Wanted (13 page)

I can forgive Henry for shooting the law and I can even forgive Frank “The Hammer” Hamer's posse for killing me. But I will never forgive the rat-fink-lying-sack-of-cow-dung who told The Hammer where and when I'd be heading out of town the day I got kilt. I know I ain't led a good life, but whoever ratted me out should tend to their own business and leave Judgment Day for the Lord.

If the squealer is dead, which he prolly is, given the time I been gone, I'll do the next best thing—wipe out all of his or her remaining kin. When Daddy went on a drinking binge, he'd warn me that I'd be in trouble one day because “The Lord punishes the child for the sins of the father.” So it's clear the Lord wants me to punish the sons of my betrayer. It'd be a sin for me not to follow the plan.

This time, Jack gets his lazy buttocks off the divan and gets himself a Coca-Cola from the icebox. It looks so wet and cold that I ache to taste it. He tilts his head back and guzzles that sweet soda, but I don't taste nothing in my mouth 'cept the bitter taste of being made a patsy.

Blue flashing lights like the fancy kind coppers use start swirling round the bedroom. As Jack makes a run for the window, I see flashing lights inside my head—but they're white, not blue. Holy hell—I know what's going on! I push with all my might and the next thing I know, I'm watching a police car race past the house lickety-split with my very own eyes. Jack got scared again—and the coppers wasn't even after him! Hot dang if he ain't the biggest chicken this side of the Mississippi.

I stroll on back to the desk and guzzle the rest of his Coca-Cola in one swallow. It's cold, bubbly, and sweet—just like I remember. Lord, if this ain't heaven on earth, I don't know what is. I set in his chair and put my feet up on the desk, waiting for Milo to tell me all he knows.

I wish I had buried some loot that I could go dig up right now, but there ain't none. I spent it as soon as I got it. I remember the day I took that pitchur of Bonnie that made the front page. It was right after the Oklahoma job, before anyone knew about us. Bonnie put her foot up on the fender of that sweet Ford V-8. At the last second, she grabbed a pistol and shoved my cigar in her mouth. After that, the papers started calling her a tramp. They said it wasn't ladylike to smoke a cigar, but I told her I didn't give a dead rat what anyone thought. She sent a letter to the papers sayin' she didn't smoke cigars and was only funning around.

Shiest, he's talking to me. How does this thing work? I pull the contraption closer and look at the letters. I know what I want to say. I try pushing a letter when an amazing thing happens—the letter pops up in the window. My spelling ain't perfect, but it ain't bad neither.

Stinking liar! I was the best driver around—and it's a sin to say otherwise. I spit onto the floor to curse his mother and set Milo straight about that day.

I get a twisting in my heart. Too bad she didn't get another chance because I'd like to make it up to her. But being lovesick ain't helping me none now. What I need now is the answer to the one niggling question that won't let me rest.

Son of a bitch! I knew I shoulda never trusted Ivy Methvin! I slam my fist into the desk. After everything I done for his son, too! Made him into something when he was a whole lot of nothing! I whip the empty Coca-Cola can to the ground, stomping it under my foot.

I got to simmer down or I'm gonna blow my cover. I need to act more like a scairt jackrabbit, quivering in my little den. I smile. Like a scairt Jack Daniel rabbit, that is.

I stare at the numbers. For the life of me, I don't know what they's from. It ain't my birthday and I don't think it's Bonnie's neither. Maybe it's some sort of safe combination? A telephone number? I give up for now but I memorize them anyway, because everyone knows deadlines ain't meant to be broken.

My first line of business is to find Henry Methvin's kin and pay them a visit. No confusion about what the letter G and the deadline means. At least not to me.

Get even and bury the bastards soon. Before time runs out.

I came to with Dad in front of me, shaking me gently and calling my name. Apparently Bonnie decided to let me breathe again—but not without first issuing a warning.

You try another stunt like that, and the next time, you won't wake up.

This time, I got the message. I made up an excuse, telling Dad I hadn't eaten and had gotten up too quickly, and that I was fine. But he made me wait while he ran to the kitchen and whipped me up some scrambled eggs. Meanwhile, I called Dr. Hanson and said I'd be a few minutes late. When Dad was positive that I was okay, he let me leave.

Now I'm sitting in the same leather chair that I sit in every time I come to Dr. Hanson's office. But this time I'm emotionally exhausted and petrified about my future. Dad is going to call the Brownstone Brothers, maybe even the police, and there isn't a thing I can do about it.

Thanks for ruining my life, Bonnie.

As soon as you get me and Clyde together, you're free to ruin it all on your own.

The fifty-something and slim Dr. Hanson sits down across from me, notepad in hand. “So tell me about your week.”

I grip my thighs hard to remind myself to proceed with caution. I start with small talk about work, my family, and about being sad that I missed prom and all the Senior Weekend events. He asks me to take out my homework and we chat about that for a while, too. We end the discussion by agreeing that my future now hangs by a very thin and delicate thread, and that I'm the one holding the scissors.

“I wish I could just throw the scissors away,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. “I don't want to be tempted to cut the thread just to see how things turn out.”

Dr. Hanson jots something down on his notepad. Whenever he does that, I always get a weird feeling in my stomach. He obviously thinks I said something so crazy or abnormal that he wants to remember it later on. He probably wrote, “patient has death wish,” or “Monroe should not be given scissors.” After his note taking is over, he clears his throat. “With that thought in mind, I'd like to talk to you about hypnosis. I spoke to your father on the phone yesterday at length and suggested that hypnosis might work really well for you. It could help you to quell your impulsive tendencies.”

I tinker with my ring. There's no way I'm going under hypnosis, not after last night. I have a lot to keep hidden. “I don't think I'm any more impulsive than anyone else my age. I just get caught more often.” I shrug apologetically.

Hypnosis? I heard about that. Let's do it!

No! Be quiet and mind your own business.

Dr. Hanson squints, a perplexed look on his face. “I think you might be confused about the purpose of therapeutic suggestion. While you're under hypnosis, I will replace your misguided pleasurable associations to violent or thrill-seeking behaviors with subconscious negative ones. Thus, when you consider doing something illegal or inappropriate, you'll have an immediate aversion for the activity.” He smiles warmly then, like he's offering me a slice of French silk pie instead of a brain scramble.

I smile back. “Yes, well, thanks for the offer, but no thanks.” I click on my phone. 2:24. I've only been here twelve minutes? I shift in my seat and feel something jab me in the back. I reach around behind me and grab the offending object. It's Bonnie's poem. I quickly try to slide it back into my pocket, but my fingers clamp down on it and I can't let go. I concentrate on prying my fingers apart, but I can't do it.

Stop it, Bonnie. Let go!

No!

“Is there a problem?” Dr. Hanson asks, his forehead wrinkled in confusion.

“No, sir. No problem at all,” I say, with a thick hillbilly drawl that sounds exactly how Bonnie sounds in my head. I can feel my cheeks rise as I break into a wide grin.

My face flushes hot and my heart pounds hard. Is she taking over my body, like Clyde has done to Jack? Hot bile mixed with scrambled eggs come partially up my throat, burning as they recede.

Bonnie, no! Don't you dare do this to me.

You be quiet. I'm in charge now.

Dr. Hanson taps his pencil. “I see you're uncomfortable with hypnosis, but are you aware that it can also help calm those anxiety attacks you mentioned? You'll learn to recognize when your stress level increases and can begin those self-calming techniques we discussed.”

“Some people think hypnosis is whole lot of booshwash,” Bonnie drawls, “but Hubert brought home an advertisement about hypnosis a few months back. Thought it sounded keen. So you know what, doc? I'm gonna change my mind. Let's do it!”

Heat roars up my neck, my face. With every molecule of my brain, I concentrate on moving my lips even one millimeter. They won't budge. Damn you, Bonnie!

Dr. Hanson clears his throat. “A southern accent. Interesting.” He scribbles something down on his notepad, the pen making scratchy sounds across the paper. He rises to his feet. “Terrific. We'll get started right away. I'll notify my assistant to start up the recording equipment.”

Recording equipment? My eyes must pop out of my head, because Dr. Hanson holds up a hand. “Now don't let that worry you. Recording hypnotic sessions is standard procedure—for your protection and for mine. It all takes place behind that two-way mirror so you don't have to see it.” He glances up at the large mirror mounted on the wall behind him. “In fact, if you can even forget it's there, that'd make things go a lot smoother. Like everything else we discuss, anything you say under hypnosis will remain confidential.”

I take another stab at telling Dr. Hanson that I don't want to go through with this, but my lips won't cooperate. “Mmmph.”

“Excuse me?” he asks, concerned.

I shake my head, shrugging.

“My mistake.” Dr. Hanson points to the couch and smiles. “How about you go lie down over there and make yourself comfortable?”

So as not to draw more attention to myself, I stumble to my feet in a daze. I try not to let panic register on my face, even though inside of me, there's a freaking five-alarm fire.

Stop this right now, Bonnie. What the hell do you think you're doing?

What does it look like I'm doing? I'm gonna get hypnotized
.
You can do what you want.

My eyes dart around the room. The couch is three feet to my left, the door five feet to my right. I take two steps toward the door, ready to bolt, when Dr. Hanson turns around.

“Do you need to use the restroom?” he asks politely, but his tone shows he's concerned.

“No, sir! I tripped is all. I'm clumsier than a drunk mule.” Bonnie lets out one of her horsey laughs.

Stop saying weird shit. You'll make him even more suspicious!

Stop your bellyaching and relax. This will be fun.

Sweat breaks out under my arms, across my forehead. If I run, he'll conclude I'm even more messed up than he already thinks I am. Probably call my dad and suggest residential treatment. I force myself to lie down on the couch, hypnosis being the lesser of two horrible outcomes. My fingers still clutch the poem so tightly that my muscles are beginning to ache.

Wait a second. Is the poem the thing that's giving her control right now?

I do a quick check on Dr. Hanson's whereabouts, finding him by the door speaking with his assistant. Perfect. Trying to flick the poem out of my hands, I shake my wrist forcefully several times, but it's no use. I can't get my fingers to release her poem.

So that's it, huh? When I touch something that belonged to you, you have more power?

You think I'm tellin' you my secrets? I ain't no squealer.
She laughs.

I squeeze her poem tightly, wishing it were her neck.

I don't know why you're doing this, Bonnie, but listen carefully. Whatever you do, don't mention Clyde, jail, or robbing banks, or he'll commit us to the psych ward.