Wanted (9 page)

I don't rightly know. It ain't like there's a rulebook, if that's what you're asking. But dying does give you an instant education on how the afterlife works. The lucky ones go someplace nice, while the rest of us have to wait around and see what's going to happen in a place called Limbo.

My mind reels, her words conflicting with everything I've believed my whole life. “Limbo? I thought that was a place for babies. Not only that, but you and Clyde killed people—lots of them! You belong in hell!”

From what I know, there's only two places to go: heaven, and waiting to get in heaven.

Furiously twisting my hair, I replay what she said. Can that be true? There isn't a hell? Or is she lying to make me think the way she wants? “If that's true, then how come you're here? Inside of me? Why aren't you still in the waiting place?”

Because you done something to bring me here, like I said. One look through your mind and I can see you ain't no stranger to scandal. In my day, people would've lined up to scorn you for all the things you done
—
drinking, swearing, fornicating, stealing. Ever hear the preacher say, “Let the one who is without sin cast the first stone?”

I'm about to argue that at least I've never robbed a bank, never stolen a car, never killed anyone—but can't deny she's right. I've done plenty of things I'm not proud of—things I wish I could take back. I'm in no position to be the accuser, to act upon her sentence. I drop my mental handful of stones to the floor.

My, oh my. You're weaker than I thought. When I was able to take over your hearing without no trouble, I knew you wasn't a very good listener.
I guess I'll figure out your other weaknesses as we go along and then I'll take those over too.
She laughs—a high-pitched, obnoxious chortle.
Soon I'll be in control and you'll be the one chatting inside my head.

My insides become liquid, threatening to bubble over. I whisper-shout so as not to wake my dad, “No, you won't! Get the hell out of me right now!”

Does your mama know you talk like that?
Bonnie tsks loudly.
Oh wait. You ain't got a mama no more. She's probably turning in her resting spot right now. Time to grow up and accept the fate you've been handed—or should I say the one you created because you're a thief?

“I'm not a thief, and leave my mother out of this!” Eyeing Bonnie's poem on the nightstand, I drop it to the ground, stomping on it again and again. The plastic breaks into pieces with a series of satisfying cracks. “How do you like that, huh?”

You are such a child. I don't think I want to stick around with the likes of you after all. I'll tell you what: If you can find Clyde, I'll leave.

“Find Clyde?” I throw my hands in the air. “That's impossible, you moron! He's dead.”

He died, but he's somewhere, same as me. When you opened the box, I felt his presence for a few seconds. I called out to him, but I was too late. Go find him.

I lean against my dresser, my thoughts drifting back to last night. If I can't see Bonnie, then maybe Clyde is hidden too. Milo jabbered on like he was possessed, and then Jack told me that he imagined himself robbing a bank. Could Clyde be inside one of them?

Take me to them now. Until you find Clyde, I'm staying in your head and sharing your life, all the way until the end of your time. Could be another eighty years or so if you live right.

“Shut up! No, you aren't!” Storming into the bathroom, I slam the door behind me before realizing my mistake. I wince, waiting for Dad to yell for me to keep it down. When he doesn't, I sit on the closed toilet seat, my stomach in knots the size of fists. Bonnie Parker is going to live inside my body for the rest of my life, all because I touched some old artifact that didn't belong to me? That's so not fair.

Seems fair to me after what you done. Better than prison.

Ha! I'd choose prison over you any day.

You are such a child. You have no idea
.

The enormity of it all hits me then and I sob as quietly as I can into my hands for a long while. When I'm finally spent, I blow my nose and wipe my tears away. Time to toughen up.

Should I wake Dad and ask his advice? He's the closest thing to an expert on gangsters that I know. I could come clean, begging his forgiveness, explaining how I wasn't thinking straight when I took the slugs. But then I remember how he said he'd refuse to pay for college if I got into trouble again. Would this count as trouble? And forget about asking my sisters. Ginger would tell me to grow up, and Audrey would probably laugh. Even if Anjali and Josie weren't having the times of their lives doing all the Senior Weekend activities, what could they do to help me anyway? Say, “Wow, that sucks,” and “Hope Bonnie leaves soon?”

This is one problem I'm going to have to fix all on my own.

Maybe a shower will help me think. While I wait for the water to heat up, I make a few decisions. First off, I need to talk to Jack or Milo and find out if anything creepy has happened to them. If either one says yes, together we'll figure out a plan to get rid of Bonnie and Clyde. I quickly strip down, leaving my clothes in a heap. As soon as I'm done with my shower, I'll try and private message them on Facebook.

Just bring them to me. I'll know straightaway if my Chestnut is inside.

At the sound of her voice, I instinctively cover my chest. “Geez! Could you give me some privacy please?” I step into the hot spray, pissed that I can't even be naked by myself, can't even have a thought that goes unheard. I take a deep breath and try not to think about her listening to me. Let's assume Clyde is in Jack or Milo, how would I reunite Bonnie with Clyde anyway? When I think about the traditional way couples unite, my stomach drops. Oh God. Please not
that
. There's got to be some other way. I squirt shampoo onto my hand and vigorously scrub, when I suddenly get an idea. Putting the slugs back where they belong might do it. Lying side by side with Clyde in that little plastic box ought to make Bonnie happy.

We were locked up together in that box all those years, so 'fraid not.

Shoot! She's right. Besides, maybe if Milo holds on to the slugs again, he can give me more details about how to fix this mess.

Don't believe anything he said. He's the messenger of Satan.

Satan? I thought you said there was no hell.

I never said there was no Satan. He's in the waiting place too.

And never getting out, just like you.

Maybe you neither.

I don't have time to waste worrying about where I'll end up, because I need to plan for the here and now. If Milo isn't a guardian angel that was sent to try and warn me, I'm completely on my own. My chest feels thick, congested with fear. What now? I'm out of the shower and nearly done drying my hair when it hits me. How stupid am I? Why would Bonnie help me figure out how to get rid of her? She's probably lying—about everything! I bet that's why she doesn't want me to listen to Milo—because he can help me.

“Ain't that right, Bonnie Dearest?” I ask, mimicking her accent. When I don't hear a response, I smile. I might not be a good listener, but I'm not stupid. If there is a way out of this, some sort of loophole, I'm going to find it. Then I'm sending Bonnie Parker back in her grave. Just like Talia, Bonnie picked the wrong girl to fuck with.

But this time, I'm not the one who's going down.

The boy lies around in his bedroom doing absolutely nothing. All he does is sit on his bed and watch cartoon people play golf all day long. Nothing scary about that. My pappy would have tanned my hide for being so lazy. But there ain't nothing I can do until I'm in control.

No matter how hard I try to concentrate on moving his bones, it ain't happening. So he must be strong as well as pig-headed, because I can't read his thoughts neither. But I'm sick to death of watching him waste time, especially now that I know how precious time is. When I take over, I'm going to get to work right quick. When the papers find out that Clyde Champion Barrow is back in town, it'll be the headline on every newspaper from California to New York. And I'm gonna make sure they say Champion, not Chestnut like my God-given name. I love you, Mama, but a man has to put his foot down sometimes when it comes to his repute.

The boy picks up a small metal contraption with glass on the front for the hundredth time. He touches squares of letters, and words come up on the glass. Good thing I learned to read and write. I know something about typing letters too, because Mama owned a typewriter. When I squint, I can read the word “Dad” at the top. The words under his name say, “I'm in the ICU. Aunt Ruth had a stroke. It doesn't look good.”

I don't know what the ICU is, but I know that after the boy reads the news, something unexpected happens—something very, very good.

Speckles of lights flash in the corner of the boy's fool head.

Hoo-wee! Is the boy afraid of someone dying? Then he ain't never lived through hard times, that's for sure. I seen many a hungry man in the west Dallas slums come to blows over a loaf of bread or a pair of shoes without holes in the bottom. Saw a lad so desperate for food once that he killed a rabbit with his bare hands and then asked me if I knew how to cook it.

The boy types, “Can I see her?” And the lights flash a bit more, so I start concentrating real hard, hoping this time the switchover will take hold. A few seconds later, the response comes. “I think you might be too late. I got to go now. Sorry.”

Giant streaks of light as bold as lightning bolts fire off, so right then, I focus on taking over and push my soul with all my might. I feel the boy's spirit fighting mine but I'm stronger than him. After several seconds, the cyclone feeling comes over me, and then
whoosh!
The next thing I know, I'm sitting on his bed with the metal contraption in my hand.

Me! Clyde Barrow, in the flesh.

“Hot dang!” I shout, my voice sounding strange to my ears. “I'm alive again! Yes sir!” I leap to my feet, happy as can be, but my legs wobble and I flop back down. Maybe it's best I sit here a while and figure out a plan while I learn to use my new body.

I'm still smiling from ear to ear, nearly apoplectic from joy, when the contraption in my hand starts blasting wretched music—horrible screeches and loud whistles. I push all the buttons and hit the damn thing a few times, but it won't shut up. Slamming it to the floor finally makes the music stop, praise Jesus. I clear my throat and look around. Maybe I ought to give standing another shot. I push up with both arms, bend my knees, and soon I'm on my feet.

I'm a bit unsteady but it's only a second before the blood runs through my legs. I pat my pockets until I find the boy's wallet and pull it out, along with a comb and some gum wrappers. When I open up his billfold, I find that the stupid buzzard ain't got no cash. No matter. I'll change that soon as I get my hands on a car and a gun.

I slide out the identification card to see my new name: Jack Daniel Hale. I laugh out loud. Jack
Daniel
? His pappy musta liked whiskey as much as mine did. Doesn't have as fine a ring to it as Clyde Champion Barrow, but it ain't bad. I glance at the year he was born and the smile drops off my face. Shiest, I been gone a long time. Somewhere around eighty years, if my calculating's any good. I let that sink in a moment.

If the sheriff's posse didn't gun me down, I'd be over a hundred. Of course, no one lives to a hundred, so I woulda been dead anyway. I think of Mama and Pappy, knowing they's been laid to rest. My four brothers and sisters too. Hell, everyone I know is prolly dead and gone. I sit down, the squeezing feeling in my chest almost too much to bear. I whisper my final goodbye, tell them I love them, and then set my mind to other things. No sense crying over people who ain't nothing but worm food.

Too bad they ain't here because maybe now I could afford to buy them some nice things. I spy a mirror over the dresser and lumber over to it to have me a closer look. I can barely see my face with all the hair in front of my eyes. I push the fool's bangs off my forehead and hold it there a few seconds, shocked at what I see. I'm young—younger than I was when I got bumped! I surely got a long life ahead of me now. Course I ain't as good-looking as before, but I ain't half-bad neither. Lean and muscular, brown hair and brown eyes with yellow speckles in them, all the same as before. 'Cept now I got freckles, lots of 'em, but I don't mind. They remind me of my brother Buck.

A hot pain stabs me in my heart, like the burn of whiskey that's been setting in the sun. Buck was the best friend I had, and I let him down. I push out the memory of his last day on Earth, not wanting my eyes to turn to water. I swallow back a mountain of guilt and look at myself square in the mirror. “I'm gonna make you proud of me, Buckie Boy. I'll get back at the cops for taking you from me.” I feel better, knowing I got me a real purpose here on Earth.

I let go of my hair and it falls back in front of my eyes. Jesus H. Whittakers! What the devil's wrong with Jack Daniel, keeping his hair in his eyes like a sanitarium patient? I spy a pair of scissors setting in a cup along with a bunch of pencils. Dumb cluck. I'll give him a haircut for free. I hold out his bangs,
our
bangs, and snip 'em straight across. I drop the hair onto the ground and look for some pomade to slick it back, but there ain't none. No matter. I can pick me up some at the drug store—after I rob the place, that is. In the meantime, I can use this tube of cream he's got here. I squirt some onto my palm, rub my hands together, and smooth it into my hair, nice and thick. After I part my hair on the left side and comb it back, I look a lot more like my old self. Feel like my old self too.