“Zombie powder?” My mouth drops open. “You’re telling me there’s an actual powder designed to make zombies? Only, it doesn’t result in true zombies?” I exclaim.
“Exactly,” he replies. “Your friend’s father is under the influence of some extremely powerful stuff.”
“So, he needs to detox,” I say.
“It’s not that simple.” Michael pulls the car up to a stop sign. Makes a left, and continues driving. “The powder is a mixture of several poisonous plant and animal toxins, along with the paralyzing venom of a pufferfish.”
Poisons and paralyzing venoms? How is Luna’s father walking?
The car rolls past block after block, finally making a left at the front of the cemetery.
“The good news is, if we can manage to get the guy away from the bokor’s influences, the toxins should wear off, eventually, returning him to normal.” At the next corner, Michael makes a right, pulling onto a block between divided sections of the cemetery. He stops the car.
The barrier wall surrounding this portion of the cemetery crests a few feet lower in some places than the rest of the facade. Michael has stopped the car next to one of those spots. And not too far beyond this place along the wall, the bikes.
“But first things first,” he says. “We retrieve your bikes so that no one finds them in the morning and starts suspecting things we don’t want them thinking about.”
“Right,” I agree with a quick nod.
Michael gets out of the car, and I do the same. Stand at the vehicle’s side and watch him circle around the trunk. A couple of guys are leaning against the building at the end of the adjacent street. They watch us with intense stares. But when my brother glances their way, they startle and run away.
The cemetery isn’t lit at night, and neither is the street on which Michael parked. There is only the moon and the small streetlamp at the corner by which to see. Which means… lots of shadows. And, in the play of light and shadow, his long facial scar makes him look like one scary badass.
I bottle my instinct to giggle at the boys’ quick retreat. My brother may look scary in this light, but I’m grateful to have him here to help. He’s always got my back. Even tonight, when it’s cold and dark, and clearly going against the recommendation of his school, he’s out here helping me break into a cemetery so that I can break out my trapped bike.
“Who is Saddler?” I ask, my thoughts returning to our less-than-cordial departure and the girl standing at the end of the hallway in the old house-turned-school.
Michael steps onto the curb and stops at my side. Stares at me with a hint of frustration. Possible, irritation. “Saddler is like the school’s provost.”
“The what?” My face crinkles and my brain shakes, attempting to find a definition for the word he used.
“It’s like the head honcho,” he explains. “The decision maker and overseer.”
“Oh.” Understanding lights the far corners of my mind. “And Tess?” I continue, focusing on the girl who had confronted us. “Is she someone important in the hierarchy of your school?”
“I guess she would be comparable to a school counselor,” he says and scratches the back of his neck.
“And you talked to her that way?” His words butt out spring to the forefront of my mind.
“Yeah. I guess I did.” He shakes his head. Rubs his hand over the top of his head. “How about we stop talking about my school and the people involved and we focus on the project at hand?”
I drop my head in concession. I dragged him out of bed, and he didn’t complain. He’s here helping me. Under those circumstances, how can I continue to bug him with questions he clearly doesn’t want to discuss?
“Where did you leave the bikes?” He steps beside the lower portion of the wall and peeks over.
“One grave in and over from the gate.” I point toward the entrance half a block up. “This side of the center walk.”
“Wait here.” He jumps, lifts himself to the top of the brick wall. “I’m going to get the bikes and hand them over the wall to you.” He drops out of sight before I can question him further.
I wait. Lean against the wall. Try to look casual. I’m not feeling it. I lurch into a pace, walking back and forth in front of the lower wall. I shift and curve to the car. Lean against the door. I can’t get comfortable. I wiggle and itch. Thankfully, I don’t have to wait long.
The hint of a bike rises above the level of the brick.
I race forward and raise my hands toward the emerging work of metal. Handlebars, then a padded seat.
“Got it?” Michael asks from the other side of the wall. I grab ahold of the handlebars and tell him that my grip is secure. “Pull,” he says.
I pull and my brother pushes, and the first of two bikes comes reluctantly over the wall. It’s mine.
“Be right back,” he says, and I imagine him racing back through the cemetery for Luna’s bike.
I prop my bike at a stand and then go to the car and push the trunk release button. Lift and angle my bike into the cargo space, killing time while I wait.
“Belle, can you reach?” My brother’s voice comes from the other side of the wall.
Abandoning my bike loading effort, I rush to the wall and help pull the second bike to the outside of the cemetery wall. Once the bike is sitting at my side with both wheels on the ground, Michael climbs back over the wall.
“Don’t make this a habit,” he says with a clear jabbing-at-me smile.
He organizes the two bikes within the trunk for the best fit and then drives me to Luna’s, where we leave her bike by her back door. Although Luna ran home to tell her mom about her dad’s newly discovered condition, no one appears to now be
