"Excuse me," he gasped, when he reached the silver car. "Excuse me!"
The driver's window slowly descended. A gray-haired man with a seamed, pouchy face was sitting behind it.
"Keep moving, son," he said.
"Yes, I will," Cadel panted. "But could you take this monitor for me? Please? So I won't have to carry it home?"
"No can do. Sorry."
"Oh, please! " Cadel exclaimed, adjusting his grip on the heavy piece of equipment. "You wouldn't be giving me a lift, just the monitor!"
The man's gaze ran over Cadel's damp curls, flushed cheeks, and pleading expression. He seemed to hesitate for a moment. But his younger colleague beside him said, "Get away from the car, kid. You know the rules."
Cadel lowered his chin. He narrowed his eyes. Something in them must have unnerved the older man, because he frowned and adjusted his sunglasses.
"You start glaring at people like that, my friend, and you're going to get in trouble one of these days," he declared. "Now step away from the car. Go on."
Cadel swallowed. He wanted to throw his monitor through the car's windshield—and might have done so, had it been possible to lift the heavy component higher than his breastbone. Instead he turned away, fuming. Then he trudged home through the rain, concentrating on geometric multigrid algorithms in a fierce attempt to disassociate himself from what he was actually doing.
It was a technique that he'd often used when helping Sonja to get dressed. By gabbling on about something she might be interested in—like Laplace equations, for instance—he was able to distance himself from the whole embarrassing and undignified procedure.
By the time he reached the Donkins' house, he was wet, sore, and utterly exhausted. It was ten past two. Cadel knew that he only had one hour and twenty minutes of online exploring left. After kicking off his soggy sneakers, he deposited the rescued monitor in his bedroom and threw himself in front of Hazel's keyboard, conscious that he hadn't yet eaten lunch. It didn't matter, though. There were more important things than lunch to worry about.
Heaving a sigh of relief, he prepared to plunge into the virtual world, where he felt truly at home.
And then the doorbell rang.
Cadel caught his breath. Surely that couldn't be a visitor? Please, he thought, let that be someone trying to sell cosmetics or charity chocolates. Please don't let them come in here and start yak-yak-yakking away while I'm trying to concentrate.
He clenched his teeth as Hazel waddled past him to answer the front door. A murmur of voices soon reached his ears, followed by the sound of approaching footsteps.
Three sets of footsteps.
He looked up to see Hazel emerging from the hallway with two people behind her: a man and a woman. The woman was small and slim, with extraordinarily thick, reddish, flyaway hair escaping from various combs and pins and loops of elastic. The man was neat and wiry, with dark hair going gray, and somber brown eyes.
Cadel knew the woman. She was Fiona Currey, his social worker. But he had never seen the man before.
"Hi, Cadel," said Fiona, with an apologetic smile. "I hope we're not disturbing you."
Cadel wasn't about to lie, so he remained silent. It was Hazel who spoke for him, assuring the newcomers that they were very welcome, and offering them a cup of tea—or perhaps coffee?
"No thanks, Hazel, that's okay," said Fiona. "To be honest, I hope we won't have to stay long. We just need a few words with Cadel. In his room, perhaps? I realize it's a bore."
There was a hint of exasperation in Fiona's voice. Cadel knew her well enough by now to realize that she was annoyed with someone. For a moment he studied her curiously, noting the flush on her chalky, freckled skin. Then his gaze traveled to the man beside her, who was staring at Cadel in obvious surprise.
"This is Detective Inspector Greeniaus," Fiona explained. "He wants to talk to you, Cadel; I'm sorry."
Her tone confirmed that she wasn't pleased. The detective put out his hand, which Cadel took reluctantly.
"I'm very happy to meet you," said Mr. Greeniaus, whose accent branded him as North American. "You can call me Saul, if you want."
"It's your computer time now, isn't it?" Fiona sounded genuinely worried as she addressed Cadel. When he nodded, she winced. "I'm so sorry. I had a feeling it might be."
"Then I'll be quick as I can," Mr. Greeniaus remarked. Though the detective's manner was very mild, it was somehow clear that he would brook no argument. So with an aggrieved sigh, Cadel rose from his seat in front of the computer and led the way to his bedroom.
Here there were only two places to sit: on a battered old typist's chair or on the bed. Cadel chose the typist's chair. He felt ill at ease in his room, which still bore traces of its previous occupants: a name ("Carlie") scratched into the baseboard; half a dozen hooks screwed into the ceiling; a unicorn transfer peeling off the windowpane. Nothing in the room had been chosen by Cadel, apart from the clothes in the wardrobe, the books under the bed, and the monitor sitting on the floor.
"Oh!" Fiona exclaimed, when she saw this piece of technology. "Have you bought a computer, Cadel?"
"No," Cadel replied. "I'm going to make one. Out of spare parts." He caught sight of the detective's raised eyebrow, and growled, "I didn't steal it, you know! Someone left it in the street!"
He knew that there were policemen who still distrusted him, and he assumed that Mr. Greeniaus was one of them. But the detective shook his head.
"I'm not accusing you of anything," he murmured. "I just can't get over it, is all. You look so young to be building your own computer."
"I'm fifteen."
"Yes. I realize that."
"Cadel's seen a lot of police over the past few months," Fiona observed, dropping onto the bed. "You'll have to excuse him if he's a little sick of it."
Cadel suppressed a smile. He knew quite well that Fiona was the one who objected most strongly to all the police interviews that he had endured. For one thing, she thought them unnecessary. For another, she was usually required to be with Cadel when they were conducted, since he had no family members to look after his interests.
Fiona was a busy woman—too busy to be constantly running off to the Donkins' for yet another police interview.
"Yes," said Mr. Greeniaus, fixing her with a serious look. "We realize it's been difficult."
"Especially since there doesn't seem to be much communication between all you people," Fiona went on. "I mean, he keeps getting different guys from different units asking him the same questions."
"I understand." The detective nodded. "That's why we've taken your complaints on board. I've been officially appointed as Cadel's liaison officer. I'll be asking all the questions from now on. Even if the FBI or the NSA want to know something."
"Aren't you from the FBI?" said Cadel, and Mr. Greeniaus shook his head.
"No."
"But you're American, aren't you?"
"I'm Canadian." The detective spoke quietly and patiently. "I was with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police until I came to Australia. Then I joined the police force here."
"You mean you were a Mountie?" Cadel exclaimed, in astonishment. He tried to imagine Mr. Greeniaus wearing a red jacket and funny pants, sitting up on a horse. It was difficult.
"I don't ride, if that's what you're thinking." The detective didn't smile, but there was a glint in his eye as he looked at Cadel. "The RCMP is a regular police force, driving regular cars and wearing regular uniforms. Except on parade."
"Why did you come here?" Fiona inquired, with real interest.
"I married an Australian," was the calm response. Because Mr. Greeniaus was now positioned on the bed beside Fiona, Cadel—who sat facing them—saw the way her curious gaze dropped to the detective's unadorned left hand. No wedding ring was visible. "It didn't work out," Saul Greeniaus declared, and the subject was closed.
At that instant, someone knocked on the bedroom door. It creaked open a few inches.
"Excuse me," said Hazel, without
attempting to cross the threshold. "I'm sorry to interrupt."
"Come in, Hazel. It's your house," Fiona urged. But Hazel shook her head.
"No, no, that's all right. I just wanted to say—I have to go and pick up Janan from school. So if there's anything you want before I leave..."
"No, we're fine," said Fiona. "Don't worry."
"Because I've put fresh Anzac biscuits on the kitchen table, if you'd like some. Just help yourself."
"Hazel, the last thing I want is for you to fret about us," Fiona replied. "You go and do what you have to do."
"Okay. Well, I'll be back soon."
"Thanks, Hazel."
The door closed gently. Cadel said to Fiona, "If you want some biscuits, you'd better get them now. Before Mace comes home and scarfs the lot."
Fiona glanced at her watch, sighing. "How long before he gets here?" she asked. "About an hour?"
"A bit less."
"Oh lord." Fiona turned to Mr. Greeniaus. "Once the other kids come home, we won't have a second's peace," she pointed out, as the detective plucked a small cassette recorder from inside his gray jacket.
Moved by a sudden mischievous impulse, Cadel said, "By the way, Mace pissed on my bed this morning." With some satisfaction he then watched the two adults jump to their feet. "It's all right, though," he assured them. "I changed the sheets, and he missed the bedspread."
Fiona clicked her tongue. "Oh, Cadel," she said, gingerly settling back onto the bed. "I am sorry. Did you tell Hazel?"
"Course."
"What did she say?"
Cadel shrugged. "The usual," he rejoined. "Mace reckoned it was a joke."
Fiona muttered under her breath. Cadel had always liked Fiona, because she tended to say what she thought instead of hiding behind a sweet and gentle facade. Though she tried to stay pleasant, she couldn't always keep her temper in check.
Mr. Greeniaus, on the other hand, didn't look like a person who lost his cool easily. He was still on his feet, regarding Cadel with a speculative expression in his dark eyes.
"I notice you don't have a lock on this door," he said.
"No."
"So this kid—Mace—he can get in here whenever he wants?"
"Yes."
"Must be annoying. To have someone poking around in your stuff."
Cadel was about to nod when something about Saul's tone caught his attention. Peering up into the detective's face, he flushed suddenly.
Saul was having a dig at him.
"Hacking a system doesn't mean that you have to trash it," he spluttered. "I never did. Not even when I was seven years old."
"And I hope you're not here to make accusations!" Fiona cried, as she realized what was going on. "Because if you are, I'll have to call a halt and contact Cadel's lawyer!"
Mr. Greeniaus took a step back, raising one hand. "I'm not accusing anyone of anything," he said softly. "I'm just here to ask questions."
"Then ask them!" snapped Fiona. "We haven't got all day."
"You're right," said the detective. And he turned on his cassette recorder.
FOUR
For his eleventh birthday, Cadel had received a very special cell phone from Dr. Darkkon. It had been a fully functioning computer, with wireless capacity, photo function, hard drive, and DNA wiring (courtesy of Dr. Darkkon's secret nanotechnology lab). The phone had worked well for a number of years, but had abruptly stopped functioning after it was confiscated by the police.
Cadel had never expected to see it again. One day, however, he had found himself sitting across a table from two representatives of the U.S. National Security Agency, who had bombarded him with questions about his computer phone. Apparently something had gone wrong with the biological portion of its wiring. Some kind of short circuit had fused most of the DNA substrate. But the NSA was determined to replicate the original design, because DNA wiring would mean an end to many of the heat problems associated with electrical high-speed processing. "This is breakthrough technology," Cadel was assured. "We want to know where it came from and how it can be imitated."
So Cadel had tried to help. Though his understanding of the technology was incomplete, he had answered all the questions put to him.
For that reason, perhaps, the NSA had kept asking them.
"Here's another list of queries from the NSA," Mr. Greeniaus said, removing a folded sheet of paper from his pocket and placing it on Cadel's desk. "If you could write down some answers, Cadel, I'll convey them to the interested parties."
"All right," Cadel agreed. He didn't mind answering questions about computers.
"Now..." The detective seated himself on the bed again, carefully positioning his cassette recorder so that it was pointed directly at Cadel. "I want you to cast your mind back to your appointments with Prosper English—or Thaddeus Roth, as he called himself. Because originally he was supposed to be your therapist, is that right?"
"Yes."
"And you would go to his office and have counseling sessions."
"Except that they weren't really counseling sessions," Cadel admitted. "Sometimes we'd talk about how to lie, or how not to get caught sabotaging systems. But mostly we would make broadcasts to Dr. Darkkon."
"Who was in a California prison at that time."
"Yes." Cadel nodded. "They had a special transmitter."
"And you would talk about your future—perhaps about some of the projects that you were involved in?"
"Cadel's already covered this," Fiona interrupted sharply. "He's told you what he did, and it was all with that man's encouragement. If you're going to touch on it again, I'll have to call a lawyer!"
"As a matter of fact, I'm more interested in Prosper's other clients," said Mr. Greeniaus. Cadel met his searching gaze with a look of surprise. "Any kids you might have seen coming or going, when you were at the office. He was supposed to specialize in troubled children, wasn't he?"
"I-I think so." This was a new area of inquiry for Cadel. He had never given it much thought. "I did see other kids, once or twice," he confessed. "But I thought—well, wasn't it all a front? I mean, he wasn't actually working as a psychologist, was he?"
"That we don't know yet."
"I guess I assumed that those other kids were just ... well, some of his people." Cadel shifted uncomfortably. "He had a lot of people working for him."
"Can you describe them to me, Cadel? The kids you saw?"
Cadel tried. He cast his mind back to the dark old terrace house where Prosper had received him; to Wilfreda, the strange receptionist with black teeth; to the morose-looking teenagers who had sometimes passed Cadel in the hallway, or on the stairs. He didn't like thinking about the old days in Prosper's office.
Just the memory of Prosper's sardonic, penetrating stare gave him a chill.
"There was a girl called Bella," he recalled. "I saw her twice. She was quite tall and—you know—big. With greasy hair. She was wearing a school uniform."
"What did it look like?"
"Maroon blazer. A kind of checked, pleated skirt..."
Cadel continued haltingly, racking his brain for relevant details. When he couldn't think of anything else to say, the detective moved to his next area of inquiry.
"With regard to the Axis Institute, which you attended for several months last year," he said, "you've told us that Prosper English called himself the chancellor of this institution, is that right?"
"Yes."
"And you've given us full details of the teaching staff who conducted courses in forgery, embezzlement, computer hacking, assassination, and so forth. Most of whom are either dead or missing."
Cadel waited.
"There were even some support staff—kitchen workers, I believe," the detective went on. "You've described them to us already."
"Yes." Cadel sighed. "I never knew their names."
"Do you recall any other support staff? Gardeners? Secretarial? Administrators? Anyone at all?"
Now, that, Cadel decided, was a good question. It was the ques
tion of someone who was seriously searching for corroborative evidence.
"There were gardeners," he said slowly. "I remember them. The grounds were so well kept. And there had to have been people who fixed things, because of all the explosions and break-ins and spontaneous combustion that happened." Cadel forced his reluctant mind down paths he would rather have avoided. "I think—I think there was a guy who used to collect stray dogs and cats for lab experiments," he added. "In a white van."
"Can you tell me anything more about him? Did you ever see him?"
"No. I was told about him."
"And the gardeners? What about them?"
Cadel was still struggling to recollect something—anything—about the gardeners at the Axis Institute when Janan arrived home. His pounding footsteps and loud, high-pitched voice distracted Cadel for only a moment. There were more important things to concentrate on.
"I've been wondering if some of the people I met later might have been working as support staff at the institute," he mused. "Like that old guy Nikolai, who used to follow me around. And Vadi. The man with the gills. Surely he didn't spend his whole life cleaning Prosper's house?"
Suddenly a piercing scream made them all jump. It was followed by a huge crash, then by more wild yelling. The floor shook as if from repeated blows.
Fiona and Saul sat up straight, clearly alarmed.
"It's only Janan," said Cadel, in a resigned voice. "He probably lost his chocolate-bar wrapper." Seeing the two adults exchange a questioning glance, he felt obliged to elaborate. "Janan collects these chocolate-bar wrappers," he explained. "When you've got twenty-five, you can send them in and win a mountain bike, or something. He's completely obsessed. Hazel gives him a chocolate bar for lunch every day at school, and when he gets home, he puts the wrapper away in a special box." Cadel cocked his ear, listening to the tattoo of fists bouncing off walls. "My guess is that he lost today's wrapper."
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