Wanted (12 page)

I hurry into Dad's office, now wondering if I should call Jack first or wait for my father. Either option sucks because one guy is already pissed off at me and the other one soon will be. I punch in Jack's number. He answers on the first ring.

“Monroe! My God! What did you do to me?” Before I speak, he launches into a long explanation about how, after I left, he kept seeing flashing lights in his head. “I thought I was having a migraine, or maybe a seizure. But then this morning, I was texting my dad about my aunt dying in the hospital, all of a sudden, he took over my body.” He pauses, breathing hard. “Oh no! The lights just flickered again!”

“He—you mean Clyde?” I hold my breath.

“Yes, I mean Clyde! He robbed a woman at an ATM! He bashed her over the head with a tire iron and then stole eighty bucks—in my body! It's probably on video and everything!”

“Whaat? How?” I ask, although I heard him perfectly.

He repeats his explanation, adding, “Except, I swear to God, it wasn't me! What if he killed her, Monroe? It's all going to be on me.” His voice cracks, almost like he's about to cry.

“Oh my God, no,” I whisper. The realization that Clyde can take over Jack's body makes me cringe. What if he started robbing banks again, killing people like he did back in the twenties?

He clears his throat, his voice octaves higher than normal. “You've got to help me, Monroe. Whatever you did, you've got to undo it. I don't want to go to jail! Please!” I hear what sounds like a fist slamming into the bed. “Oh no! There the lights go again!”

“Calm down, Jack! Maybe the lights are flashing because you're going to faint. Every time you yell, you see those flashing lights, so stop yelling. It's not helping anyway.”

I hear him take in a deep breath and blow it out in one big whoosh of air. “Okay, okay. You're right. But it's hard. I'm so nervous. I've never been more nervous in my life.”

“I get that. But we're in this together. Bonnie's inside of me, too. Now tell me exactly what happened when Clyde took over. Has he given any hints about what his plans are?”

Clyde's much too clever for that, honey. He's got a plan all right, but he ain't telling.

“Hints about his plans? What are you talking about? He hasn't spoken to me at all. I was just sitting on my bed and then
POW!
the next thing I know, I'm inside my own body watching out of my eyes—helpless. I couldn't hear a thing!”

Now I'm really confused. I look at the door, listening for Dad. “I can't exactly talk now, but I'm desperately hoping that all of this ends when I put the slugs back in the box.”

That ain't gonna work! I already tole you that!

“Then hurry up and put them back!” Jack screeches. “I don't want—”

Just then, the door opens. I quickly end the call and leap to my feet, looking to the side of the couch. On the coffee table, I spy the copy of Bonnie's poem that Dad made for himself.

“Did you find your book, Monroe?” Dad pulls his desk chair out and sits down.

“No, but I found this.” I hold up the paper. “And I want to tell you that I've been thinking about it and decided you can put my poem in the display case. I don't need it at home anymore.”

“Oh, okay. Thanks. That'd be nice. It'd still officially belong to you, of course, and I'll make note of that on the explanation card.” He sets a can of Diet Coke onto his desk. “Have you read the whole poem through yet? It's quite good.” He pops open his drink and takes a sip.

“Yep, twice in fact.” I decide not to mention that, the second time, it was narrated by the author herself. I can't seem to bring myself to launch into my confession, so I postpone the inevitable. “I had a couple of questions though. This stanza kind of stood out to me:
They call them cold-blooded killers/ they say they are heartless and mean./ But I say this with pride/ that I once knew Clyde,/ when he was honest and upright and clean
.” I make a face. “What—did she know him when he was five?”

Dad smiles. “He wasn't always corrupt, but his family lived in one of the worst slum areas of the Depression. Good people do bad things when they're in desperate situations.”

I nod, thinking that I'm in a pretty desperate situation myself. I skim the next few lines:
The road was so dimly lighted/ there were no highway signs to guide./ But they made up their minds;/ if all roads were blind,/ they wouldn't give up till they died.

I flash back to the death scene. I message Bonnie: I bet you'd change your mind now that you know how it feels to get executed roadside, wouldn't you?

Nope. I'd rather be six feet under than locked up in a filthy cage like an animal.

Dad looks at his watch. “What time are you seeing Dr. Hanson today?”

“At 2:00. What about this:
If a policeman is killed in Dallas/ and they have no clue or guide./ If they can't find a fiend,/ they just wipe their slate clean/ and hang it on Bonnie and Clyde
.” I look at him. “Do you think the cops actually charged them with all unsolved crimes, or is Bonnie, I mean,
was
Bonnie being melodramatic?”

Dad clicks on his spacebar to wake up his computer. “I'm sure they had more than their fair share of false accusations, but they did kill a lot of people. I think it was ten or twelve, mostly cops.” He stares at the screen, scrolling and tapping the keys, then sits back and waits.

I never killed anyone.

“Bonnie, too?” I ask, doubting her words.

Dad rubs his chin. “That's up for discussion. Some historians say she did, others say that she mostly stayed in the getaway car and waited for Clyde and his gang to come out.”

Only cuz my leg got all crippled after the accident. Clyde made me stay in the car.

To protect his personal hooker, I think as I grab the poem, still not finding the guts to tell him that I have the slugs. “This part's the creepiest:
Some day they'll go down together/ they'll bury them side by side./ To few it'll be grief,/ to the law a relief/ but it's death for Bonnie and Clyde.
It was like she knew her and Clyde would get gunned down together before it actually happened.”

Didn't know for sure, but I suspected.

Dad takes a sip of his soda. “They lived in the 1930s, Monroe. The police routinely shot and killed known criminals back then.” He pulls a copy of
Restaurant Owner
magazine off the stack next to him and sets his drippy can on top of it. “Enough talk. I have to call the auction house now.” He sighs, picking up his cell phone. “I'm not looking forward to this.” He wakes his computer and scans the screen, squinting. “Contact info, contact info…” he says aloud.

I take a deep breath. It's now or never. “Um… about that.”

Hush now! You need those slugs to reunite me and Clyde!

“Ah. Here's the number.” He enters the number, looking from phone to computer screen.

I shift my weight from one foot to the other. “Dad, I actually—”

“Not now, honey.” Dad presses the last button and then holds the phone to his ear.

This time I need to make myself clear. “Hmmph…” When I go to speak, I can't part my lips—as if they've been bound by super glue. “Immt,” I try again, but it's no use. My lips are literally sealed.

Dad says, “Yes, I'd like to speak to a manager, please. It's regarding a purchase I made yesterday.” He turns his chair away from me, as if wanting privacy.

I dive for my purse. Bonnie forcing my mouth shut can only mean one thing—that she knows she'll disappear completely if I put the slugs back where they came from. I knew it! Bonnie thinks she's so smart, but I'll just toss the slugs on Dad's desk, and he'll put them back for me. Sure, he'll be angry that I took them, but he'll be relieved that he doesn't have to file a report. I reach for the slugs when I realize I can't breathe. I put a hand on my throat and concentrate on sucking air in through my nose. Nothing. Both nostrils are blocked solid.

Stop it, Bonnie! You'll kill us both!

Child, I'm already dead. Now skedaddle before you faint dead away too.
She laughs.

Black spots dance in the corners of my eyes as I unzip the inside pocket of my purse. I'm going to give these nasty things to Dad no matter what. The moment my fingers grab the bullets, the room swirls into bright colors, lights, patterns—a mind movie on mushrooms.

Dad clears his throat. “Yes, I have a question about my auction purchase.”

Damn you, Bonnie! I need to breathe!

Then leave NOW!

My ears ring from lack of oxygen and my head feels disconnected from my body. In a stroke of genius, I grab my phone and toss my purse onto the couch. If I can't take the slugs out of my purse, I'll leave my purse here. I only make one step when my knees buckle.

Foolish girl.

I fall to the ground, my world dissolving into blackness.

Ever since I robbed that woman and Jack Daniel took over our body in his Ford, he's been busier than a honeybee in spring. That fool took one look at the blood on the tire iron and threw all the money out the window. Then he went driving off like a dog with its tail between his legs and tossed the only weapon I got into a big metal garbage bin.

One thing is certain—if I ever wake up with money in my lap that someone else stole, I'm keeping it. Money is money and the cops don't know where it came from. Jack Daniel's a sniveling little piker who deserves to hide inside me while I take care of business. If he's too much of a sissy to be a man, then step aside.

After his hands stopped shaking, the dewdropper headed for home. I have to say that Jack Daniel is the sorriest excuse for a getaway man I ever seen. He jerks and stomps on the gas pedal, and people honk at him left and right. We might share the same body, but we sure don't share the same driving skills. I can beat him in a race flat out drunk and with one hand tied behind my back. Heck, I'd bet on my grandmother if she was in a race against him, and Gammy was blind in one eye and had the tremors.

After he got home, he ran up to his bedroom and kept looking out the window. Reminded me of how I made my brother Buck check for laws when we was hiding out. Jack Daniel finally gave up his fretting to sit in front of a machine with a window screen with typewriter letters. Good thing I learned how to read and write because all kinds of words come jumping out at me.

I have no idea who Milo is or what he wants, but I watch the boy type back:

Hey! They's talking about me. I watch closely, excited that people still know me after all this time. Why, once I take over Jack's body, I'll make headlines all over again.

There's such a long wait before Milo Ricci answers that I think maybe he fell asleep.

So the boy uses letters for code words in case the police are nosing around. I wonder if FWIW is a kind of weapon, like my favorite, the BAR. I'd bet anything that G is for G-men.

Googled? Another code word? Maybe Milo's a cop. He's acting awfully sneaky, like laws do. Them weird letters and numbers at the end don't make a lick of sense to me, neither.

I'd swear on a Bible that's what happened. The fool Henry didn't understand what I meant and shot the deputy right in the neck, point-blank. I had no choice but to kill the other one. Always felt bad about that. The papers made me and Bonnie out to be monsters, all because it happened on Easter Sunday. That's when we stopped being America's Sweethearts and got on the Ten Most Wanted list. I shoulda never let Henry join us. But after I helped him and my friend Ray Hamilton break out of jail, Henry followed me around like a puppy, lapping up everything I said. Guess my head swole a bit.