Wanted (5 page)

“The cops are here!” she yells, her face white with panic. “Ditch your drugs!”

Damn it! I knew this would happen! I take a quick check for Clarissa, but don't see her anywhere. I turn to look at Jack, but he's standing on the loveseat, pushing open the window. Seconds later, he steps up on the back of the couch and shinnies himself up and out. If there's one thing I've learned, it's that the only way out of getting busted is to run.

“Jack, wait!” He glances right at me, but keeps going. I do exactly like he did, standing first on the back of the couch, and then jumping up to get my stomach to the window ledge. It takes a few tries, but after some major stomach bruising, I manage to get outside. Jack's already halfway down the block. Nice guy, my ass. My dad says if you want to see someone's true colors, wait for an emergency.

Looks like Jack's true color is every-man-for-himself cowardly yellow.

I step on an old branch, which makes a loud
crack
. A cop on the front porch turns and flashes a light in my direction. I duck, but I'm too slow.

“You—get out from behind that bush!” he shouts as he hurries down the steps.

I get one look at his police badge and take off running.

I lie there for a long time, wondering how to get out of this damn coffin, when I see a light—a tiny hole no bigger than a thumbtack—way off in the corner. Light means life so that's got to be the key to my escape. I don't know how come I've been hibernating deep in the earth instead of chumming with the devil, but obviously, the good Lord has His reasons. Maybe He felt bad I'd been taken too soon, or maybe He needs me to get rid of some evildoers on Earth for Him. It'd suit me right fine to be God's personal hit man.

Snuffing out maggot prison guards would do everyone a favor.

For starters though, I have to get out of this solitary confinement if I am going to be of use to anyone. I concentrate on moving my muscles. First a finger, then a toe—hell, even my eyelids, but they is all as dead and useless as an old man's willy. That last part's just a guess though, as I never had no trouble in
that
department. Bonnie would attest to my skillful lovemaking, wild as a tiger with the stamina of an ox. I picture my wisp of a gal—pretty face, tiny hands, small bubs the size of muffins—and it makes my chest hurt.

It enters my head then that I have no idea how many years I'd been gone. Maybe it's been so long that my flesh has started to rot away. I picture my once-virile body looking like a heap of brittle bones, with little worms eating at the last of my innards, and a rotten filthy stench filling the air. Bah! Can't think about that. Gonna focus on getting myself to the guiding light instead. I think about Bonnie, wishing she could get another chance too. Maybe if I do what He asks, the Lord will grant me that wish.

That's when I get the notion that maybe I'm going about this all wrong. Wishing for things never made them happen. The reason I was so good at robbing banks was because I'm a clever son of a bitch. Though I kilt many a man with a Browning Automatic Rifle, my best weapon has always been my brain. Mama always says that the Lord gives each of us a special talent and that it was a sin not to put that talent to good use.

So instead of trying to move my muscles, I stare at the pinhole of light and concentrate on squeezing myself into a tight ball, small enough to go through that hole. I hunker down and let all my thoughts go, all except for one—making my soul obey my command. Bit by bit, I feel a tugging sensation, so I ponder even harder. All at once, a gigantic pull at the center of my core, as powerful as a maelstrom in the ocean, beseeches me to come forward. As I get sucked into my new life, I scream, Hallelujah! with a joy as intense as a man's first time lying with a woman.

I let myself get caught up in the whirlypool, ready to do the Lord's bidding—whatever that may turn out to be.

Amen.

I bolt down the block, adrenaline coursing through me like whitewater rapids.

Run, girl, run!

No time to think. I race down the street in the same direction as Jack, staying on the grass and away from the glow of the streetlights. I sail past brick bungalows interspersed with two-flats, not looking back. I leap over flowerbeds and weave around cars in driveways without a thought to my safety, as if a serial killer is on my tail instead of a policeman. It might as well be a serial killer because if I get caught, my future, as I planned it, is dead.

Near the end of the block, I see Jack dart into the gangway between two houses. I follow his path, plowing into him when I turn the corner.

“Hey!” he shouts, sounding more surprised than angry.

“Are they coming?” I ask breathlessly.

He moves aside and peers around the edge of the house, panting. “No, we're good.”

“Thank God.” I let out a sigh.

“You came out the window too?” Jack steps back into the shadows alongside me, breathing even harder than I am. His face looks pale and sweaty, like he's nervous. Probably about ditching me.

“Like you didn't know.” I lean my head back against the wall. “Thanks for helping, by the way. I almost didn't make it. Bruised the shit out of my stomach.” I touch the area and wince.

“Seriously. I didn't know.” He stares at me with fake confusion. Little scratchy noises escape his mouth with each inhalation.

I glare back at him, not bothering to hide my anger. “Me yelling, ‘Jack, wait!' didn't clue you in? You looked right at me and then you ran.”

“No, I didn't.” He digs something out of his pocket. “Hang on.” He lifts the purple plastic inhaler to his mouth and sucks deeply on it.

“You have asthma?” I ask suspiciously, as if he had kept some big secret from me.

He nods and holds his breath, I guess to make the medicine spread through his lungs. When he finally lets it out, he asks, “Why did you think I was grabbing my chest and gasping for air before?”

The thought that the slugs had infected Jack with some sort of dead Clyde Barrow virus disappears in an instant. I smile from relief. “Why didn't you say that earlier?”

He shrugs. “There wasn't exactly a chance. Things went south really fast.” He takes another check around the corner of the garage. “No one's coming.” He resumes his place and looks at me. “So why are you happy I have asthma?”

I'm disgusted by my insensitivity. “No, it's not that at all. I'm sorry you have asthma.” I take a deep breath, wondering how to put this. “It's just that something freaky happened to me at the same time you had your attack. I felt a stabbing pain in my neck, and…” I pause, scrambling for any sane reason, “I thought maybe the beer had been poisoned, or maybe you accidentally like, jabbed something in my throat.”

I cringe, knowing that sounded dumb, but at least it's better than admitting I thought I had infected our bodies with Bonnie and Clyde's spirits. Especially since everything seems perfectly normal now that we're outside under the stars. Well, if you don't factor in that we're hiding in someone's gangway while all the kids at the party are being arrested.

He shakes his head, his eyebrows pinched together in anger. “So the first conclusion you came to was that I poisoned you and then stabbed you in the throat?”

I bite my lip to keep from smiling. “Okay, when you put it that way, it does sound horrible. But look at it from my perspective. A minute after drinking the beer you gave me, I nearly passed out and there was a searing pain in my throat.” I take a deep breath. “But I have this problem about blurting things out without thinking. In head, out mouth.”

He shrugs. “I guess I'll never have to worry about where I stand with you.”

“Nope.” In a few minutes he'll know exactly where he stands with me when I head home without giving him my number. His taking off when he knew I needed help killed the last dying ember of possibility.

He's a fibbing coward anyway. Forget him.

I suck in a breath. Bonnie, if by some cosmic connection that's actually you, can you please just chill out until I get away from the cops?

I look back toward Kyle's house and start twisting my hair, my stomach in knots. “I feel bad leaving without Clarissa.”

“Better than staying and getting busted
with
her.” Jack swats at a moth that flutters in front of his face. “Since I didn't poison you, what do you really think happened to your neck?”

“Good question.” I expose my throat. “Do you see any kind of red mark over here somewhere? Like maybe a spider bite or something?”

“It's too dark to tell. Move into the light a bit.”

I step forward into the porch light's rays, pulling my hair to the side. He rests his hand on my shoulder to get a closer look, making me jump. He says, “I was going to tell you I saw two fang holes just to freak you out, but there really is something. The crazy thing is, it's heart-shaped.” He sounds surprised.

“Oh yeah,
that
. It's one of those port-wine birthmarks. Anything else?”

“No, but that's so cool. And really pretty,” he adds, making me squirm.

I let go of my hair and step back, not wanting him to get any ideas
.
“Thanks, but I can't take any credit for it. My mom used to say it was God's doodle.” I think of her then, guilt flooding in, making my chest hurt.
I'm so sorry about all this, Mom. Please don't hate me.

A floodlight scoping out the house across the street catches my eye. The nose of a police cruiser pulls forward and the light shifts in our direction. “Hide!” I grab Jack's arm and pull him down into the evergreens. A split-second later, the floodlight beams across the lawn and up the path, pausing on the bushes we're hiding behind. I suck in my bottom lip and slowly slide the tips of my black suede shoes off the sidewalk. A sharp branch jabs into my upper arm, but I don't move. Seconds later, the light moves across the front lawn and onto the next house. When the cruiser drives down the street, I let myself breathe again.

Jack is the first to speak. He whispers, “That was scary. Glad you saw that.”

“Me too.” I realize my hand is still clamped onto his arm. Letting go, I wipe my sweaty palms on my pants as the cop car turns the corner. “Let's get out of here. If they catch us hiding, we're screwed.” I scramble to my feet and brush mulch off of my butt. Blood's coming out of the scratch on my arm, so I pluck a leaf off a nearby hosta plant and dab at it.

Jack licks his thumb and wipes a smudge of wet mud off his gym shoe. “They can't prove we were at the party, so it's not like they could walk up and breathalyze us.”

“Hopefully you're right, but I don't want to take any chances.” I unzip my purse. “I need to get home. I'm going to try Clarissa.” I pull out my phone and see that Clarissa already called and texted me. Six times. The last one was five minutes ago.

I text her back that I escaped out the window, that I'll find my own ride, and wish her luck. “Clarissa left to bail Hank out. I'm calling a cab.”

Jack says, “I'd give you a ride, but my Mustang's in front of Kyle's house. Don't think I want to risk getting it just yet.”

“The gorgeous blue one?” I hate to admit it, but Jack instantly became more interesting.

He nods. “My parents bought it for me last year. I had golf practice every day after school and couldn't take the bus.”

“Oh.” I'm back to not being impressed. A guy who has things handed to him isn't nearly as alluring as one who worked his tail off to earn it. “Your car's nice. I ran past it after I escaped from the basement.” I'm dying to add
by myself,
but I don't. No sense in pulling the scab off that wound. “Thanks for the offer anyway.”

“Next time,” he says.

I don't let him see me wince as I scroll through my contact list and call Yellow Cab. “I need a cab for Baker, account 3705.” While the operator's looking up our account, I glance at Jack. “Oh, shoot. I need an address for the pick-up.”

Jack shrugs. “How about the McDonald's at Foster and Kedzie?” He points to the yellow arches just barely visible over the roofs of the houses across the street. Nodding, I relay the information, listening to make sure she repeats it back correctly.

I toss my phone back into my purse. “It's a forty minute wait, so uh, I guess this is goodbye.” I shrug, not sure whether to hug him or shake his hand. What's the appropriate gesture to give someone I was just hiding in the bushes with a minute ago?

“Nah, I'll come with you,” he says cheerfully. “Where else am I going to go?”

“Okay, cool,” I say, suddenly glad for Jack's company. Ironically, scrambling through a window and running from the cops together gives us something in common. The phrase “partners in crime” comes to mind as we hurry onto the sidewalk, although he wasn't exactly what I'd call a willing participant in our getaway duet.

As we start our walk toward McDonald's, we both crane our necks toward Kyle's house, which is now bustling with activity. Three squad cars are in front and two cops stand guard on the porch. A man about my dad's age strides past us, an angry look on his face. The police are probably having the parents pick their kids up here instead of transporting them all to the station. Jack and I look at each other and wordlessly pick up our pace.

My heels click and clatter against the sidewalk. “I bet the cop that was out scoping the neighborhood was the same one who saw me climb out the window. I can't believe he'd search for me when they have a buttload of teenagers to bust inside.”

“Unless he thinks you've got something big to hide.” Jack elbows me gently. “You're not an escaped convict with a rap sheet a mile long, are you, Monroe?”