Wanted (21 page)

Bob leans in close. “Every now and then some lunatic comes onto the website claiming they've taken over the bodies of their humans. There's one guy who swears he's Buddy Holly, and a gal who says she's been taking over new bodies ever since the Civil War.”

Hearing Bob admit that the dead overtaking the living is even a remote possibility makes my insides twist in fear. Jack suddenly looks sweaty and pale, like he might throw up.

Ha! I tole you it was possible!
Clyde will figure out how. Might even know already.

If Clyde's so smart, how come he didn't figure out your death ambush ahead of time, huh?

Bob must sense our discomfort because he dismisses the idea with a wave of his hand. “But there's absolutely no proof, so we—Silke and I—think it's all a sham. Let's face it. There are all kinds of crazies out there, along with a ton of skeptics, who think being half-dead is a joke. Truthfully, don't even bother mentioning that switcheroo part to your sister. Tell her and her husband to join our society and visit our members' only forum.” He checks his watch again. “We only have about five more minutes left, so I need to start giving people a heads-up.”

“Oh, of course,” I gush, embarrassed we'd taken up all his time. “Thanks for everything!”

After Bob walks away, Jack says, “That was some crazy stuff. What did you think?”

What I think is that we're in even bigger trouble than we knew, but I don't want to scare Jack. “Based on that conversation, I think we have to head to the place where they were gunned down and do the ritual tomorrow morning.” I swallow hard, unable to believe what I'm saying. “I don't want to risk Bonnie switching places with me.” I get out my phone and start tapping like crazy. “I'm sending a quick text to my dad, telling him I'm going to stay at Anjali's tonight.”

“Why would you do that?” Jack stares at me like I've sprouted a mustache. “He just said that the people who claimed they switched places were lunatics! And that it was all a sham.”

“But he wasn't positive,” I retort. “Either way, I don't want someone living in my body even one more day, much less for the rest of our lives, do you?” I know I should be trying to keep him calm, but he needs to wake the hell up.

Jack slides his hands into his pockets, glaring at me with a sarcastic look on his face. “So you think we need to head to their death spot, bury some crap, say prayers, and hope they go away? Isn't that a little nuts?”

“You have any better ideas?” I do a search, clicking on the first link. I need to keep my hands busy so I don't choke some urgency into him.

Jack lets out a loud sigh. “I just don't know. The whole idea seems ridiculous.”

“No,
you're
ridiculous,” I snap, rolling my eyes. “Sorry, Jack, but there's no other way out. So stop angsting over this and accept what we have to do already.” I hold up my phone, hoping my stern tone has convinced him. “I'm looking up the place where they died.”

“Okay, okay.” He rubs his neck, red blotches dotting the surface. “I guess.”

My mouth drops open when I read the results. “You're never going to believe this, Jack. If this isn't proof, I don't know what is. Listen to this—they died in
Gibsland
, Louisiana.”

“The letter G.” Jack stares at me, his jaw slack.

“Exactly.” I reach for a lock of hair, twisting it around my finger. “How far is that from here?”

He shrugs. “I don't know. A few hours by plane probably. But are we seriously doing this?”

I grit my teeth, wanting to shake him. “Yes, for God sakes! Now stop dragging your feet. You need to be eighteen to order plane tickets, but my birthday's not until July. How about you?”

“August.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I guess we'll have to drive. Let me map it.” Jack slides his phone out of his pocket. “This is weird. Nine missed calls.” He stares at the screen. “Uh-oh. My dad left me six texts.”

“Is that bad?” I ask, not following.

“He never texts me.” His face contorts as if in pain as he rapidly reads through the messages. “Oh no. Oh my God.” He clicks through the messages faster, his eyes skimming, his lips moving as he reads.

“What, Jack? Tell me.” I bite my lip, afraid to hear his answer.

He tilts his head back and looks up. “I'm fucking screwed!”

“Calm down! What's wrong?” My heart's racing and I don't even know what the problem is yet.

He hands me his phone. “Read the texts. All of them. Then you'll know.”

I take his phone, my hands trembling with nervous anticipation.

When I look into Jack's eyes, I know what he's thinking.

He picked the wrong girl to talk to at the party.

The longer I'm inside Chickenshit's head, the madder I get. He's getting better at controlling his fear, I'll give him that much. He gets scairt as much as a boy on his first hunt, who draws his gun at every little sound. I saw a ton of them itty-bitty pops of light—fright lights I call 'em—but none of them lasted long enough for me to slide into.

Jack Daniel's the type to let his troubles build up inside him instead of forgetting about them. Prolly won't take nothing more than a person shouting, “Boo!” to push him over the cliff. It's like getting drunk. At first you don't feel nothing, you're just drinking and having fun. You have two, three, four drinks and you're happy as a lark, telling stories and bragging 'bout the things you done with a bit more mustard than the real McCoy.

You take a few shots of whiskey and have another drink to toast in the start of a new day. That's about when you notice your tongue has gotten fat in your mouth like a swollen toad and the words ain't as smooth as before. You think maybe you'll hit the road soon before you fall off the barstool or swear at another drunk bastard defending the boxer you think will win the title, when all of a sudden, an old chum strolls into the tavern and offers to buy you a drink.

You know you had enough, but you ain't saying no. Not after years of having to sneak around, drinking bootleg booze out of buckets. Not when you ain't got two nickels to your name.

So you clink your mug in thanks and guzzle down that seventh drink.

When you stand up to go take a piss, you can't barely walk. Your legs don't work, you're dizzy as a dame on bubbly, and you're considering taking that piss right where you stand. That seventh drink is like jumping off a cliff—too late to climb back up after you've gone over the edge.

The way I see it, Jack Daniel's already guzzled six drinks filled to the brim with trouble. He's been standing on the edge with his toes curled up tight, trying not to fall. But seeing all those itty bitty fright lights means something big is brewing. Any time now, Jack is gonna tip the shot glass and topple right off that cliff, and I'll be there to take over when he does.

Bottom's up, JD.

Since I'm not very good at keeping cool when I'm stressed, I can easily recognize when someone's about to flip a shit, and clearly, Jack's about to do just that. But if he doesn't calm down now, Clyde's going to come back. The last thing I need right now is a criminal psychopath to deal with—one who wouldn't blink when trying to kill me.

I pause. Or would he?

Truthfully I'm not sure if he'd kiss me or kill me if he got me alone again, but I don't plan to find out.

I'd kill you myself if I could.

I ignore Bonnie and concentrate on Jack. “Deep breaths, Jack! I know your situation sucks, but don't dwell on it now. Think about puppies, or playing golf—whatever makes you happy.” I fold and unfold my lip between my fingers, waiting, hoping he can pull it together.

Jack nods, doing as I ask. After his third inhalation, he says, “Okay. I'm better now. That was close. Asshole was trying to get in. The lights in my head were flashing like crazy.”

A guy and his girlfriend sharing a waxy bag filled with Garrett cheese popcorn stroll toward us. Orange fluffy kernels roll down their chests and fall to the ground with each bite.

I allow myself to breathe while we wait for the couple to pass. “I know having Clyde lurking inside of you sucks, but at least you know when he's trying to take over and how to avoid it. We'll figure out how to clear your name later on, but right now we've got to get to Gibsland. Since the cops impounded your car, we'll have to rent one.” A small group of pigeons swoops down off the top of the marquee and begins feasting on the gourmet popcorn treat on the ground.

Jack shakes his head. “Can't. You got to be twenty-five to rent a car. Maybe twenty-one, but either way, it won't work.” He starts pacing, running his hands through his choppy Clyde haircut. Pigeons dart out of his way. “There's no way we can borrow my dad's car. Even if the cops were gone, he'd make me go to the police station and turn myself in. And my buddy Liam's car is at the shop right now. How about your friends?”

“Let me think. Not sure who…” I fiddle with the cross on my necklace, mentally rattling through a list of my friends who drive. Everyone either uses their parents' cars, or the ones who have their own cars aren't good enough friends that they'd lend me theirs. My brain leaps to my sisters Ginger and Audrey, but that won't work. They both live hours away.

I shake my head, frustrated. “No. There's no one I can ask. How long does it take to drive there anyway?” I type in the two locations in my GPS and wait for them to load. “It says Biograph Theater to Gibsland by car is fourteen hours and thirty-two minutes.” I look at him and frown. “
Without
traffic.”

Jack raises his arm and stares at his watch. “Let's see, it's roughly five o'clock now and we have to be there by nine
A.M.
, so that gives us…” He winces. “Sixteen hours. And that's not counting traffic jams or stopping to pee. Check Amtrak.”

Cars race down Lincoln Avenue, spewing exhaust. As I wait for the train schedule to load, I say, “Too bad we can't hijack a car. We could be on our way right this second.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Jack sighs, shaking his head. “What's the deal with the train?”

I peer at my screen, turning my phone sideways to make the schedule easier to read. “The next train from Chicago to Louisiana is… 7:08 tonight. Gets into New Orleans tomorrow afternoon at four. Damn it!” I kick a crushed soda can to the curb, sending pigeons waddling away fast. “What else? Come on, think!” I snap, wanting to whip my phone down in frustration. “There's got to be another way!”

Nope. Might as well give up.
She lets out a chilling cackle.

Jack rubs his face, groaning. “There's not, unless you can afford to rent a private jet. Face it, Monroe. Driving's the only answer, but who? How?”

That's when it hits me. “Hey—we could take a taxi!” I could slap myself for being so dumb. “My dad has an account. Let me call them.” As I wait for the operator to come on, I start pacing back and forth. We're wasting time here.

“That'll cost a ton,” Jack warns.

“I know, but this is an emergency. Money won't matter if we're dead.” When no one picks up, I check my phone to see if the call failed. There's an error message written in red font. I shield the phone from the daylight so I can see it better, squinting at the words. “‘Your account has temporarily been suspended.'” I wriggle up my face, confused. “Liar. No, it hasn't.” I try again and get the same message. “What the hell?”

Jack rubs his chin, staring at me. “Your name and address were on a notepad in my room. Do you think the cops could have called your dad and now they're trying to prevent us from leaving?”

“That's probably it!” This news makes me wonder if the lady at the ATM got hurt worse than Jack thought. I glance over at Mr. Johnson, who's chatting with the Asian guy from the front row. “Hey—Mr. Johnson could drive us! Out of all the people in the world, the half-deads would understand if their tour was cancelled, right?”

“Understand?” Jack's forehead contorts into an angry, wrinkled mess. “These people came from all over the world to be here. And besides, this is Mr. Johnson's business. He's not going to drop everything and drive us to Louisiana! Wake up, Monroe!” He throws his hands in the air.

“Don't yell at me! We've got to do something!” Fear wraps around my gut and squeezes.

“Well, not
that.
That was stupid.” Jack shoves his hands in his pockets.

“Let's not call each other names, all right?” Twisting my hair until I feel a painful tug, I wonder if Jack's right. Am I blowing this all out of proportion?

I send a desperate plea to my mother:
I need your advice, Mom. Should I forget this whole thing and hope it works out, like Jack wants me to do?
I pace a few more steps, waiting for a definitive sign—a gust of wind, a rattling of chains, something. When nothing happens, I try again with a different question.
Do you think we should head to Louisiana to do the ceremony?

The entire flock of pigeons suddenly rises up and flies off a few feet over my head in a giant flurry of wings and feathers, making me cry out in surprise. I realize without a doubt that my mother orchestrated that sendoff.
Thank you, Mom! I love you!
Her undeniable presence gives me the courage I need for my next task.