Genius Squad

  No doubt Prosper had chosen it for that very reason.

  "Please," Cadel implored, "don't hurt anybody. I won't make trouble, I promise."

  "Turn off the engine," Prosper said, ignoring Cadel's plea. And when Saul obeyed, Prosper added, "Now pass the keys back here. Slowly. Don't do anything stupid."

  The keys were delivered into Prosper's custody, after which he ordered Cadel to get out of the car.

  Cadel hesitated.

  "What about Sonja?" he asked.

  "Just get out."

  "Get out, Cadel, please!" Saul said sharply. "Do as you're told!"

  So Cadel pushed open the door next to him and climbed awkwardly onto the road, leaving Sonja sprawled across the backseat. She didn't, however, remain there for long.

  "Right," said Prosper. "Now you can take her. And don't get smart, or I'll shoot Mr. Greeniaus."

  "You-you mean ... pull her out?" Cadel stammered, causing Prosper to roll his eyes.

  "Can you think of any other options?"

  "No."

  "Then do it."

  Hastily Cadel slid his hands beneath Sonja's armpits. With a single heave, he jerked her halfway out of the car, staggering slightly as she bucked against his grasp.

  Though his retreat was as careful as he could make it, he couldn't prevent her feet from flopping heavily onto the ground once she was clear of the vehicle.

  "Sorry," he whispered, and dragged her to the side of the road.

  "Okay, stop. Stop there. Where I can see you," said Prosper. He was climbing into the backseat, his gun still aimed at Saul. "And don't even think about stuffing your socks into the exhaust pipe."

  Such a thought had never crossed Cadel's mind; he was much too concerned about the gun to attempt anything so rash. Instead he remained where he was, crouching in a shallow ditch full of dead leaves and bull-ants. Sonja's head was lolling against his rib cage. Her pajamas were rucked up around her knees.

  Please don't, Cadel prayed, his pulse hammering high in his throat. Please don't, please don't, please don't kill him.

  "All right," Prosper said to the detective. "Keep your hands on the wheel. Where I can see them. That's it." He was now directly behind Saul; his chin was almost resting on Saul's shoulder, while the barrel of his gun was rammed against the detective's skull. "As you've probably realized, Mr. Greeniaus, I don't like you very much. I don't like the way you've wormed your way into my son's life. Into his affections, one might almost say—like some flea-bitten stray cat. You've taken advantage of his unfortunate predilection for losers and cripples and social rejects."

  Prosper's glance slipped sideways at this point, suggesting that his last remark had been designed more for Cadel's benefit than for Saul's. Cadel, however, didn't comment. So Prosper went on.

  "Nevertheless," he acknowledged, "the fact that you've been so hard to shake off indicates that you have at least one redeeming feature: namely, a personal interest in my son's welfare." Prosper inclined his head, as if trying to scrutinize Saul's expression. "Am I right, Mr. Greeniaus?"

  "I wouldn't lock him in a baggage compartment or threaten him with a gun, if that's what you mean," Saul retorted. Then he moved his own head slightly, until his gaze met Prosper's. "I wouldn't have to."

  It was hard to see if Prosper had colored. The car's interior was too dark. But he drew back and was silent for a few seconds.

  When he finally spoke, his voice had lost its smooth finish.

  "My point, Mr. Greeniaus, is this," he growled. "Owing to your really woeful performance, there's every chance you'll be taken off this case. And if you are, I want to know whether you would promptly abandon my son, or continue to exert yourself on his behalf." Before the detective could do more than inhale quickly, Prosper continued. "Not that you've done a very good job of looking after him so far, but my real concern is that Cadel should be properly housed and cared for until I can do it myself. I didn't like that Donkin arrangement. And I gather that you didn't like it, either—that you were, in fact, trying to remedy the situation. Is that correct?"

  Saul didn't reply immediately. He seemed to be thinking. At last he cleared his throat and said, "Cadel is a very special kid. He deserves more than you can offer." A pause. "If you really cared about him, you'd realize that."

  "If I didn't care about him, I wouldn't be here," Prosper pointed out. But he failed to convince the detective.

  "You're only here because you think he's your son," Saul declared, with unusual vehemence. "And I have my doubts about that. He doesn't look like you. He doesn't act like you—"

  "Wishful thinking, Mr. Greeniaus."

  "Then why not agree to a DNA test? Give me your authorization. That way we'll know for sure."

  "I already know for sure."

  "Not necessarily."

  Cadel frowned. He couldn't understand what Saul was up to; why raise such a thorny subject? Prosper must have wondered the same thing, because his whole demeanor changed. It became more focused. Less sportive.

  "What are you implying?" he asked Saul, his eyes narrowed. "I thought you and your colleagues were determined to prove my paternity, not disprove it."

  "That was before I met you," Saul admitted. "Now I can't help thinking you're mistaken."

  Prosper smiled. "Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you," he said (sounding not in the least bit sorry), "but if you want to establish that Cadel isn't my son, you're wasting your time. A DNA test was carried out the day he was born. It proved conclusively that I'm his father."

  "You can't be certain of that," Saul stubbornly insisted. "You're not a scientist. What if there was a mistake?"

  "There was no mistake. I used a very highly qualified geneticist—"

  "Who might have lied."

  Prosper made a disdainful noise. "Why on earth would he have lied?"

  The detective shrugged.

  "It would have given him a lot of leverage. You would have been ripe for blackmail, if he managed to convince you that Cadel was your son."

  "Mr. Greeniaus, the gentleman whose services I engaged didn't need leverage." To Cadel's surprise, Prosper obviously felt compelled to argue the point. "He already had a great deal of power and influence—and he certainly never attempted to acquire any more at my expense. In fact, he never mentioned the subject to me again."

  "Because you killed him?" Saul queried.

  "Of course not!" Prosper's tone was impatient—even waspish. "For your information, he's alive and well."

  "Then you must have paid him off. So he'd keep your secret from Phineas Darkkon."

  Opening his mouth, Prosper was about to answer, when he was suddenly struck dumb—as if paralyzed by doubt, or by a flash of understanding. He stiffened and swallowed. Then, very slowly and cautiously, he said, "You're assuming that the geneticist in question was acquainted with Dr. Darkkon. Which wasn't the case. He worked for an independent laboratory."

  "Really? The way you were talking, I figured he must have been one of Darkkon's crew. I figured you would have gone to someone at NanTex, to keep the whole thing inhouse." The detective waited for a moment before adding, rather delicately, "Someone like Chester Cramp, say."

  All at once, Cadel understood what was happening. By needling Prosper on the controversial subject of Cadel's parentage, Saul had been trying to collect information that would implicate Chester Cramp. What Saul wanted was a slip of the tongue, directly linking Chester with Dr. Darkkon's evil empire.

  Prosper must have realized this, because he abruptly ended the conversation.

  "Mr. Greeniaus," he said, with an alarming degree of menace, "let me make one thing clear. I'd shoot you right now if I wasn't worried about leaving Cadel all alone." He then ground the end of his gun barrel into Saul's head, as if wielding an electric drill. "Now get out of the car."

  "There's water in the glove box." Saul spoke breathlessly, wincing at the pressure on his scalp. His jaw was almost pushed against the steering wheel. "Can I take that with me?"

  "No."

/>   "But—"

  "Get out. I won't ask again. And shut the door behind you."

  Saul obeyed. It was only after he had retreated ten steps, as ordered, that Prosper finally scrambled into the driver's seat. This maneuver was accomplished so quickly and efficiently that Saul didn't have time to take advantage of it.

  He couldn't have reached the car, let alone wrestled Prosper out of it, before receiving a bullet in some portion of his body.

  "Good," said Prosper, starting the engine. After a rapid juggling act with his keys and gun, he was once again holding the weapon in his right hand—and aiming it out the window at Saul. "If I were you, I'd sit tight," was Prosper's recommendation. "There's bound to be passing traffic some time in the next couple of hours, and if you try to carry that girl, you'll injure yourself. Or she'll injure you." He released the hand brake and adjusted the gearshift without once taking his eyes off Saul. "Needless to say, I'd rather you didn't go away and leave these kids. It wouldn't be safe."

  "I don't make a habit of endangering children," the detective replied, unable to suppress his anger.

  Prosper ignored this remark. Instead he addressed Cadel, his gaze still fixed firmly on the detective.

  "I'm sorry I can't take you with me, dear boy. But it's going to be hard enough without a problematic teenager tagging along. If only you were a little more cooperative, it would make things so much easier. Never mind. The next time I come for you, things will be different, I'm sure. After you've had to endure another long spell with another set of foster parents." At last he risked cutting a quick glance at Cadel. "In the meantime," he finished, "I want you to have a serious think about your current situation. Because I'm the only one who can improve it, remember. Without me, you'll be back in limbo, floating around. And that's no way to be. Not for someone like you."

  Suddenly the car surged forward. Gravel flew and dust rose as Prosper executed a hasty U-turn, hauling at the wheel with fierce concentration. But before he could roar off down the road, Cadel waved at him, shouting, "Dad! Dad!"

  The car screeched to a halt.

  "What is it?" Prosper sounded wary—even anxious. He looked back at Saul, who hadn't moved. "I can't take you with me, Cadel. I can't trust you to behave yourself."

  "Cadel," the detective warned, "please don't do anything you'll regret. He's still armed. Just let him go."

  But Cadel had something to say. Though he was unutterably tired, and hungry, and frightened, he'd nevertheless been alert enough to identify a hint of genuine sympathy in Prosper's final directive. And it had unlocked a great tide of memories, dating back many, many years: memories of Prosper's generous birthday gifts; of Prosper's lavish praise; of Prosper's crooked smile, as he'd lowered his silver gun and allowed Cadel to walk out of his life into the arms of the police.

  These recollections had forced Cadel to reconsider Prosper's motives. All at once, he'd realized that things might not be as simple as they looked. Perhaps Prosper wasn't entirely influenced by warped notions of entitlement, ownership, and personal gratification.

  Perhaps he was also moved by a vague desire to shoulder his paternal responsibilities.

  "I can't hate you," Cadel reluctantly confessed. "Not even after the way you've treated Sonja. I guess you've worked that out."

  Prosper waited, his eyes bright and black and hyperalert. They kept flitting from Cadel to Saul, and back again.

  Cadel wanted to stand up. He would have, if Sonja hadn't been such an awkward burden. But he was afraid that Prosper might grow impatient and drive away before Sonja could be lifted to her feet.

  So Cadel delivered his speech from the bottom of a roadside ditch.

  "What you don't understand is that things have changed," he said. "Even if I do end up in limbo, it won't be for long. Because I'm growing up now. I'm old enough to get a job. Soon I'll be sixteen—and sixteen-year-olds aren't children anymore. You can get married when you're sixteen." Peering into the car at Prosper's unreadable face, Cadel forced himself to forget all the lying and manipulation and downright cruelty in their shared past, so that he could concentrate on the man who had once described Cadel as his "crowning achievement." By doing this, it was easier to speak with a certain degree of warmth. It was easier to formulate an argument that might just make an impression. "The thing is, you really don't have to worry about me," Cadel quietly insisted. "I'm all right. I can look after myself. What I want is independence. I want to make my own choices, because that's what growing up is about." Taking a deep breath, he put everything he had into his concluding remarks—all the maturity and intelligence and fervor and insight that he could summon up. He used his tongue and his brain and his huge, limpid eyes; with every natural endowment at his disposal, he tried desperately to breach Prosper's armor-plated defenses. "You can't go on making my choices for me—not for the rest of my life. No father should do that," he pointed out. "Sometime, you'll have to accept that I can make my own mistakes. You'll have to just ... let me go."

  There was a long silence. No one moved for several seconds. Cadel waited, but Prosper's reaction was disappointing. He didn't speak. He didn't even smile.

  Instead the car leaped forward, whipping up clouds of dust.

  As Cadel watched it depart, he felt as if his heart had turned to liquid, and was draining slowly through his ribs. But then he saw a bottle of water fly out of the driver's window, bouncing onto the road and rolling into a pothole.

  It was a concession, of sorts. And it lightened his mood a little.

  "Cadel," Saul gasped, from somewhere close by. "Christ, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry..."

  Cadel looked up. The detective was standing over him, having dashed to his side as soon as they were both beyond the range of Prosper's gun.

  "He threw out the water," Cadel said faintly. "Did you see?"

  "Yeah." Saul squatted down. He laid a hand against Cadel's cheek. "Are you okay?"

  "Yes." If numb was okay. "Are you?"

  "Sure. I'm fine." The detective's hand shifted to Sonja's sweaty forehead. "What about Sonja? How's she doing?"

  "I-I don't know," Cadel said feebly. "I can't tell." Sonja's answering squeak was barely audible. It made Saul frown.

  "Tell you what," he proposed. "You go get that water, and I'll take care of her. We'll have a drink before we move."

  Cadel stared at him in bewilderment. "We're moving? You mean, we're going to walk?"

  "Are you up to it? Can you manage?"

  "Well, yes, but..." Cadel glanced down at Sonja.

  "Don't worry. I can carry her. If I do, we'll get picked up more quickly. We just have to reach the paved road." Saul hesitated when he received no immediate reply. Studying Cadel, he seemed to have a change of heart. "Unless we'd be better off staying?" he said. "It's your call. I figure that Prosper was trying to slow us down and give himself more time, but you understand the way he thinks. What should we do?"

  It was a serious question, which Cadel couldn't answer. He regarded Saul with growing distress as he saw how earnestly—how respectfully—the detective was awaiting his response.

  Cadel realized that his impassioned speech had fooled the wrong person.

  "I was lying, you know," he confessed.

  "Huh?"

  "It was all a big lie. About being grown-up. I only said it because I wanted him to stop interfering." Cadel's voice began to shake. "I'm good at lying. I've always been good at lying. Thanks to him."

  "Hey," Saul murmured. Though obviously taken aback, he tried to offer what comfort he could. "Hey, don't fret. It's all right. We'll be all right."

  "I can't really look after myself. I can't even look after Sonja," Cadel said brokenly. "It's no good asking me what we should do. I don't know what to do. I don't know anything. I'm hopeless."

  "Hopeless?" Saul echoed, in disbelief. "What are you talking about? For Chris'sake, you're an incredible kid!"

  "No. I'm not. If I was, I'd know what to do." Cadel felt as if he had been cast adrift—and not just because he
happened to be sitting in the middle of nowhere. When he tried to envisage his immediate future, it contained one big nothing: no Prosper, no school, no Donkins, no Clearview House, no official status. And no Sonja, perhaps, if there was no Genius Squad. "What am I going to do?" he cried. "I don't know what to do!"

  "Shh. It's okay." Saul kneaded Cadel's shoulder. "I know what we have to do. We have to take things one step at a time. That's all we can do, right now. One step at a time. All right?"

  "All right." Cadel sniffed.

  "Let's go, then," urged Saul. And he stood up. "Let's get started."

  FORTY-SIX

  Cadel lay on his bed, staring out the window at a gray, wintry sky.

  He didn't have much else to look at. His room was a plain white box with a beige carpet. It contained a single bed, a desk, a chair, and a built-in wardrobe; there were no pictures on the walls or colorful patterns on any of the furnishings. Even the blind and the lamp shade were white.

  The only personal touch in the room was Cadel's name, scribbled in pencil under the window ledge. He had written it there during his previous occupation of this particular safe house, immediately after Prosper's arrest. Upon returning, he'd found that same piece of graffiti right where he'd left it nearly twelve months before.

  The discovery had depressed him because it seemed to underline the fact that nothing had really changed.

  Nor was this the only cause for depression in Cadel's life. After three weeks, Prosper English was still at large. Alias and Vadi wouldn't cooperate with the police. Dot had managed to evade capture. Sonja had been put in a temporary home, pending a departmental decision on her placement. And Genius Squad had been disbanded.

  As far as Cadel knew, none of its members had remained at Clearview House. Trader was in custody, having been denied bail on charges of abetting a forcible abduction. Though the other staff had managed to stay out of jail, all were engaged in legal disputes of one kind or another. Cliff (who had fled to Brazil at the first sign of trouble) was fighting extradition from that country. Judith was negotiating a deal with the police, to avoid various charges of embezzlement. Even Zac Stillman was living under a cloud. Like Cadel, and Hamish, and the twins, he'd been involved in an illegal hacking operation. So it was felt that he had some explaining to do.