Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. Don't own The Game of Twister, Harley Davidson motorcycles, Psycho, lyrics to Beth Orton's song "Stolen Car", or lines from Bonnie Parker's poem "The Trail's End".

Minor references to Season Three's "Lassie Did A Bad Bad Thing."

Author's Note: Reviews, feedback, thoughts, opinions and constructive criticism are welcome and highly appreciated.

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Chapter Six: Bang Bang, That Awful Sound

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The tool she'd had then was a nail file with a pointed end; it was something she'd palmed early on, enjoying the cool metal as it pressed in against her skin. She had grabbed it from her purse without thinking, without looking for a weapon, per se, but when her hand was on it, it felt right, and she'd acted without thinking—it went right into the side of his neck.

First, easy death—at least, that she'd witnessed and not been a part of herself—had not felt a part of herself dying—other than her acting in self-defense. He was not a nice man and did not have good intentions in mind, and then, there was not a game; she'd been a young slip of a thing—and when Bone found out, they'd buried their past and had run away again—always on the run.

# # #

But, this time, they'd made a connection. There was a department missing an officer—perhaps even out combing the land in search of his missing self. Clyde felt sweat dot her forehead, her eyebrows; she gripped her tool. She couldn't be hasty—this one might get them somewhere.

Though . . . jail might be somewhere, too.

Maybe it was time to go. They could find another cop, they could start over all fresh, and be smarter next time, weren't they always smarter next time, next time, next time?

Clyde chewed her lip.

She felt like a love fool, having a silly crush on one who was not the one, wouldn't ever be the one.

# # #

He groaned.

Buzz was coming back around, though from where he wasn't as certain as he'd come to believe. He tried to get his bearings in the dark, missing two or three—one?—of his senses?—no, no, sight, that was one—his gray vision blurred. An engine rumbled in the back of his head and some tiny but meaty biker on a Harley roared down his spinal column, bump, bump, bump.

She didn't think, she just dove in, right back in, ignoring his screams which he no longer tried to hide.

# # #

"Oh shit," Bone breathed, coming back to a chorus of muffled screams—some of them were Clyde's, as she'd clamped her teeth to her lips, focused hard on the meat lying out before her, fresh meat.

She was poking his arm again in the same place. Their target was screaming through his nose, making a funny, wheezing, tortured sound. Bone gritted his teeth. He went towards her quickly, a man possessed, reaching for the pen as she jabbed it, Psycho-style, down again.

"No!" Clyde hollered, twisting away from him. Bone grabbed her hand and yanked her forward, angered to be stabbed in the hand with her 'weapon'.

"Goddammit!" They grappled like children fighting over a toy. "Give it to me!"

"No!" She had worked her way onto her captive's legs, keeping one heel and one toe on the floor for leverage. Bone's short nails dug into her palm. This was not part of the game, this mangled form of Twister they were playing. Clyde surged forward, using her and his momentum to bring the pen and them towards their captive's neck.

Bone wrenched the point of the pen back, yanking Clyde off of their captive and into a heap with him on the floor next to his still breathing form. He was still wheezing heavily through his nose, sounding like wildlife caught in oil.

He saw, from down here, that she'd already gotten to his neck, that she left her mark. He sneered, but was relieved to see no trail of blood, not even the tiniest pinpoint of a wound. Those hickeys did look pretty serious though. Bone snorted, but finally wrestled the pen from her and threw it across the room, behind them. "You're done," he said.

"You never let me have any fun!" she whined, but continued to lie on the floor instead trying to get up in a bratty huff.

"You were going to kill him. We can't kill him."

"How did you know what I was going to do?" She raised up on a elbow, glaring at him though several locks of her dry hair had fallen across her face. Behind her, their captive was breathing hard, and she risked a look over her shoulder. "I wasn't," she sighed, though even she wasn't sure to whom she was speaking to.

That was when she saw his gun, its holster unsnapped, because, as she recalled, this peace officer had reached his dominate hand around his belt the very second he'd caught Bone approaching them in what he may have only considered a threatening way. Huh, Clyde thought. 'Course, to him, it woulda been threatening. Staring at the gun, she considered the peace officer's standpoint. She was what they called a civilian, and unarmed at that. But at the moment she hadn't been thinking of any of this, no, she'd been exhilarated when the hefty broad shouldered and sweetly attractive peace officer had sauntered towards her as if entranced; she was certain, with her demur smile, that he was interested in her—that this was the reason he had come over. He'd wanted to. He'd wanted her.

Clyde's mouth twisted. She held the sour taste in her mouth as she remembered the fight. Bone had his brass knuckles on and he was some kind of expert with them, or just with punching; as she stood by the car, Bone beat the cop down. He toppled over like a marble statue, landing on his back with a thud, his eyelids still a quarter of the way open. Clyde watched the tip of his tongue touch the corner of his mouth, his eyelids struggling, or was it his whole body struggling, or his mind, to stay awake, to get awake, to get back up?

His body went slack, but it took a while for his eyes to fully close, for his tongue to slip back in his mouth. Clyde wondered, briefly, her heart racing, if this one was not asleep but dead, though she'd seen Bone hit men much harder, for much longer, even in the head, and had seen them live.

He'd wanted to protect her. From Bone.

Clyde laughed under her breath, a hiss. She couldn't take her eyes off the gun.

She thought of some words she'd memorized a long time ago, a final verse of a poem written by Bonnie Parker—the real thing—and she couldn't help but wonder if there was no walking away, no chance to hang out a white flag before some fated day. Bang. Or would it sound like firecrackers? Or like tossing pebbles in a well? Would there be a flash of light, bright violet like the sky at twilight time? BANG. Would this happen before she really, this time, that time, for sure, set herself on fire from the inside out, before she burned up to black ash and that was that?

# # #

"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."

# # #

She'd never held a gun before, never felt it molded into her hand like other weapons or tools; it was heavy, like grief, or doubt, or paranoia, or duty. It felt like the weight of the world, right there in her one hand. Maybe, she thought, to different people, it meant different things. Maybe if Bone would hold it, he would feel powerful, invincible; to the cop it belonged to, maybe it made him feel like a hero. Or a . . . badman, pulling it out to pick off the tiny, helpless insects—like herself and Bone—who were only trying to live their lives.

Clyde tried hard to believe this about the stranger they'd tied up on the floor. She tried to focus on the way his eyes had unlaced her corset, the way he'd licked his lips in some kind of anticipation . . . but . . . his brown eyes had been so warm, like coffee from a diner, like a hot meal, like shelter for the night. Like a long, restful sleep, or like a kiss on the cheek.

She scowled now. He wasn't the one.

As she writhed from him onto her other side, her brother's eyes grew wide when he saw what she was holding in her one hand. She marveled at how scared he looked, how he maneuvered his hands beneath him, in back of him, to gain distance from her, to gather his limbs together and slowly get to his feet. He didn't, not once, speak to her before standing up. He didn't tell her to quit fooling, or roll his eyes, or grin that she should hand it over.

What, she wondered, as she gathered her feet under her and stood, what did her brother know about her that she didn't even know about herself?

# # #

They'd never imagined just what would get them caught. If they ever imagined, it was always something very obvious, like one of their prey finally unlocking his jaws, and one dedicated, underpaid police officer working tirelessly to believe in the prey's story. Hard work, that's what they imagined getting them caught. And because of this, the imaginings never went far.

They had fallen through the cracks for years; they had never been captured freeze frame, though moving pictures had seen them, once or twice—every few months. But they imagined they looked relatively ordinary, like the rest of the teenage-twenty something category, amassed sloppy and shiftless, restless and dreaming, drinking or hanging out in malls. Clyde was always tired with the color of her hair. They wore clothes until seams parted; sat in laundromats with plundered quarters, putting clothes on fresh from the dryer—smelling so clean. Occasionally, they would find work, in places where IDs were not required, where they were paid "under the table." They had acquired so many debts, made so many enemies, that it was easier to trace one of those back to its line, to see something vengeful coming of it.

They never imagined how old they looked, even looking so young. Even being so young.

# # #

Run girl run girl run girl run girl run girl run girl. . . . The words pulsed together in her skull, in her eye sockets, as she lifted the gun up, as she almost pointed it at her brother. Run-girl-run-girl-go-now-go-now-go-girl-go-girl-go-run. Clyde had to laugh; it had bubbled up into her throat like a burp; it sung under her tongue and tasted delicious, and she had to share it.

Bone stared at her, unsure, as Clyde laughed. He kept one eye on the gun in her hand, and one eye on her eyes, trying to see something in them—a lick of flame, an inside joke, an exit strategy. He wondered if they were going to get out, if they were both going to get out, if this plan had been foolish from the very start. Bone forced himself not to even glance at their captive, forced himself to ignore the wheezing, the moaning coming to them through his nose, which was not taped shut.

He thought then, wouldn't it be easy? So clean? They had extra pieces of tape; he would suffer as he checked out, sure he would, but . . . it would end. They all had to end somewhere, and he couldn't help but wonder if death wasn't going to be this one's ending, too.

This after telling Clyde this one couldn't be killed. Bone's thoughts reeled, at sea.

# # #

Sometimes, they could almost read each other's thoughts; it was spooky, the way they carried on, sometimes, in public, never speaking a word among strangers . . . but they knew what the other wanted.

Sometimes, one or the other wore a shield, damming up their brains from the other's, from Others, as if Others could be privy to their thoughts, as if they knew, from just one look, wicked plans were being dreamed up, being hatched.

# # #

He found his breath. "Whatareyoudoing?" One breath, an astounded hiss.

"You know what I was thinking?"

Bone had to think, had to concentrate, to determine if this was a rhetorical question or not, if it were a taunt. He came up short. "No," he said. He waited, and he could see a fire ignite in her eyes. He held in his relief, still uncertain.

"I'm thinking they're coming, coming for us."

"Who?" Bone asked, puzzled. "Who's coming?"

"Or if not for us, then, for him?" Clyde glanced over her shoulder, looking down at their captive, a big lump on the floor. Bone had a hard time telling if she was being coy on purpose, or if she was ignoring him consciously. He knew for a fact that he hadn't whispered; his voice had echoed enough to give their captive over to a twitch of shoulder—not that Bone was glancing at him.

"Who is coming?" he repeated, louder.

"We sure can pick 'em, can't we?" Clyde said, her voice surprisingly tender. It was a trigger—she knew it—she was ignoring him. He exploded.

"We? WE? We can pick?"

Clyde bubbled another laugh from her throat, her lips pump and naked; most of her favorite ruby with its steely glint across her lips had rubbed off when she bit her latest guy's neck—a love bite—she growled like a tiny dog, whose bark was worse. She laughed again, feeling time slowing, hesitating—sometimes she had this effect on elements—sometimes she had this control—feeling the air bubbling up around her like glass, or beads for bathing—in reds and blues, greens and ambers, and crystal clear—stopping suspended in the air around her. Air suspended in the air around her. She laughed again, and raised the gun.

# # #

Lassiter left explicit instructions for the officers accompanying the sketch artist to the gas-in-go to put an immediate BOLO on the sketches while he waited for his partner to call with results from the DMV database. He retraced what might be invisible steps, but he gut was telling him this might be the best lead. He went backwards, driving to what might have been the sketchy and soon-to-be-sketched pair's stop before hitting the gas-in-go. He stopped at a cafe with an outdoor patio, or was it a diner, or a bar? to ask his questions. None of the people he spoke to had seen the pair, but there was hope; a waitress and a sever had seen the car in question, though, not the license plate. One out of two.

Carlton let himself wonder, as he went outside with a newly purchased cup of coffee, what the hell he was thinking though. But his gut had come through for him before, and if it didn't now, wasn't that a waste of manpower? Of his time? For just one officer?

For one Buzz McNab?

He ignored the twinge, and ignored a flash of McNab's grin and what was some sweet and serious "Hero Worship" the day Lassiter returned from being cleared of all murder charges. "Glad to have you back, sir," emphasized with a reassuring punch to his shoulder. Lassiter scowled, and moved his eyes to his watch, wondering what the hell was taking O'Hara so long.

# # #

When she called, he swore under his breath.

"I see your face driving a stolen car," a singer from a radio station teased somewhere above him, and he swore again, louder, attracting the attention of outdoor restaurant patrons, and of his partner, still on the line. "Gets harder to hide, when you're hitching a ride," the singer continued, to Carlton's irritation. "Harder to hide what you really saw."

5ZUB232. Lassiter sighed hard. He didn't usually follow signs, or even admit signs were prevalent or present in daily duties. There wasn't room, in conventional police work, for mumbo-jumbo hoodoo—and whatever crap that was what Spencer usually did, waving his arms around while he pretended to commune with otherworldly forces or plastic army men.

But . . . why had these two picked that car to steal, with that license plate, as if they had—if they hadn't—? Lassiter made himself stop and wiped a hand across his mouth. There was no logic to it, and if he allowed himself to grasp at straws, he might not find what he was looking for.

As if they knew his name, ahead of time. "Dammit!" Lassiter swore, glaring back at patrons who dared to stare. But words started coming, like "premeditated" and "motive" and "identity", and his gut clenched. He got to his car, and radioed his partner his intentions. Something was telling him (though he didn't dare mention this to anyone) to keep going back, that something waited back where he had come from; it was easily missed, especially when it was not being looked for.

He told her his coordinates, and she said she would come meet up and they could do this—even it was nothing at all—together.

Lassiter's stomach clenched as he overhead Juliet asking Mrs. McNab if she would be all right in the station. He hung up before he could hear the answer.

As if they knew. His name.

Lassiter couldn't wrap his head around a pair of young criminals taking McNab for any purpose. Once the words started they didn't stop. Was it drugs? Were they junkies, hopped up and hoping unrealistic fantasies? Were they serial killers? Were they killers at all? He dropped his foot on the gas. Just who were they, and what was behind the masks of their faces; was there a chance they were somehow still human—could they be bribed-persuaded to give themselves up? Would there be threats, no surrender, would he be fighting fire with fire?

He tried to imagine finding McNab, finding him with these ghosts who had somehow managed not to be caught on camera. "As long as I have him, you'll be at our mercy." That's what the caller had said—playful rather than demanding, Lassiter guessed as he drove. It wasn't a . . . prank gone all wrong, he was sure. "As soon as I get there, you might be at mine," he risked to say aloud, alone in his blue Crown Vic. It surprised him to feel in the game, with his game face on, but he liked the way it sounded, and he might—since there was another flash of teeth he couldn't ignore—just be itching to fight.