Wanted (36 page)

“Bonnie?” I call out. “Are you still here?”

Yes, but where's Clyde?
she wails, her voice filled with anguish.

A better question is… where's Jack? Can he see through Clyde's eyes right now? Is he screaming my name, cursing me? This can't be happening!

Clyde's expression darkens. “What's wrong? Ain't that what you wanted? You and me together?” He fights to speak between short gasps for air.

“Yes, but…” I can't admit I was betraying him. My knees wobble, threatening to give out on me. I back up, holding on to the rock for support.

“You're whiter than an Easter lily, woman.” He comes closer and presses up against me, caressing my cheek. He places his hands on my waist, gazing into my eyes. “Stop fretting, kitten. This is the way Fate wanted it or it'd be Jack Daniel and Bonnie standing here, not you and me.”

Bonnie lets out a loud cry.
What are you saying, Clyde?

If Bonnie's still in my head, that means I still have a few precious seconds to get this right, or I'll forever live with my mistake.

Hold on a second.

Why didn't she speak aloud?

This proves Clyde had been telling me the truth about how he felt about me. He obviously no longer belonged to Bonnie, or she'd be the one using my voice right now. I get one final, desperate idea.

If my gamble is right—that Clyde's weakness is thinking about the girl he loves—then I might be able to resolve this. I run my hands up the sides of his arms, smiling. “I'm glad it's you and me, Clyde. Let's get out of here and find us a cabin in the woods. Let me show you how I feel.”

“Now you're talking.” Clyde grins, about to lean in for a kiss, when he backs up, grabbing his chest. His expression on his face turns dark with rage. “You, you… tricked… me.”

His Tequila gold eyes roll back in his head as his body contorts wildly.

I want to hug him, console him in his final seconds, but I can't risk Bonnie's interference. “I'm sorry, Clyde! You and me really were cut from the same cloth, like you said. But you already had a life to live—Jack hasn't.”

I'm right here, Clyde! Hold me so we'll be together.

I can barely stand to watch as Clyde writhes, his limbs jerking and twisting in response to Jack rushing forward to take back his body. It's like seeing a dying animal breathe his last.

“It's 9:10!” the blonde girl squeals from the parked car twenty feet away. “Time to make out with your gangster of love so you can live forever like Bonnie and Clyde!”

A river of ice rushes through my veins from my shoulders to my knees, every limb reacting to her exit, making me shiver violently. I hold on to the rock as a scorching sensation rides up my body, from toes to knees to waist to neck—a final shudder leaves me dizzy.

“Bonnie?” My heart beats loudly in my ears. “Are you still here?”

No response.

I lift my hands and move them any way I want. I think she's gone, for real this time. I hold my breath, waiting to see who appears in Jack's body. After a final violent thrust of his chest, he coughs and spits out a bloody gob, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

I hold trembling fingers to my lips. “Jack?”

He blinks a few times, nodding. When his eyes meet mine, I see dark chocolate marbles, not caramel-colored irises. I nearly cry with delight. It's true. I clap my hands as tears stream down my face. “The deadline is over, Jack! Bonnie and Clyde are gone. It worked. The ritual worked!”

Jack leans against the rock, glaring at me. “You still think you had something to do with it? You're so conceited! The deadline passed, Monroe. Maybe they left on their own like I said they would. If you would have listened to me, we wouldn't be in all this fricking trouble!”

“Whaaat?” I screech, unable to believe my ears. My heart races out of control, my face burns in anger. “I saved your ass, Jack! I schemed and fought for every single clue to solve this thing. If I didn't get Clyde to drive us to Gibsland, didn't convince him that I was in love with him, let him kiss me, you wouldn't be here right now.”

“Yeah, I'd be at home on bail, getting myself a good lawyer.” He grits his teeth, coming toward me. I back away, not liking the look on his face. He pushes my shoulders every few words. “You liked every minute of it.”
Push.
“Don't act like you were doing me a favor.”
Push.

“Stop it, Jack! You're hurting me!”

“I'm hurting you?”
Push
, harder this time. “How about screwing up my future? Aggravated battery is one thing, but three counts of Grand Theft Auto? You're going to pay for this if it's the last thing I do.” Then he does the unthinkable. He spits in my face.

I slap him.

A faint wail of police sirens hits our ears, making Jack and I turn to look up the highway. Tiny blue flashing lights are way off in the distance, heading this way. My heart rate skyrockets. I take a deep breath, closing my eyes. Time to face the music.

“If you're going to run, you'd better do it now,” Jack says with a sneer. “Run away like you've been doing for two days.”

I look at the cops and then at Jack. I could've run. Three days ago, I would've run. “Despite what you think, I'm not running. I promised my mom that I'd take the blame and that's exactly what I'm going to do.”

He lets out a disdainful snort. “A lot of good that'll do me. They have videos of Clyde at the ATM. Nothing you say can help me with that.” He stares at me, his words hanging in the air.

I look him straight in the eye. “That's true and I'm really sorry for everything that's happened. I wish I'd never taken those slugs, never went to that party. I can't change what happened, but I can take the sole blame for stealing the vehicles. I'll tell them I threatened you with a wrench and made you do it.”

The police cars are less than a mile away now and closing fast. He shrugs. “If you think I'm saying thank you, you're wrong. You got me into this mess and nothing you say will ever make me forgive you.” He spits another bloody wad on the ground between us.

I know he's right, but it doesn't make it any easier to hear. “And I guess I wouldn't either if I were in your shoes. But I have one last thing to say to you before the cops arrive. We'll never know for sure whether coming here and doing the ritual was the thing that got rid of them, but I'll always believe in my heart that it was. Bonnie and Clyde were in us and now they're gone.”

The police car appears then, kicking up gravel. Two cops exit their vehicle, one balding and middle-aged, the other blond and not much older than us. They stay partially hidden behind their open car doors, guns drawn. “Drop your weapons and put your hands in the air.”

My heart pounds, my intestines twist, knowing what I'm about to face. I raise my hands in the air and shout, “There's a gun in my purse on the ground.” I indicate where it is with my head.

The older cop walks toward us, his gun aimed at our chests. The young cop goes for my purse. Seconds later, my arms are pulled backward and the bald cop cuffs me—so tight I'm sure he's made a mistake. “You are under arrest,” he drawls in the same thick accent as everyone else around here. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say…” As he finishes reciting both of us our rights, he grabs Jack and I by the elbow, leading us to the squad car.

Intense pain fills my chest, my head, my entire being—knowing how horribly sad my dad will be when he gets this phone call. All my dreams for my future, all his dreams about what I would become, were burned to a crisp right along with Bonnie's poem. That's when I realize with total certainty that if I continue to live by the motto, “You only live once,” I might have to die to defend it.

We're placed in the back seat and the cop slams the door. I look at Jack. “What should we tell the cops? Are you going to talk about Bonnie and Clyde invading our bodies?”

Jack scrunches his face in disbelief. “Hell no! I'm going to say I was on drugs and wasn't thinking straight. You can say whatever the hell you want, but you should know that I'll never corroborate your story about Bonnie and Clyde, so good luck with that.”

I sigh. Not that anyone would believe me anyway. If I did tell the truth, I'd be spending my time in a mental clinic instead of jail, forever branded as a schizophrenic. No thanks.

The bald cop gets behind the driver's seat and turns on his computer screen. He presses a button on a black box and calls in his location while the blond rookie approaches the police car, my purse in hand. When he sits down, the older cop asks him, “Did you recover the weapon?”

The rookie nods and holds up the gun. “Gun had no ammo, but I found something else that was interesting. I saw some upturned dirt over by the rock, like they buried something, so I dug it up.” He opens his palm to reveal the two slugs, alongside a bloody slice on his middle finger. “One of them cut me up like a son of a bitch, but it looks like we got us some evidence.”

My mouth drops open in shock and I glance at Jack, who is staring with an equally dumbfounded expression on his face. I whisper, “You don't think that Clyde could have—”

“No.” Jack shakes his head. “He's gone. I felt him leave.”

The bald cop grabs an evidence baggie and hands it to his partner. “Good work, Hamilton. Seal those slugs up and we'll send them to ballistics when we get back to the station.” He starts the car and pulls a U-turn on the highway. As he drives away, he pulls the police radio to his mouth and starts calling in his report.

The rookie cop drops the slugs into the baggie and seals it. “Sounds good to me.” He looks over his shoulder at Jack and I. “You two look as scairt as squirrels on a high wire in a storm.”

My mouth drops open. No, it can't be. It's just a Southern guy with weird sayings.

The rookie cop laughs. “But not me. I'm free as a bird—a day I been waiting for my whole life. Time to wipe out all the crooked laws, just like God wanted me to, but this time, I got me a badge so I can do it legally.”

“Clyde?” I whisper.

He smiles, his golden eyes gazing back at me. “I know I should be madder than a hornet at you, Twinkle. But if you hadn't done what you done, I'd be sitting in the back seat right alongside you. But don't you worry about a thing, you two. I'll get you out of this mess.”

Jack stirs. “I don't want your help. Stay out of my life, Asshole. You've done enough.”

Clyde tilts his head back and laughs. “You're still stupider than a hunk of coal, Jack Daniel. I was going to get rid of the moving picture for you, but since you ain't enough of a man to watch your tongue, I'm going to enjoy watching the movie I made again and again.”

I swallow hard, because the next words I have to say will break both our hearts. “Thanks for trying to help me, Clyde, but I need to pay for my mistakes. I wasn't lying about the way I felt about you, but I need to do things the right way this time—for my mom. You of all people can understand that, right?” I stare at him, pleading with my eyes for him to respect my wishes.

“I knew it!” Jack says, staring at me, his voice filled with disgust. “You're such a—”

“Shut your mouth!” Clyde warns, fury in his eyes.

The cop who's driving gets off the radio. “What's wrong, Hamilton? Is there a problem?”

Clyde glares at Jack for another second before he rubs his chin, looking at me and then at the other cop. “Nope. Ain't no problem except I think I got a bit of a heartache. This gal in the back is a real looker.”

“Better get used to it,” the cop says. “This might be your first day on the job, but you got a long career ahead of you. You got to learn to harden your heart when you need to.”

“I just might do that.” Clyde gazes at me. “For now.” And with a wink, he turns around.

We've reached the best (and most important) part of writing a novel—thanking all of those who have played a part in making my dream come true. And there are a lot of you.

First and foremost, I have to thank the Big Guy upstairs. As with all my endeavors, it's with His blessing that I am able to do all the things I love. I'll also be forever grateful to my editor, Jacquelyn Mitchard, and all the fabulous people at Merit Press who coached and coaxed my story into a better place. And if it weren't for my genius agent, Eric Myers, who helped fine-tune my novel—especially the 1920s vernacular and culture—this book wouldn't be nearly as historically accurate as I hope it to be. Huge kudos to editorial consultant, Jennifer Rees, who was instrumental in helping me rethink the direction of the novel prior to sending it out on submission. Your advice was invaluable.

For me, belonging to a critique group is both a professional and personal necessity. Not only do these writers look at my story with a critical eye and give expert advice, they have now become my lifelong friends. GIANT hugs of writerly love go out to Cherie Colyer, Katie Sparks, Pippa Bayliss, Terry Flamm, Mike Kelly, Veronica Rundell, Marian Cheatham, Marianne Lurie, Susan Kaye Quinn, Allan Woodrow, John Petit, Terri Murphy, and all the others who I've met both on my online groups and in person. You hold special places in my heart—not only because you've guided my stories, but also because you're fabulous encouragers who still love me despite the mess I send for you to help fix up.

A unique note of appreciation goes out to Ginny Nelson, the warm-hearted person who first encouraged—no, insisted—that I stop talking about writing a book and actually do it. Thanks for the kick in the pants. I also need to give a shout-out to my close friends Jeanette Ruby, Mary Mulholland, and Lori Henkels, who stood with pom-poms on the sideline for years. And I'd be remiss if I also didn't recognize my Facebook friends, work colleagues, SCBWI, CHRP sisters, and all the other fellow authors who help spread the word about my books. Thanks for your support and kindness.