Fiona grimaced. "Maybe I should go and help," she proposed. But Cadel discouraged her.
"There's nothing anyone can do," he said, "except give him another chocolate bar." As abruptly as it had begun, the clamor unexpectedly stopped. Cadel listened for a moment. So did his companions. After a brief pause, they heard a faint murmur of voices. "There," said Cadel, with some satisfaction. "I told you. Chocolate-bar wrappers. She must have found a replacement."
Fiona shook her head glumly. Mr. Greeniaus was frowning. He darted another quick look at Fiona—but when he spoke, he addressed Cadel.
"Let me get this straight," he said. "Nikolai was one of the men in the car that picked you up when you escaped from police custody, is that correct?"
"Yes. He followed me on a train once, too. I recognized him."
"And you think he might have worked at the institute?"
Cadel bit his lip. "I don't know. There was an old guy who shuffled around with a toolbox. I remember seeing him from the back. He was fat and gray-haired."
"But you didn't see his face? Just his back?"
"That's right. So I don't know if it was Nikolai or not."
"And Vadi? Did you ever see him at the institute?"
"No. But I mean, why would Prosper use a human fish just to clean his house?"
"And you don't remember seeing anyone else? Or hearing any other names?"
"Sorry," said Cadel. Whereupon Mr. Greeniaus grunted.
"There's no need to be sorry," he assured Cadel. "You've done very well." Almost to himself, the detective then remarked, "Not that it matters about Vadi or Nikolai. They've gone underground." He folded his arms. "Or underwater, perhaps."
Cadel managed a faint half smile. Then he said, "Mr. Greeniaus?" And paused for a moment.
The detective watched him. So did Fiona.
"Do you—I mean, have you ever met Prosper English?" was the question that Cadel finally put to Saul, who hesitated before replying.
"Yes, I have."
Cadel didn't know how to phrase his next query. But he didn't have to; Saul apparently read his mind.
"We don't talk about you," the detective revealed. "Prosper is always very careful not to display much interest in you, Cadel. I suppose if he did, it might support your claim that he's your father."
Cadel nodded. He cleared his throat, painfully conscious of Fiona's troubled scrutiny. Then Hazel knocked on his door again.
Her voice sounded higher than usual.
"Uh—excuse me?" she trilled. "Can I interrupt?" Without waiting for an answer, she poked her head into the room. Her tight gray curls were uncharacteristically ruffled. Her small green eyes looked anxious. "There are police here," she blurted out. "They're asking after Cadel."
Mr. Greeniaus instantly rose, clicking off his cassette recorder. Fiona gaped.
"I told them that the police were here already," a flustered Hazel continued. "I didn't know what to say."
"Don't worry." The detective's manner was all at once very businesslike. "I'll take care of this."
He brushed past Hazel on his way out of the room. As he stuffed his recording equipment back into the lining of his jacket, he revealed that he was wearing a shoulder holster—with a pistol protruding from it.
Fiona gasped when she saw the pistol.
"For god's sake!" she hissed fiercely. "How can he? There are children in here!"
An image flashed into Cadel's head: an image of the loaded gun that had once been placed against his temple. It was his most frightening memory, and it still haunted his dreams at night. Of course, Prosper hadn't pulled the trigger. Something had prevented him from doing so. But that hadn't made his actions any less frightening, in retrospect.
To block out what he had no wish to recall, Cadel hurried after Saul Greeniaus—and encountered Janan heading the opposite way. Wide-eyed with fear, the six-year-old shot past and dived under Cadel's bed.
"What the—?"
Cadel stared after the silly kid, in consternation, before looking around for their foster mother. But Hazel was already in the kitchen with the police.
Only Fiona Currey had remained behind.
"Oh dear," said Fiona.
"What's Janan doing?" Cadel wanted to know.
"Hiding."
"But—"
"He's had a hard life. There was a police raid on his mother's house once." Fiona returned to Cadel's bed and crouched down beside it. "Janan?" she crooned. "What's the matter, sweetie? No one's going to hurt you."
Cadel decided that Fiona was better off without him and went to find out what was going on in the kitchen. He fully expected to see Saul and Hazel conversing with a pair of familiar men in wrinkled suits and sunglasses. To his surprise, however, his surveillance team was nowhere in sight. Instead, two uniformed police officers—one male and one female—were standing by the fridge.
"...complaint from a neighbor," the policewoman was saying. "About a car following a child down the street." She nodded at Cadel. "That child, I would say. From the description."
"Yes. I see." Saul retrieved his identification from her. "You should have been informed. This child is a witness. For his own protection, he's being monitored at all times."
"Well, we haven't heard about it," said the policewoman.
"No. I'm sorry. That was a serious oversight."
"We're going to have to make a report."
"Yeah. Look—what would you say if I talked to your duty sergeant..."
All of a sudden, Cadel was distracted by the distant sound of approaching footsteps. He recognized the slap-slap-slap of large, rubber-soled feet galloping down the side path. Mace, he knew, was heading for the kitchen, kicking over flowerpots on his way.
"...has to come through official channels the uniformed policeman was saying. Cadel tensed as he heard Mace thudding up the outside stairs. Even Saul Greeniaus had noticed the racket by this time. Hazel shuffled toward the back door, but Mace reached it first. He flung it open, exploded into the room, then stopped abruptly when he saw the uniformed police.
His face reddened. Cadel was by now familiar with that dull rush of color, which was always a bad sign. When Mace was really, really angry, he always turned red. Then he would sit somewhere out of the way, swearing under his breath for perhaps ten minutes, before his rage erupted in a series of destructive acts.
Cadel found himself edging closer to Saul Greeniaus.
"Oh. Hello." The policewoman addressed Mace in a friendly voice. "It's Thomas Logge, isn't it? How are you, Thomas?"
There was no reply—just a glower.
"I've heard good reports about you," the policewoman continued. She was small and stocky, with a hard-edged drawl and stiff blond hair cut short. "I've heard that you seem to have settled in here pretty well. Been going to school. Good on ya."
In response, Mace slammed out of the kitchen, heading for his bedroom. He must have hurled his bag at the wall as he went, because there was a huge thud, followed by a rather nasty crunching noise. Then a door banged at the other end of the house.
The policewoman sniffed.
"You've got your work cut out for you there," she said to Hazel. "I've had dealings with his family."
"Oh, Thomas is responding very well," Hazel rejoined, sounding almost defensive. "You don't have to worry about him."
"Good," said the police officer. But she didn't seem wholly convinced.
There followed a brief burst of activity, which was kicked off by Fiona—who suddenly appeared and dragged Hazel out of the room for a talk with Janan. Saul Greeniaus then accompanied the uniformed officers to their car, while Cadel, left alone in the kitchen, wondered what he should do about Mace.
Mace was already in a foul mood; he would probably explode when he saw that his football boots were sitting under the pile of dirty sheets that Cadel had dumped on them. To prevent Mace from trashing all his belongings, Cadel would have to keep an eye on the bigger boy. But that in turn would require staying within easy reach of Mace's fis
ts.
Cadel considered his next move. The smartest tactic, he decided, would be to shut himself in his own bedroom for the rest of the day (with something shoved against the door, perhaps). Even if Mace set fire to the house, Cadel could always crawl out the window. Not that he really expected Mace to commit arson. But there was bound to be trouble of some kind, and Cadel was determined to stay well away from it.
As he made for the kitchen door, however, he found Fiona blocking his escape route.
"Oh, Cadel," she said. "Where's Mr. Greeniaus?"
"He went with those coppers, back to their car," Cadel replied.
"You mean he left?"
"I don't know."
"He could have said something," Fiona remarked crossly. "A simple 'thank you' would suffice!"
"Is Janan okay?" Cadel asked, suddenly remembering that the six-year-old, when last seen, had been disappearing under a bed. "Did you get him out of my room?"
"Oh yes. Don't worry. He's in his own room now, with Hazel. Poor little kid, he's so traumatized." Fiona's gaze shifted, and Cadel turned to see what had caught her interest.
It was Saul Greeniaus, quietly reentering the kitchen.
"Sorry about that," said the detective. "That shouldn't have happened. Some kind of glitch."
"Hazel's the one you should apologize to," was Fiona's tart response. "It's her house, after all."
"Yes." Saul nodded in agreement. "Where is she?"
"In there," said Fiona, jerking a thumb. "Counseling her foster kids. Are you finished with Cadel now?"
"I think so. I don't think there's much point trying to continue, in these circumstances."
"Then don't feel you have to hang around," Fiona declared—quite rudely, in Cadel's opinion. The detective must have shared this view, because he fixed Fiona with such an intent, questioning look that she was compelled to elaborate. "Those poor kids in there have had some very bad experiences involving the police," she explained. "They don't respond well to any kind of police presence."
"No," Mr. Greeniaus said thoughtfully. "I've just been told about Thomas Logge's experiences with the police." He reached into his jacket and turned to Cadel. "Listen," he said. "I want you to call me if you're worried about anything. Do you have a cell phone?"
"No," Cadel answered.
"Well—take this, anyway." Saul crossed the room, holding out a small white card inscribed with his name, rank, and contact numbers. He pressed it into Cadel's palm. "Night or day, you call me. Understand?"
But Fiona was bristling.
"He's not supposed to talk to the police unless I'm present!" she protested. "You know that!"
"Ms. Currey, this is only a precaution," the detective replied. "In case there's a problem like the one we just saw. Or something similar."
"He wouldn't have had a problem if there weren't so many police hanging about all the time!"
"That's nonnegotiable." Saul spoke flatly. "We can't afford to leave him alone. You should understand that by now" He extended his hand, which Cadel shook for the second time. Though Fiona received only a nod, there was a gleam in Saul's quiet gaze as he said good-bye to her. "I don't want to outstay my welcome," he remarked, deadpan. "So I guess I'd better be leaving."
Then he walked out the door.
"Well!" said Fiona, heaving a sigh. "I'm glad he's gone, at last!"
But Cadel wasn't. For some reason, the detective's withdrawal had left him feeling vulnerable and exposed. Perhaps it had something to do with Mace and his toxic temper.
Cadel was very uneasy about his foster brother's state of mind.
FIVE
When he finally returned to his bedroom after saying good-bye to Fiona, Cadel discovered that he was too late. Mace had already been there. With Janan and Hazel finally out of the way, Mace had scanned the room, seen Cadel's rescued computer monitor, and emptied half a can of lemonade into its air vents.
"He can't call that a joke!" Cadel cried, upon reporting this crime to Hazel. "It's deliberate sabotage! How am I supposed to use it now, when its guts are full of sugar?"
"I'm sorry, dear, I'll have a word with him." Hazel was apologetic but distracted. Though the police were long gone, Janan remained curled up under his bedclothes, in a state of shock. Hazel didn't know what to do. She had left a message with his caseworker. "Mace isn't really angry with you," she said. "He's upset about the police coming here."
"Well, that's not my fault!"
"I know." Hazel patted Cadel's shoulder. "You have to understand, Thomas is very mixed up. He's hitting back because that's all he's been taught to do. You're such a clever boy, Cadel, I know you'll be able to fix your computer. I know you'll cope. You've so much sense. Just put yourself in Thomas's shoes for a moment, that's all. When he looks at you, he can't help feeling clumsy and stupid in comparison, so he lashes out."
"And what am I supposed to do in the meantime?"
"Just be patient, dear. I'll talk to Thomas. I'll have a word with him."
Cadel set his jaw. "When you do," he said, through his teeth, "you can tell him that if he comes in my room again, he'll get himself electrocuted."
Hazel blinked.
"Oh, now, Cadel," she began, looking worried.
"I mean it! He's twice as big as me! I have to defend myself somehow!"
"There's no question—you mustn't—I'm going to talk to Miss Currey," Hazel stammered, much to Cadel's surprise. He had been expecting another placid reminder that consensus was the best way of handling disputes. Hazel's fearful expression was something he'd never seen before.
It took him a moment to realize that she must have heard certain stories about him. From Fiona, perhaps? Fiona was familiar with some of his background. She may have warned Hazel Donkin that her new foster son could be very, very dangerous if sufficiently provoked. And Hazel had believed her.
The police were the same. They didn't trust Cadel. They were afraid of his high IQ (Not to mention his warped upbringing.) And the last thing Cadel wanted now was to ring any more alarm bells. Finally, after months of being as good as gold, he had begun to sense that Fiona, for one, no longer regarded him as a kind of human time bomb. He honestly believed that she liked him. And he didn't want Hazel calling her with the news that he had threatened to electrocute his foster brother.
If that happened, he would find himself back at square one.
"I'm sorry," he muttered, swallowing his rage. "I wouldn't really electrocute Thomas." And he put on his most innocent face, which seemed to reassure Hazel somewhat. She looked relieved. She even managed a smile. When she spoke, however, her voice was still shaky.
"I'll be reporting this to Thomas's social worker," she said. "It's a problem he's going to have to work through. A problem we'll all have to work through."
Lying in bed that night, Cadel wondered why he should have to work through Mace's problems. He didn't want anything to do with Mace's problems—or Mace himself, for that matter—and was still seething at what had been done to his defenseless equipment. A brief inspection had told him that the damage would be almost impossible to rectify. What right did that hulking great moron have to bully him like this?
In the old days, he could have dealt with Mace quite easily. Mace was no different from a lot of mean-spirited kids who had paid for their bad treatment of Cadel over the years. Not that they'd ever understood that they were being punished. Oh, no. Back in high school, when various bullies had received their just deserts, no one had understood that Cadel was ultimately responsible. He had disguised his involvement far too well. He had planned his many acts of revenge so carefully that there was never any obvious link between himself and each peculiar sequence of events that resulted in the downfall of yet another foe.
Of course, Cadel had long ago rejected his murky past. Such petty, vindictive schemes were nothing to be proud of. All the same, he couldn't help pondering the possible alternatives, should he ever decide to teach Mace a lesson. Plotting variables was so much easier when your target lived in th
e same house, followed the same schedule, and used the same bathroom....
By the time he fell asleep, Cadel had devised a neat little scenario, which, though it would hurt Mace cruelly, could not possibly be blamed on Cadel. A perfect crime, in other words. But when he woke up in the morning, he felt ashamed. He told himself that such thoughts were unworthy of Sonja—that they were part of Prosper's poisonous legacy. And he got out of bed resolved to be more tolerant of his foster brother's quirks.
Unfortunately, his good intentions came to nothing. After he'd been sneezed over, tripped up, and trodden on, Cadel lost patience. None of these incidents had been "accidental," despite what Mace said. As far as Cadel was concerned, they had been hostile acts.
So he set about robbing Mace of his most prized possessions.
These happened to be a set of dirt-bike magazines sent to Mace by his elder brother, who was in prison. Cadel had been forbidden to touch them, of course. He knew, however, that Mace kept them near his bedroom window. He also knew that their covers were very sticky, because Mace would often read them while he was eating sweets. And he knew that Mace's room had once been invaded by ants when a glass of soft drink had been left on the windowsill.
Knowing all this, Cadel could make some fairly detailed calculations, using a series of complicated probability algorithms that he had developed himself. Though his method was by no means perfect, it had served him well enough in the past. And this time, too, it was successful.
All he had to do was swap Mace's packed lunch with Janan's. Then, after his two foster brothers had left for school, he laid a trail of sugar particles from Mace's bedroom windowsill to his treasured magazines. Once these two steps were accomplished, Cadel had no further active role to play in the process. He could simply sit back and watch events unfold, from a discreet vantage point.
He had a while to wait. Hazel never collected any discarded clothes from the bedrooms until she had finished her data-entry work, at about midday. So Cadel entertained himself by answering the NSA's list of questions. He could have gone out, but it was threatening to rain—and besides, he wanted to be on hand. It was very, very important that the timing be right. Any variations would have to be dealt with at short notice. (By delaying Hazel with a brief talk, for instance.)