Evil Genius Part 24

'Well you should know, Mr Friend, that this child is a demon. He's a criminal. He ought to be locked up.'

'Oh, what nonsense,' Thaddeus drawled. 'This little fellow here?'

But Mrs Brezeck refused to be distracted any longer. She turned back to Cadel.

'I'm going to get you for this,' she warned him, over Thaddeus's arm. 'You've ruined the lives of dozens of great kids. I'm going to gather up my proof and I'm going to have you charged with being a public nuisance.'

Cadel, who was beginning to lose his temper, stared at her with cold, hard eyes.

'Don't be ridiculous,' he replied. 'Nuisance laws are about the use and enjoyment of land, or property.'

'Speaking of which,' Thaddeus remarked, 'isn't there something on the statute books about trespa.s.s? I believe you said you weren't invited?'

Mrs Brezeck hesitated. Then she wagged her finger again.

'You think about it,' she declared, thrusting her face as close to Cadel as she could. 'Just think about it. Because if you don't come clean, and give those kids another chance, then you'll pay for it, Cadel. I'll hunt you down in the end.'

Abruptly, she turned on her heel. Thaddeus and Cadel both watched her walk out of the house, clumsily brus.h.i.+ng past people who had gla.s.ses of beer in their hands.

'Don't worry,' said Thaddeus, his gaze still on the teacher's back. 'I'll take care of it.'

'No.' Cadel spoke firmly. 'I will.'

Out of the corner of his eye he saw a flicker of pleasure tug at the corner of Thaddeus's mouth.

TWENTY-NINE.

The party fizzled out at about six o'clock that night, by which time Thaddeus had departed. Never once had he left Cadel's side during the course of the afternoon. Though they hadn't been able to talk much (because of all the people), he did manage to rea.s.sure Cadel before he finally said goodbye.

'I'll put Adolf onto it,' he murmured into Cadel's ear. 'Get him to send out a surveillance team to keep an eye on you.'

'But a '

'Better safe than sorry, Cadel. You won't know it's here.'

'But nothing's going to happen,' Cadel protested. 'It's only Mrs Brezeck!'

'Now, Cadel.' Thaddeus fixed him with a penetrating look. 'What have I always told you?'

'Never underestimate the enemy,' Cadel quoted with a sigh. 'But I really don't think a '

'Take it easy, Cadel.' Thaddeus patted his back, straightening. 'I'll talk to you soon.'

Cadel was surprised at Thaddeus. He thought that the psychologist was wildly overreacting to any threat that Mrs Brezeck might pose. Not that she didn't pose a threat. Cadel knew that she did; the woman was obsessed. But she wasn't about to hunt him down with a bow and arrow. She wasn't about to poison his food. What she would do, he feared, was take the whole matter to a lawyer. So after returning to his bedroom, he dug out some of his Law books.

Suppose Mrs Brezeck did find proof? It was highly unlikely, but not, he feared, impossible. Though he had covered his tracks pretty well, he might have been a bit lazy, if only because he'd never expected that anyone would even begin to put two and two together. Even so, he wasn't sure that he could be charged with any civil or criminal offence. The common law action of deceit, he knew, had to stem from purely economic loss; could the loss of missing out on a place at university be termed 'economic'? As for the tort of injurious falsehood, that wouldn't apply here, surely? He had never directly told anyone a lie. Unless the planting of the fake HSC papers could be cla.s.sified as 'false representation'. But no one would be able to prove that he'd done any such thing a not with the kind of remailers he'd used. It was all very confusing for Cadel, who had been given only a quick, glancing overview of the law in Dr Deal's cla.s.ses.

He did wonder, for a moment, if he should consult Dr Deal, but then dismissed the idea. No point giving the man any counter-ammunition. No, if he needed legal advice, he would ask Thaddeus. Thaddeus would find him a lawyer.

In the meantime, he would have to ensure that the whole business never reached the stage of hiring lawyers. His best bet would be to review all the steps he'd taken to bring down year twelve, and make sure he hadn't forgotten to plug any holes. He would also have to update and expand his old research on Mrs Brezeck. If she had any shady secrets, Cadel would have to track them down and use them against her.

Oddly enough, he was pleased to be faced with such a mighty task, because it took his mind off Kay-Lee. Fis.h.i.+ng around for electronic pa.s.swords was a good way of avoiding gloomy thoughts about Kay-Lee or his mother. While the Piggotts staggered off to bed, complaining loudly about being 'worn out' because they'd had to supervise Mrs Ang and the caterers, Cadel worked away at his computer. He worked until two a.m., before dropping, fully clothed, onto his hand-woven bedspread.

The next day he was woken at about eleven, by the trilling of his mobile. He nearly fell onto the floor, trying to reach it.

'h.e.l.lo?' he croaked.

'Cadel?'

'Thaddeus?'

'Oh dear. You were asleep.'

'Um. Not really. I was just . . . I have to go to the toilet.'

'Before you do, Cadel, let me just say how much I admired the way you handled that incident yesterday. It showed great presence of mind.' 'Huh?' It took Cadel a moment to remember the incident in question. 'Oh. Right. Thanks,' he said, groggily.

'And don't worry a she won't be bothering you again.'

'What?' Cadel suddenly jerked awake. 'You haven't done anything? Thaddeus?'

'No, no.' The psychologist spoke soothingly. 'You told me you could handle it, Cadel, and I believe you. I just wanted to say that she won't be bursting in unexpectedly any more. I've got a surveillance team posted, watching your back.'

Cadel said nothing. He wasn't sure that this was entirely good news.

'So I'll see you on Monday,' Thaddeus continued. 'Same time, same place.'

'Okay. Uh a thanks.'

Click! And Thaddeus hung up. Cadel lay for a while, staring at the ceiling, his computer phone clasped in his hand. At last he rose. After a brief visit to the bathroom, he s.n.a.t.c.hed a muesli bar from out of a pantry cupboard and returned to his computer. He didn't bother to change. He didn't bother to shower, or clean his teeth.

He wanted to immerse himself in an electronic world, and forget that his body even existed.

Lanna was still sleeping, so he didn't have to worry about her. Clearly, she was still recovering from the party and its stresses. Stuart was nowhere to be seen. (Off on another interstate trip, no doubt.) Cadel busied himself with various 'housekeeping' tasks, which had to be completed before he could really settle down and foil Mrs Brezeck. This didn't mean that he picked up all the Gameboys strewn around his floor, or tidied the clothes in his wardrobe; it meant that he checked his email, switched remailers, fiddled with dynamic pa.s.swords, and generally cleared away a variety of small, annoying jobs, like Partner Post, for instance, so he could concentrate on more important things.

He had been on the verge of shutting down Partner Post even before Kay-Lee's devastating message. It had begun to bore him. Now, of course, he could hardly bear to download all the new stuff that had come in a all that whiny, sentimental, deluded garbage. He felt almost sick as he scrolled through what seemed like hectares of ill-spelt, unoriginal pleas and promises. There was even a new applicant! Help! Cadel scanned the message that had been sent. I've been led astray in my life . . . looking for the Right One...am caring person wanting to commit . . . green eyes, dark hair, 53 yrs old, 178.5 cm tall, 73 kg, birthday on the twelfth of January, divorced in '92, no one serious since then . . . need someone who can bring meaning to my existence ...soulmate... looks not an issue . . . preferably a Cancer ...

He winced, then his gaze snagged on the name of the applicant: Jorge Heimstadt.

Jorge.

The name caused his heart to leap. Jorge was the villain in The Name of the Rose. Jorge had been pa.s.sing himself off as a blind and helpless holy man, when in fact he'd been murdering people.

As for The Name of the Rose, it was the one detective story that Eiran Dempster liked. And that Kay-Lee McDougall also admired.

Surely this couldn't be a coincidence?

Cadel examined Jorge's message more carefully. It was written in plain English. There were no underlined words, no suspicious capitals, no odd spellings. Moreover, he couldn't see anything that remotely resembled the code he had devised with Kay-Lee. But as he reread each phrase, over and over, he sensed that he was missing something. Something obvious.

And then, at last, he spotted it. Two simple words.

Chemical affinity.

Jorge was talking about his need for a perfect match. You could say I was looking for chemical affinity, he had written. Suddenly, everything came together in Cadel's head. Chemical affinity. The Periodic Table of the Elements. Atomic numbers.

Fifty-three years old. Fifty-three was the atomic number for iodine, whose symbol was 'I'. The next number was 178.5, which couldn't be an atomic number (they only ran to 103), but could be an atomic weight. Cadel ran through the table in his head. Barium was 137.34, then came the lanthanides... then hafnium. Hf.

I. Hf. Meaningless. Unless it meant 'I have'? He checked the next number. Seventy-three kilograms. That sounded more like an atomic number again a tantalum, to be exact.

I. Hf. Ta.

Birthday on the twelfth of January. What did that mean? Twelve was the atomic number for magnesium: Mg. Divorced in '92 was easy, ninety-two being the atomic number for uranium (U). I. Hf. Ta. Mg. U. It didn't really make sense.

And then Cadel realised. The reference to January meant something as well. It wasn't just twelve a it was twelfth of the first, or 12.01. The atomic weight for carbon.

Number, weight, number, weight, number. I. Hf. Ta. C. U.

I have to see you.

It was as clear as day. Kay-Lee wanted to see him. She wanted to see him, but she couldn't tell him so. Not directly. Not even in the code they'd devised.

Why?

He jumped out of his seat and began to pace the floor, hardly knowing whether to dance for joy or wring his hands. What on earth was going on? Why this strange message? But perhaps it was incomplete. Perhaps there was more. Throwing himself at the computer again, Cadel studied Jorge's email with ferocious intensity. The only other numbers he could find were in the last paragraph: I believe that life falls into four seasons, and I am, obviously, commencing my autumn years. But I don't believe that would make any difference, for kindred spirits. I believe the Beatles got it right a and even if I was sixty-four, or older, it wouldn't matter to the woman who saw past the exterior, to the core of my being. The True Self doesn't fade. Anyway, as Bismarck said, 'Do not count the years, only the achievements'. I believe I have a fathomless depth of love and experience to offer the one who digs deep enough.

Four seasons. Four. The atomic number for Beryllium. (Be.) Seventy-four was the atomic number for tungsten. (W.) Be W.

Bew?

No, no, no. There had to be something else. Be, W, something. He combed through the last few sentences. He sectioned them, dissected them, ran them through every possible test he could think of before it suddenly sprang out at him. Bismarck, Otto von. Otto a the Italian word for eight. Eight was the atomic number for oxygen, or 'O'.

Be W O.

No. That wasn't right. Be W . . . ox? Woxy?

Air? Not exactly scientific, but . . .

Be W Air. Beware.

It was a warning: I have to see you. Beware. Was Kay-Lee in some sort of danger? Was that why she had cut off all communications with him?

Clearly, she was afraid that their main line of communication had been bugged. She was under the impression that someone had been reading their emails. Well, it might be possible. Cadel's own computer firewalls were almost impossible to breach, but the security on Kay-Lee's machine was hopeless a as he'd proven in the past. Perhaps the hacker had wormed into their exchange from her side? That was possible.

Curled up in his chair, furiously gnawing at his fingernails, Cadel considered his next move. He had to see Kay-Lee. To visit her, in other words a not to phone her, or to email her, or anything else. The question was: How? He could catch a train to Weatherwood House easily enough, but could he just walk in the front door? Kay-Lee had told him to beware.

It might be dangerous, walking up to the front door. And besides...

Cadel glanced at the window. For all he knew, the Fuhrer's surveillance team was sitting outside. It might follow him, and then what would happen? Maybe nothing. Maybe, if there was danger, it would be a good thing to have a few Grunts watching his back.

On the other hand, Kay-Lee McDougall was none of the Fuhrer's business. Cadel had seen the Fuhrer's data on other Axis staff members. He had seen the way Adolf collected background t.i.tbits: police records, unpaid child support, outstanding warrants. The Fuhrer seemed to regard this information as important to the security of the inst.i.tute a in case he ever had to blackmail someone, perhaps. Like Cadel, he made a hobby of data collection. Unlike Cadel, however, he wasn't very good at it.

All the same, Cadel didn't want him finding out about Kay-Lee. As far as Cadel was concerned, Kay-Lee and the Axis Inst.i.tute had to be kept as far apart as possible. Thaddeus, for example, wouldn't approve. Sending Kay-Lee presents had been bad enough. Going to visit her would be regarded as horribly unwise. You're getting too involved, Thaddeus had warned him a long time ago.

'That's your opinion,' Cadel said aloud. Then he got up, dragged his backpack from under the bed, and stuffed it with items that he'd been hiding: his Indian cotton skirt, his snap-on earrings, his bra, his hair ribbon. To these he added a plastic shopping bag from 'Sam's Boutique', a filmy chiffon blouse (filched from the laundry basket) and some of Lanna's make-up, which he was able to take from her bathroom quite easily. She didn't even stir when he slipped through her darkened bedroom; she was just a motionless lump under an embroidered silk doona.

Having packed his bag, Cadel ordered a taxi and walked boldly out the front door. He couldn't see anyone a no lurking cars or suspicious strangers lighting cigarettes a but that meant nothing. The Grunts might simply be very good at their job.

He hoped that they wouldn't be too good. If they were, he was in trouble.

The taxi arrived in about ten minutes. Cadel asked the driver to take him to the nearest mall. As they purred along leafy avenues, and then swung out onto the highway, Cadel kept his eyes peeled for pursuing vehicles. One white Toyota stayed behind them for a suspiciously long time, before turning off down a side-street. There was also a motorbike that weaved in and out of the traffic like an Internet search engine spidering through the Web. But Cadel saw nothing that he could positively identify as a surveillance team.

At the mall, he headed straight for a computer store that he often frequented. It wasn't his favourite but it was the closest; it stocked a lot of telephone and entertainment equipment as well. Cadel spent about an hour poking around there, watching everyone who came in after he did. He was trying to lull any hovering surveillance teams into a false sense of security. Finally, he left the shop, ducking down a featureless corridor that led to a pair of rest rooms. Two doors were placed side by side, one marked 'male', the other 'female'.

With a quick glance around, Cadel entered the female toilets.

It was the riskiest part of the whole plan. One protest could ruin everything. But he moved quickly, and the only person who saw him was a tiny girl whose mother was peering into a mirror above the basins. The girl caught his eye and stared.

Cadel darted into a cubicle, slamming the door behind him.

In the unearthly fluorescent light, he struggled with b.u.t.tons and zippers. Having forgotten to bring spare socks, he was forced to stuff his bra with toilet paper. His sneakers looked odd under the Indian cotton skirt, but that couldn't be helped. (Alias had warned him about giveaway shoes, but that couldn't be helped either.) Though he was able to tie his hair back inside the cubicle, he didn't attempt to put on any make-up. Not until he had a mirror to help him.

The little girl was gone by the time he emerged. Cadel applied his lipstick carefully, with many surrept.i.tious glances at the woman on the other side of the room, who was doing the same thing. He put kohl on his eyes, and a little blusher on his cheeks. He plastered foundation over his bruises, until they were barely visible. The mascara, however, defeated him. He decided that mascara wasn't necessary.

When he'd finished, he was pleased with the result. It was convincing. He was convincing. He shook out his 'Sam's Boutique' bag and thrust everything into it that he wanted to take with him (discarded boys' clothes, make-up, backpack).

Then he walked through the exit door.

THIRTY.

No one stared. No one stopped him. He might have been invisible, for all the notice he attracted.

With a dry mouth and a hammering heart, he wandered down to the street, pausing every so often to peer into the kind of shop windows that he usually ignored a windows full of girls underwear, jewellery, scented soaps, floral cus.h.i.+ons. He wasn't sure if anyone was following him. He thought not.