Catnip

by J. S. Frankel

  With a start, Harry sat up, fully awake now, and rubbed the crud out of his eyes. He jumped down off the bunk and landed clumsily on his feet. At times he wished he was more athletically capable, and then realized this was how things were.

  “You gonna be okay?” Withers asked. He moved with a small man’s economy and quickness of movement. In contrast, Harry, who’d already reached his full height of five-eight and never went beyond a hundred fifty-five soaking wet, was a klutz of the first order.

  The cell, small and clean, consisted of a bunk bed, a table, some books, and a pad of paper where he did his research. In spite of being incarcerated, this place had an oddly homey feel to it, although he hoped it wouldn’t be his home for the rest of his life.

  He glanced at the small alarm clock on the table. It read seven AM. After brushing his teeth and washing up—he didn’t bother shaving as the guard kept tapping his truncheon against the bars and besides, at his age, he was too young to grow anything more than peach fuzz—he signaled the guard, the door flew open, and he went out to meet his destiny.

  As they walked, Harry thought about his sentence. This place, Columbia River Correctional Institute, had been chosen by the court. He’d been arrested a day after his last visit to the lab. Since his parent’s untimely death, he’d gotten the idea of upgrading the human immune system with that of a shark’s.

  It was a myth that sharks never got cancer. They did, but they also had the ability to produce an enzyme from their cartilage which in turn basically surrounded the tumor and choked it off, preventing it from spreading. He’d managed to isolate a gene, beef it up in terms of its strength, and the results looked more than promising.

  After downloading the data onto a disc, he’d driven home and found two cops waiting for him, along with another man, gray-haired, tall and lean, and equally somber. He wore a black suit. Harry had the feeling the plainclothes cop was on his way to a funeral and suddenly he knew whose funeral it was. “Can I help you?”

  “Are you Harry Alan Goldman?” one of the cops asked.

  “Yes, sir,” he’d answered truthfully. No one had ever used his middle name before. This had to be serious beyond serious.

  The first cop, white, blond haired and built like a tank, held up a piece of paper. “We have a warrant for your arrest.”

  Harry’s heart suddenly stopped working. “Uh, what’s the charge?”

  The second cop’s partner, a moving black mountain, recited, “You’re being charged with espionage, breach of medical ethics, and intent to sell on the black market.”

  Who could have told the authorities, he thought, and then figured out one of the other researchers had found something on the hard drive of the computer he’d used. He cursed himself for not erasing it. “Shouldn’t I contact a lawyer or something?” he asked.

  “We have to read you your rights first,” the black cop said.

  He proceeded to do so, and after Harry had heard everything and said he understood, the cops took him down to Portland’s Police Station and ushered him into an interrogation room not much larger than a janitor’s storage area, and not the usual prison cell with the ordinary scum of the universe. Five minutes later, the same tall and gaunt man entered the room and introduced himself as Agent Farrell. Harry caught the older man’s stare and shifted his gaze to the worn tabletop. “You’re with which agency?” he wanted to know.

  “The FBI,” the older man replied, and took a seat across from him. He had to be in his mid-fifties, although the lines on his face made him look like someone well into retirement age. “We want to know what you’ve been working on. We have the disc, your computer, and we’ve already taken the computer from your university laboratory. We have the evidence. Your lawyer will be coming soon.”

  Harry wasn’t sure he should say anything, but what had he done wrong? He’d only worked on the formula, so was it a crime to think? Obviously, the cops thought so, and so did the FBI. The older man sat there and stared at him through mild looking blue eyes. Harry figured the granddad look was just for effect…but decided to open up.

  “Uh, Agent Farrell, if I tell you what I did, can I go?”

  The older man’s eyes widened with surprise at the naiveté exhibited. “Kid, I don’t think you understand the seriousness of the charge. What you’ve done is a federal crime. That’s why the police called me in.”

  “I’m not working for any foreign agency, and I don’t know anyone on the black market,” Harry hotly protested. He surprised himself by finding his backbone, but these charges were total crap.

  Farrell received the outburst with an air of equanimity. “We’re aware of that,” he said smoothly. “We just did it to rattle you. The real charge is the breach in ethics. We spoke to Professor Nixon and he said—and I quote—“the usage of transgenic gene therapy is illegal and highly dangerous, not to mention unethical”, end quote.”

  The little weasel squealed on me, Harry thought, and his mouth dropped open, ready to yell in outrage. Then he thought better of it and muttered, “It was just a theory. That was all.”

  Farrell gave him a look which meant uh-huh, I think you’re full of it, and nodded. Someone knocked on the door and a middle-aged man with a harried look on his pasty face came in and gave his name as Dylan Cuthbert, the court-appointed lawyer. Harry had asked that his family lawyer represent him, but his plea fell on deaf ears.

  “Don’t worry,” Cuthbert said in a confident tone after Mr. FBI-man had given them their time together and Harry had recounted his story. “We’ll just chalk this up to youthful exuberance.”

  The court didn’t see it the same way. After hearing both sides argue it out, the judge called him, his lawyer, and the District Attorney into his private chambers. Seating himself at his desk, he began. “I see that the apple hasn’t fallen far from the tree. Your father was also a transgenic researcher, wasn’t he?”

  “He worked only for an American firm,” Harry responded and shrugged off his lawyer’s tap on his shoulder as a signal to keep quiet. He rarely got angry, but now he was four-square, balls-to-the-wall pissed, and shaking from anger and fear. “My lawyer already told you, I haven’t contacted any foreign governments or people. Can’t you guys understand?”

  This whole thing had turned into a nightmare and he was caught up right in the middle of it. He thought he’d done the right thing in telling the truth and now Uncle Sam wanted to toast his butt for it.

  “We have been apprised of that already,” the judge said. “It is this court’s judgment that you have not been in contact with any foreign entities or enemies of our government.”

  He then leaned across the desk and his voice grew stern. “However, what you have done, unwittingly or not, was break the law. That is what this trial has determined.”

  Yeah, some trial, more like a kangaroo court, Harry thought. It had all gone down two weeks after he’d been held in a juvenile detention facility, and he’d passed each day more nervous about what could happen. He’d already gotten the crap knocked out of him twice. In regular prison, guys like him did not survive.

  The judge continued speaking. “Still, due to your age, and the fact that you have never broken the law before, and also because of your late father’s efforts as well as your own efforts in pursuit of a noble goal, we are prepared to grant leniency.”

  Leniency turned out to be a three-year sentence in a minimal correctional facility. The first couple of weeks hadn’t been so bad. The authorities assigned him to a teacher’s spot in the prison library. “Word came down from up on high you got this,” one of the guards whispered to him one day.

  Harry breathed a little easier, and when the authorities placed him with a cellmate who posed no threat, he figured something had to be up, but didn’t know what. Each day passed and he taught whoever came in without incident and went back to his cell at night to work on his research. They’d allowed him paper and pencils, and he passed his free time studying. What else could he do? The authorities had confiscated his
computer and he knew he’d never get it back.

  Now they’d called him to the warden’s office and he wondered just what was going to happen. Had the higher-ups changed their minds? Would he be sent to a maximum security prison? If so, then he could kiss his chances of freedom goodbye forever, not to mention his life.

  The guard showed him into the warden’s office. Warden Dill, a massive man in his forties with a clean-shaven head and the hard-eyed stare of someone used to dealing with the worst society had to offer, sat behind his desk. Harry recognized a familiar face standing beside him—Farrell. What in the hell was he doing here?

  Harry raged internally at this man who’d screwed him out of his freedom. Still, he stood at attention and the warden waved him over to a chair. He sat and waited.

  After glancing at the file on his desk, Dill heaved a small sigh. “Goldman, we’re letting you go.”

  “Thanks,” Harry started to say, “I—”

  “We’re releasing you into the custody of the FBI,” the warden interrupted. “Go back to your cell, pick up whatever you need, and get out.” The expression on his face indicated he didn’t like the idea of his authority being overridden by another agency.

  Call this a way cool moment, Harry thought. While he was pleased at the idea of getting out, he also wondered why the man who’d taken away his freedom had suddenly shown up. Farrell stood rigidly beside the warden as if he were almost part of the office’s furnishings and wore a faint smile. Oh, hell, the fix was in. It had to be.

  Back at his cell, he packed up his notes, changed into the same clothes he’d worn on the day of his arrest—a long sleeved shirt and a pair of jeans—said goodbye to Tim, and then a guard took him outside the main gates. There, Farrell waited beside a beat-up old Buick. “Get in,” he ordered.

  The agent drove quickly to Portland Airport and didn’t even bother going through the usual check-in procedures, just breezed through the gate after the agent flashed his badge. Harry wondered why the man didn’t use handcuffs, but felt grateful in a small way for his freedom. They boarded a small private plane and Farrell directed the pilot to take off when ready.

  In the cabin, the agent seated himself. “Get comfortable,” he said.

  Harry took another seat, wondered what was going on, and asked, “Where are we going?”

  “New York,” Farrell answered. “We need someone on the outside who’s also on the inside.”

  This answer made zero sense, and shaking his head, he decided to try and find out more. “Why do you need me? You threw me in jail on a BS charge and…”

  “Be quiet, kid,” Farrell answered in a voice colder than ice. “Just be grateful we didn’t leave you in there for the duration of your sentence. Who do you think got you your lazy-ass position as tutor? Who do you think pulled the strings?”

  Harry glanced at the man, suddenly getting wise, and then his eyes narrowed. There had to be a catch. There always was. “So you want to tell me why?”

  Farrell’s glare practically tore his face off. Harry got the impression the man was looking right through him, right down to his core. “It’s a pretty straightforward deal. We’re going to let you go on the condition that you help us. You’ll have your notes, get your research back, a lab to work in, and anything else you need…but your butt belongs to us.” He said nothing more, settled back, and closed his eyes.

  Harry couldn’t relax, though, and stared out the window as the plane taxied down the runway and took to the skies. For the duration of the trip he kept thinking why him and why now? He’d been tossed in jail for an idea, let free by the same person who’d arrested him, and for what? If his research was that important, couldn’t they have gotten someone else? All his questions remained in the back of his mind, and he watched in silence as the vast land below him passed by in a blur of brown and green.

  After they landed in the Big Apple an hour later, Farrell took him through the gates at LaGuardia Airport and they got into another car. He drove off, and as Harry watched, the outskirts of the countryside gradually faded behind them and in time turned into the concrete jungle known as Manhattan.

  “We’re here.”

  The agent’s voice stirred Harry from his sleep. He hadn’t even noticed he was nodding off, and now it was early afternoon, the June weather hot and humid. He yawned and wiped off the thick sheen of sweat from his forehead and rubbed his eyes.

  FBI Headquarters stared him in the face. A massive building of concrete, steel and glass, it stood out from the other monoliths surrounding it, mainly because of the power it held. Other businesses had money or fame, but this place had the power of life and death, freedom and imprisonment, and Harry knew only too well about being imprisoned.

  Farrell escorted him inside the building. Wide awake now, Harry asked, “What’s all this about?”

  “Be quiet, kid, we’re almost there.”

  Harry twisted his head to stare at the older man. “I’m not a kid,” he answered in a sullen voice. Yes, he was eighteen, short and skinny and weak, but since they’d tried him as an adult—he was an adult—they could use his real name. “Call me by my first name, okay? I don’t like being called a kid.”

  Farrell glanced at him briefly. “Fine, I’ll do that.”

  Their footsteps echoed off the walls as they walked down the hallway and descended a winding series of steps. No one else spoke to them although a number of the men in black moved around, their faces expressionless and movements stiff and precise, almost robotic in nature. Harry had the impression they’d move and move quickly if something demanded their attention.

  At the bottom of the stairs, a door lay dead ahead and a screech sounded from inside, followed by the sounds of swearing and the sound of something else making a snapping sound. The door opened and another agent came out, his hands over his face. “You okay, Marlon?” Farrell asked.

  Agent Marlon whatever-his-last-name-was shook his head. Tentatively, he took one hand away to reveal a deep gash in his nose. Eyes filled with agony, he whipped out a tissue to try and stem the flow of his life’s fluids. “That…thing…has got the fastest hands around,” he said, and swore viciously. “She scratched me up pretty good.”

  Farrell sighed. “Get that wound looked at. I’ll handle this from here on in.”

  The man immediately shot up the stairs and Harry wondered what kind of animal they were keeping here. His keeper didn’t say a word. Farrell simply grabbed his arm, steered him inside, and then pointed to the far corner.

  Harry followed the gesture and his gaze came to rest on the figure crouched behind the steel bars. A gasp involuntarily escaped his lips as the captive—through the gray fur he saw that it had a woman’s body—jumped up to touch the ceiling, twist in the air, and then land lightly on her feet. The ceiling in this room had to be at least twenty feet high. “What’s going on here?” he asked, his voice hushed.

  Ms. Prisoner arose and came over to the steel bars. Her yellow eyes curiously regarded him, her whiskers twitched, and her ears pointed straight up. It was a cat-lady.

  “Meet your test subject,” Farrell said.

  Harry couldn’t speak for a moment and whirled to face the agent. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said.

  “Just think of it as broadening your education.”

  Chapter Three

  Hell in a Cell

  Harry stared at the cat-lady. The unreality of the situation hit him right between his eyes like a punch, only harder. Brain fart time, as the idea of this happening made him think he’d just entered some kind of game show or netherworld where nothing was what it seemed to be. He briefly looked around for the television cameras. All he saw were the usual array of security cameras which recorded his image with their unwinking eyes, but nothing else.

  And while he stared at her, in turn, the figure behind bars watched him through yellow eyes and sniffed the air as if getting his scent. She remained motionless, but cocked her head to one side and gave him a slightly crooked smile, as if welcom
ing a new face to the party.

  “So what do you think?” Farrell asked.

  What did he think? She was good looking in her own way. Even with the gray fur and black spots, she had a nice body, pretty hot in fact. He noticed her clothes, a short matching gray blouse and shorts which showed off her curves. Her tail, long and flexible, twirled behind her in a circular, graceful motion. A head of long, flowing gray hair completed the picture.

  She reminded him of some of the comic book characters he’d seen and then…what was he thinking? He’d only seen a few cartoons as a kid, and as for the idea of being with a girl, no, not, never, end stop. He was a shut-in nerd, the same as his gamer friend. Jason was the only person who’d bothered to tell him about the hotties he’d seen online and had tipped him off to some of the more interesting websites on the Internet. “It’s all for the experience,” he said at the time.

  At the age of sixteen, Harry had experienced, well, nothing. In a moment of pure naiveté, he figured that sooner or later he’d hook up with someone…but another problem had surfaced. He didn’t know jack about meeting the opposite sex. He had little in common with the other kids, and also had a nasty tendency to sweat around girls. Right now he needed a shower.

  “So what do you think?”

  The agent repeated the question and it startled him back to reality. “Uh, think about what?”

  “Everything,” Farrell replied testily.

  With the exception of the cell, the room was bare, a twenty-by-twenty square of white on white. His laptop sat next to a computer disc on the lone table in the center of the room, with a single chair tilted against the table. A faint hiss which signaled air coming through a vent was the only other noise around. This place reminded him of a hospital, sterile and lifeless. “It’s a room,” he said carefully, his eyes still on the cat-girl in the cell.

  A spell of dizziness hit him. He hadn’t had much to eat in the last few hours, it was hot, and now…this. He slowly backed out of the room, and Farrell followed him. In the hallway, they regarded each other silently. Harry took a number of deep breaths before speaking and stole a peek inside. “What is that?”