by Kym Brunner
Clyde don’t want to touch you anyway.
Good. I don’t want to him to touch me, either.
Despite saying this, thoughts of his mouth on my neck, along with his sexy banter, send an unexpected reminder that ricochets from my brain down to my thighs. Stop it. He’s an ex-con with a PhD in Player. I’d bet anything he has used the same lines on all the girls he charmed.
There wasn’t no other girls, and there never will be, neither!
Damn her and her ability to hear my every thought. The bus takes a right turn and I fight to keep my weight from shifting into Jack. I look at him then, his arms crossed, not looking my way. What are we doing? How completely immature of us to ignore each other when we’ve got huge problems to fix and a ton of questions to answer. I take a deep breath. “Look, Jack. I’m sorry I said I wanted him to kiss me before, but you started accusing me before you even asked me what happened or why I did it.”
He doesn’t respond, but he nods imperceptibly.
I shift my butt so I can face him. Jack responds by inching up as close to the window as he can. He must remember how I said Bonnie thought she could make Clyde resurface if I touched him. I don’t know if she can bring him out, but when Clyde was around, she sure was ready to resume their romance.
I fiddle with my ring. “I only acted nice to him because I didn’t want Clyde—I mean, you—to bolt. I thought if I pretended to be interested in him, he’d—I mean, you’d—stick around.” I let out a huge sigh. Trying not to offend Jack is making speaking and thinking to him very difficult.
“I guess.” Jack shrugs one shoulder, which I take to mean he accepts my apology.
Even though I deserve one back, I keep quiet. “Okay, good.” I smile, needing Jack to be in a better mood. “We will figure this out, you know. It’s probably like one of those wooden labyrinth games. All the knobs and levels have to be exactly right to maneuver past the holes and get to the end. Soon as we figure the sequence out, we’re free.”
“At least I’ve got Clyde figured out now. But I can’t tell you what I know because his girlfriend is listening.” He looks at me.
For a brief horrifying moment, I think he’s referring to me. I’m about to deny having any feelings whatsoever for Clyde when I realize with relief he means Bonnie.
Tell him he can trust me. She lets out a loud chortle.
I bite my lip. “I don’t know, Jack. Don’t you think it’s important that I know the details in case he comes back? I need to be able to help you return.”
“Don’t worry. He’s not coming back. I promise.”
His words are not reassuring. Meanwhile, I’m saving Bonnie’s presence inside of me as my ace in the hole. If Clyde ever does come back and it seems like he’s about to skip out on me, I’ll let him know his little gangster whore is inside of me. That ought to make him stick around.
Whores are girls who pretend to like someone, which is what you’re doing, not me.
A few seconds later the bus squeals to a stop in front of a gated parking lot on Clark Street. Mr. Johnson says, “We can’t exit because there’s nowhere to park our bus, but if you look between those two buildings in front of us, you’ll see a parking lot, which is where the garage once stood and where the murders took place.” He pauses to let the tour goers peek through the windows. “Four of Capone’s goons, some dressed as police, paid a visit to George ‘Bugs’ Moran and his gang. A few seconds later, seven men lay dead, and many say the ghosts of the slain gangsters still walk the streets. If you should ever find yourself in this part of Chicago late at night, be sure to hang on to your wallets.”
All this talk about Al Capone makes me think of our display case at the restaurant. A huge rush of guilt floods in, hitting my chest like I slammed into a glass wall. Why did I touch those stupid slugs in the first place? If only I’d kept my hands to myself, I’d be home watching TV or shopping at Water Tower. Anywhere but here. No more reckless decisions, Monroe!
Jack’s voice jerks me out of my reflection. “Is that the paper that bald guy gave you?” He points at the Half-Dead Society packet.
“Yeah.” I release my death grip on it and flip it open. “His name is Bob.”
Jack nods. “I saw you talking to him. What’d he say?” The bus hits a big pothole, making all the passengers shift forward and then back in unison.
“He told me that I should have my sister Ginger and her husband Greg contact him.” The left side of the three-fold pamphlet shows the Half-Dead Society’s two founding members and their bios. “Hey, this is him. The guy I was talking to.” I point to the picture of the balding man.
Bob O’Reilly, 53, father of two sons, divorced. Fortune 500 Chief Financial Officer. Was on vacation skiing in Aspen in Dec. 2007 when he suffered a severe head injury. While in a coma, he became inhabited by the ghost of Silke Hildebrent, a Swedish housewife who died on that slope in 1969. (AMICABLE)
Deondra Johnson, 38, single, never married. Tarot card reader and fortune teller. Small business owner of Psychic Enlightenment. Infected in spring of 2008 during an epileptic seizure while conjuring the spirit of Lizzie Borden. If seen carrying an ax, DO NOT APPROACH.
“Is that a joke?” Jack points to the last sentence of Deondra’s bio.
“I don’t think so.” I grimace at the thought of being approached by someone with an ax, and quickly change the subject. “Speaking about crimes, have you heard anything else about what Clyde did at the gas station?”
“No, thank God.” He points to the right side of the pamphlet. “What’s this section about?”
When I read the title, my adrenaline starts to flow. “Yes! This is exactly what we need!” I put the sheet between us so we can both read, and then dive in, ready to devour the words as quickly as possible, when Jack stops me.
“Better read it out loud to me,” he says, sighing. “I don’t want Asshole to know any more than he has to.”
“Right.” I whisper the entire page to Jack, not stopping until I’m finished.
CO-HABITATION THEORY
(Will remain in place until proven otherwise)
According to our medieval pastoral forefathers, when humans die, a guardian comes to escort them to one of two resting places: heaven or limbo. Souls going to heaven immediately begin eternal rest, but those in limbo, known heretofore as LIMBOTIC SOULS, do not.
Limbotic Souls remain asleep until their fate is resolved, or until the end of time, whichever occurs first. IF, however, a Limbotic Soul is awakened (through conjuring, séance, witchcraft, or exhumation), they return to Earth and may attempt to rush in and occupy the nearest living human, or SAPIEN. Sapiens can easily prevent Limbotic Souls from entry UNLESS they are compromised in some way, e.g., in a coma, unconscious, anesthetized, or in rare cases, through blood-to-blood contact.
If the Limbotic Soul does not successfully locate a Sapien in a compromised state, he or she will wander the Earth until their fate is decided. Limbotic Souls who are awake but without a bodily residence are commonly referred to as GHOSTS. In the rare occasion that they successfully overtake a compromised Sapien, both souls share a body, rendering them each HALF-DEAD.
Half-deads remain that way until the end of the Sapien’s natural life. If the Sapien regains consciousness, each of the cohabitating souls will exert varying amounts of control on the physical body, depending on the strengths and weaknesses of the two individuals involved. Thus, half-dead embodiment differs widely from person to person.
**POSSIBLE** LOOPHOLE (three unconfirmed cases)—The Sapien must perform a ritual that fulfills the wishes of his or her Limbotic Soul on the anniversary of his or her original death, within the first year of cohabitation.
“At least there’s a possible loophole—better than anything else we’ve got,” Jack says. “I’d better check when they died.” He pulls out his phone, shaking his head. “Can’t believe Asshole got in because of my asthma attack.”
I nod, secretly feeling better knowing that the blame doesn’t rest solely on my
shoulders. “You check on that and I’ll check on Milo. Maybe our guardian angel has more info.” I grab my phone from my purse, careful not to touch Bonnie’s poem nestled alongside it, and zip that section closed.
When I navigate to my app, there’s a response from Milo. “Listen to this, Jack. Milo wrote, ‘I had a horrible nightmare about running through a graveyard last night. I’m wondering if that means G is for graves.’” I look at Jack and wince. “Hopefully theirs, not ours.”
“Don’t say stuff like that,” Jack barks, his dark eyes filling with anger. “First it sucks to think about, and second, it’s not helping to keep me calm.”
He’s right. “Sorry, bad habit. I’m a blurter.”
“I noticed.” He taps the surface of his cracked cell phone screen, courtesy of Clyde. “Says here that Bonnie and Clyde died on May 23, 1934; 9:10 A.M., to be precise.”
I look at Jack, my eyes wide with panic. “Wait a second. That’s tomorrow!” The familiar buzz of anxiety builds in my rib cage. “It says we need to do some sort of ritual to get rid of them, but what exactly—kill a sheep, dance in a circle, throw salt?”
Jack runs his hands through his hair, staring straight ahead.
I want to shake him. “Well?”
“I’m thinking.”
Tapping my foot against the vibrating floor, I do some thinking of my own. Something else about that date sounds familiar. “Hold up. What were the numbers Milo gave you—the ones that were burned onto his palm under the word ‘deadline’?”
“I’ll check.” Jack reads through his messages on his phone. “Here it is. 5-2-3-9-10.” He looks at me. “Why?”
Bells of recognition sound off in my head. “Don’t you see? Now we know for sure. 5-2-3-9-10 is May 23rd at 9:10 A.M. Tomorrow is the deadline!” I look around, sizing up the people around us. “I think we need to come clean to someone and get their advice so we get this ritual right. The question is who can we trust?”
Jack shakes his head violently. “No, forget it. We’re not telling anyone. If it gets back to Mr. Johnson, he’ll tell my father. You have to realize that my dad is a retired marine sergeant. He’ll go ballistic if he hears about this. Besides, you’re jumping to conclusions. Let’s say the deadline is tomorrow. Maybe that signals the time Bonnie and Clyde have to go back to their graves.” He shrugs. “Like they have twenty-four hours on earth and ziiip! they’re gone. You’re assuming the worst.”
I wish with all my heart what he said is true, but it doesn’t add up. “Do you seriously think that if Clyde knew he only had one day to live, he’d spend it on a tour bus with me?”
“Quiet!” The daughter from the mother-daughter team sitting in front of us glances over her shoulder, making a sourpuss face. I itch to tell her that if talking about dead people offends her, maybe she shouldn’t be on a ghost tour. She suddenly licks her lips and stares at Jack, rolling her shoulder seductively. She lowers her voice. “Forget what Chunky Monkey says, sugar. You can come by my place and talk all you want. Ditch the chick first.”
Jack looks at her, frowning. “Uh, no thanks.”
When she turns back around, Jack sticks out his tongue in disgust before beckoning me closer. I strain to listen. “Remember how Mr. Johnson said the dead roam around until their unresolved final requests are granted? Ask Bonnie what she wants.”
I frown. “I did. All she’d say is she wanted to be with Clyde forever. She told me if I hooked them up, she’d be happy and leave. Either she was lying, or they need something extra to allow them to stay together. When you were Clyde and you touched me, she spoke out of my mouth. That means that technically they were ‘together’ for several seconds, but nothing happened.”
“Did they both know the other one was around?”
“Bonnie knew, but Clyde didn’t,” I admit. “I’m afraid to let him find out. I mean, what if he grabs on and doesn’t let go, and then Bonnie is able to take over my body completely?”
Jack rolls his eyes. “Will you stop coming up with all this horrible stuff? We could play the What-If game forever. See if Bonnie knows anything about Clyde’s last request, and then, at the next stop, we can casually ask some people about what others have done for the ritual.”
I take a deep breath. He’s right again. I need to think more rationally. “Good idea.”
Clyde’s last request was the same as mine—to be with me forever.
Yeah, yeah. That’s your answer for everything.
Bonnie’s absolutely no help. Not that I trust her anyway. I skim a Wikipedia website on half-deads, looking for some new information to jump out at me, when Mr. Johnson starts back up with his narration. “Soon we’ll be at the Biograph Theater, the famous location where John Dillinger was gunned down following his attendance of the movie Manhattan Melodrama.” He pauses, rubbing his chin dramatically. “Or was he? An interesting controversy still exists over whether the FBI killed the right man that evening.”
The tour group starts to buzz about Dillinger when Jack says, “Hey, listen to this. Bonnie and Clyde were both buried in Dallas, but in different cemeteries.”
“Are you sure?” I tinker with my ring, thinking. “Something about being buried together rings a bell.” I try to remember what I’d heard, but nothing clicks. “Let me check my notes.” I pull out my phone.
The bus pulls to the side as a wailing fire truck and three police cars approach. Jack scrunches down in his seat, as he peeks ever so slightly over the top of the glass. They sail past us and he sits back up.
Mr. Johnson’s commentary resumes, “The fingerprints on the deceased did not match the ones on file with the police, so some historians believe that Dillinger had a friend on the police force who gave him a heads-up. Dillinger cleverly arranged to have a look-alike patsy accompany the lady in red to the theater that night. Roam around and see if you can speak to the ghost of whichever man was killed that evening and find out the truth once and for all. I’ve scheduled fifteen minutes for this stop.”
The same way that Jack will be Clyde’s patsy. Just you wait and see.
For once, Bonnie’s annoying comments helped trigger a memory. Passengers stand and shuffle their way to the front, but Jack and I stay seated. Going on a hunch, I type in, “The Trail’s End” in a search window. Seconds later, I have the info I need. “Listen to this, Jack. This is the last stanza of a famous poem Bonnie wrote.” I clear my throat and read over the noise of the exiting Half-Dead Society members. “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.”
Jack’s eyebrows pinch together as if confused. “What’s your point?”
“My point is that Bonnie hoped they’d be buried side by side, but their families buried them in separate cemeteries.”
“Whoa. That could be significant.” He rubs a finger along the ridge of his chin, gazing at me.
“Exactly. And here’s the thing: Bonnie keeps telling me that the only thing they wanted, both in life and in death, was to be together. And their families screwed that up.”
Watch what you say about my family. I’m sure my mama had her reasons.
Sounds like I touched a nerve. “I think that would qualify as a last request, don’t you?”
Jack frowns, shaking his head. “Yeah, but if it does, we’re screwed. We can’t unbury them.”
I shrug. “Unless there’s some spiritual way out of this. Let’s have a little chat with Bob and see what we can dig up.” I glance at Jack. “Sorry. No pun intended.”
We hurry down the bus steps, rushing to find Bob. On the way we pass Lionel, who smokes a cigarette in the shade, waving his bus driver hat in front of his face as if to cool himself. We stand waiting for Bob to conclude his conversation with the German guy before jumping in to talk to him ourselves.
After introductions, Bob rubs his chin. “I’ve been thinking about your sister and her husband. They must be pretty scared having known criminals as cohabitator
s, huh?”
“Definitely. I’m scared for them too,” I agree, not having any trouble looking authentically sick to my stomach.
Jack nods. “To try and help them out, we wanted to ask you a question about last requests. What if someone hadn’t been buried where they wanted? How could you make that ghost happy?” Several cars screech, narrowly missing a drunk guy jaywalking unsteadily across the street.
Bob clears his throat. “The thing with burial sites is that the final resting place usually has more to do with where the souls of the dead rest, not their bodies. So if you bury a special memento of the deceased at the spot they wished to have been buried, that usually appeases them. If you’re talking about Bonnie and Clyde, you could probably purchase an object that belonged to them online somewhere. People sell stuff like that all the time.”
Hope swells in my chest. At least we already have Bonnie’s poem. “Okay, cool. I’ll let my sister know about that.” A troubling thought hits me then. “By the way, wouldn’t everyone’s last request be that they wouldn’t die?”
Bob swats a swarm of gnats away from his face. “Yes, but having only one life to live is a basic and unyielding rule—similar to the idea that a person who gets three wishes cannot wish for unlimited wishes.” He smiles at a couple from the tour. “How’s it going, Mark? Tammy?”
Jack waits until they pass before jumping in to the conversation. “Except that doesn’t make sense, because aren’t all of these half-deads getting a second life?”
Bob nods. “Good point. But as you may have read in the brochure I gave you, there are specific, very unusual circumstances that allow limbotic spirits to inhabit a sapien’s body. Those spirits who successfully transition into a second body are few and far between. More luck than intent. Wishing for a second life is an exercise in futility.” He checks his watch.
Jack clears his throat. “What about the loophole that’s mentioned? How does that work?”
Bob shrugs, looks uncomfortable. “There is one woman, Jeanette Finnegan, who has been a member for quite some time. She claims that she was inhabited by a French woman named Suzette. Some doubt Jeanette was ever half-dead—but she seems like the honest type to me. Anyway, Jeanette says she got rid of Suzette by satisfying her last wishes on the anniversary of the date, time, and location of Suzette’s original death.”