Wanted (17 page)

A guy in a Bob Marley shirt whistles, making the others laugh. I smile awkwardly, uncomfortable having to pretend that Jack and I are on a date. I glance at the twenty or so faces and, despite the wildly varying ages, genders, and ethnicities, I'm both surprised and relieved that they all look normal. Not sure what I expected a group of half-deads to look like, but certainly not like regular people, I guess.

Mr. Johnson pats Jack on the back. “You missed all the introductions, so why don't you tell everyone who you and your friend are real quick and we'll get on our way.”

Jack nods. “Hey y'all! I'm Jack Daniel and this here's Twinkle!” he shouts way louder than necessary, his words dripping with a thick Southern drawl. He holds both hands up in fists.

I stare at him, wondering what the hell he's doing. After we just decided to lay low.

Oh my Lord, that sounds like Clyde!

No, it's not. Jack's just being stupid.

I swallow hard. A horrible sense of dread creeps into my gut. God, I hope that's what he's doing, but part of me wonders if—no. No way. Not that quickly.

An old guy sitting in the fourth row calls out, “Is either of you half-dead, yah?” His accent is thick and guttural, like Alfons Shoenhofer's, the old German guy who has manned our stuffy little coat room at the restaurant for as long as I can remember.

Jack grins. “No, sir. I never do nothing halfway. It's all or none for me and this pretty little woman.” He puts his hand on my shoulder.

Before I know what's happening, Bonnie's words spew from my lips, “Yep, I'm his gal.”

Everyone laughs, but my stomach churns like whitewater. Bonnie can suddenly control my mouth even when I'm not touching an object that belonged to her? Is she getting stronger? I start heading toward the back of the bus, too stunned to look anywhere but the floor.

How did you do that? I demand.

I can do whatever I want, whenever I want.

I don't believe her. Something's changed. Bonnie's way too chatty to have stayed quiet all this time if she could have been talking. Is it because Jack touched me? When she doesn't challenge that thought, I know I'm right. Anxiety creeps into my neck and runs up my face. What if she takes me over completely? Since I haven't told anyone about this, can I ever be rescued?

Mr. Johnson chuckles. “Looks like Jack and his date are up for some role-playing today. Hit it, Lionel.”

The bus cruises slowly forward as Jack and I stumble down the aisle, making our way toward the only available seats, the last row. I slide into the seat next to the window, and Jack sits next to me. “Why'd you talk like that?” I half-whisper, half-hiss. “I thought you didn't want to make Mr. Johnson suspicious.”

Jack shrugs, looks away.

Mr. Johnson says, “Well, let's try this again. Welcome one and all to the Chicagoland Ghost Bus Tour. I'm going to take you to places where the dead come alive.” He pushes a button on the wallboard and the theme from
The Twilight Zone
plays. “But based on the fact that you're all a part of the Half-Dead Society, I guess the dead come alive every day at your place.” There are a few chuckles, but not many.

“I guess that's what they call ‘dead' silence.” He lets out a loud snort, but again, only a couple tour-goers laugh.

I lean toward Jack. “Whoa. Tough crowd.”

“Not as tough as you, little woman,” Jack says, grinning.

My heart drops. “What's wrong with you? Why are you still using that fake accent?”

“Nothing fake about me. I'm one hundred percent man, not like Jack Daniel, who is five percent man and ninety-five percent Grade-A chicken.” He elbows me and winks.

Bonnie screams in my head,
Sweet Jesus! It IS Clyde!

No, it's not. It's Jack, thinking he's being funny.

But Jack's words, along with Bonnie's thoughts, make my stomach contents churn. I picture us sprinting, screaming for the bus to stop. Jack did tell me that Clyde took him over when something scared him. But could running to catch the bus have triggered that much fear? I turn slowly and stare at the guy next to me.

“What's the matter with you? You look like you seen a ghost.” Jack tilts his head back and lets out a belly laugh. “Ha! That's a good one, ain't it?”

“Ohmigod. Are you… ?” I can't bring myself to speak his name out loud.

Jack winks at me. “You know who I am, but like all good molls, you know we go by aliases when we're out in public. So you can call me baby or sweetheart, or heck, Paul Bunyan if you like.” He shrugs.

Paul Bunyan? How lame. Now I know it's Jack. “You're not funny. Stop kidding around
right now
. I mean it.”

“I ain't the kidding type, Twinkle. I say what I mean, and I mean what I say.” Jack leans in close, his tone soft. “I been watching you all the while I been inside Jack Daniel and I like what I seen. You are one hotsy-totsy dame—curvaceous and pretty as all get out. Smart as a whip too, the way you was writing down a plan. I couldn't wait to get rid of Jackrabbit so I could have you all to myself. He don't deserve a firecracker like you, but I'd sure like a chance to court you myself, to give you all the good things you deserve. What do you say, doll? Want to see what it's like to be with a real man?”

My mouth dries up and I feel sick. My heart beats so fast, I'm sure that any second now, it's going to burst from my chest. Every cell in my body tells me that the guy talking to me isn't Jack Hale anymore. Mr. Johnson begins speaking about the scary legend surrounding our first stop, but I'm way more freaked out by the guy sitting next to me than some old ghost stories.

He puts his hand on top of mine, his forehead wrinkled in concern. “What's wrong? Why you so quiet all of a sudden? You're not afraid of me, are you, kitten?”

I'm about to push his hand off of me when Bonnie blurts out, “Afraid of you? Of course not, sugar. I can't wait to cozy up to you.”

Jack, or should I say Clyde, grins. “That's more like it. We'll take things slow and easy. I want to know everything about you.” He reaches up and tucks a hair behind my ear.

I try desperately to clamp my lips together, but just like in Dr. Hanson's office, I'm suddenly not in control of my mouth. “Kiss me, baby,” Bonnie says breathily.

What the hell are you doing, Bonnie?

I miss him so much!!

But I don't want to kiss him!

You won't be, I will. Relax.

“My, my. You are more of a bearcat than I knew.” Clyde smiles so broadly, it lights up Jack's entire face.

I stare, frozen inside my own skin. I don't know whether to shake my head, spit on him, or let him kiss me. Based on historical information alone, Clyde Barrow does not seem like the kind of guy you should piss off.

“No wonder Jack's been holding back. You're way too much for him to handle. But not too much for me.” He winks. “I been staring at this here heart for days and it's been driving me wild. I know it ain't proper for a man to kiss a woman till he gets to know her better, but maybe just a little one won't hurt nobody none. Especially since you asked.”

I sit statuesque, my eyes shut tight, waiting for him to force his mouth on mine. But instead, he gently traces my birthmark with his fingertip. “You're so pretty. Did Jack ever tell you that?” The next thing I know, I feel his warm breath on my neck as his lips flit softly across my skin, sending a pleasurable zing racing through me. I swallow. He'd better not do that again.

“Sweet as the summer rain,” he whispers, kissing me again, releasing another jolt of electricity. I had no idea that spot was so sensitive. I'm about to push him away when his lips skim the part of my neck that meets my shoulder. Bonnie moans in response. At least I hope it was her and not me. I might be dying to have a guy say sweet things to me, but not
this
guy. Certainly not an infamous criminal. A dead one at that. The bus hits a bump and we're both jostled, allowing me a small window of opportunity to push him away.

“That's enough,” I say.

Clyde squints at me, looking hurt. “What's the matter, doll? Did I do something wrong? You want me to kiss you on the lips instead? Because I can if you want. Just didn't want to rush things is all. I didn't want to be improper.” He strokes my hand softly, waiting for my answer.

That's when I notice that Jack's petroleum brown eyes have been replaced by lighter, hazelnut-colored ones with tiny golden flecks. How could I have been so blind? Everything about Clyde is different from Jack—his carefree smile, the way he sits with his legs apart and his shoulders relaxed, even his smooth pick-up lines. He's… he's slick and confident, whereas Jack is anything but.

Told you he was something. Now you see why I want him back.

That's when I know for sure that physical contact with Clyde is what allows Bonnie to control my voice. Clyde once belonged to her, the same way the poem did. How could I be so stupid? I'm about to pull my hand out from under his, when Bonnie says, “I want to kiss you, but this trollop won't let me. As soon as you find a way to ditch her—”

What the hell? Ditch me? I yank my hand out of his grasp and pretend to scratch my forehead. “Hello, hello?” I whisper, testing out my theory. I'm relieved when my own words leave my lips.

Touch him again! I was about to tell him that we can be together!

Right. You called me a tramp and told him to ditch me.

I warned you not to mess with me and Clyde.

My airway closes and I can't take another breath. Hot bile rises up my esophagus as I fight to get air. This time though, I'm not giving in.

Clyde looks at me, his forehead wrinkled in confusion. “What was you just saying? Something about a trollop?” He eyes me suspiciously.

I hold up one finger as if asking him to wait, sending Bonnie a message: If you kill me, you die, too. Then you can kiss Clyde goodbye. Oh wait. I meant,
I'll
kiss him goodbye, I add rebelliously.

Don't even think of kissing him!

Then let me breathe.

After two more seconds of cement-filled lungs, she finally relents.

Fine! But this ain't the end. I'll find a way to tell him I'm here. Just you wait and see.

“Our first stop is the
Eastland
disaster,” Mr. Johnson says as we pull up along the Chicago River. “The event took place on July 24th, 1915.”

I breathe in huge lungfuls of air. “I said that trollop over there gave me a dirty look, that's all.” I point toward a woman in her thirties two seats ahead of us.

The old man from the seat in front of us clucks his tongue and turns partway around. “Can you two quiet down? I can't hear a thing!”

Clyde leans forward, his hand on my thigh. “What did you say, you old weasel?”

A mixture of anger and surprise crosses the old guy's face. Before I can stop her, Bonnie mouths off, too. “They say curiosity killed the cat, but they're wrong. Tell them, honey. It was you that kilt that cat, isn't that right?” I yank my leg out from under his hand before Bonnie can say anything else.

“You got that right,” Clyde says, rubbing his chin. “And I ain't afraid to kill more, too.”

A disheveled guy in a Bob Marley t-shirt across the aisle from us makes a face. “I'm sorry but do you think you or your other half could talk a little quieter by any chance?” He blinks and shivers, causing his whole demeanor to change. He puffs out his chest and curls his lip, a gravelly voice erupting from his mouth. “Yeah. Pipe down, you stinking maggots.” He blinks and shivers again, and we're back to the stoner, who stares at the ceiling and says, “Cut that out, Tony, or you'll get us in another fight!” He looks back at us and mumbles, “Sorry about that. My other half is a bitter old man. Total asshole.”

He turns away, continuing to argue with his other half.

Disgust rolls through me. I
cannot
live like this for the rest of my life. How many half-dead people are there in the world? I never even heard of them until yesterday, but now here's an entire bus filled with them. I wish I knew if any of them would be willing to help us, or if that's even possible.

Mr. Johnson continues, “The
Eastland
tipped from an unstable ballast, toppling hundreds into the water and trapping even more inside. Eight hundred and forty-four people died that day before the voyage began.”

“I have an idea,” Clyde says quietly. “How about you and I take a voyage all our own? One without talking.” He holds a finger to his lips as he inches toward me, his eyes closed.

I don't want to make him angry, but I don't want to lead him on either. “Maybe later. People nowadays don't like PDA.”

He opens his eyes. “PDA? That some kind of code word for the police?” He slouches lower in his seat before peeking out the back window of the bus.

That's when I remember that Jack thought that either strong smells or fear sent Clyde packing. Looking at him sweat it out after hearing the word “police,” I take a stab at it. “Yeah. PDA is short for Police Department Agents. They come on tour buses these days searching for criminals. Look! I think that guy is one!” I point to the front of the bus, praying that fear of getting caught will jumpstart Jack back into place.

“Where?” Clyde ducks down, only his eyes peeking above the seat.

“Up there. In the blue shirt. I saw a gun on his belt.” I wait, holding my breath.

Clyde squints. “That ain't no gun. It's one of them communicatin' devices like you have.” He sits up straighter, grinning. “False alarm.”

“Oh.” Strike one. Fear must not be it. I paw through my purse, finding my perfume. I casually tilt my head to the side and squirt a hefty amount of Chanel No. 5. onto my neck. “Mmm. Doesn't that smell nice?”