sure the prisoner didn’t try to pawn off anything on him. And if it’s not too much of a bother, keep him busy for a while for me, boys. I have somewhere I need to go, and I don’t want him following me.”

  Greg writhed, trying to break free. There were six guards. He had no leverage.

  “Wait!” he yelled. “You can’t detain me. I’m a special op, working in the Special Patrols Unit.”

  “So he claims,” Jamansky said at the door. “If I were you, I’d double-check his story. Something doesn’t add up.” Back to Greg, he added, “Carrie’s mine now. So is Oliver.” He smiled. “Have a nice life.”

  fifty-three

  THE SECONDS TICKED BY AS Carrie waited for Greg to return. She was anxious for word on Oliver, and if there was any possible way to get her friend free.

  Zach grew tired of watching movies and went searching for his baseball in the garage. That stressed her out, but he promised to be vigilant and leave everything exactly where he found it. That was more than Greg had done. Carrie fretted all morning about the havoc he’d left. Without a before-and-after picture, she had to guess where to put things back. Hopefully Jamansky wouldn’t notice.

  She was in the middle of making lunch for Zach when the phone rang. Bretton and Felix barked, anxious for her to pick it up.

  “Not my house,” she said to the dogs, spreading mayonnaise on Zach’s sandwich.

  The answering machine picked up.

  “Chief Jamansky,” a voice said, “this is Cliff Watson from Central, the friend of Mayor Phillips. I wanted to let you know that, due to a scheduling conflict, President Rigsby moved up the demonstration to this evening at 7 p.m. I apologize for the late notice. I tried to reach you on your mobile, and in your office—several times, actually—and couldn’t get through, so I thought I’d try your home phone. I hope you’re still able to make it. It would be an honor to have you, sir. We have you down for just the one prisoner, Oliver Simmons.”

  The knife froze in Carrie’s hand.

  “We will still provide transportation for your prisoner,” the man continued. “I’ve already alerted JSP about the change in scheduling. Also, Mr. President wants to keep things tidy, so if you still wish to participate in the execution, we will supply you with a standardized weapon and uniform. That means you need to be at the east gate by 6 p.m. Call me as soon as you get this with your size, and I will have both waiting for you.”

  Bretton and Felix started barking again. She ignored them, holding her breath.

  “If you’re unable to join us tonight, we understand. The execution of your prisoner will still go forward as planned. Again, I apologize for the last-minute change, chief sir. If you have any questions, you can reach me at this number. There will be around twenty other traitors brought to justice as part of the president’s presentation, so we should have a good turnout. Hope to see you tonight. United We Stand.”

  As the message clicked off, Carrie couldn’t move.

  Oliver.

  Jamansky.

  She didn’t know what all of it meant, but she knew enough. Jamansky was going to kill Oliver tonight, at some demonstration—or not a demonstration. A mass execution by President Rigsby.

  Her stomach rolled.

  A public execution?

  “Good to know,” a voice said behind her.

  Carrie whirled. The jar in her hand dropped, splaying mayonnaise over the floor.

  David Jamansky stood in his living room, front door wide open. Bretton and Felix were at his feet, barking excitedly.

  “David,” she said, pulse spiking. “I didn’t hear—”

  “Oh, I think you heard plenty,” he said. Gaze never leaving her, he shut the front door and crossed the room into the kitchen.

  Her thoughts raced. Why was he home in the middle of the day? Where was Greg? Had Greg followed him? Thankfully, Jamansky hadn’t come in through the garage where Zach was searching for his baseball. But if Jamansky had parked in the driveway, Greg would have to dump the motorcycle somewhere else. Yet through all her racing thoughts, one cut through the rest.

  David was going to kill Oliver.

  Her entire body filled with horror.

  As he reached the kitchen, she backed up against the counter, clutching the mayonnaise knife. But he wasn’t coming for her. Eyes never leaving her, he pressed the button on the answering machine and played the whole, awful message over again. Every single word.

  Her stomach rolled. They were going to shoot Oliver.

  When it finished, he nodded. “I’ll have to let Cliff know that I can make it.”

  “How could you?” she whispered.

  He tossed his keys onto the counter. “Simmons deserves it.”

  Carrie wasn’t about to argue because she knew one thing: she had to get out of there. Fast.

  The sliding glass door was locked—one of the things she had remembered to restore to its correct spot. Jamansky followed her gaze.

  His jaw tightened. “Where’s your brother? I told him to stay inside.”

  “He’s not…” She swallowed. “Zach’s not outside. He’s actually in the garage. He thought he heard something out there. I’ll go get him.”

  With swift, panicked steps, she practically ran for the garage door. She needed to snag Zach before Jamansky could see what he was up to.

  When she opened the door, she gasped.

  Despite her warnings, Zach had torn apart a whole stack of boxes. Junk lay strewn about the garage. Even worse, one whole section was still empty from where Greg had extracted the motorcycle.

  “Zach,” she squeaked, voice too high to sound no
rmal, “I finished your sandwich. Come and eat.”

  “But I didn’t find it yet,” Zach said, tearing open the lid off the next box.

  “Zach!” she said sharply. “Now!”

  “No,” Jamansky said, joining her at the door. “Let him look.”

  Zach froze.

  With the same frightening ease, David sauntered outside, walking past shirts, dishes, and books heaped around. “So this is what you two do all day while I’m at work? What are you looking for, Zach?”

  Zach looked at Carrie. “Nothing. I’m sorry.”

  “Nothing?” Face reddening, Jamansky kicked one of the boxes, sending the contents sailing. “Nothing!”

  Zach cowered.

  Frantic, Carrie motioned to him. Her brother ran back inside where she pushed him behind her.

  Turning in a small circle, David surveyed the damage again, hands on his hips, chest heaving.

  Don’t notice the motorcycle, Carrie thought.

  “I’m sorry, David,” she said quickly. “He had no right to do this. I’ll have him clean this up.”

  “Don’t bother.” Heading back inside, Jamansky passed them both up. When he finally faced them, his eyes zeroed in on Zach cowering behind her. “Zach, take Bretton and Felix outside for a walk.”

  “A…a walk?” Zach said.

  Jamansky crossed the kitchen and grabbed the leashes. “Yeah. Take them around the block. I think they’ve been cooped up in here for too long. And so have you. In fact, take them around the block several times.”

  “But,” Zach said, “you said I shouldn’t be—”

  “Things have changed!” Jamansky snapped. His dark glare went to Carrie. “Your sister and I need to have a little talk.”

  The hair prickled on the back of Carrie’s neck, but she nodded at Zach. If Jamansky was upset, if things turned ugly, she wanted her brother as far away from there as possible. Plus, she had things of her own to say. Did Greg know what Jamansky had planned? Did Oliver? The execution was only a few hours away. There had to be time to stop it. Somehow, she had to change Jamansky’s mind.

  “Go, Zach,” she said when he still hadn’t moved.

  Zach quickly grabbed the leashes and left with the dogs out the sliding glass door.

  The second they were gone, Jamansky locked it behind him, making Carrie’s insides lurch. Locked in. Zach locked out. Greg locked out. But she tried to tell herself it was better that way.

  “Where’s Amber?” she said, forcing herself to stay on the offensive.

  “Amber?” Jamansky gave a mirthless laugh. “Yeah, I saw her today. Pretty girl, that sister of yours. A lot prettier than you. I tried to get her out, but here’s the thing. She doesn’t want to go home. She told me she wants to stay there forever. You see,” he said, taking a step toward her, “Amber enjoys her daily beatings. She doesn’t want to leave.”

  Fear ran down Carrie’s spine.

  “More lies,” she whispered.

  “You think you’ll get your sister back now? No. Things have changed, Carrie.”

  “Yes,” she said, throat burning as she thought of Oliver. “They have.”

  Namely that she was leaving.

  She couldn’t let Jamansky back her into the corner again, even though he seemed to be doing just that. She scooted to the right, up close to the counter. He followed. She moved left, and he mirrored her once again. He was pushing her into the corner of the kitchen, away from every door and window.

  Clutching her butter knife, she searched the counters for something sharper.

  “You’ve never liked the truth much, have you, Carrie?” he said. “But I have another secret for you. Guess who’s sending Oliver to the firing squad tonight. Not me, but your new lover, Greg Pierce.”

  Her eyes scanned his house. She couldn’t make it to the back door. He would be expecting that. Something else. Something else!

  “You don’t believe me. You never do. But I’ll prove it.” He pulled out a paper and held it in front of her. “See his name down there, Gregory Curtis Pierce? That’s his signature stating that Oliver Simmons is a traitor to the state. Pierce is the one sending Oliver to the firing squad. Not me. What do you think of that?”

  Her eyes flickered to the counter, wondering to what lengths he would keep her there. If she ran, would he pursue her or just shoot? He was wearing his full patrol uniform with gun, Taser, nightstick, and who knew what else.

  “Look at the paper!” he yelled, shoving it in front of her. “Look at his signature. He testified that Oliver spent the last six years protecting you, and now Oliver will pay the ultimate price. But I guess all’s fair in love and war, right?”

  Greg.

  Suddenly she stared at Greg’s name. The meeting. Where was Greg? What had Jamansky done to him?

  He seemed to sense the change in her and smiled. “Tonight is going to be a new start for this country, Carrie. President Rigsby is in Illinois. He came to our area—our area—to turn the tide and squelch all you illegals once and for all.”

  “Because killing us off one by one isn’t good enough?” she whispered. “Now he’ll kill us in groups? This is a firing squad, David. A public execution! This isn’t the Middle Ages.”

  “Believe me,” he said, ice-blue eyes cold as steel. “Those people earned their sentences.”

  It had to be the counter.

  Her only way out was up and over.

  She stole a few inches toward it. Once she cleared the counter, his living room would become an obstacle course with tables, lamps, and couches to dodge, but she was fast.

  She had to be.

  Jamansky followed her gaze but misinterpreted it. “Oh, don’t worry. Your brother won’t last long outside. One of the other patrolmen will grab him. Zach will be back in DeKalb in no time.”

  Not if she got to him first.

  Or Greg did.

  Maybe that’s where Greg was. He’d seen Zach wandering, and both took off. She would catch up. They would take the dogs if they had to so Jamansky couldn’t hunt them down. Wishful thinking, but it was the best she could do.

  Plan in place, she straightened and looked him directly in the eye.

  “I’m leaving now,” she said.

  Another dark laugh. “You’re funny, Carrie. Very, very funny. You’re not going anywhere.”

  Then he lunged.

  He tried to grab her, but she was faster. She rammed the butter knife into his arm and spun out of reach. He yelped in pain. She jumped onto the counter and scrambled across.

  Front door.

  She had to get to the front door.

  Swearing, Jamansky followed.

  Blood pumping, she dodged, swerved, and ran through his living room. Tables. Couch. Front door, front door, front—

  He grabbed her by the waist and threw her down. She crashed onto the floor, cheek slamming hard. Pain exploded in her head. He knelt over her, pressing his knee into her back.

  “Maybe you didn’t hear,” he hissed, “but I said you’re not going anywhere. You’re mine now, little pet.”

  The air squeezed out of her. She screamed with no sound.

  He wrenched one hand behind her back. Familiar, cold, hard metal slid around her left wrist, clicking shut. Blinding fear seized her. Not again. Not handcuffs. She couldn’t let herself be taken again.

  Frantic, she squirmed and buried her right hand underneath her. He shoved her onto her back, trying to grab her arm. She flailed and kicked to get free, but he was twice her weight.

  He caught hold of her right hand and pinned it to the floor, but in the process, lost track of her other hand, the one already handcuffed.

  Carrie swung.

  With all her might, she swung her left hand around. The handcuffs followed. The metal cuffs sliced across his cheek.

  With a scream of rage, he fell back, clutching his face.

  Jumping up, Carrie ran.

  Three steps and a gunshot exploded in the house. Dust particles rained down from the ceiling.

&
nbsp; “Stop!” he shouted.

  She froze.

  Jamansky stood, rising to his full height, and pointed the gun at her head as more ceiling rained down on them. Blood ran down his cheek from an inch-long gash. His hand tightened on the gun.

  “It’s a shame,” he said, huffing. “You and I were going to have so much fun, Carrie. But all you illegals are the same. Too stupid to know what’s good for you. And you know what? I don’t need you anymore. I’m done with you.”

  Carrie’s chest seized. He was going to shoot her.

  Zach, Amber, Greg.

  He crossed the few feet between them and pressed the muzzle to her forehead. She squeezed her eyes shut. She was going to die.

  She braced for it.

  Live free or die.

  Live free.

  Die.

  But instead of shooting, he clicked the other handcuff around her right wrist. Both hands secured in front of her, he shoved her back. She stumbled and tripped onto the black leather couch.

  “What are you going to do with me?” she said. “Put me in front of the firing squad like Oliver?”

  He cocked his head. “You know, that’s not a bad idea.”

  Pulling out his phone, he pressed a button.

  Her breaths came too fast. “David, stop!”

  “Hey, Cliff,” he said into the phone. “Yeah, I got your message. I’ll be there tonight. Sure, sure. But I’m wondering if you have room for one more. I’ve got another rebel who will make a great contribution.”

  Listening, Jamansky paused to wipe his cheek. His hand came back red and bloody.

  “Does she have the mark?” he asked. “Good question.”

  Stepping forward, he yanked Greg’s lucky shirt away from her neck, exposing her shoulder. His hot fingers rubbed her skin, checking for a traitor’s mark like Greg’s. She squirmed free.

  “No mark, but she’s definitely a traitor.” While he spoke, the gun moved around with him, still out and very usable. After a pause, he nodded again. “Great. I’ll bring her in. Actually, are you taking kids?” Lowering the phone, he said, “Hey, Carrie, how old is Zach? Twelve? Thirteen?”

  She went cold. “No. NO!”

  “Oh, wait.” His light eyes glinted. “We can pick up Amber along the way. She’s sixteen, right? How about we make it a family affair?”