He shrugged. "You always said that it couldn't be a coincidence," he rejoined, inwardly cursing his own stupidity. Saul seemed to accept this explanation, though he continued to watch Cadel in a pensive sort of way.
"Apparently GenoME is planning to assassinate Prosper at the Coroner's Court. With Gazo's help. I'm pleased to say that Gazo came straight to us with the information." Saul frowned suddenly. "What's wrong?"
"Ass-assassinate?" Cadel stammered. "Assassinate?"
"Yes," Saul replied. "It was in the cards. I daresay Earl Toffany wants to be his own man, without having to run errands for Darkkon or Prosper English. Darkkon's dead now, of course, but there's always a chance that Prosper might be acquitted—or that he might escape. Or even that he might rat on Earl Toffany. Stranger things have happened." Saul heaved a sigh. "Anyway, whatever the reason, some of those GenoME drones are going to shoot Prosper when he's in the courtroom." Lunging forward, the detective caught Cadel's ice cream as it slipped from his fingers. "Cadel? Look at me. It's not going to happen."
"Oh dear." Fiona laid a hand on Cadel's back. "Put your head down, sweetie. Take a deep breath."
Cadel felt sick. He lurched to his feet, staggered a few steps, and vomited all over the grass.
By the time he'd finished, he was slumped on the ground, dazed and blinking. Fiona was wiping his mouth with a tissue; Saul was swearing somewhere behind him.
"Water," Fiona said. "Empty that can and get me some water." She must have been addressing Saul, because when Cadel started to get up, she forced him back down. "It's all right. Everything's all right."
"It must—it was the ice cream." Cadel croaked.
"I know."
"Pig fat..."
"Shh. Take it easy." Her cool hand was on his forehead. "Did you eat any lunch?"
"Uh ... no." He had been too busy. "But I'm okay now."
"Give it a minute," Fiona advised. "Saul's bringing some water for you."
Cadel couldn't believe what had just happened. His whole body was trembling. He was racked with shame. How could he have been so feeble? What on earth was the matter with him?
"Here." Saul thrust the lemonade can under Cadel's nose. "Rinse your mouth out."
"He doesn't have a fever," Fiona murmured. "But he didn't eat any lunch. And then with the ice cream on top of that, and the shock..."
"Can you move, Cadel? You don't want to be sitting here; it's a mess."
Cadel struggled to his feet, appalled at how shaky his knees were. After collapsing onto the bench, he looked up to see Saul and Fiona hovering over him, wearing identical expressions of sympathy and concern. Fiona was bent almost double. Saul was holding the lemonade in one hand and a melting ice-cream cone in the other.
It was terrible to observe their compassionate faces and to know that they were being deceived. Cadel had never before felt so bad about misleading anyone.
Tears sprang to his eyes.
"Oh, sweetie." Fiona smoothed his hair. "It's all right. You mustn't fret."
"We've got it all arranged," Saul hastened to add. "The court will be staked out, and so will the GenoME building. Gazo won't lift a finger to help; he'll disappear just before the action starts, so he won't be in harm's way—and won't, with any luck, be stressed enough to lose control of his stench. As for the hired guns, we'll have to catch 'em in the act. With their gas masks. Otherwise we have nothing but Gazo's statement, and he can't name any names, or give us any descriptions. Since he was contacted by phone." Seeing Cadel wipe his wet cheeks, Saul relinquished the can of lemonade and pulled a neatly ironed handkerchief from his hip pocket. Passing this handkerchief to Cadel, he said, "We won't let your dad get hurt, Cadel."
"I don't care about him!" Cadel cried—though of course he was lying. The surge of emotion that he'd experienced at the mention of Prosper's death had actually turned his stomach.
I must be tired, he thought desperately. I must be worried about Sonja. I shouldn't have eaten that pig-fat ice cream.
"I don't care about him—why should I?" he insisted, furious with himself for succumbing to his own capricious feelings. He didn't want to care about Prosper. He wanted to hate Prosper. "Anyway, for all we know, the whole shooting story is a lie," he went on, thankful that his brain was beginning to work again. "Gazo wouldn't want to see Prosper released, and the GenoME people might realize that. Maybe they're lying about wanting to shoot Prosper, just so Gazo will cooperate. And maybe, once Prosper's out, they'll shoot Gazo instead. So Gazo won't have a chance to rat on them when he sees that Prosper wasn't killed." Certainly there had been no mention of killing Prosper in Carolina's e-mails. But then again, Sonja hadn't decoded every one of them yet.
Cadel didn't know what to believe.
"If Prosper is freed, I'm in big trouble," he remarked unsteadily. Then, at the sight of Fiona's pitying glance, he shrilled, "I'll shoot him myself if I have to!"
"Listen." Having shoved Cadel's ice cream into Fiona's free hand, Saul placed his own hand on Cadel's, crouching down in front of him. "There is no way on earth I'm going to let Prosper English anywhere near you," the detective sternly declared. "Even if he escapes—which he won't—and even if he finds out where you are—which he won't—he's not going to get past me, I promise."
Cadel studied the weary, anxious, fine-drawn face in front of him. Then he conjured up a memory of Prosper's foxy smile and bright black gaze. The comparison was enough to make anyone flinch.
"Don't," he said. "Please don't get in his way. Prosper wouldn't hurt me, but he'd hurt you. I know he would."
Saul didn't argue. All he said, after a moment's silence, was, "It's all right, Cadel." Then he stood up. "Let's get you home," he suggested.
Home. Cadel couldn't help reacting to this word. And something about his tight mouth and sagging shoulders alerted the detective, who squinted at him.
"What is it now?" Saul asked.
"Nothing." Cadel shook his head.
"Don't you feel at home in Clearview House? Is there a problem with that place?"
"No." Cadel rose abruptly, turning to Fiona. "Can we go, please?"
"Oh! Yes, of course." Fiona sounded flustered. " Just let me get rid of these ice creams," she said, and made for the nearest garbage bin.
When she was out of earshot, Saul leaned toward Cadel.
"I know damn well something's wrong," the detective muttered. "But if you don't tell me what it is, I can't help you. Cadel," he growled. "I just want to help."
Cadel stared at him, and was sorely tempted. The relief of unloading every nagging concern—of trusting someone besides Sonja—would have been indescribable. Besides which, Cadel hated lying to Saul. Of all the people Cadel had ever met, Saul was the hardest to lie to.
But Cadel knew that he had to fight the urge to confess. Because, after all, what kind of help could Saul really offer? Could he give Cadel a place to live? Could he give Sonja a place to live? No, he could not.
Thinking about Sonja, Cadel stiffened his resolve. What would happen to Sonja, if Genius Squad was disbanded? So far, she and Cadel had received only a tenth of their fifty-thousand-dollar payout—and they wouldn't be receiving any more if the job wasn't finished. At this point, if Sonja lost Clearview House, she would find herself back in her old haunts, with inadequate nursing care and a shared bathroom.
"Sonja's the one who needs help, not me," he said at last, looking Saul Greeniaus straight in the eye. "She can't even go to the toilet by herself. She has to wear diapers to bed." Seeing the detective blink, Cadel took a deep breath. "If you can't help Sonja, you can't help me," he said flatly.
Then he headed back to the car.
THIRTY
When Cadel returned to Clearview House, he informed Genius Squad about the plan to kill Prosper English. He mentioned that the police would be staking out GenoME's Australian branch on Monday, while the matter of the dead prison guard was being discussed at the Coroner's Court. But he didn't tell anyone that he'd lost control of his stomach.
/> He didn't even admit it to Sonja—not until the next morning, when he took her for a walk around the neighborhood. Then, at last, he felt free to talk without running the risk of being overheard.
"I felt so bad," he finally confessed, as he maneuvered Sonja's wheelchair around a raised crack in the footpath. "The two of them were being so nice to me, and I sat there and lied. I'm sure that's why I threw up. Not because I was worried about Prosper, or anything." When Sonja didn't reply, he added, "It was the guilt. The guilt made me sick."
"Maybe," was Sonja's cautious response.
"It's funny, because I never used to be like this. I never used to mind lying." Cadel glanced behind him at the surveillance team's car. This car would drive for a hundred yards or so, then park and wait until Cadel had passed it, before trundling forward another hundred yards—only to park and wait once again. "You know what worries me?" he said softly. "What worries me is what'll happen if Saul finds out about the squad. He's going to be so mad. So disappointed." Cadel pulled a face. "I don't even want to think about it."
"What-worries-me-is-finding-another-place-to-live," Sonja rejoined, jabbing at the DynaVox screen very slowly, and with great difficulty. "If-Clearview-House-closes."
"Trader said it won't. Not yet."
"I-know." There was a long pause. "But-do-you-trust-him?"
Cadel hesitated. They had come to an intersection, and he stopped at the curb, peering up and down a wide, empty street.
At last he said, "No. Not really."
"Me-neither."
With a heave, Cadel steered Sonja's wheelchair onto the road and crossed both lanes at a brisk pace. Only when he had reached the other side, and negotiated the gutter, did he remark, "I always feel as if he's hiding something. But I don't know what it could be. Do you?"
"Maybe-he's-just-ruthless," Sonja proposed. "Maybe-he-doesn't-care-what-happens-to-us, even-though-he-pretends-to."
"Maybe that's it."
"Judith-cares." After a momentary battle with her own skittish body, Sonja continued in a voice that might have been defiant if it hadn't been electronically generated. "I-like-Judith."
Cadel grunted.
"She's-an-embezzler, but-she-has-principles." Suddenly Sonja rolled her eyes, as if embarrassed by her own lame rationalization. "This-is-so-hard," she spelled out. "Isn't-it?"
Cadel knew what she meant. Nothing seemed clear-cut; everything was unsettlingly ambiguous. But he didn't say anything, because they were passing an elderly dog-walker.
This woman was the first pedestrian they'd encountered since setting out. It was very quiet. Though the noise of a nearby highway occasionally drifted across the lichen-encrusted roofs of neighboring houses, the atmosphere was as hushed as a church or an art gallery. Cadel felt that he was walking through a kind of oasis, cut off from the harsher, louder, brighter districts not far away.
"What was going on last night when I got home?" he asked, to change the subject. "What was all the fighting about?"
After a brief flurry of movement, during which Cadel had to resettle her in the wheelchair, Sonja informed him that Hamish had played a trick on Devin. "Hamish-said-that-he' d-reprogrammed-Devin 's-iPod-with-lots-of-old-fashioned-music," Sonja explained, "and-Devin-hit-the-roof."
"But Hamish didn't really do that?"
"No." According to Sonja, the truth was that Hamish had acquired an iPod identical to Devin's ("Which-wasn't-hard, when-you-consider-that-Devin's-taken-the-serial-number-off-his") and had spent hours downloading "sad-old-fart" songs onto it. Then he'd swapped the two machines.
"Imagine-putting-in-all-that-time," Sonja marveled, "just-to-piss-off-Devin. It-doesn't-make-sense."
But it made perfect sense to Cadel. In fact the whole scenario was ominously familiar. "Hamish is bored," he sighed. "GenoME's shut down for the weekend, so he's bored." Something occurred to Cadel suddenly, and he considered it for a short time before continuing. "The strange thing is that Hamish won't mess with people's computers. He'll play stupid practical jokes in real life, but he won't do it in virtual space. It's like he's only grown-up when he's online."
"He's-certainly-not-grown-up-about-money," Sonja observed. "He-won't-have-any-left-if-he-keeps-buying-iPods."
"Better than stealing them."
"True."
"Though I'm not sure if Devin really stole that iPod of his. I know he claims he did. I know he says that's why he scraped off its serial number. But sometimes I wonder if he got rid of the serial number just to make himself look tough. To make it look as if he's a hardened criminal."
Sonja snorted. "You-have-a-suspicious-mind," she said, and Cadel shrugged.
"On the contrary, I'm giving him the benefit of the doubt."
"You-never-give-anyone-that," Sonja ploddingly countered. "You-were-brought-up-not-to." Then, to Cadel's astonishment, she said, "I-think-we-should-go-back-now."
Cadel stopped in his tracks.
"Why?" he demanded.
"I-have-decoding-to-do."
"But it's Sunday. It's our day off."
"I-like-decoding. It's-fun." When Sonja craned around to look at him, her head wouldn't cooperate. She couldn't quite meet his eye. So she gave up.
"You'll tire yourself," he objected. At which point a thought struck him. "Do you need to go to the toilet?" he asked.
"No." The serene tone of the DynaVox was contradicted by the abrupt, almost violent manner in which Sonja attacked it. Clearly, this question had annoyed her. "I-want-to-get-back."
Cadel sighed. He knew that he couldn't exactly take the moral high ground, when he himself had been working until the early hours of the morning. And he certainly couldn't say that Sonja needed more rest than he did. Any suggestion of that kind would infuriate her.
So he began to execute a wide and gentle U-turn, causing the surveillance-team driver to rev his engine. There was a prolonged silence. At last the DynaVox squawked, "Are-you-mad?"
"No." To prove it, Cadel added: "Why should I care what time we get back? Besides, Fiona said she might drop in today, so I ought to be around when she arrives. Because Trader won't want her poking around."
"Isn 't-this-the-second-Sunday-she's-given-up-for-you?" Sonja inquired. "She-must-care-about-you-a-lot."
"I guess."
"You're-lucky. My-social-worker-doesn't-care-about-me."
Cadel couldn't contest this claim. He was lucky. Fiona really did care about him; he wasn't just another file number to her. And when he gave the matter some consideration, he realized that Sonja was no longer his one true friend. Sonja wasn't the only person who would be upset if anything happened to him. Fiona would mind, too. As would Saul Greeniaus. The trouble was that Cadel hadn't been truthful with either of them, so he couldn't really derive much comfort from their obvious concern. The more sympathetic they became, the worse it made him feel.
At least with Prosper he had never felt guilty about lying. On the contrary, Prosper had always encouraged him to lie. With Prosper, Cadel hadn't been obliged to pretend that he was a good person.
Quite the opposite, in fact.
As he pushed Sonja's wheelchair along the uneven footpath, Cadel tried to concentrate on what she was saying. He listened to her account of how she had traced the differential characteristics of the database cipher by "trying each possible final-round subkey with a number of input pairs satisfying the first-round differential." Cadel had no trouble following Sonja's narrative. He was interested in the entire process. Nevertheless, even while he nodded, and grunted, and made occasional comments, his thoughts kept drifting toward Prosper English.
He didn't want to think about Prosper. Every time he did, his stomach would churn. But he realized that his stomach was trying to tell him something. And he was forced to admit that, despite all his claims to the contrary, he did care about Prosper. Because he was convinced that Prosper cared about him—albeit in a warped, enigmatic sort of way.
No one believed it, of course. Though Cadel had insisted, over and over again, that Prospe
r would never harm him, the general consensus was that Cadel had been brainwashed by a ruthless manipulator. "Just-because-he-didn't-shoot-you," Sonja had once remarked, "doesn't-mean-he-didn' t-regret-it-afterward."
But she was wrong. Cadel knew it. And he couldn't banish from his heart every faint, lingering trace of regard for the first person who had ever exhibited any real affection for him.
If it hadn't been for Prosper, he might never have learned how to love at all. Because the ability to become attached to people was something that you had to exercise at an early age, if you didn't want to lose it altogether.
And Cadel had exercised his on Prosper English. For want of a better alternative.
"Isn't-that-Fiona's-car?" Sonja suddenly inquired. Sure enough, Fiona Currey's vehicle was passing through the Clearview House gates, immediately ahead of them.
Cadel cursed aloud.
"It's-all-right," Sonja assured him. "No-one-will-be-doing-any-work. Everything-will-seem-pretty-normal."
She was right. When Cadel and Sonja arrived back at the house, they discovered that Genius Squad had succumbed to the prevailing Sunday-morning atmosphere. Dot was absent. So were Trader and Tony. Cliff was on lunch duty, firing orders at Hamish. Judith was hanging out laundry, whistling in the sunshine. Devin was hunched over his iPod. Zac and Lexi were playing pool.
It was as if every one of them had been carefully briefed beforehand. Had they all been discussing a church picnic, they could not have made a more thoroughly disarming impression on the visiting social worker. Fiona was relieved. Though she tried to hide it, Cadel could see her getting more and more cheerful every time they encountered another harmless scene in another tranquil domestic setting. She smiled at the slouching, uncommunicative Devin. She helped Judith to hang out the clothes. She even played pool for about ten minutes.