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 Prosper 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.

Then she gave Sonja a bath, laid the kitchen table, and engaged Cadel in a long, earnest discussion about his private affairs.

"Mel's been looking into that sample collected from Prosper English," she related. "The one they took to see if it matched the skin on the envelope found with that poor dead guard. Apparently it didn't; there's no proof that Prosper ever went near the envelope. But Mel's hoping that we might be able to use your dad's sample for a paternity test."

"I thought we needed Prosper's permission for something like that?" Cadel inquired, and Fiona shrugged.

"Maybe. All I know is that Mel's hoping to force the issue. Though we can't expect an answer very soon." She hesitated before adding, "Even if we do run a paternity test, it might not advance your case. You know that, don't you, sweetie?"

"Yes," said Cadel.

"Because you don't want to end up in Scotland. As a worst-case scenario." Fiona went on to announce that she had been speaking to her friend about his cryptography and security course. "The problem is, it's on a Monday evening," she said. "And I don't like the idea of you riding around in buses at that time of night. Though of course those policemen will be watching you." Fiona sighed. "Which raises another problem. Your attendance at the university is supposed to be unofficial. What happens if it's recorded somewhere in the police files? I don't want my friend getting into trouble, just because he helped us out."

Cadel said nothing. He was at a loss for an answer, since he knew that he wouldn't be attending any evening courses for quite some time. Not until GenoME had been dismantled, anyway.

Fortunately, Fiona didn't seem to expect any useful suggestions from him.

"Don't worry," she said. "I'll figure something out. Meanwhile, how have you been? Are you feeling better now?"

"Better?"

"You haven't thrown up again?"

"Oh." Cadel winced. He was ashamed of his weak stomach. "No, I'm fine."

"What did you eat for breakfast?" Fiona asked, as if she really cared. Then, apparently satisfied with his response (which was "scrambled eggs"), she glanced around his room. "And what have you been doing with yourself?" she wanted to know. "Have you been able to use that computer in the office?"

"Sometimes." Cadel realized suddenly that no one in Genius Squad had arranged a fake computer schedule to cover the office machine, which was supposed to be the only computer in the place. It was a dangerous oversight. Suppose he claimed that he had access to the office computer on Tuesdays and Thursdays only? What if Fiona should hear something different from another member of Genius Squad?

If that happened, he would be caught out.

"Sonja's been teaching me a really neat cipher," he quickly remarked, to distract Fiona's attention. "It's called the Solitaire Cipher, and it lets you communicate with another person in a really complex code without using a computer. All you need is a deck of cards."

He went on to explain, in minute detail, how the Solitaire Cipher worked. Fiona smiled and nodded, and made an effort to understand. She didn't try to interrupt or turn the conversation. Nevertheless, she looked deeply grateful when Hamish eventually announced, from the bottom of the stairs, that lunch was ready.

Cadel's ploy had succeeded. After her long struggle with the cutting and counting of cards, Fiona had forgotten all about Cadel's computer schedule. He had successfully bored her into a state of partial amnesia.

"Okay," she said, almost jumping to her feet. "I suppose I'd better go. Have you spoken to Mr. Greeniaus since yesterday?"

"No." Cadel was carefully shuffling his cards. In a bland voice he added, "Have you?"

Fiona colored slightly.

"No," she said. "But he did say that he'd be at the Coroner's Court tomorrow, for your dad's appearance. Just to make sure that nobody shoots anybody. So you're not to fret. Because Mr. Greeniaus has everything under control."

Cadel remained silent. Sitting cross-legged on his rumpled bedspread, he quietly cut and stacked the deck of cards, his eyes cast down.

"Cadel?" A pause. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Yes, there is."

Cadel raised his head, as a terrible thought struck him. "You're not going, are you?" he demanded. "To the Coroner's Court?"

"No, no. Of course not."

"That's good." The prospect had filled Cadel with dread. It was bad enough that Saul Greeniaus should be exposed to Prosper English, but Fiona Currey? "Don't go. You mustn't. Prosper mustn't find out about you, not ever."

"Sweetie, we discussed this when we first met. Your case file is restricted. How could Prosper English find out about me?" Fiona gently patted his arm. "You've got enough to worry about. Don't concern yourself with me, or with Mr. Greeniaus. We're grown-ups—we can look after ourselves."

Cadel disagreed. Fiona, he knew, wouldn't stand a chance against Prosper English. But he refrained from making the obvious comeback. Instead, he rose and accompanied her downstairs, where he waved her out the door just as Trader's car pulled up alongside the front steps.

There was a brisk exchange of compliments. Trader flashed his gleaming smile and indulged in his usual bantering tone. Despite this jovial facade, however, Cadel sensed that he was deeply agitated.

Sure enough, Fiona's car was no sooner heading for the front gate than Trader sighed and said, "Thank Christ she's gone. We need to talk."

"Why? What about?" asked Cadel.

"I'll tell you in a minute. Where's Judith? Is Tony here yet? It's time we had a confab." Trader barged across the threshold, his smile extinguished, his eyes glittering. "I might be wrong," he said, "but I think I'm on to something. Something big."