Evil Genius Part 37

FORTY-FOUR.

Subject IJ2n was the code name for Dr Deal. Subject IM3r was the code name for Tracey. Dr Deal had gone to Tracey's house, stayed an hour, then rushed off to Darlinghurst police station.

Why?

Numbly, Cadel considered the possibility that Dr Deal was about to spill the beans about everything: Thaddeus, Dr Darkkon, the Axis Inst.i.tute . . . everything. Perhaps the lawyer was scared. Scared because his house had been searched. Scared because someone was following him. Scared of being 'sorted out' by Luther Lasco. (An unexpected heart attack, perhaps? An unfortunate accident in his own spa bath?) Nothing that the police might do to Dr Deal could ever be as bad as a Luther Lasco solution.

While Cadel tried to work out what was happening, he kept checking the surveillance reports. There was no news after ten minutes. No news after fifteen, or twenty-five. Another hour pa.s.sed before the next message came through from the team following Tracey.

Re: Subject IM3r. Police have arrived at house with ambulance. Crime scene tapes erected. Query: Further directions? Looks bad.

A little later came another message.

URGENT. Subject IJ2n still on site. Police team dispatched. Please advise.

Cadel was doing frantic calculations in his head, but it was pointless; he didn't have enough data to work with. Obviously, Dr Deal had gone straight to Tracey's house because the Fuhrer believed that she had delivered the envelope. Any man in Dr Deal's position would have wanted to know what the h.e.l.l she was up to. Unless there was another reason? It suddenly occurred to Cadel that Dr Deal might not have known about Tracey's relationship with Terry. Other people had known (Carla, for example), so Cadel had a.s.sumed a he had a.s.sumed, like an idiot! a that the lawyer would know too. Especially since Terry knew all about Dr Deal.

But Cadel had never laid eyes on any written proof that Dr Deal did know about Tracey and Terry. What if he hadn't? What if he had been told about Terry, for the first time, in Thaddeus's office? What if he had gone to Tracey's house with rage in his heart, discovered the truth, and decided to seek revenge by spilling his guts to the police?

Cadel considered this scenario from every angle, but he wasn't convinced. He couldn't imagine Dr Deal doing any such thing. And the numbers certainly made no sense, when he was trying to calculate probabilities. On the other hand, if Dr Deal feared that he was being framed by Luther and Thaddeus and Adolf a wouldn't that be enough to send him running for help?

Finally, after two more hours, a report was filed that removed all doubt.

Re: Subject IM3r. Corpse removed from subject's house in body bag. Forensic activity. Media attending. Subject IM3r deceased?

Tracey was dead. Cadel squeaked, and covered his mouth with his hand. Com looked up. He directed an inquiring glance at Cadel.

'I a I've got a headache,' Cadel stammered. This seemed to satisfy Com, who returned to his program. Cadel, however, couldn't face his computer again.

He shut the whole thing down, with trembling fingers. Then he headed blindly for the door. He had to get out. He had to a to a To what?

They were watching him. It was important to keep that in mind. He couldn't do anything peculiar a anything that might alert Thaddeus. Not while he was under surveillance. Crying and moaning, wringing his hands a they were out of the question. If he didn't control himself, swallow his sobs, blink away his tears, then Thaddeus would hear of it. Thaddeus would hear and wonder.

There must be a place, he thought despairingly, as he stepped into the lift. Somewhere I can hide . . .

And then he remembered.

He was shuffling across the lawn, making for the front gate, when someone called his name. 'Cadel! Cadel!' The voice rang out like a siren, but he kept going. He had to. Gazo was bound to say something stupid, and the electronic sensors were everywhere. Cadel picked up his pace as Gazo's heavy steps began to close the gap between them. Thump, thump, thump! When Cadel swiped his key-card, the gates opened automatically. Wall-mounted cameras were trained on his small, hunched figure.

The gates were closing behind him when Gazo slipped through them, narrowly avoiding a nasty accident.

'Gazo! For G.o.d's sake!'

'Didn't you hear me?'

'I heard you.' Cadel darted across the street; he wanted to put as much s.p.a.ce as possible between himself and the inst.i.tute. Before Gazo opened his big mouth and ruined everything. 'What is it?'

'Wait! Cadel! I'm not allowed out here!'

Cadel stopped. His quick eye noted everything in the immediate area: the man staring from a shop doorway; the car with tinted windows parked under a plane tree; the black metal box attached to the inst.i.tute wall, near the gates. When Gazo reached him, another car pa.s.sed them both, so quickly that Cadel couldn't see inside it.

'Then why don't you go back?' he asked loudly, before lowering his voice and adding: 'We can't talk, Gazo, it's not safe. No, don't look around, just go back. Please.'

'Can I give you a lift?'

'What?'

'Wherever you're going, I can give you a lift.'

To Cadel's horror, Gazo actually winked behind his headpiece. Cadel hoped that no one watching them had noticed this conspiratorial little gesture.

'You mean in Abraham's car?' asked Cadel.

'It's a great car,' Gazo replied. 'I drove it all over the place yesterday.' 'I can't get in that car with you. Not if you're driving.' 'No, no! It's all right!' Gazo was beaming. 'I can drive with me suit on! Headpiece and all!'

'Really?'

'Really. I already tried.'

Cadel hesitated. Perhaps, in Abraham's car . . .

But no. It was probably bugged by now. The Grunts would have noticed that Cadel had got into it yesterday. He couldn't take any risks.

'No thanks, Gazo.'

'But a '

'Go back inside. You're not allowed out here. You're attracting attention.' 'Cadel?' Gazo was looking at him closely. 'What's wrong?' 'I've got a headache,' Cadel snapped, and turned away. He felt bad, but he couldn't talk. He was about to crack. Hurrying towards the station, he put all his energy into controlling the muscles of his face. He tried to empty his mind, so that stray thoughts of Sonja or Tracey didn't make him cry.

On the train, he read advertis.e.m.e.nts. He listened to a conversation about someone's aunt, who had found romance in a nursing home while visiting her aged mother. When he finally reached his stop, he really did have a headache. It pounded away at his skull as if demanding to be released. Cadel wondered if all the tears trapped inside his head were beginning to split it open.

It was a twenty-five minute walk from the station to Cramp-ton College. Stumbling down the quiet, leafy suburban streets, Cadel kept his eyes peeled. Several cars pa.s.sed him, as did an old man walking a dog. A plumber's van drove up to someone's house and parked. A woman pushed a stroller down one street, with a real baby inside.

Surely Adolf couldn't be hiring real babies?

The school, when Cadel reached it, was deserted. On a Sat.u.r.day afternoon there weren't even any sports teams around. Cadel marched quickly across the empty playground. Using one of his Crampton keys, he entered the eastern block, then the science staffroom. He couldn't risk the maths staffroom, because Mrs Brezeck frequented it, and Thaddeus might have bugged it as a result. But the science staffroom would be safe.

Having locked himself in, he crawled under a desk. Then he curled himself into a ball and began to cry.

He didn't know what to do. Everything was out of control. Tracey was dead. Dead. Had Dr Deal actually killed her? There, in her house? Or had he found her like that? Perhaps he had found her like that and panicked. Perhaps he had gone to the police because he a.s.sumed that Luther had killed Tracey, and he was afraid that the same thing would happen to him.

But what if he really had killed her? A sudden, vivid picture leapt into Cadel's head: a picture of Dr Deal punching him in the face. Had Dr Deal done the same thing to Tracey? Because he thought she was trying to frame him? Because he was jealous of Terry? Cadel didn't know. He didn't have the data. Dr Deal, Tracey, Brendan, Art a he didn't know any of these people well enough to predict their actions, not really. He had misjudged some crucial conjunction, and made a complete mess of everything. Someone had been killed! Because of him! And now the whole scenario was collapsing. Events were playing out in a way that he had never antic.i.p.ated.

He wiped his face, his chest heaving. What was he going to do? He had unleashed a tornado. Pressed a red b.u.t.ton. He was frightened to look at the Axis network again in case he saw something or someone else disintegrating in front of his eyes. First Brendan. Now Tracey. Next Dr Deal would go a Luther would get him for sure. And Art? What about Art? What if Max did catch him? If that happened, Cadel would be responsible for yet another death. He wouldn't have wanted it, but he would have caused it, as directly as he had caused Tracey's.

He remembered rating the probability of Max catching Art. Breaking the probability down into a complex number. Measuring it against other numbers. Why had he never thought? Why had it never occurred to him that he would actually be killing someone? He was as bad as the rest of them. As bad as Luther. What would Sonja say? How could he tell her? How would he tell her? He wanted to talk to her so much, but he couldn't; he didn't dare.

'What am I going to do?' he sobbed. 'What am I going to do?'

He couldn't escape a not yet. Brendan and Dr Deal might be out of the picture, but he couldn't be sure about Art. As for Alias, he knew more about Cadel's Ariel disguise than anyone. Cadel's plan for Alias had already backfired, now that Dr Deal was in police custody. Cadel would have to think of something else. But how could he? How could he trust himself, after making so many terrible mistakes?

'I don't know what to do,' he whimpered.

He felt so ashamed. So small and lonely and miserable. More than anything else, he wanted someone to hug him and tell him that he didn't have to worry. Around him, the empty staffroom was quiet and sunlit. There were snapshots pinned on a bulletin board, along with a duty roster, an ad for a sofa bed, a cartoon, a postcard from Surfers Paradise. The mugs beside the electric jug were covered in hand-painted flowers and funny slogans. A back pillow had been left propped on one chair, and a red cardigan was draped over another. Everywhere lay science textbooks, unmarked exams, broken laboratory equipment.

Gradually, these things began to affect Cadel. He began to calm down, soothed by the warm light, the happy photographs, the deeply ordinary quality of his surroundings. He realised how wonderful it was, to sit in a room that wasn't bugged, scorched or oozing with strange liquids. At the inst.i.tute, he realised, his nerves were always taut; there was never a moment when he didn't run the risk of being spied on, or attacked, or taunted, or ambushed by some appalling sight or smell. Here, everything was peaceful. Nothing really bad, he decided, could ever happen in this room.

He got up and blew his nose. There was a mirror sitting on one of the desks; in it, he saw his face, which was smeared and blotchy. His eyes were bloodshot. His hair was a mess.

He couldn't go out looking like this. The Grunts were bound to report it: Subject highly agitated. He would have to wash his face. Comb his hair. Wait until his eyes weren't so puffy.

He found a comb in a drawer and water in the electric jug. He also found another photograph a a family shot. In it, Mr Jankovic was sitting in a rowboat with his family: a wife, two children and a golden retriever. They were all laughing, even the golden retriever. Cadel looked at it and caught his breath. He thought: I could have had that. I could have had that if my father hadn't interfered. I could have had a proper family. Real parents.

Suddenly, he didn't feel like crying any more. All the confusion, the fear, the despair a it all trickled away, leaving something cold and hard, like a stone, in his gut. He thought, resentfully: This is my father's doing. I didn't start it, but I'm going to end it. I'll take the whole b.l.o.o.d.y lot down with me. Whatever happens, I'm going to make that b.a.s.t.a.r.d suffer for what he's done.

And then he saw the mobile phone, half-hidden by a confiscated frisbee. It was sitting directly beneath the postcard on the bulletin board. Right beside a plastic-covered library book.

The idea was there, waiting for him. If someone had written it down, it could not have been more obvious.

FORTY-FIVE.

Cadel didn't return to the inst.i.tute. The thought of it made him sick. Instead, he went straight home, where James Guisnel and his partner a alias Mr and Mrs Piggott a were comparing schedules. They sat at the dining-room table, with a bottle of red wine standing open between them.

'h.e.l.lo!' Lanna trilled. 'So you're back, are you?'

'Where have you been?' Stuart demanded gruffly, and Cadel snorted.

'As if you didn't know,' he growled.

'Eh? What's that?'

'Nothing.'

'Beef stroganoff tonight, Cadel,' Lanna interrupted, trying to maintain a cheerful tone. 'Your favourite.'

Cadel muttered something and escaped to his bedroom. He wondered why the Piggotts were at home. Who had ordered them to be there, and for what reason? Was it simply a coincidence? Even on weekends, Stuart was usually away. Attending to his real life, no doubt.

Cadel tried to imagine what that life might be like, and failed. He couldn't picture Stuart at the beach, or in a shop. The guy was like a cardboard cut-out a a cartoon. On reflection, Cadel realised that James Guisnel hadn't done a very convincing job of Stuart Piggott. Either he was a lousy actor, or Dr Darkkon had requested that Cadel be raised by a man with all the warmth and humour of a scarecrow.

After all, a hopeless adoptive father would ensure that Cadel bonded to his real father a not to mention his therapist. Thaddeus would have worked it all out. The whole business would have been carefully planned. Cadel could just see Thaddeus calculating the exact amount of rejection and isolation that Cadel would need, to turn him into a freak.

The thought made him so angry, he had to stuff it into his mental trash can, and pound the lid down over it. No point fretting about that now. He had other matters to attend to.

Cadel poked listlessly at his computer keyboard until dinner time, turning things over and over in his head. At least he was going to speak to Sonja a that was something. From Crampton College, using the abandoned mobile in the science staffroom, he had called Sonja's local library. He had asked Beatrice to pa.s.s on a message to Sonja: Be at the Memorial Pool tomorrow, from two to four. I'll call you there. Cadel had it all worked out. He had seen from the Surfers Paradise postcard that Mr Prowse was away for two weeks. He knew where Mr Prowse lived, of course; he knew where all the Crampton teachers lived. He would go to Mr Prowse's house tomorrow and call Sonja from there. With his knowledge of locks, it shouldn't be hard to find a way in. And if they had an alarm system a well, he would simply disable it.

'Cadel! Dinner time!'

Cadel groaned. He could hardly bear the prospect of dining alone with the Piggotts. Fortunately, Stuart always watched the news while he ate. It saved him from having to make conversation. And while Lanna sometimes attempted to chat with Cadel, Stuart usually shushed her when an important story (about share prices, for instance) appeared on the television screen.

That evening was no different. When Cadel reached the dining room, he saw that the news had been switched on. It was clearly visible through the archway that divided the dining room from the vast, sweeping landscape of the living room, with all its gla.s.s walls and hectares of polished wood. Stuart was already gobbling down his beef stroganoff, his gaze fixed on a very dull item about some sort of political scandal. Cadel sat down. He unfolded his white linen napkin and placed it on his lap.

'So. Cadel,' said Lanna brightly. 'How was your day?'

'Good,' Cadel replied.

'You went to the inst.i.tute?'

'Yes.'

'I hope you ate a decent lunch.'

'Yes.'

'Have you checked your weight, lately? It seems to me that you're thinner than usual. Though of course you might have shot up a bit a that's what generally happens, with you.'

Tracey Lane, the television suddenly announced, catching Cadel's attention. Ms Lane, a former channel seven newsreader and travel show presenter, was found dead in her eastern suburbs home early this afternoon . . .

'Hey!' exclaimed Stuart. 'Isn't that a didn't she work for the inst.i.tute?'

'Of course she did!' said Lanna. 'We met her there! Oh my G.o.d, Stuart!'

Cadel said nothing. He simply stared at the screen, listening hard. There was mention of a 'suspect in custody', but no names were provided. Lanna made a horrified noise.

'Oh dear,' she shrilled. 'This is awful!'

'Shhh!' said Stuart.

But there wasn't much more to the story. Tracey had been beaten to death. An ambulance was shown, receiving into its depths her shrouded form. A 'glamour shot' was also displayed; in it, Tracey was gazing soulfully at the camera, her blonde hair carefully set, her face gleaming with make-up.

Cadel looked away, blinking fiercely. A 'suspect in custody'. Could that be Dr Deal?

'I don't understand,' said Lanna. 'Are they saying they have the person who did it?'