"Cadel!"
Cadel jumped. Mrs. Piggott! It was only twenty past nine and she was home already!
He stuffed the receipt into his pocket and threw himself out of her room just in time. She caught him in the hallway.
"What have you done to the alarm system?" she demanded, hands on hips.
"Uh—"
"I've told you before, Cadel, that system is out of bounds!"
"Maybe it's broken." Cadel tried his trademark innocent look, but Lanna wasn't fooled.
"Get in there," she ordered, "and put it back on!"
"But—"
"Now!"
He did as he was told. There was no reason not to. He had found what he was looking for—a genuine clue.
Of course, it might be a red herring. As Cadel rerouted electronic signals in the stuffy little circuitry room, he considered the possibility that this discarded receipt belonged to someone else. But if that were the case, why did the Piggotts even have it? He couldn't help being suspicious.
So he would check that number. He would pursue it through the usual electronic routes, but not with his usual computer. He would have to employ another one, without arousing the suspicions of whoever was watching him. Bit of a tall order, really.
In bed that night, Cadel racked his brain for a solution to the problem. It kept him too busy to think about anything else, and he fell asleep before he could resolve his dilemma. Then, at five thirty, he woke up shivering. His head ached and his stomach heaved. Something was wrong: He was sick, really sick. After staggering to the bathroom for an aspirin, he fell back into bed and didn't move again until Lanna checked on him at eight thirty.
"Cadel?" she said. "I'm going now."
He grunted.
"Cadel? Haven't you got any classes today?" Then she took a step nearer and caught her breath. "Oh my god," she exclaimed. "Are you sick? Cadel? Oh my god."
She put her hand on his forehead.
"Doesn't feel like a temperature," she fussed. "What's wrong, exactly?"
"My head hurts."
"Oh dear."
"My stomach, too. I feel sick."
"Oh lord. I've got a meeting..." She was beginning to sound shrill. "Are you sure you can't get up? Do you want to see a doctor?"
"No."
"Well ... well..." Clearly, she didn't know what to do. "Well, how about I call Mrs. Ang, and she can come in early? I'll be back by lunchtime. Oh, trust Stuart to be away! He always is, in a crisis!"
Cadel buried his head in his pillow. He didn't want to listen to Mrs. Piggott complaining about her husband. (If he really was her husband.) After a while she left the room, returning a few minutes later with various sickroom accessories: a bucket, a box of tissues, a glass, a jug, a packet of pain-and-fever tablets. "Mrs. Ang's on her way," she informed Cadel. "When she arrives, I'll go. But I'll be back soon. It sounds like a migraine, Cadel."
Cadel said nothing. He retreated into a drowsy, muddled world that prevented him from thinking about anything except the pain in his head. After a while, his nausea drove him to the bathroom, where he threw up all over the floor. But by that time Mrs. Ang was around, so she cleaned up the mess without complaint.
Cadel only vomited once. He spent the rest of the day dozing and staring at the wall, with the occasional trip to the toilet or short period propped up against a pile of pillows with a thermometer under his tongue. He didn't do much thinking. He didn't feel up to it. His mind lay dormant until half past six, when the sound of a voice suddenly made every nerve in his body stand to attention.
"Cadel?" said the voice. "How are you feeling?"
It was Thaddeus Roth.
Cadel rolled over. He saw that Thaddeus was standing in the doorway of his bedroom, looking about ten feet tall. The psychologist carried a tin of hard candy and was dressed in a dark suit under a generous overcoat that swished and swirled around his ankles.
"Since you couldn't make it to your appointment, I thought I'd drop in on my way home," he remarked, entering the room. He sat down on Cadel's typist's chair, which creaked like a tree in the wind. "How are you feeling?"
"Okay. I mean, sick. But better. Than I was."
"Good," said Thaddeus, placing the tin on Cadel's desk. "These are for you. I always like to have them around, when I'm ill. Is it your chest again?"
"No, I—I don't think so." For perhaps the first time in his life, Cadel wasn't happy to see Thaddeus. A hot flush of guilt invaded his entire body, turning his face red. He didn't want to talk to Thaddeus. He was too confused. Too ... frightened?
"Lanna says you don't have a fever," Thaddeus went on. "Just a headache, nausea, fatigue."
Cadel nodded, clutching the covers around him. His eyes actually felt huge as he stared at Thaddeus, who regarded him with a pensive expression, his own eyes dark and unreadable.
"What a shame," said Thaddeus. "You didn't eat something yesterday, perhaps? Something that might have disagreed with you?" His tone was tranquil, but Cadel knew exactly what he was getting at.
"No."
"It wouldn't be a hangover, Cadel? You didn't slip away to experiment with anything?"
Cadel blushed again.
"No," he repeated, then took a deep breath. "So the surveillance team lost me, did they?"
A brief pause. Thaddeus lifted an eyebrow.
"Yes," he drawled. "They did."
"I wanted to see if I could do it. Now that I've been studying disguise."
Cadel wondered if this explanation sounded as lame to Thaddeus as it did to him. Perhaps not. The psychologist was nodding sympathetically.
"Yes, of course," he murmured. "I wouldn't make a habit of it, though. Under the circumstances."
"I won't," Cadel promised, perfectly aware that this was the closest Thaddeus would get to a warning. "But you don't have to worry about Mrs. Brezeck. She won't do anything to me."
"She will if you don't do something to her first," Thaddeus replied. "Have you, Cadel? Done anything, I mean?"
Cadel shook his head. "Not yet," he faltered.
"Ah."
"But I will."
"Good."
"I've got an idea. I would have done it today, only—"
"You were sick. Of course. I understand." Thaddeus rose. "Well, I won't tire you out. You get a good night's sleep and perhaps you'll be up and about tomorrow."
Once again Cadel nodded. He was just beginning to relax when Thaddeus stopped at the door and turned back.
"Nothing's troubling you, Cadel?" he asked gently. "There's nothing on your mind?"
Cadel forced himself not to swallow.
"No," he squeaked. "What do you mean?"
"Oh, I just thought. Stress can sometimes manifest itself in physical symptoms: fatigue, headaches, that kind of thing." The dark gaze bored into Cadel. "No one's bothering you at the institute, for example?"
"No." That wasn't a lie, in any event. Cadel could speak calmly and firmly. "Not at all."
"You wouldn't be frightened of going there? After the incident last week? Because if you are, Cadel—"
"I'm not. Really. I'll be going tomorrow."
Cadel summoned up every bit of energy left within him and offered Thaddeus an earnest, wide-eyed expression that must have convinced the psychologist to some degree. After directing a long, searching look at Cadel, Thaddeus shrugged and glanced away.
"Well, that's a relief," he said. "I'd hate to think you were unhappy there, since I was the one who recommended the place. I'll tell a certain person that you're ill, of course. He'll be sorry to hear it."
"Yeah." Cadel spoke awkwardly. "Tell him—tell him I'll see him on Wednesday."
"I shall," Thaddeus replied. Then he smiled, lifted a hand, and withdrew.
At which point Cadel discovered that he was sweating.
He fell back onto his pillows, pulling his blankets over his head.
What if Thaddeus was right? What if he wasn't really sick? What if he was simply stressed, and the headache was his brain's way of trying to wriggle out of a nasty situation? He felt the tears rising, and pressed his hands against his eyelids to hold them back. He was so tired. So confused. And Kay-Lee—Sonja, rather—what was he going to do about her? How could he go on if they weren't able to e-mail each other?
I don't want this to be happening, he thought desperately.
But it was.