Cat's Out - Book 2

Chapter 11 - chem class

My Cherry Hill High chemistry teacher hadn't been much help when I showed him the formula six months ago. And, honestly, I hadn't thought it important enough to keep pursuing it. When Mr. Grist said the formula looked like an attempt at an 18th century sleeping potion, I took his word for it.

If not for the French text in the rest of the letter, I probably still wouldn't make a connection. One translation, courtesy of the Cherry Hill French Club, stood out in pariticular.

The living will crave sleep. As they return for their daily treatment, assure them that they are freeing their tortured spirits, which will rise alongside their discarded tents.

What did the letter writer mean by the living? The assumption is that there are also the dead. But aren't they dead? The whole passage didn't make sense. Well, not until last night. The living did crave sleep. They craved it enough to lay down on a filthy old floor next to a dozen dead people.

Maybe it was a stretch to assume that the formula in these old letters matched that of The Dark, the drug that was probably given to those poor druggies as well as Jack, but it seemed to have the same effect. The people I followed last night were clearly accustomed to their daily hit. So much so that they proceeded, without question, to the new location and simply accepted their fate. Did they know it would be their last dose? Better question--did they care?

My new cell phone buzzed.

"Hey! It's me."

Agent 007 Antonio is not.

"You're calling me?" I scowl as I scold him. "Are you nuts?"

"They can't tap phones. At least not yet. This is safer."

Probably true. I sigh. "So what's up?"

"I wanted to make sure you made it back."

How sweet. "Yup. Weird night."

"From you, that's sayin' a lot. So what'd you find?"

Now my paranoia takes over. "I...don't think we should discuss it." I probably should share my findings with him, though. He's the closest thing I have to a useful ally. "Can we meet somewhere?"

"You're the one with all the transportation at your disposal." Antonio pauses for a few breaths. "But I don't think we should meet in the city. Too many eyes."

"Can you get to Bloomfield?"

"Wait, let me check with my limo driver."

"Funny. But if we can't meet down there, I don't see how--" The doorbell rings. "--hold on."

I hold the phone to my shoulder and check through the window. Grant stands impatiently on the front porch. I smile and hold the phone back to my ear. "I'll call you back. I've got an idea."

Grant isn't crazy about playing taxi driver for a kid in Detroit, but I convince him with my feminine wiles. And a promise of ice cream. After I call Antonio back and arrange the pick up, I send Grant off in his Camaro. We agree that it would be best for me to walk to the Frosty Freeze and wait for them. The less I'm seen in the city, the better.

The Camaro barely clears my driveway when my phone buzzes again. I hit the green button and say, "He's on his way, just hang ti--"

"Darla?"

Not Antonio. I may be the world's second worst secret agent. "Umm...Dad?"

"Yeah, sweetie." He pauses and I hear voices in the background speaking a foreign language. "Your mother called me about Star. I'm so sorry I couldn't get hold of you sooner."

Well, gee Dad, it's only been twenty-four hours since I stood in a morgue staring at my dead sister. Though I did see her last night at the Tigers game! So, yeah, we're good. "Where are you?"

"Turkey."

"Turkey? I thought you were going to China."

"I was detoured."

From China to Turkey. Heck of a detour. "Are you coming home?"

"No. I can't get away."

Of course not. It's just that your first-born is dead. But business must go on! "Okay. I'll pick out flowers and a nice card for you."

"Darla..."

"No, Dad. It's all good. Mom and I have each other."

"Is your mother there?"

"No. She's at work." But I still have iCarly and Sponge Bob. Why did that pop into my head? The image of that guy in his Sponge Bob t-shirt will haunt me till my dying day. You know, in a few centuries.

"Well, I just wanted to see how you're doing. And to tell you I'm thinking of you."

"In Turkey." I sometimes wish I could hold my tongue. But not this time. "Really, Dad. I'm fine. Good talk."

He releases one of his black-out sighs. The voices behind him sound angry. I suspect you shouldn't keep angry Turks waiting for long. "I'll call again soon to check on you. Be good for you mother."

"Will do." Technically, no one ever explicitly forbid me from turning into a large black cat and stalking drug lords in the inner city.

I hit the END button and plopped onto the couch. My body trembles and tears sting my eyes. What the hell? Both of my parents, such as they are, have better things to do only one day after the discovery of my sister's corpse.

My mother the lawyer and father the auto parts supplier couldn't be bothered with something so trivial. I stare at the phone in my lap.

And what freakin' auto parts come from Turkey?