Evil Genius (33 page)

"For Chris'sake!" Kay-Lee exploded. "What are they, the CIA? You're crazy. Just listen to yourself. You'll be saying you get messages over the TV next."

"
No-bugs,
" Sonja interrupted. "
Not-here.
" She paused, one arm bent back at a painful angle; she was beginning to sweat with the effort of communication. Helplessly, Cadel turned to Kay-Lee.

"They didn't come in here," Kay-Lee confirmed with obvious reluctance. "We were in the dining room when they came. But—"

"
Wednesday-morning,
" Sonja went on. "
Post-photos-tomorrow-and-I'll-have-them-Wednesday. Library. Phone.
"

Again, Cadel was lost. Again, he relied on Kay-Lee for an explanation.

"The local library," she sighed. "Sonja goes there every Wednesday morning, from nine to eleven."

"
Call-there. They-know-me.
"

"Right. Okay." Cadel nodded. "And which library are we talking about?"

Sonja told him.

"Can I phone the desk?"

"
Straight-through.
"

"Should I ask for anyone?"

"
Beatrice.
"

Cadel committed all this to memory. He could easily find the num ber in the book. His only challenge now was to locate a public phone that he could use without arousing suspicion. Between nine and eleven on Wednesday morning.

He certainly couldn't use his cell phone. Or any of the Axis lines.

He realized that Kay-Lee and Sonja were both staring at him. Waiting.

"Okay—well—I'll call you," he faltered. "At the library. I'd probably better go now."

"I'll show you out," said Kay-Lee, and held the door open for him. But Cadel hesitated. He had to say something more. He had to make a connection—a real one. Gazing down at Sonja, who was writhing in her chair, he blurted out, "You're my best friend. The best I ever had."

Sonja didn't respond. She may have tried to; it was hard to say. Perhaps she was only lifting her hand in a gesture of farewell. Kay-Lee said gruffly, "You're tiring her out," and hustled him from the room.

She then marched him down a series of corridors, gripping his arm tightly.

"Has she always been like that?" Cadel asked, almost tripping over the hem of his cotton skirt.

"Since she was born," Kay-Lee replied. "There's no cure."

"It must be terrible."

"You've no idea."

"So—so she'll never be able to leave? Get her own flat, or anything?"

"They'll be shutting down this place soon," Kay-Lee replied, stopping to shove open a heavy glass door. "The trend is for smaller houses, with fewer people in them." She hesitated, looking down at Cadel with weary, bloodshot eyes. "I never knew about this Partner Post thing," she added. "It wasn't my idea. By the time I found out, you were her bloody lifeline. She's too young. Too vulnerable."

"I'm sorry," Cadel whispered.

"The Internet's been a godsend for disabled people," Kay-Lee continued, starting off again. They hurried past a series of closed doors. "It's opened up the world for them. But it's exposed them to a lot of risks. And Sonja—well, she's too bloody smart for her own good."

Suddenly they were in the main entrance hall. Cadel recognized the black and white linoleum; the stained-glass fanlight; the keyboard brochure. Kay-Lee propelled him toward the
EXIT
sign.

"I'll take her to the library on Wednesday," Kay-Lee concluded. "But it would be better if you didn't ring. It might break her heart in the short term, but in the long term it would be better for her." She fixed Cadel with a wintry, forbidding glare. "I don't care how bright you are—or how pretty," she said. "You're still a mad bastard, and I want you out of her life."

"But—"

"Now piss off."

Cadel walked back to the station. When he reached it, he ducked into the restroom, changed his clothes, then caught a train to his local stop.

All the time, his mind was working furiously.

There were so many things to do; he found the prospect overwhelming. First off, he had to locate some photographs. That would be easy. Then he would have to post them—that would be harder. Then he would have to think of an excuse for trying to dodge the Fiihrer's surveillance team—an almost impossible task. And then...

Then he would have to find out who he had really been living with for the past twelve years.

He felt as if he was standing on shaky ground—as if the support beneath his feet was about to collapse. Who were the Piggotts? Were they really agents of Dr. Darkkon? Had everything been an elaborate charade? Had the secrets he'd kept from them, the lies he'd told, been designed to trick
him
instead of the Piggotts? It didn't bear thinking of.

The alternative, of course, was that the Piggotts were government agents. Dr. Vee, too. Cadel decided that, if they were, it would be better. He would rather blame the government for his last twelve years than Dr. Darkkon. If he had to believe that Dr. Darkkon had chosen the Piggotts, out of all the people in the world, to take care of him—well, it was the ultimate betrayal.

Walking home from the station, Cadel tried to convince himself that the government-agent scenario made sense. Suppose an agency like Interpol had taken Cadel away from Dr. Darkkon, when he was a baby, then set him up with a family of government agents in the hope that Dr. Darkkon would eventually try to make contact and expose himself? Suppose they had installed Dr. Vee at the Axis Institute to monitor the activities of the staff there?

And suppose they had told Kay-Lee about Partner Post simply to protect her from Cadel's dad? If it was a secret operation, they
might
have used a false name for Cadel.

Cadel clung to this possibility. Contemplating any other was too horrible. But if the police or the government were worried about Kay-Lee, why hadn't they warned her about him a long time ago?

He couldn't be sure about anything yet. Not until Sonja had identified the two policemen.

When he arrived home, Cadel headed straight for the Piggotts' security system, which he neatly disabled. (He had been doing this on a regular basis since he was six, so no one was likely to think it out of the ordinary.) Having ensured that he was safe from prying eyes, he cut Dr. Vee's picture out of his Axis course handbook and removed a family snapshot from one of the photo albums. Then he sealed both in a pale gray envelope addressed to Kay-Lee. Finding a stamp wasn't hard. Stamps were kept in the spare-change bowl on top of the fridge. But getting to a mailbox—that would be difficult without arousing the suspicions of anyone stationed near the house with a pair of binoculars.

As he was pondering his options, Lanna arrived home. The sound of her raised voice made Cadel's blood run cold. He bolted into his room before she could catch him, wondering how long it would take her to discover that the security system wasn't working. A while, probably. She wasn't very clued in to things like that.

Or was she?

"Cadel!"

"I'm here!" He was proud of his voice, which didn't wobble one bit.

Clack, clack, clack.
He could hear her approaching in her noisy high heels. The door creaked open and she poked her head into his room.

She didn't look any different. Somehow he had expected that there would be a change in her face.

"How was your day?" she asked. "What have you been doing?"

"Oh, computer stuff." He had never been very forthcoming with her, so his short response didn't come as a surprise.

"Well, I've got a dinner appointment this evening, but I'll be back by ten," she said, glancing at her watch. "What do you fancy to eat? I could make you some chops."

"Pizza, please."

"Oh, Cadel. You should eat something healthy once in a while."

"
Vegetarian
pizza, please," Cadel said firmly. He had had an idea.

"Well, all right." Mrs. Piggott sighed. "I don't have the energy to argue. You can take care of it yourself, I suppose?"

"I think I can probably manage," Cadel muttered. While Mrs. Piggott flitted around the house, ironing clothes and swigging white wine and looking for her fanciest shoes, Cadel sat at his computer, thinking. He couldn't be sure that it hadn't been invaded. He thought it unlikely, but he couldn't be absolutely sure. So how could he start chasing down the real Stuart Piggott without alerting whoever might be tracking his electronic movements? For all he knew, there might be people in a van outside, monitoring his computer's electromagnetic emissions with a sophisticated radio receiver: a Dynamic Science A-11 0b, for instance. The police were capable of that. Even the Virus might have managed it. And as for the Fiihrer—well,
nothing
would be beyond the Fiihrer.

If he was going to unmask the real Stuart Piggott, it might be best to start his search in Stuart's office.

"All right," Lanna declared, sticking her head into Cadel's room again. Her hair was slicked back, and she was wearing far too much makeup. "I'm going now, but I'll be back soon. Have you ordered the pizza?"

"I'm just going to."

"Have a salad as well, will you, Cadel? There's a bag of lettuce in the fridge."

Cadel waited until he heard the front door close and the noise of the car's engine fade. Then he waited a little longer, just in case Lanna had to return for a forgotten bottle of wine, or something. Finally, he got up and consulted the telephone directory, deliberately rejecting the Piggotts' usual pizza-delivery service for another one, chosen at random.

You couldn't be too careful—not in this house. He was aware of that, at long last.

The pizza arrived in thirty minutes. By that time Cadel was already in Stuart's office, rifling through desk drawers. There was nothing of importance in any of them—just cell phone brochures, hole punchers, Post-it notepads, electrical cords, ink cartridges, and unused fountain pens. The filing cabinets looked more promising, but there was a lot of very dull stuff to get through, including files full of phone bills, insurance documents, bank statements, and tradesmen's quotes. He was starting on his second drawer when he heard the doorbell ring, and he went to answer it.

A young guy in a leather jacket was standing there, unzipping a redvinyl pizza bag. He looked tired.

"Oh, great," said Cadel. "Come in. I'll get the money."

It had to look natural. That was the thought uppermost in Cadel's brain:
It had to look natural from the outside.
By plunging back into the kitchen, Cadel managed to lure the pizza-delivery man into the house, where they were both safe from prying eyes. "Just put it down on the little table, will you?" he called, knowing that, to do so, the pizza-delivery man would have to cross the Piggotts' anteroom diagonally, thereby becoming invisible from the front door.

It was dead space, that particular location—ideal for Cadel's purposes.

"Here," he said, trapping his quarry in a corner as he counted out bills. "It's twenty-two for the pizza, right?"

"Yeah," came the weary reply.

"Okay. There you go." Cadel lowered his voice. "Listen," he added, gazing up into the scrubby, flat-eyed face that hovered above his own. "If I gave you another twenty, could you post a letter for me? After you've finished delivering the rest of your pizzas?"

The pizza-delivery man surveyed Cadel without expression.

"It's not a bomb, or anything," Cadel whispered, glancing over his shoulder. "It's a letter to my girlfriend. I'm not supposed to be seeing her. I'm grounded—"

"Yeah, whatever." The man didn't sound interested. He held out his hand, waiting.

Cadel was surprised.

"Oh, great. Thanks." He plucked the letter from his pocket, along with another twenty-dollar bill. "You don't mind?"

The man shrugged. "People ask me to get beer, cigarettes, you name it," he muttered. "It's no big deal."

Cadel was relieved. He paid over his money and tucked his letter into the vinyl pizza bag.

"Can you do it tonight?" he asked.

"No sweat," came the reply.

"There's a post office up at the shops. You can park right outside, at this hour—"

"I'm on it." The pizza-delivery man gave Cadel a mock salute, then headed for the door. "Enjoy your pizza."

Cadel didn't wait around to watch his receding back. It would have looked suspicious. He simply shut the door and retired to the kitchen with his pizza, hoping he had done the right thing. For all he knew, the letter might end up in a garbage bin somewhere. But he couldn't, at present, see that he'd had any alternative. The opportunity had arisen, and he'd taken advantage of it.

Now he would have to wait.

The pizza wasn't as good as the ones they usually ordered. Cadel ate about half of it, idly flicking through cable channels as he did so. Then he washed his hands thoroughly—it wouldn't do to get pizza grease all over Stuart's electricity bills—and returned to his unfinished task. The time, he noted, was half past seven. He still had an hour or two before Lanna came back.

Some of Stuart's filing-cabinet drawers were locked, but the locks were easy to pick. At the age of nine, Cadel had become briefly infatuated with locks; he had studied the locksmith's art with his usual avid concentration, even beginning (though not completing) a rather suspicious long-distance locksmith's course that operated out of a post-office-box address. While he had never finished his apprenticeship, he had certainly learned enough to open the drawers of Stuart's filing cabinet. What he found, however, was disappointing. In a file marked
CADEL
, he discovered his own school reports, immunization certificates, concerned letters from teachers, IQ test results, and so forth. There was also a set of documents relating to Cadel's adoption and a couple of lung X-rays taken during Cadel's most recent bouts of bronchitis.

Finally, there was his birth certificate. Cadel hadn't examined it for years—not since Thaddeus's entry into his life—and he saw now what he hadn't seen before. The document was an obvious fake. In his forgery class, Cadel had learned many things about the detection of forgeries. He had learned about carbon-dating techniques. He had learned about the way a scanning Auger microscope could be used to measure the migration of ions from ink to paper. In this case, however, he didn't need any fancy equipment to tell him that the birth certificate was a forgery. The ink didn't even have a proper shine to it. Cadel himself had done a better job forging a birth certificate for a fictitious young woman called Ariel Schaap. (It was now hidden in the lining of his winter jacket.)