SEVEN

The next morning, before Mace left for school, he and Cadel were sent outside to collect the empty trash bins. These bins had to be moved from the front gate to the backyard, once the garbage trucks had done their job.

Normally, it was a chore that took them all of three minutes. But when Mace reached the path that ran between the garage and the side of the house, he began to mutter.

Oh no, thought Cadel, quickening his step. He had picked up the black recycling bin (as usual), because the green wheelie bin was bigger and more unwieldy. Mace was in charge of the wheelie bin. He would drag it behind him—bumpety-bump—along the path. He even liked the din that it made. And he had enough muscle to maneuver it into its customary spot, by the old laundry shed.

But as large as it was, the wheelie bin didn't slow Mace down very much. After Cadel had dropped his black bin near the laundry, he turned to find a flushed Mace looming over him.

"You did it," said Mace, with infinite menace. "I know you did it."

"Did what?" Cadel was playing for time. "What are you talking about?"

"I don't know how you did it, but you did it." Mace took a step forward. "And I'm going to kill you for that."

Cadel ducked sideways and might have escaped if he had judged his route more expertly. As it was, he almost ran up against the hot-water system when he rounded a corner on his way to the back door. And that split-second delay was all Mace needed. Closing the gap between them, he grabbed Cadel's T-shirt and jerked him backward.

Suddenly Cadel was on the ground, crushed beneath a heavy weight. He could hardly breathe.

"You better admit it," Mace growled, shoving his contorted face into Cadel's, "or you're going to die."

"Can't...," Cadel wheezed. One big, beefy forearm lay across his throat, pressing down hard. Leaning on it. Mace was choking him.

"Get off!" Cadel gasped. "Yeowch!"

"I told my brother about you," Mace went on. "He said I should teach you a lesson, and that's exactly what I'm gunna do now, you little dickhead!"

Cadel was growing dizzy. He couldn't expand his lungs. His vision was darkening at the edges.

And then, all at once, the pressure was gone. He could breathe again. Move again.

He rolled over, coughing. It was a moment before he could look up. When he did, he saw that Mace was being held in a professional-looking armlock by none other than Saul Greeniaus.

Cadel gaped in astonishment.

"All right," said Saul, calmly addressing Mace. "Are you listening to me?"

The reply that Saul received was just a torrent of profanity. So he waited, keeping a firm grip on Mace as he nodded at Cadel.

"Okay. You finished now?" the detective said at last, when Mace had run out of insults. "Because I want you to listen. What I saw then was a clear case of assault. You can end up in juvenile court for something like that. And you will if it happens again." Saul applied a slight pressure to his armlock, causing Mace to wince. "Okay—I'm gonna set you free," the detective promised. "And you're not gonna do anything stupid, like attack a police officer. Because you're not stupid. Are you?"

Mace shook his head, whereupon Saul released him. The two of them stood for a moment, surveying each other: Saul with his hands on his hips; Mace rubbing his elbow.

"Now, I want you guys to get along," the detective commanded. "No fighting. No sabotage. No pissing on beds."

"He ruined my magazines!" Mace squawked. But Saul held up one hand.

"I don't want to hear it," he replied flatly. "I'm not interested. From now on, you guys are gonna be polite to each other. And if I find out that you've laid a hand on this kid again," he concluded, fixing Mace with his dark and somber stare, "you'll be in a lot of trouble. Is that clear?"

Mace grimaced. His eyes were wet and his face was red. He looked as if he could hardly contain his protests.

But he managed a nod.

"Good," said Saul. "I knew you were a smart kid. Now, off you go; I don't want you late for school."

"You hurt my arm." Mace narrowed his eyes. "How can I do any work if my arm hurts?"

"It won't last."

"It might."

The detective regarded Mace thoughtfully, as Cadel's foster brother raised his chin. They were almost the same height.

But while Mace was heavier, Saul seemed more formidable.

"Well, sure," the detective eventually remarked. "You can lay a complaint if you want. With your record, though, there are bound to be questions." He shrugged. "It's up to you," he said. "Personally, I wouldn't want to be drawing attention to myself."

Mace seemed to concur. As Cadel scrambled to his feet, his foster brother slouched away, disappearing around the side of the house. Only when Mace was out of sight did Saul turn his attention to Cadel.

"Are you all right?" the detective asked.

"Uh—yeah." Cadel cleared his throat experimentally.

"Has he done this before?"

"Done what?"

"Tried to strangle you."

"Oh." For some reason, Cadel felt slightly sheepish. "Well, not exactly."

"He's had a hard life," Saul acknowledged, squinting toward the house. "But I want you to stay out of his way."

"That's what I've been trying to do."

"No. I mean it." The detective's clear, brown gaze fastened on Cadel. "Stay out of his way."

"And how am I supposed to do that?" Cadel demanded. "When he won't leave me alone? Do you think it's easy?"

In response, Saul cocked his head.

"What's all this about magazines?" was his measured rejoinder. And Cadel swallowed.

He tried not to look as guilty as he felt.

"Nothing," he said. "Mace's magazines got wet."

Saul Greeniaus absorbed this in silence. Then he began to fish around in the lining of his jacket.

"I'm familiar with your record, too," he announced dryly. "I know what you're capable of." At last he found what he had been searching for, and produced it like a conjurer producing a white rabbit. "Here," he said. "I've brought you a cell phone. You can use it to call me if you're worried about anything."

Cadel blinked. Wordlessly he accepted the neat little mobile phone.

"It's not yours to keep," the detective warned. "I'm just lending it to you. And if you start running up big bills, you'll be paying them yourself. Unless the calls were made to me or Ms. Currey."

He fell silent, as if waiting for an answer. So Cadel obliged.

"Thanks," he said.

"You're welcome." Saul glanced at his watch. "Well—I'd better go. I only dropped in to give you that." He nodded at the phone. "Ms. Currey will have my hide if I talk to you for too long without her."

"Uh—Mr. Greeniaus?"

Cadel was almost surprised to hear his own voice. He hadn't given much thought to what he was going to say.

Saul didn't speak. He just waited, motionless.

"I—um—I've had a message from Com," Cadel continued. "Remember him? The guy from my infiltration class, at the Axis Institute?"

"Go on."

"It was a coded message. On e-mail. It said 'Cadel, let's catch up. Com.' That's all." Conscious of Saul's intent regard, Cadel added, "I haven't finished tracing it, yet, so I don't know if ... I mean, it might not be Com. It might be..." He trailed off, unnerved by the detective's grim expression. "It was sent to Hazel's address," he finished. "Disguised as spam."

"Did you reply?" Saul queried.

"No. I didn't want to. There's been a hacker poking around in the system, you see, so—"

"You haven't been talking to anyone else? Online? You haven't mentioned your name, or where you live?"

"No, but—"

"Damn it to hell." Saul uttered these words so slowly and carefully that they hardly sounded like a curse. "How would anyone know you were here?"

"Well, the police know," Cadel pointed out. "Fiona knows. My lawyer knows. The address is bound to be on a computer file somewhere. It wouldn't be hard to find."

Saul frowned. He seemed to be thinking. After a while he said, "What was that about a hacker?"

"Someone planted an information probe in Hazel's system," Cadel explained. "It's been gathering data."

"For whom?"

"I don't know. I was going to finish the trace today, before I went and tracked down that e-mail." Cadel was suddenly struck by a dazzling idea. He straightened, and his whole face lit up. "Do you want to see?" he eagerly inquired, anxious to commandeer the computer. "I can show you—"

"No."

"But—"

"Listen." Saul put a hand on Cadel's shoulder. "Don't you touch that machine. It's out of bounds. Understand?"

Cadel caught his breath.

"What—what do you mean?" He gasped.

"If what you say is true, then we can't risk having you go anywhere near the computer. Just in case."

"But that's ridiculous." Cadel was shell-shocked. "There's no risk. I'm going to reconfigure the cookie so that nothing will go out unless it's tagged. And the tags will be like route markers."

"No."

"But you can't!" Cadel cried. The horrible truth was finally beginning to sink in. "You can't stop me using the computer!"

"I have to." Saul moved his hand to the top of Cadel's head, bending down until they were eye to eye. "My first priority is to keep you safe," he said firmly. "That's my job. We don't know who we're dealing with right now, so we can't be too careful. There's no saying what might happen if I let you wander about online unprotected."

"But I can protect myself online! Way better than anyone else could!" Cadel found it hard to believe that Saul was unable to grasp this fact. "Don't you understand? It's what I do!"

"Listen to me." Saul's grip tightened on Cadel's scalp. "There are people I can bring in here to conduct an online investigation. They can turn that machine inside out in a couple of hours. They're experts."

"So am I!"

"Yes, I know. But you're also the target." Saul's tone was grave. "Your safety is paramount. Paramount. I don't want Prosper English messing with your head."

Cadel tried to speak, but he couldn't. There was a lump in his throat. Something of the anguish that he felt must have shown in his face, because Saul's own expression changed slightly. Before the detective could say anything, however, Hazel addressed him from beside the hot-water system.

"Mr. Greeniaus?" she said, and he swung around.

"Good morning, Mrs. Donkin."

"Thomas told me you were here, but..."

"It's a little early, I know."

"Isn't Miss Currey with you?"

"No. I'm afraid we have a problem." Saul's tone was very formal. Very official-sounding. "I'm afraid we're gonna have to confiscate your computer for a short time."

Hazel's mouth formed a perfect O.

"We may not have to remove it from this site, but it will be out of bounds to all the occupants of your home," Saul went on. "Until such a time as we're satisfied that it's safe to use."

"But—but why?" Hazel asked. Her glance shifted toward Cadel, who stiffened.

"This isn't Cadel's fault," the detective quickly assured her. "On the contrary. He's the one who uncovered the problem."

"But—"

"Let's go inside, shall we? I need to make some calls."

So they went inside, where Saul immediately took over the whole house. He dispatched a sullen Mace to the bus stop. He sent Hazel off to school with Janan and left a message on Fiona's voice mail. He put through a request for some kind of forensic information technology team. Then he made a full report to his superior, using his own cell phone.

When he'd finished, he settled in front of the computer and addressed Cadel—who was slumped on the living-room couch, fiddling with the TV remote.

"Am I correct in thinking that Mr. Donkin has already left for work?" the detective asked.

"He leaves early," Cadel replied, without glancing in Saul's direction. "He works a morning shift."

"Then I'm out of order." Saul clicked his tongue. "I shouldn't have sent Mrs. Donkin away until Ms. Currey arrived." After a moment he added, "I'm sorry, Cadel, I really am."

Cadel said nothing. He stared straight ahead, glum and embittered, wondering why he had ever opened his big, fat, stupid mouth. It was all so insulting. First they'd taken away his computer. Now they were going to take over his trace. And what was he supposed to do in the meantime? Sit in front of the TV?

Slowly he became aware of the lengthening silence and turned his head. Had Saul left the room? No—he was still perched on the typist's chair, his clasped hands hanging between his knees, quietly watching Cadel.

After a moment, Cadel discovered that he could no longer contain himself.

"I've got to e-mail Sonja," he insisted. "I've got to. And I can't use the phone, because she can't talk on the phone! I need a computer!"

They studied each other for perhaps half a minute. Then Saul said, "After I've finished here, I'll take you to the library. You can e-mail Sonja from there."

"Are you kidding?" Cadel scoffed. "All the library computers will be booked out! They're always booked out!"

"Not if I ask for one," the detective retorted, with unassailable confidence. "Anyhow, it'll only be one e-mail. You can tell Sonja that you're coming to visit her this afternoon. If you pay her a visit, you can talk to your heart's content." Hearing Cadel sniff, he added, "I'll even ask Mick and Ray to give you a lift. As a special favor. The only thing is..." He hesitated. "The only thing is, you have to promise not to use her computer, or I can't let you go."

Cadel took a deep breath. His hands were crawling around in his lap. But his voice, when he spoke, was fairly steady.

"You don't understand," he said. "You just don't understand..."

"What don't I understand?"

"I've got to have a computer." Cadel was trying not to sound melodramatic. Or hysterical. Or downright mad. Nevertheless, he felt compelled to explain. "I'm not like other people," he said. "I might as well die if I don't have one."

Saul's brows snapped together.

"Come on now," he objected. "It can't be that bad."

"Stuck out here? With nothing to do?" Cadel scowled. "Sometimes I almost wish Prosper would contact me. Just so I could talk to someone who understands!"

Saul stood up—so abruptly that Cadel flinched. But the detective didn't seem cross. He was as calm as ever.

"If Prosper English gave a good goddamn about you," he said flatly, "then he'd acknowledge that you were his son. He hasn't, so he doesn't. As for this computer ban, it won't last long. Can you survive off-line for a day or two?"

It wasn't a question. It was an order. Cadel knew that any further resistance would be futile.

"I guess so," he muttered, into his chest.

"Good." The doorbell rang, but Saul didn't let it interrupt him. Instead he kept talking, his arms folded, his eyes on Cadel. "In that case," he said, "I'll make you a promise. I promise I'll do all I can to get you the hell out of here."

Cadel's head jerked up. He stared at the detective in surprise.

"You don't belong in this place," Saul declared, as if stating the blindingly obvious. "You think I haven't worked that out? I'm a detective. I can see what's under my nose."

Then he turned, and went to admit his forensic computer team into the Donkins' house.