“What about being my friend?” she said, throat thickening. “My best friend?”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea anymore.”
Pain laced through her.
“What happened with Zach that changed you so drastically?” she asked. Greg went from taking her hand to pushing her away within minutes, and she had whiplash. Like he wasn’t just fighting against her but against himself, too.
He stared down at the grass. “I’ve been thinkin’ about this for a while.”
“And my flowers?” she asked.
“A mistake.”
The knife twisted deeper, but she held strong. “No. They’re beautiful and sweet and perfect and—”
“—a mistake.”
“What about holding my hand?” she fought back. Or that hug? Even the way he looked at her, or how he’d almost kissed her twice. “It’s like any time you forget yourself, you…you…” You love me. For the life of her, she couldn’t spit it out.
He sighed. “Everything with Zach reminded me that life’s too fragile, Carrie. I’ve been too careless too many times with too many people. I know what I should do, and I know what I want, but unfortunately, they aren’t the same. I just…I can’t be responsible for ruining any more lives.”
“And you think you’ll somehow ruin my life if you’re part of it?”
His jaw tightened. “I know I would, ‘cause sometime in the future, there’s gonna be a day like today with you, Zach, or Amber. Only one of you will end up dead or arrested, and I’ll know I coulda prevented it if I’d just walked away now—if I’d just let you love Oliver.”
Reading between the lines had her heart beating much too fast. Greg really did love her. He was just trying to protect her in some crazy, bossy, masochistic way.
Worry less, love more, Mariah whispered.
She looked up at him through her lashes. “Who’s to say you won’t ruin my life by walking away now?”
He gave a mirthless laugh. “And that’s why I can’t be around you. ‘Cause you say stuff like that, and you look at me with those baby blues, and it garbles my brain until I forget what I gotta do—what you gotta do. So, I’m sorry, but I’m gonna end this—us—before it starts. I’m gonna disappear as best as I can, and I need you to quit fightin’ me on it.”
He was more than capable. Thirty-four people in one tiny neighborhood, and she’d never see him again. But worse, once his mom died, Carrie knew all bets were off. Greg Pierce would skip town as fast as he’d come.
Her pulse pounded, her thoughts raced for something that would stick this time, but he didn’t give her a chance.
“If I were you, Carrie, I wouldn’t take anybody else on that drive Monday. Use the time to open your eyes and look around—really look for the first time. See the kind of life you could have. Oliver’s a good guy. He’ll be good to you.” Greg’s eyes took in her hair, her eyes, and every aspect of her face, as if taking a last mental picture. “You’re lucky to have him.”
“I don’t want him,” she whispered.
He smiled sadly. “You don’t know what you want.”
Backing up, he started away from her.
“Please,” she said. “Don’t do this.”
“See you around, Carrie.” Then he stopped. “No. I guess you won’t.”
And then he was gone.
* * * * *
Oliver and the dogs reached the end of the first street and circled back. His new partners had special training today, giving him the day off of babysitting—or at least it felt like babysitting with how young they were. Chief Dario insisted that Oliver take Jamansky’s German Shepherds with him for this sweep.
Pulling hard against their leashes, Bretton and Felix kept up a brisk pace as they swept through the Ferris neighborhood. Trainer Jerry had given Oliver a crash course in dog handling. Oliver had already forgotten most of it, but the dogs seemed to know the drill.
House after house they searched. It wasn’t a thorough sweep. Oliver just opened the front door and let the dogs sniff around. If they didn’t bark, he didn’t search the interior. In his mind, finding illegal squatters was like using a snow shovel to stop an avalanche. The latest report from Washington estimated hundreds of illegal squatters for every one found. Most days their sweeps were useless. The only illegals left in this territory were smart enough to stay hidden.
Thankfully.
After Oliver finished here, he was headed straight for Carrie’s. He just had to figure out how to ditch the dogs before their drive. He couldn’t take them to the station, not without Chief Dario asking a million questions, but neither did he want them at his house tearing his place to shreds. Yet he could only picture Bretton and Felix in the backseat, panting, drooling, and sniffing Carrie’s hair. What if she brought Amber, Zach, and Greg, too? How would they fit everyone?
Home it was. His couch was doomed.
It will only be a short drive, he told himself. Which got him wondering how long was short. Five minutes? Thirty? And what if Carrie brought others? How could he keep them all hidden when he only planned on—
Barking erupted, and the dogs suddenly leaped forward, jerking on their leashes. Oliver’s grip tightened as his head whipped back and forth, surveying the area.
“What is it, boys?”
This Ferris neighborhood had been deserted for a while, long enough that Oliver had almost skipped it to make it to Carrie’s on time. But the dogs pulled him down the street toward a two-story house with large, white pillars out front.
A movement in an upper window caught his eye.
A shadow.
Frantic, Oliver grabbed his gun while struggling to keep hold of the charging dogs. Another shadow in a different window, and his stomach leaped into his throat. There were at least two illegals in that house, maybe more. Not good. The squatters could see Oliver, but he couldn’t see them.
Not good, not good!
Bretton and Felix barked and snarled, ferocious when they wanted to be. As they reached the yard of the pillared house, Oliver pulled them to a stop, and slid up behind a massive tree. He kept his gun up and searched every window. Protocol required him to release the dogs so they could round up the squatters. The leash burned his palm as the dogs jumped and pawed to be set free, but he locked his muscles and grabbed his radio.
“I need backup!” he shouted over the barking. “Are Portman and Bushing back yet?”
“Yes,” Ashlee said, “but they don’t have a car.”
“Get one! I’m on Joshua Drive, northeast section of Shelton. Go fast!”
Oliver peeked out from behind the tree trunk. While dogs were an asset in finding illegals, they were also a hindrance. He couldn’t hear anything over their barking. There could be an entire clan holed up in this neighborhood. Chief Dario had added this sub to Oliver’s route last year after a sweep went horribly wrong. Oliver had never encountered any sign of life since then, but there could be a roving Bedouin clan, or a new group like Carrie’s, taking up permanent residence.
For all he knew, it was just some trapped raccoon driving Bretton and Felix crazy.
He made a rash decision even knowing it could get him killed. He exchanged his gun for his Taser. His coworkers rarely used their Tasers since they didn’t mind killing a squatter or two. Less mouths to feed. Plus, Tasers had a limited range, only firing 30 feet away. But they didn’t kill. Only stun. And as much as he didn’t want to, he had to get closer anyway.
Pulse hammering, Oliver peeked around the tree trunk and watched for what felt like an eternity. No more shadows in the upper windows of the house. The people—or animals—would have already jumped him if they wanted an altercation. Maybe. And if they had guns, he’d already be dead.
Maybe.
With a ragged breath, he convinced himself to act more patrolman and less Oliver Simmons. His hands felt unsteady as he inched away from the tree. When all stayed shadow-less, he broke into a sprint, letting the dogs drag him toward the front porch.
Ol
iver pressed up against the bricks next to the front door. The dogs climbed the door to get in, making him wish they could tell him who or what he was up against. Based on their loud agitation, he guessed it wasn’t a raccoon.
He glanced down the street. Come on!
This was Karma. Jamansky and Nielsen used to run his backup. Oliver squealed on them, and now his life was left up to ditsy Ashlee’s ability to find a car for his inexperienced, acne-ridden partners.
The leashes burned his palm. Barking filled his ears. Still, he held strong. The front door stayed closed. Windows, too. Bretton and Felix couldn’t get inside unless he let them in.
His boss was right to give him partners. As much as it would complicate his life—and Carrie’s—he was getting too old for this.
When the pain became unbearable, he let go of the leashes. The dogs jumped, barked, and climbed the front door. When Oliver stayed pressed to the brick, the dogs ran back and forth in front of the house, looking for another way in.
A sudden shout broke out over their barking.
“Hey, pig!” a man yelled. “You have thirty seconds to leave before we start shooting!”
Oliver’s stomach lurched. Either that was one amazing talking raccoon, or he was in serious trouble.
ten
THE DOGS TOOK OFF AROUND the side of the house, searching for another way in. One of these days, Oliver figured he wouldn’t make it home after a sweep. He hoped it wasn’t today.
“Show your cards,” Oliver yelled to the illegal, “and you won’t be harmed!” Straight out of the handbook. The squatters wouldn’t have cards, though. They never did.
Back pressed to the brick, he could sense the movement inside the house. Could hear shuffling. He kept his Taser up and slid off the porch toward the corner of the house where he could see the street and the neighborhood better. They could have people stationed anywhere. He braced for an ambush.
“You’re surrounded!” Oliver shouted, which was true if he counted the dogs. “I advise you not to resist arrest. I—we—don’t want to harm you!”
His head whipped back and forth, the bricks scratching off what was left of his hair. Then he heard a yelp. The dogs’ barking turned to sudden whining. Behind the house, Bretton and Felix had been attacked.
He was a dead man.
The sunlight suddenly dimmed overhead. He looked up in time to see an object—huge—fall from a second story window. His reaction time was slow. It hit him squarely on the head, knocking him flat on his stomach.
Pain exploded everywhere. Head. Neck. Back. Fog clouded his thoughts as the heavy object covered him. He blinked, vision blurred, and tried to think through the haze. It took a moment to decipher the size and shape of the object. A door. They’d dropped an interior door on him.
Oliver spotted a flash of gray sneaking out the front door. Tennis shoes. He shoved the door off him and whipped out his Taser.
“Stop! Don’t move!” he shouted.
The man took off, leaping from the porch and sprinting down the sidewalk. Oliver fired. Two probes shot through the air and hit the back of the man’s thigh. The man lurched up with a scream and then dropped. Hard.
Head pounding, Oliver dragged himself to his feet and looked for other illegals. He saw none. Hopefully, this guy was it.
Oliver inched closer. The man moaned and convulsed on the sidewalk as his muscles shook with electric shocks. He was a skinny guy, maybe mid-twenties, with a wild red beard and black hoodie.
Keeping the Taser trained on him, Oliver said, “Roll onto your stomach. Face down.”
More pained groans, but the man didn’t roll over. Oliver wasn’t even sure the man had heard him.
A few years back, Oliver made the mistake of being compassionate during the moaning phase. He had waited too long to cuff the illegal and got a stiff elbow to the jaw. But he had backup then. Jamansky had wrestled the man down until Oliver could cuff him.
Now he had no one.
The probes, still attached to the man’s thighs, were ready for more electricity if needed, yet Oliver suddenly felt vulnerable as he remembered something. He’d seen two shadows in the windows. Not one. Where was the person who had dropped the door on him—or the one who took out the dogs? They could have a whole army in there.
“Roll over!” Oliver shouted, frantically scanning the house. “Now! Face down.”
The guy didn’t roll. Oliver raised his Taser. Seeing it, the man flopped onto his stomach and pressed his red beard to the cement.
Barking erupted again from somewhere. One of the dogs—Bretton—charged up from around the back of the house. He sprinted to the squatter on the ground and barked in his face. The man cowered. That was too much movement for Oliver’s comfort.
Oliver knelt next to him and cuffed his hands behind his back. “You’re under arrest for trespassing on government property and assaulting an officer. Are you alone?”
Cheek to rough sidewalk, the red-bearded man glared at Oliver. He said nothing.
“Who’s in there?” Oliver tried anyway. “Your family?”
The guy didn’t answer, but his eyes did. A pained look flickered to the front door. So who was it? A buddy? Girlfriend? Then again, it could have been the guy’s sumo-sized brothers. Someone strong enough to rip a door from its hinges and toss it out the window.
Oliver had to get out of there.
Ignoring the pain shooting down his neck, Oliver waved the Taser toward the street. “Now stand up. Slowly. We’re going to walk to my car.” Four very long houses away.
The guy got to his knees, but that’s all he managed with weak muscles and cuffed hands. Or…maybe that’s what he wanted Oliver to think. Oliver saw his fists clenching. The effect of the Taser was wearing off.
“Up now!” Oliver yelled.
As Bretton ran circles around the man, waiting for the signal to tear his arms off, the guy struggled to his feet, shoulders hanging in defeat. The look he gave Oliver was pure murder.
“Now walk,” Oliver said. “To my car, nice and slow.”
The guy took two steps forward and then suddenly spun. Head down, he charged Oliver.
The dog and Oliver reacted at the same time. Bretton went for the guy’s arm. Oliver squeezed the Taser and fired off another charge. Screaming, the man dropped.
Oliver doubled over and heaved huge gulps of air. What was that guy thinking, charging an armed officer? Oliver’s head pulsed in time to his heartbeat.
The man cried full-on sobs as his body convulsed with pain. The whole time, Bretton kept his jaw clamped on his arm, unaffected by the Taser, while waiting for permission to snap the guy’s bones in half.
“Bretton!” Oliver shouted. “Komm! Komm!”
Obediently, Bretton released the guy’s arm and trotted to Oliver’s side.
The man ended up in a fetal position, whimpering on the cement. He wasn’t harmed, at least not badly. Just incapacitated. But with a second charge, he wouldn’t be able to walk for at least an hour. Oliver would have to drag him to the car. Four houses might as well have been four miles.
When the crying died down to whimpers, the man looked at Oliver again. “Is that…” he huffed, “the best you’ve got? Why not just…kill me!”
Oh, please no. Why did he always get the fighters?
“I’d advise you not to resist arrest, sir,” he said. At least not more than he already had.
The man looked at the German Shepherd and suddenly bared his teeth. Then he let out a low growl.
Bretton went nuts, barking and snarling.
Oliver grabbed the dogs collar, fighting him back. “Sitz! Sitz!”
Reluctantly, Bretton obeyed.
“Are you crazy?” Oliver yelled at the man. “That dog can rip you to shreds.” The guy was lucky Oliver even remembered a few commands.
“Live free…” the man whimpered, “or die.”
Oliver froze. “What?”
Red beard pressed to the sidewalk, the man shouted, “Live free or die! There a
re things far worse than death!”
A chill ran down Oliver’s spine. It was the third time he’d heard that quote during an arrest. Last time, he had looked it up. The squatters were quoting John Stark now, a Revolutionary War general. The eerie thing was that each arrest had been in different cities. Either the illegals had independently stumbled upon the same quote—even though they had no access to modern communication—or they were uniting.
It wasn’t just Chicago anymore.
Oliver’s head pounded.
“I refuse to live in one of your slave work camps,” the man continued, voice growing stronger with each word. “So just kill me already!”
“I don’t want to harm you,” Oliver said, meaning every word.
“No? You just want to rip me away from my wife and two-week-old baby to slave away in some work camp for the rest of my life. Where’s the harm in that, huh, pig? I was born a free man, and I will die a free man!”
Oliver glanced over his shoulder, having only heard the part about a wife and a new baby. His gut twisted with guilt. Was it true? Was that why nobody else had attacked, even though more were obviously inside the house?
What would Carrie say if she saw him right now? The thought came unbidden, but shame filled him.
He heard an engine. A patrol car sped down the road. His new partners spotted him and screeched to a stop in front of the white-pillared house. Running out, they yanked the man to standing.
“Do you want him in our car or yours, sir?” Portman asked.
Sir? Oliver wasn’t used to the title.
“I don’t know.” He shook his throbbing head to clear it. Then he glanced down at his watch. 2:24! He was late. “Yours if it’s alright. Can you take him in and start his paperwork?”
“Sure,” Portman said.
“Oh, and take him to Sugar Grove, not Shelton,” Oliver added.
“Sugar Grove?”
Oliver nodded, too tired to explain.
Portman looked at Bushing. “Do we get credit for the arrest, sir?”
Oliver had a migraine the size of Alaska and a growing goose egg on the back of his head. “Yes. Fine. Get it started, and I’ll be there later. I’m late right now.”
Citizens of Logan Pond Box Set Page 48