A Cage of Butterflies (13 page)

XXIX

GREG'S STORY

They found the hole the next morning, just behind a clump of trees at the western end of the grounds. Someone had taken a pair of bolt-cutters or heavy-duty tin-snips to the mesh of the fence, and cut out a neat, metre-square section, from ground level up; just a comfortable size to crawl through – and back. If they didn't know someone had been inside, they'd probably never even have found the hole, it was so out of the way. The position was well chosen. Whoever had done it had “cased the joint” pretty carefully.

That was what I told MacIntyre when I was talking to him the next day.

“What do you think they'd go to all that trouble for?” I asked him. I loved to put him on a spot; to ask him questions I knew he couldn't possibly answer and watch his face.

Poor jerk. I suppose in his own way he was quite smart. I gather he was a bit of a whiz-kid himself in his early days at Uni. Before he channelled himself.

Channelling happens quite often, you know, to people who don't read. Anything outside their own area of obsession, that is. That was the excuse I used to give my Maths tutor when he'd rouse on me for reading books when I should have been studying the finer points of advanced calculus. I didn't want to hurt the poor guy's feelings by telling him that his passion, the sole reason for his existence on this planet, bored me stupid; I was twelve years old at the time, and still had moments when I tried to avoid hurting people's feelings.

It doesn't worry me so much any more. Especially not with people like Big Mac. Anyone who'd let Larsen lead him around by the nose like some kind of pet bear couldn't have enough self-respect – or self-awareness – to have his feelings hurt.

Anyway, I kept pressing him, trying to get him to slip up and reveal something that Larsen didn't want us to know – even though we probably already did. Partly, it was for fun, just to see him squirm, but mostly I just wanted to drop him in the crap with his boss. If he'd said anything “incriminating”, I'd probably have found a way to mention it casually to Larsen, accidentally letting him know where I'd learned it. Then sit back and wait for the fireworks.

It was disgustingly childish behaviour, I know, but I make no apologies. I didn't like the bastard – almost as much as I didn't like his damned boss. And besides, it served our purposes to keep them at each other's throats as much as possible.

I'll say this for him, he side-stepped the curly questions quite well. But I could tell he was worried about the hole in the fence and what it might mean.

And I suppose, given the nature of Larsen's “business” and the kinds of people he was doing business with, he had every reason to be worried.

After all, the complex wasn't exactly designed to be high-security. The cyclone fencing around the perimeter was more cosmetic than functional, unless you wanted to keep out the occasional wallaby, or a wombat that wasn't in the mood for digging. It certainly wouldn't keep out the sort of person who might be interested in finding out what was going on inside the main buildings.

As the previous night's events had proved.

Even without the break-in, we had Larsen even more confused than ever. Knowing the location of all his “devices” was a godsend.

Lesley was the best at it, but even Katie got in on the act. We'd talk “secretly” with each other about the feelings and “flashes” that we got whenever we were in the room with the Babies. Flashes that made absolutely no sense, but which served to send Larsen and his little clones running off down blind alleys, wasting valuable time and resources – while we got our secret plans arranged.

There was an awful lot to consider. It was like a giant game of chess, with ourselves as the pieces … The finer details have never been my strong point. In chess or in life. I'm more an … inspiration player. I trust my instincts. But we needed a few more steady heads to add balance. In the end, to succeed, any strategy relies on a thousand tiny but important details far more than it does on inspiration. That's why I rarely beat Mikki at chess. And that's why I was so terrified that something would go wrong.

And the introduction at this late stage of a new player and a new group of pieces only made the game that much more complex, and gave us more details that could go wrong.

Who had it been?

I could sympathise with Larsen's dilemma. Obviously, nobody from inside the complex would have had any logical reason to cut their way in. That left outsiders. And he only had fourteen million or so of those to choose from … not counting overseas interests; which, given the possible consequences of his research, was a real consideration.

And how far would they go?

He was on the phone to Brady early the next morning, requesting extra security – and receiving a predictably abrupt refusal. I think the little gnome was regretting the fact that he'd ever got involved with the whole project in the first place.

Unless … and here was a thought … unless it was Brady himself who had organised the break-in. Perhaps he didn't trust Larsen to reveal everything he had learned. Anyone who had the nerve – or the ego – to try to blackmail a multinational corporation, might just have the nerve – or the stupidity – to try to double-cross a multinational corporation. Maybe Brady was scared that Larsen was selling out to the opposition. I wondered if Larsen had considered that possibility. If he had, it was just another brick added to his worry load.

It was hard not to feel sorry for the poor slob. Well, not too hard …

* *

Of course, there were no “outsiders” really. Unless you consider Erik an outsider – which depends a lot on your point of view.

He'd cut the hole in the fence early on Saturday evening, while everyone else was having dinner, then he'd taken a pair of size twelve hiking boots, which he'd picked up in a disposal store in Nowra, and pressed them into the soft soil outside the girls' window, before sending them on a one-way trip to the municipal tip.

It was risky, but it was a calculated risk. Without the mysterious “outside threat”, there would be too much later that we'd never be able to explain.

So the “dark man” became the scapegoat for anything mysterious that happened in the whole complex from then on. He'd cut holes in fences, break into storerooms. Once he even tried to use a crowbar on the door of the Babies' building. That was Gordon's idea. It scared the crap out of Larsen, who was inside the building at the time. He noticed the damage when he was leaving and was on the verge of calling the police before he thought better of it.

After that, we decided to give the mysterious intruder a short holiday. He'd established his presence, and we didn't want him to outlive his usefulness before he was ready for his ultimate act of terrorism.

Larsen had bitten his fingernails down to the elbows, and would probably have started on his toe-nails if he could have reached them. He was that nervous. With Brady on the one hand, and now this new threat, he was really stuck between a rock and a hard place. And he wasn't enjoying it one little bit.

But I sure was.

Then, to top it all off, two days later – at eleven-thirty in the evening, coincidentally – he received a phone call from the boatyard.

Apart from his work, Larsen had only one passion, and that was his boat. A beautiful ten-metre half-cabin job, with twin inboards and an ocean-going hull. He spent whatever free time he allowed himself, which hadn't been too much lately, messing about on the
Lisa-Marie.

She was named after the daughter he rarely saw, who had left at the age of ten to live with her mother, when the poor woman finally grew tired of playing second-fiddle to conference papers and research grants. Lisa-Marie was in her late twenties now, and the ex-Mrs Larsen was now very ex. The father-daughter bond had always been rather strained and there wasn't much there – at least not on her side. It crossed my mind that there was something deeply psychological in his choice of a name for the vessel.

Anyway, the guy from the boatyard phoned to report that a dark figure had been seen jumping down from the
Lisa-Marie
and running away, and would the Doctor care to take the trip down to Shoalhaven to check that everything was all right? No, he hadn't seen the incident personally, it had been reported by a passer-by, who thought the guy looked a little suspicious.

Larsen didn't think to inquire, but if he had, he would have discovered that the security-conscious “passer-by” bore an uncanny resemblance to Susan, who just happened to be “visiting friends” in Sydney at the time.

Of course, when Larsen arrived at the boatyard, the
Lisa-Marie
was fine, except for the distinctive smell of petrol, leaking from a slightly damaged fuel-line.

“I'd get that looked at,” the guy at the boatyard told him. “Things like that can cause terrible accidents. There's nothing quite as bad as a fire on a boat.”

And the seed was sown …

XXX

Breaking Point

December 9, 1990

The vultures began to gather.

With nothing concrete to show them, Larsen was in a state of panic. All his confidence had evaporated and he was quiet and surly. MacIntyre bore the worst of his moods, but no one was entirely safe. Even Susan felt the sting of his waspish temper.

He was like a man possessed, watching his cherished dream slip away into another man's hands. He barely slept, ate only out of habit, and spent every waking moment at the observation window or going over his notes, searching for that elusive insight. Alone or with others, he mumbled to himself constantly, a man in the first stages of breakdown.

And still the Babies stared. In silence.

“We're so damned close.” The balding scientist repeated the statement like a litany.

Susan pretended not to hear. “We'll get there. We just have to find the key.” She tried to sound encouraging.

Just a little while longer, and we'll be ready. Then you'll never know just how close you were.

The words she would love to say. They passed through her mind constantly, and she had to fight the urge to speak them aloud. Even when he was brought low, she hated the man. But she feared far more the people who were destined to replace him. Everything was nearly in place, but time was running short. Once Brady installed his own people, it would be too late. They would get only one shot at the prize.

And all the time, Myriam's words echoed across her thought-stream.

We would rather be dead.

Even assuming they could pull it off, what kind of a life awaited them?

The Babies. A freak accident had created them. And that was what they would be in the eyes of the world. Freaks.

She thought of the kids in the tank. Lovely kids, all of them, and yet … how hard had it been for them? Isolated by their abnormal intelligence. Feared, envied. Outcast. Yet
they
could talk, they could pass for “normal”, at least for a while.

She thought of Greg. Facing the world with his indomitable will and his wicked sense of humour – but was it enough? How many people looked past the crutches and the twisted legs to the person inside? How many turned their faces from the embarrassment of his “problem” and missed the warm intelligence in that face?

The best they could possibly do for the Babies was to exchange one prison for another, in the hope that they could remain hidden from those who would be searching for them. And they
would
be searching.

Larsen mumbled something to himself as he left the booth, and Susan found herself staring through the glass into Rachael's eyes.

youknowwhatmust … bedonesusan … thereis … no otherway.

“I know, but …” There were no words for what she was feeling.

justdoit … iweloveyou …

December 12, 1990

“You're
what
?”

“I have no other choice. There's no time left.” Larsen's tone was stubborn, desperate. There would be no changing his mind, and Susan knew it. She tried anyway.

“Have you forgotten what happened last time? They almost died. We almost lost them.”

“There's no proof that it was the Pentothal that caused that —”

“And there's no proof that it didn't! Hell, man, these are children, not lab-animals …” In a sudden flash of
deja vu
her brother's words came back to her. Then something snapped. “I won't let you do it! Is your bloody career so important that you'd risk their lives?”

“You have no say in it. This is
my
project. They are
my
subjects. And as long as you work for me, you'll do exactly what you're told to do.”

“Your
subjects!” Whatever semblance of control she had held on to evaporated now. “Who got crucified and made you God? You maniac.”

Larsen made to speak, but she was not finished.

“Your
subjects … Did you ever stop to think that they don't belong to anyone, least of all you? You and Brady …” She pulled up, realising too late that she had gone too far.

“What do you know about Brady?”

Think, Suse. You've put your big foot in it now …

Suddenly, the anger disappeared, and a strange calm swept over her. She spoke, but the words were not hers. Myriam had taken control.

“Who do you think sent me here?”

Myriam, what the hell are you doing?

trustmesusan … iweknowwhat … heisthinking …

Okay, you're the boss …

Larsen's mouth was opening and closing of its own volition. Susan/Myriam continued: “Brady needed someone here he could trust to keep an eye on you. Did you really think you could manipulate an organisation the size of Raecorp? You must think you can walk on water, too! Well, I've got news for you. You're in for a great disappointment on the first Easter after you die.”

Hey, very good. You're finally developing a sense of humour.

itwasnot … myourline … iweborroweditfrom … greg.

Larsen found his voice. “Well, you can tell Brady from me that it's not the New Year yet, so he can keep his ugly face out of
my
project. And you've got one hour to get your things together. If you're still on the grounds after that, I'll throw you off myself.”

Now, Susan took over, the frustrations of the past months overflowing. Myriam had shown her the way, but the anger was her own.

“I'm going. But you'll have to tell Brady yourself. I'm through with the pair of you. You're both as bad as each other. It's no wonder you can't see these poor kids as people. Neither of you can see past your own bloody egos! You know, if there is a Hell, it'll be full of people just like you. Too tied up in themselves, in what
they
want, to consider anyone else. I just hope that one day you develop a conscience, because I'd hate you to die without realising what evil really is.”

“Get out!” There was no conviction in Larsen's shout. He was an empty shell. The abyss loomed before him and there was no way across.

She slammed the door on the way out.