Wanted (33 page)

I pull my hand away without any effort, easily resuming control over my mouth. “Huh. That was weird. You-know-who's still there, but she felt weak that time. Like barely there. Unless…” I shrug. “Unless maybe she's too sad to fight back.”

“Or she's fading away because my feelings for her are fading,” Clyde says. “I don't much care how she felt about the kiss, but I'm dying to know what you thought, Twinkle.”

Taking a deep breath, I decide I need to test Bonnie's strength before I say anything. Maybe she really is fading away and will perish at the deadline, like Jack's been saying all along. Clyde too, and then it won't matter what I say. But maybe she's bluffing, hoping I'll touch him so that she can clamp on and not let go until after the deadline passes.

Time to find out.

I reach out a tentative hand and place it on top of Clyde's. No reaction from Bonnie. I grin, excited to finally say whatever I want without Bonnie's interference. “I might be stupid for telling you this, but I liked kissing you, Clyde. Something about you drives me crazy.”

He picks up my hand and kisses it several times, his grin lighting up his entire face. “So you're crazy about me, huh, Twinkle? I knew it!” He caresses my hand, softly massaging my fingers. “You ain't gonna regret it neither. I'm gonna make you the happiest gal that ever—”

He suddenly yanks my hand, pulling it hard before letting go. I glance over and see Clyde's body jerk and contort involuntarily—the same way Jack's did when Clyde took him over on the bus. My fear skyrockets in direct proportion to my heart plummeting.

“What's going on? What's happening to you?” I glance at the road and then back at him in quick intervals.

No, please not yet. It's too soon.

“Succumbing to my weakness,” he whispers, his eyes linking with mine.

One final shudder later, my world crumbles as my biggest liability resurfaces.

Jack.

The second Twinkle pledged her feelings for me, I lost control of my mind and Jack Daniel took over. As mad as I am for not controlling myself, of letting my feelings show, I'm out-of-my-mind, over-the-top happy that the wildest, purdiest girl in the world is dizzy about me. Me—Clyde Champion Barrow—born nearly a century ago. Hell if that don't prove I still has what it takes to make a girl swoon.

I watch out of Jack's eyes, my heart breaking as Twinkle turns as white as one of Mama's freshly laundered bed sheets when she realizes Jack Daniel has shifted into my place. I see her pleading with him like crazy, her face all wrinkled up tight like the skin on a busted balloon. Wish I could hear what they's talking about, but I can tell it ain't puppies and roses, that's for sure. Jack Daniel's waving his arms like he's a goddam baton twirler in a parade, but Twinkle's giving it right back to him in spades, the anger in her face showing she don't care what he thinks.

My guess is that Big Crybaby prolly wants to drive himself right to the feds. With Twinkle behind the wheel though, the only way that's happening is if he leaps into her lap and overtakes her. We all know
that
ain't possible. Ole Chickenshit can't even fight a little water on the road, much less a bearcat like Twinkle for control of the car. After what seems like eons, the fuming and shouting seem to give way to talking. Twinkle hands him the flask, but he don't take it. What a teetotaler. She leaves it on the seat and shrugs, before concentrating on the road.

Chickenshit huffs on the window, making a steam circle with his breath. He writes, “Fuck you, Clyde.” Next thing I know, he grabs the flask and starts drinking all my hooch. Staring and drinking. No more talking. When he finally closes his eyes, I figure I must have worn out his body and broke his heart when he watched me steal his woman right from under his nose.

If that don't make me the wiliest thief that ever lived, I don't know what else I got to do.

The way I figure it, we got less than four hours until Fate lets her intentions be known. Hope Jack Daniel don't sleep too long cuz I need him to catch a fright. Then I'll take over and he can sleep until the end of time, while Twinkle and I will go on to make history ourselves.

Unless she's the best actress that ever lived and she's actually lying through her teeth. Then I'll plug a hole in her head the size of a dime and send her down the riverbank.

Even thinking that makes my blood boil. No, I ain't getting my ire up about her intentions. My fine-tuned instincts tell me she's giving it to me straight. I have faith that when the time comes, if I haven't busted back on my own, Twinkle will find a way to fetch me.

When the deadline's all said and done, I'll live up to my word, too. I'll do whatever it takes to keep her safe and by my side—'til death do us part.

However long, or short, that parting comes.

I breathe out a huge sigh of relief when Jack finally falls asleep. The strain between us was excruciating. Took me almost forty minutes of arguing to convince him to stick it out for a few more hours and stop fighting me on this. That he had nothing to lose by going to Gibsland but everything to lose if he didn't. He finally drank himself into a coma and passed out. Makes me wonder if the two minds are blending into one—Clyde's strong will to survive meshing with Jack's desire to have a jail-free future. Could be the perfect combination.

When I see the time, I jam the gas pedal to the floor. I have a long stretch of straight highway ahead of me, and I have to just hope that no cops are hiding out, waiting for a speeder. With slightly less than three-quarters of a tank left to burn, I pray this car can make it all the way to Bonnie and Clyde's death memorial because there isn't time to stop. I made sure I haven't had much to eat or drink so I won't have to use the bathroom. If Jack wakes up and has to pee, as gross as it sounds, he'll have to use the coffee cup I saw in the back seat.

With Jack passed out, I finally have time to mull things over—like how and why did Jack take over, right in the middle of Clyde and I talking about our feelings? As soon as I told him that I liked his kisses too, he mumbled, “succumbing to my weakness” and vanished. Was he trying to tell me that his weakness is being in love? Betraying Bonnie? Me?

I wait for Bonnie to set me straight, to bitch about what a two-timing cow turd Clyde is, or to remind me how she's going to take over my body at the end. Or to say that Clyde still loves her and he's only saying these things to trick me. But to my shock and my delight, she stays quiet.

Hello? Are you in there, Bonnie? What's going on?

When she doesn't answer, a tiny flicker of hope surfaces that she's gone. If Clyde wasn't lying and he does have feelings for me, maybe she up and went back to limbo. If she had hoped to spend forever with him and he doesn't want to, maybe she saw the futility in sticking around.

Of course, it might just be that she's depressed. Seeing the guy you love, the man who you thought was your soulmate—the guy you died for!—pledge his love to another girl right in front of your eyes is enough to shut anyone up for a good long time.

Even that sentiment brings no response.

While I do feel sorry for her, I can't say I'm sorry to see her go.
Buh-buh-bye, Bonnie! Have fun in Limbo!
My mood brightens considerably at the thought that she could be gone for good, even though I know I still need to complete the journey for Jack's sake. I quietly rotate through the limited number of radio stations, looking for any song from the last decade that I recognize. No luck. It seems every song that plays in these little rural towns is a country song about being in love, falling out of love, or pride in America.

Soon I'm lulled by the sounds of the car's tires on the highway. I'm making good time but the monotony of driving along a pitch-black road begins to wear on my alertness. Minutes later, I get a burst of energy when a song my mom loved comes on, “Don't Forget to Remember Me.” Hearing it reminds me how she used to tune her little transistor next to the stove and sing along with all the hokey country songs while she made dinner. I quietly sing what few words I remember, when it hits me hard that the song is about an eighteen-year-old girl moving out and her mom telling her how proud she is of her, reminding her daughter not to forget her.

A searing pain erupts deep in my chest. Tears lick at the edges of my eyes as I realize that, unlike the mom in the song, mine would definitely
not
be proud of how I turned out. She must be sad that I'm such a loser. I keep complaining about how rough things are for me, and how unlucky I am to have gotten busted three times, how much probation sucks. But this time around, it wasn't Fate who was driving this train wreck, it was me. How could I have been so blind, so stupid, so completely immature as to tempt Fate yet again?

And like Jack so gruffly pointed out, maybe it's time I did something about it.

If I get out of this mess alive and in my own body, I am going to turn myself in to the police. I'm not going to keep running like Bonnie and Clyde did. No one's going to rush in and rescue me this time. I'll tell the cops that I alone stole the cars, and that I threatened Jack with a wrench to come with me. There's nothing I can do about Clyde clubbing that woman, but hopefully her injuries aren't too bad and he'll get a lighter sentence since it was his first arrest.

Turning myself in means the district attorneys will officially enter a felony conviction for vandalism in my name, along with new charges for auto and retail theft, aiding and abetting a fugitive, and driving a stolen vehicle across state lines.

How did things get this bad?

Goodbye to my scholarship, goodbye to NYU, goodbye to believing that bad things only happen to other people, that somehow I can fix whatever it is I ruined with my impulsivity. Tears start streaming down my face then, too fast for me to wipe them away. One small act triggered a whole lot of other illegal acts, and now I'm going to jail. Whoever said that things always turn out okay in the end was wrong. This time, things will not turn out okay, no matter how hard I wish they would. How could I have been so naive to think I was magically protected?

Of course, if I'm still on Earth and in my own body in a few hours—with or without Bonnie inside of me—I suppose one could argue that things did turn out okay.

Jack stirs, making me freeze. I hold back a sniffle, holding my breath, trying to stay perfectly still so as not to wake him. The longer he sleeps, the less time I have to worry about him sabotaging my plan. After a few seconds, he smacks his lips and resumes sleeping.

It hits me then that Clyde's parting words to me might very well be the last words he'll ever speak. Even though he makes my pulse race and we have some odd across-the-century connection, I can't—won't—help him come back again. I take a deep breath, feeling sad that I'll miss him, but happy knowing I'm doing the right thing.

As I drive along and the sun begins to rise, optimism starts to slip between the cracks. I'm young, I'll serve my time, and hopefully be out in a year or two, and then I can start over fresh. Not sure I can get into college when I'm out, but maybe there are online schools for film production. Hell, maybe I can take college classes in prison, who knows? I try not to think about my future because it makes my stomach ache. I had everything and I threw it away. Again.

When I finally hit the Louisiana state line two hours later, Jack continues to sleep deeply. All the whiskey and the events of the day must have really worn him out, thank God. I follow the signs for Highway 167 and continue on our way, running into only a minimum of morning traffic. As I head south, the sky becomes a beautiful blend of bright pink and purple swirls. Maybe things will go my way today.

I check the clock. It's 8:04
A.M.
An hour to the deadline. I ride the gas pedal even harder when I see the flat barren landscape of Missouri give way to heavy pines as we pass through the outskirts of the Ouchita National Forest. When the radio becomes more static than country music, I turn it off, letting Jack rest in peace.

Whoops. I did not just think that.

Let Jack sleep peacefully, I mentally edit.

I sure don't need him going crazy and panicking, so the longer he sleeps, the better. Twenty minutes pass, then thirty. 8:37. We should be getting close, but I haven't seen any road signs in over five miles. Where the hell are the signs for Gibsland? I memorized the set of directions I gave to Clyde, but none of these road names sound familiar. I can't wait any longer. I take a deep breath and hope for the best. “Jack! Wake up! I need your help.”

There's a sign showing a fork in the road coming up ahead, but I don't recognize either of the highway names. Athens Avenue? Horseshoe Road? Where's Route 154?

There's a sharp intake of breath as Jack awakens. “What time is it?” He sits up, rubbing his eyes.

“It's 8:40. There's a fork coming up and I need—”

“What?! Why'd you let me sleep so long?” he barks, staring at me.

“What does it matter?” I glare at him, pissed that he's been awake three seconds and he's already arguing with me. “We're looking for Route 154, but I don't see—”

“Look out!” Jack shouts, pointing to my left.

A brown blur zooming into my vision makes me slam on the brakes. I swerve to my right, then to my left, but I don't know where the deer begins and the road ends. My screams are barely audible over the squealing tires, breaking glass, and horrendous thud as we hit the broad side of a massive white-tailed deer.

“Noooooo!” I scream. One ear-shattering second later, the bulk of the deer flies up over the hood and hits the windshield, cracking it in several places. I raise my forearm to block my face from shattering glass, doing my best to steer through a foggy distortion of brown fur, horns, and an ungodly amount of blood. The death stare of the frightened buck sears into my brain like a branding iron before the weighty mass slides off the car. We come to rest five frightening seconds later in a drainage ditch, ten yards off the road.