Evil Genius

by Catherine Jinks

  ‘Uh – yeah.’

  ‘You went there, didn’t you? You attended the Axis Institute?’

  Again, Cadel nodded.

  ‘We’ll track down the other students,’ Kale assured him. ‘Find out what they can tell us. They’ve mostly dispersed, but we’ll track ’em down. Meanwhile, what we really want to know is if you’d like to help us out.’ The small, grey eyes were strangely compelling. ‘Your dad might be serving time, but his operation’s still grinding on because of one man. His second-in-command. Guy called Prosper English. You know him?’

  Cadel shook his head.

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘I don’t know anyone by that name.’

  ‘What about Thaddeus Roth?’ said Kale, and Cadel whipped around to face him. ‘That’s the name Prosper’s been using, lately. Thaddeus Roth. You know Roth?’

  ‘He knows Roth,’ said the driver, who had been using his rearview mirror again. ‘He’s scared of Roth, look at him.’

  ‘The more you can tell us about Roth, the better,’ Kale remarked. ‘He’s the one we need.’

  Cadel swallowed. Talk about Thaddeus? To the police?

  He would be throwing his life away.

  ‘If – if I tell you about Thaddeus, can I go?’ he queried.

  ‘Go?’ Kale repeated.

  ‘Somewhere. Out of the way. Where no one can find me.’

  Kale pursed his lips. They were very thin.

  ‘I guess we can help you do that,’ he said at last, slowly. ‘Billet you with a foster family. But not until we’ve cleaned up Darkkon’s whole outfit. Think about it. Until that organisation is dismantled, you’re a sitting duck. Your father’s going to want you back. You’re not only his son – you know too much about how he operates. How Prosper operates. We’ve gotta make sure you’re safe; we can’t let you run around on your own until the coast is clear.’

  ‘But I can disguise myself!’ Cadel insisted. ‘I can! I’m really good at that! I’ll have a whole different identity!’

  ‘Sure, sure.’ Kale was peering out the window. ‘When we know it’s safe.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘Anyway, you’re a minor. You need a social worker, legal representation, some kind of official status . . .’ Kale shook his head. ‘I’ve got to tell you, Cadel, you’re the invisible kid. We can’t find any birth records, adoption records, nothing. We didn’t even know you existed.’ Kale studied Cadel with a kind of subdued intensity. Cadel had rarely experienced such a sharp and searching regard – except from Thaddeus. ‘I’ve gotta say, you don’t resemble your father any,’ the American murmured.

  All at once, darkness fell. They had plunged into some kind of underground car park.

  Cadel, who hadn’t been paying any attention to their route, jumped like a rabbit.

  ‘It’s okay,’ said Kale, in soothing accents. ‘This is a secure facility.’

  ‘And it’s where we get out,’ the driver announced. ‘How you feeling, Cadel?’

  ‘I – I don’t know.’

  ‘It’ll be over soon,’ Kale assured him. ‘No more Darkkon. No more Prosper English. Just sit tight, and let us do the worrying.’

  FIFTY-THREE

  It didn’t take Cadel long to work out that he had been brought to a police station. It was a very big police station – a police headquarters, in fact – which seemed to contain several floors full of offices and corridors and laboratories. Everything had a slightly worn and grubby appearance. The grey carpet was stained and frayed, and many of the vertical blinds were broken.

  Cadel waited in someone’s office for half an hour. After that, he was put in a drab, putty-coloured room with a nice young police officer called Bronwyn who gave him a can of Coke and a plate of chocolate biscuits. Bronwyn, who had a big warm smile, asked him what his favourite TV shows were. When he replied that he didn’t watch much TV, she asked him what he did instead.

  ‘Stuff,’ Cadel muttered.

  ‘Where do you go to school?’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘You should. How old are you? Twelve? Thirteen?’

  ‘I’ve graduated,’ said Cadel. ‘I’ve done my HSC.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Bronwyn.

  ‘What’s happening? Why am I here? Don’t they want to know about Thaddeus?’

  ‘There’s a lot going on at the moment.’ Bronwyn smiled encouragingly. She had large brown eyes and full cheeks. She was quite pretty. ‘They’re looking for a social worker at the moment. You can’t be interviewed unless there’s someone present to take care of your interests. We have to make sure everything’s done right. Just give them a few more minutes.’

  Munching a biscuit, Cadel reviewed his situation. It wasn’t good. On the one hand, he was out of Thaddeus’s clutches. But now he was stuck inside a police station, which wasn’t exactly the safest place in the world. Suppose Thaddeus had agents working for the police? Even if he didn’t, a ‘secure facility’ like this one would be the obvious place to look. Kale had been right. Dr Darkkon would want his son back. He would stop at nothing to penetrate the police defences. In fact . . .

  Cadel’s chewing slowed as his mind began to work more smoothly. It occurred to him that if Thaddeus – or Prosper – was Kale’s number one target, then Cadel would be the perfect bait. Who but Thaddeus would be given the job of rescuing Darkkon’s son? No doubt the police were hoping to lure Thaddeus out of hiding by dangling Cadel in front of his nose.

  Well, that wasn’t going to happen. It didn’t need to happen. Cadel lifted his gaze to the ceiling; he noted the sprinkler system, the air-conditioning ducts, the flickering fluorescent lights. He got up and drifted to the window, which commanded a view of inner-city treetops, chimneys and apartment blocks. He judged himself to be on the second floor. Below him, the building stood in a small area of paved yard, with no fence or wall separating it from the street. Security must all be in the foyer.

  Pressing his nose against the glass, he could see one half of the street that bordered the building’s western side. There were several corrugated garage doors with ‘No Parking at All Times’ splashed on them in fading paint. There was a little kebab shop, a laundromat, a row of blank-faced terrace houses with no front yards; and down the street a bit, near a busy intersection, a bus shelter. A bus shelter and a taxi rank sign.

  Cadel wondered where Sonja was at that very moment. He wondered what she was thinking. He would never know if he stayed around here. Even if Thaddeus didn’t get to him, Cadel would be kept apart. Monitored. Followed. It would be like the Axis Institute all over again; he shuddered at the thought. They would stick him in safe houses, smother him with police protection and forbid him to go anywhere dangerous.

  Like Weatherwood House, for example. Thaddeus had sent agents to Weatherwood House already. There was nothing to stop him from sending them again, if he was desperate.

  Cadel’s brain clicked through its calculations, while his gaze roamed around the room. His backpack was on the floor. It contained all that he needed. He knew exactly where he was – in the dead centre of a large and crowded city full of bolt holes. What’s more, there was a taxi rank not far away, and a railway station not far beyond that. He checked the time: twenty to five. It would be getting dark soon.

  After about five minutes he turned to look at Bronwyn, who had subsided into a blank-eyed reverie.

  ‘I know where Prosper English lives,’ he said.

  Bronywn blinked, and shook herself.

  ‘What’s that, sweetie?’ she asked.

  ‘I know where Prosper English lives,’ Cadel repeated. ‘The man you’re all looking for. I slept at his house last night. Doesn’t anyone want to hear about it?’

  ‘Uh – well – yeah. Of course.’ Bronwyn was beginning to look flustered. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. ‘But I’m not the one to tell. Especially when you’re by yourself, like this –’

  ‘He lives in a house on a headland. A house called Curramulla,’ Cadel continued. ‘It’s about f
orty–five minutes south of Wollongong – I’m not sure where, exactly. It’s supposed to belong to a man called Ivan. I don’t know the second name.’ Cadel regarded Bronwyn calmly with his guileless blue gaze. ‘Don’t you think you’d better tell someone?’ he said.

  ‘Probably. Yes. Um. . .’

  ‘I need to go to the toilet,’ Cadel added.

  ‘Right. Okay.’ Bronwyn rose. ‘I tell you what – you follow me. I’ll show you where to go, and while you’re in the toilet, I’ll get somebody. All right?’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘You don’t have to take that.’ Cadel had just picked up his backpack. ‘You can leave it here.’

  ‘No,’ said Cadel, clutching the backpack to his chest.

  ‘It’ll be safe.’

  ‘How do you know?’ Cadel snapped. His hands were sweaty, but his voice didn’t tremble. ‘I’m not leaving this anywhere.’

  ‘Why not?’ Bronwyn had paused, with her hand on the doorknob. ‘What’s in it?’

  ‘My stuff,’ Cadel retorted, as rudely as possible.

  ‘Can I have a look?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I wouldn’t want you trying to kill yourself or anything.’ Bronwyn spoke matter of factly, but Cadel was appalled. It must have shown on his face, because Bronwyn smiled.

  ‘Kill myself?’ Cadel cried. ‘I don’t want to kill myself!’

  ‘Or anyone else?’

  ‘No!’ Something about Bronwyn’s expression – the detached, quizzical look in her eye – upset Cadel. ‘I’m not like my father! You’re not being fair! I wouldn’t kill anyone . . .’ He trailed off suddenly, as he recalled that he had killed someone. Several people, in fact. Though he hadn’t meant to.

  The memory brought tears to his eyes; he felt dirty and ashamed and frightened. What would happen when the police found out about that? Would they send him to a juvenile correctional centre? Would the name Darkkon protect him there? Not without Thaddeus, it wouldn’t.

  He had to get away.

  ‘It’s not my fault,’ he said thickly. ‘I mean, I didn’t – you – you don’t understand.’

  ‘Calm down,’ Bronwyn crooned, patting his shoulder. ‘It’s all right.’

  ‘Here! Take a look!’ He thrust the backpack under her nose, praying that she wouldn’t unwrap the jumper at the bottom of the bag. ‘Do you see any guns? Do you see any knives? I hate all this! I just want to be normal!’

  He pulled out the t-shirt. The jacket. He dropped them on the floor. Bronwyn held up her hand apologetically as she glanced into the bag.

  ‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘Calm down. I believe you.’

  ‘Well don’t look at me like that.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘It’s not my fault I’ve got a maniac for a father!’

  ‘No, no. Of course not.’

  As Cadel knelt down to retrieve his jacket, Bronwyn crouched beside him. She stuffed his t-shirt into his bag. She smelled of flowers.

  Cadel suddenly thought, with a pang: I wish I didn’t have to trick her.

  But he had no choice.

  ‘Okay,’ said Bronwyn, straightening up. ‘Let’s go.’

  She led him out of the room and down a corridor until she reached a door marked with a male and a female figure. On the way, they passed a bank of lifts, a kitchen alcove, six office doors and one labelled ‘Fire Stairs’. Cadel made a mental note of the fire stairs. He saw several uniformed police officers drinking coffee, or hurrying along with coloured files tucked under their arms. Every one of them stared at him curiously.

  He must have looked out of place, with his grubby old backpack. Unless they had been told about him?

  ‘Here,’ said Bronwyn, stopping in front of the toilets. ‘This do you?’

  ‘Thanks,’ Cadel replied.

  He plunged through the door, which opened into a very small vestibule. On the right was the ladies toilet; on the left was the gents. Cadel tapped on the right-hand door.

  There was no reply.

  When he pushed it open, he found himself in a bathroom containing three cubicles and three basins. He immediately locked himself in one of the cubicles and started to change. He took off all his clothes except his underwear. He put on the Indian cotton skirt, the leather shoes and the t-shirt that he’d packed, as well as the jumper in which he’d wrapped his makeup. He pulled a shoe-string out of his brand new sneakers and tied his hair back. Then he shrugged on the jacket that was lined with forged documents.

  His discarded clothes went into the bag, which he decided not to take with him. Instead, he stuffed it into the big plastic garbage bin under the hand-dryer. He used the mirror over the basins while donning his make-up, acutely conscious that anyone might walk in at any minute. But he had to be thorough – even the mascara had to go on. He looked a lot different with mascara in his lashes.

  Time was slipping away. Cadel wondered if Bronwyn had gone to fetch one of her superiors. He wondered if – more importantly – she had returned. But just as he reached the door of the Ladies, he heard the outer door squeak open.

  ‘Cadel?’ said a voice.

  It was Bronwyn’s.

  Cadel stopped, his heart in his mouth. Then his mind began to race, leaping ahead of the action, whirring fiercely through the probabilities. She would go to the door of the Gents. She would knock. She would enter.

  ‘Cadel?’

  He heard the knock. He heard the door of the Gents squeak. When it flapped shut behind her, he waited an exactly calculated three seconds (to give her time to reach the cubicles) before sliding into the vestibule and out into the hallway.

  There was no one waiting there. Just as well, because somebody like Kale Platz might have seen through his disguise. But there were people around – in an office, in the kitchen alcove – so Cadel didn’t rush. He didn’t run. He walked briskly to the fire stairs and calmly through the door.

  Only then did he run.

  He knew that he didn’t have much time. Bronwyn would check the Ladies, then sound the alarm. This thought had barely entered his head when he hit the second-last flight and caught a glimpse of his destination. Ground floor.

  The stairs kept going, down into the underground car park. But Cadel wasn’t heading for the car park. He was heading for the street, and – lo and behold! – there was a street exit! Not just a foyer exit, but a street exit as well!

  It hadn’t been locked from the inside. Someone was following the fire regulations. Cadel slammed through it, and stood still for a split second, panting hard.

  There was a brick planter in front of him, full of low bushes that fenced the building off from the street. Across the road was a kebab shop, a laundromat . . . of course!

  The taxi rank!

  Cadel hurled himself across the road, dodging a motorbike. He didn’t look back. He didn’t want to know if anyone was chasing him. He focused all his energy on the intersection, the bus shelter, and the taxi rank, which, if his eyes weren’t misleading him, had a taxi parked in it.

  Cadel scurried towards the taxi, desperately afraid that someone might reach it before he did. That man, for instance – the one in the leather jacket – but no. That man walked right past. Cadel nearly knocked into him, dodged his leather-clad elbow at the last possible instant, and began to wave at the taxi. He didn’t think to check whether its ‘For Hire’ sign was illuminated.

  He just yanked open a door and threw himself into the back seat.

  ‘Miss!’ the cab driver was saying. ‘Miss, I’m on my lunch break –’ ‘Blacktown!’ Cadel gasped, wildly plucking a distant suburb out of his head. He knew, from his long study of the Sydney Rail Network, that from Blacktown he could catch a train to Lithgow, and from Lithgow a bus to the country – Bathurst, perhaps . . .

  Then the driver’s words sank in.

  ‘I’ll – I’ll pay double,’ he stammered, forgetting to disguise his voice. ‘Triple! Look, I’ve got the money –’

  ‘Cadel?’

  H
e almost choked. The driver turned. There was a ‘click’ as the central locking system engaged.

  Wilfreda was sitting in the front seat, wearing a black wig under a knitted beret.

  ‘Christ!’ she exclaimed, and the engine roared to life. Cadel couldn’t believe it. His mind went blank.

  The taxi burned rubber swinging into the street. Wilfreda scrambled for her phone. She jabbed at a single key and started to gabble, driving one-handed.

  ‘Rudy!’ she said. ‘It’s me! I need back-up, I’ve had to leave. Yes, the whole team. No, and I can’t! Because I’ve got cargo! Of course I know what I’m doing!’

  She stamped on the brake. Cadel banged his nose on the headrest in front of him. ‘Sorry,’ said Wilfreda. She opened a window, and yelled at the man in the leather jacket who had passed Cadel not a minute before. ‘Get in!’ she cried. ‘Quick!’

  He didn’t protest. Cadel heard the door locks again, but before he could pull at a handle, the man in the leather jacket was beside him.

  ‘What the hell?’ gasped the man.

  ‘Cargo!’ Wilfreda growled, hitting the accelerator once more. Cadel’s head snapped back.

  ‘Who’s this?’ The man was staring at Cadel. He was unshaven, with floppy black hair and cold eyes.

  ‘Guess,’ said Wilfreda.

  ‘It’s not – it can’t be –’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Bloody hell!’

  ‘There’s Nikolai.’

  Nikolai was a fat, bald, elderly man in shirtsleeves, slouched on a fold-out tin chair that had been placed in front of a terrace house. He was nursing a string of blue worry-beads, and struggled to his feet when he saw the taxi come to a halt on the other side of the road.

  At Wilfreda’s signal, he waddled across to her.

  ‘In,’ she said.

  Next thing, both of Cadel’s escape routes were cut off. On one side of him sat the man in the leather jacket; on the other sat a big, fat, snorting old man who looked vaguely familiar . . .