The idea was there, waiting for him. If someone had written it down, it could not have been more obvious.
FORTY-FIVE
Cadel didn’t return to the institute. The thought of it made him sick. Instead, he went straight home, where James Guisnel and his partner – alias Mr and Mrs Piggott – were comparing schedules. They sat at the dining-room table, with a bottle of red wine standing open between them.’
‘Hello!’ Lanna trilled. ‘So you’re back, are you?
‘Where have you been?’ Stuart demanded gruffly, and Cadel snorted.
‘As if you didn’t know,’ he growled.
‘Eh? What’s that?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Beef stroganoff tonight, Cadel,’ Lanna interrupted, trying to maintain a cheerful tone. ‘Your favourite.’
Cadel muttered something and escaped to his bedroom. He wondered why the Piggotts were at home. Who had ordered them to be there, and for what reason? Was it simply a coincidence? Even on weekends, Stuart was usually away. Attending to his real life, no doubt.
Cadel tried to imagine what that life might be like, and failed. He couldn’t picture Stuart at the beach, or in a shop. The guy was like a cardboard cut-out – a cartoon. On reflection, Cadel realised that James Guisnel hadn’t done a very convincing job of Stuart Piggott. Either he was a lousy actor, or Dr Darkkon had requested that Cadel be raised by a man with all the warmth and humour of a scarecrow.
After all, a hopeless adoptive father would ensure that Cadel bonded to his real father – not to mention his therapist. Thaddeus would have worked it all out. The whole business would have been carefully planned. Cadel could just see Thaddeus calculating the exact amount of rejection and isolation that Cadel would need, to turn him into a freak.
The thought made him so angry, he had to stuff it into his mental trash can, and pound the lid down over it. No point fretting about that now. He had other matters to attend to.
Cadel poked listlessly at his computer keyboard until dinner time, turning things over and over in his head. At least he was going to speak to Sonja – that was something. From Crampton College, using the abandoned mobile in the science staffroom, he had called Sonja’s local library. He had asked Beatrice to pass on a message to Sonja: Be at the Memorial Pool tomorrow, from two to four. I’ll call you there. Cadel had it all worked out. He had seen from the Surfers Paradise postcard that Mr Prowse was away for two weeks. He knew where Mr Prowse lived, of course; he knew where all the Crampton teachers lived. He would go to Mr Prowse’s house tomorrow and call Sonja from there. With his knowledge of locks, it shouldn’t be hard to find a way in. And if they had an alarm system – well, he would simply disable it.
‘Cadel! Dinner time!’
Cadel groaned. He could hardly bear the prospect of dining alone with the Piggotts. Fortunately, Stuart always watched the news while he ate. It saved him from having to make conversation. And while Lanna sometimes attempted to chat with Cadel, Stuart usually shushed her when an important story (about share prices, for instance) appeared on the television screen.
That evening was no different. When Cadel reached the dining room, he saw that the news had been switched on. It was clearly visible through the archway that divided the dining room from the vast, sweeping landscape of the living room, with all its glass walls and hectares of polished wood. Stuart was already gobbling down his beef stroganoff, his gaze fixed on a very dull item about some sort of political scandal. Cadel sat down. He unfolded his white linen napkin and placed it on his lap.
‘So. Cadel,’ said Lanna brightly. ‘How was your day?’
‘Good,’ Cadel replied.
‘You went to the institute?’
‘Yes.’
‘I hope you ate a decent lunch.’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you checked your weight, lately? It seems to me that you’re thinner than usual. Though of course you might have shot up a bit – that’s what generally happens, with you.’
Tracey Lane, the television suddenly announced, catching Cadel’s attention. Ms Lane, a former channel seven newsreader and travel show presenter, was found dead in her eastern suburbs home early this afternoon . . .
‘Hey!’ exclaimed Stuart. ‘Isn’t that – didn’t she work for the institute?’
‘Of course she did!’ said Lanna. ‘We met her there! Oh my God, Stuart!’
Cadel said nothing. He simply stared at the screen, listening hard. There was mention of a ‘suspect in custody’, but no names were provided. Lanna made a horrified noise.
‘Oh dear,’ she shrilled. ‘This is awful!’
‘Shhh!’ said Stuart.
But there wasn’t much more to the story. Tracey had been beaten to death. An ambulance was shown, receiving into its depths her shrouded form. A ‘glamour shot’ was also displayed; in it, Tracey was gazing soulfully at the camera, her blonde hair carefully set, her face gleaming with make-up.
Cadel looked away, blinking fiercely. A ‘suspect in custody’. Could that be Dr Deal?
‘I don’t understand,’ said Lanna. ‘Are they saying they have the person who did it?’
‘That’s right.’ Stuart spoke impatiently. ‘Weren’t you listening?’
‘How appalling.’ Lanna addressed Cadel, who was fiddling with his beef stroganoff, eyes downcast. ‘That lovely woman! Cadel, are you all right?’
Cadel nodded.
‘Are you sure? You look so pale.’
Again, Cadel nodded. He also closed his eyes. Just shut up, he thought. Let’s not go through this farce.
‘Leave him alone,’ Stuart growled. ‘Let him eat.’
‘But it’s got to be a shock, Stuart. They should be bringing counsellors onto the campus. Talking things through. Did you see any counsellors today, Cadel?’
‘Lanna, for God’s sake, it’s the weekend,’ Stuart snapped. ‘Nobody’s there on the weekend.’
‘Cadel is.’
Stuart snorted. Lanna turned back to Cadel. ‘Would you like me to call Thaddeus?’ she asked. ‘Would you like to talk to him?’
‘No,’ said Cadel.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I think I’ll call him anyway,’ said Lanna. ‘They should be offering free counselling to all the staff and students. It’s very important, in situations like this. You need professionals to deal with the trauma.’
‘What trauma?’ said Stuart. ‘He hardly knew the woman.’
‘Death touches us all, Stuart. It shakes up a person’s sense of security. Thaddeus should know that. He should be calling up every student and seeing if they’re all right. As a qualified psychologist, he should be on top of this. He should be proactive about reaching out.’
Proactive. Suddenly, Cadel couldn’t take it any more.
‘If you’re that unhappy with the institute,’ he snarled, ‘why don’t I just leave?’
Mr and Mrs Piggott stared at him. Cadel watched their faces, his own a complete blank. That’s right, he thought. Deal with that, why don’t you?
‘Leave the institute?’ Lanna seemed at a loss. ‘Well, I – I –’ She glanced at her husband, whose head sank down between his bulky shoulders as he thrust out his jaw ominously.
‘You start something, you finish it,’ he rasped. ‘I’ve bloody paid your tuition, Cadel.’
‘Oh Stuart, he’s just teasing.’ Lanna spoke lightly, but Cadel caught a flash of something in her eye: something hard and sharp. ‘He loves the institute, don’t you, Cadel? He’s just trying to get us all worked up, naughty thing.’ She wagged her finger playfully in Cadel’s face. ‘If you don’t like it, why are you spending so much time there?’
Cadel would have liked to say: Because I don’t have a choice. But he couldn’t. He had already gone too far.
He fell silent, just as another murder was announced on the news. The body of a man had been found dumped on the side of a road in Alexandria, at one o’clock that afternoon. He had been shot twice in the chest
by a gun that was discovered beside the body. Occupants of a nearby hotel had heard the shots and had seen a car driving away from the crime scene. The car was later abandoned in Punchbowl.
It belonged to the murdered man, who was believed to have connections with ‘the notorious Max Fanciullo’. Mr Fanciullo’s former activities in organised crime, the newsreader declared, have long been the subject of investigation both in Australia and overseas. And next – sport with Steve. Good news for the Wallabies, eh, Steve?
There was a long silence in the dining room, during which only the television spoke. Stuart said nothing. He didn’t have to; Maestro Max had never used the name ‘Fanciullo’ in any Axis Institute literature. Cadel, however, knew the name quite well. He had been fishing around in Max’s computer files, after all. He knew a lot about Max.
What he didn’t know was the identity of the man who had been killed. Who, among all of Max’s ‘connections’, could have been shot and thrown out of his own car?
Cadel laid down his fork and left the table.
He had a ghastly, panic-stricken feeling that the dead man might be a certain short-sighted Forgery teacher.
The Axis Institute was finished. In Cadel’s opinion, it couldn’t go on – not with Tracey Lane dead, and Dr Deal arrested. There would be inquiries. Investigations. Especially if Art was the man left dumped on the side of a road. Two employees of the same place had both been murdered: how could that not look suspicious?
Lying in bed, Cadel tried to put himself in Thaddeus’s shoes. It was difficult, because Thaddeus was such an enigmatic sort of person, but Cadel did his best. He knew how convincing Thaddeus could be – how benign and reassuring. Thaddeus would no doubt blame Tracey’s death on an ‘unfortunate domestic dispute’. A crime of passion, perhaps. He would hold to that explanation no matter what Dr Deal might say. In fact, Cadel wasn’t sure what Dr Deal had said. There were two reasons why the lawyer would have gone to the police: either he’d wanted to confess everything about Axis, or he’d wanted protection from Luther. Cadel considered both these possibilities. He was sure that if Dr Deal had killed Tracey, he hadn’t done it on purpose. No doubt he had beaten her up in a rage and killed her accidentally. No doubt his bloody fingerprints were everywhere. So what had been his options?
Perhaps, in days past, he would have asked the institute for help – before the incident of the envelope had placed him under suspicion. His talk with Adolf must have changed everything. It must have filled him with fear. Cadel didn’t know how afraid the lawyer had been. Very afraid, to judge from his actions. Only someone terrified of Luther Lasco would have turned himself in to the police.
Of course, there was one other possibility. If Dr Deal was a murderer, he might have been genuinely appalled by what he had done to Tracey Lane. He might have believed that he deserved to be punished. Cadel couldn’t discount this motive. After all, what did he really know about Dr Deal? About anybody, in fact?
Nothing. All his calculations had been based on a big, fat nothing.
So what should he do? Take flight at once? No, he decided – not yet. Not before destroying all his computers. Not before he had made sure about Art, and taken care of Alias. If the Axis Institute shut down, then Alias might take care of himself; surely he would destroy all his records, and disappear? But Cadel couldn’t count on it. Not at this stage. It would be another day or so before he had enough data to make an informed decision about the fate of Axis.
Meanwhile, he would have to lie low. Proceed as usual. Attract no attention. Thaddeus would be very busy, trying to maintain control and clean up all the mess. He wouldn’t be able to spare much time for Cadel.
I’ll go in tomorrow, thought Cadel. The way I normally would. I’ll pretend that it’s business as usual while I check the network. Then, when I’ve got more data, I’ll decide what to do.
Having come to this conclusion, he promptly fell asleep. But it was a restless sleep. He dreamed of a small room with no windows; he dreamed that he was being chased through a forest at night. He also dreamed of Thaddeus, and woke with a start, his heart pounding furiously. For a moment he was confused; he had an impression that Thaddeus was sitting beside him, in the darkness, watching him as he slept. When he reached out, however, there was no one. No one in the room.
So he fell asleep again.
At seven o’clock he was up and dressed, and picking at a light breakfast. Not wanting to disturb the Piggotts (whose bedroom door was closed), he tiptoed around, wincing at the slap of the fridge door, the clink of cup against saucer, the clatter of cereal spilling into a bowl. The last thing he wanted was to be questioned by the Piggotts about his plans for the day.
At eight o’clock he left the house. By nine he was at the institute, admitting himself through the great iron gates. It had been raining all night, and the grounds were soggy; the seminary building seemed to brood beneath a lowering sky. There were only two cars in the car park, and one of them was Abraham’s. Cadel’s thoughts turned briefly to Gazo. He was concerned about Gazo. Without the institute, what would Gazo do?
Cadel saw no one on his way up to Hardware Heaven. The corridors and stairwells were empty. To his surprise, however, the lights were all blazing in the computer room – because Com was already there. Cadel wondered, not for the first time, if Com had stayed at the institute all night.
‘Hi,’ he said, not expecting an answer. Com didn’t so much as twitch an eyebrow. So Cadel went to his own machine and turned it on. Wearily, he tunnelled his way into Dr Vee’s spy sweep, yawning and rubbing his eyes as he pushed through an endless series of locks and firewalls. He was very tired. He felt almost numb; hours of tension had worn the edge off his fear and despair.
I just don’t care any more, he thought.
But that was nonsense. Because as soon as he hit the unexpected, he sat up straight. He caught his breath. He leaned forward, peering at the screen. Had he missed something? Done something wrong?
No – it was blocked. The whole channel was down. For the first time, he simply could not get into the Fuhrer’s files.
‘Dammit,’ he muttered, under his breath. At first he thought that something must be wrong with the spy sweep. Because he couldn’t get into the Yarramundi security system, either. As Cadel ranged around the network, growing more and more nervous, he saw that the problem seemed to be with the Yarramundi data. None of it could be reached. None at all.
He was trying to isolate the problem when he became aware of an irritating noise. Somewhere, far beyond the confines of Hardware Heaven, a telephone was ringing. And ringing. And ringing. Cadel ignored it at first. Only when he was toying with the idea of targeting the Yarramundi network through someone else’s computer did it occur to him: the phone wasn’t one phone. It was one phone after another. Slowly, room by room, the ringing was growing louder, as if someone was calling first one number, then the next, then the next, in a futile attempt to make contact with any member of staff who might be around.
Cadel listened. Sure enough, he heard the ringing stop briefly before starting again. It was quite close, now. Unless he was mistaken, it was coming from Dr Vee’s office, which lay just beyond the stairwell.
Cadel counted the rings. Nine. Twelve. Fourteen. Then the noise stopped, for the space of about ten seconds.
Br-r-r-ng! Br-r-r-ing!
Though Cadel had been expecting it, he nevertheless jumped when the phone across the room began to trill. Com, of course, didn’t move a muscle. He probably didn’t even notice all the commotion.
Cadel got up. He was almost in a daze as he approached Dr Vee’s desk and lifted a sticky receiver from a nest of dirty tissues. He could smell eucalyptus oil.
‘Hello?’ he said.
‘Oh God! Thank God! Who’s that?’
‘Uh – Cadel Darkkon.’ The voice on the other end of the line sounded frantic. Breathless. ‘Who am I speaking to?’
‘Is Vee there? Is anyone there? My God, I need help! You must tell Vee – tell somebody –
it’s a bloodbath here!’
‘What?’
‘I don’t know what to do! Thaddeus must come . . . oh God!’
Cadel gripped the receiver, tightly. ‘What’s happened?’ he quavered. ‘Who is this?’
‘I’m at Yarramundi. Tell somebody – tell them I’m here, it’s an emergency, there’s been – I don’t know, some kind of explosion, the seals are down, the power’s off –’
‘But what’s happened?’
‘Something bloody disastrous, that’s what! There’s no response from the guardhouse, there are cars out here but the intercom is down – it smells like a bloody blast furnace. Tell someone to get out here now!’
‘Wait – hang on – there’s nobody here.’ Cadel tried to smother his rising sense of panic. ‘It’s Sunday morning. They’re all at home.’
Then Cadel heard a telltale noise. He turned, and his heart did a backflip.
Dr Vee was walking through the door.
FORTY-SIX
‘Oh – wait!’ Cadel gasped. ‘Here’s Dr Vee! He’s just come in!’ Cadel thrust the receiver at the Virus. ‘It’s someone calling from Yarramundi,’ he explained. ‘Something’s wrong.’
The Virus heaved an exasperated sigh. He was laden down with heavy plastic bags, one of which seemed to be full of rattling pill bottles. His nose was so badly blocked that his voice sounded odd – all snubbed and sodden.
‘What dow?’ he groaned, as he dropped his load onto his desk. Then he took the receiver. ‘Yeah? Id’s me . . . eh? You what?’
Cadel waited, gnawing at his fingernails. He saw Dr Vee’s face settling into a look of intense concentration, the muscles knotting, the jaw tightening. His eyes swivelled around to meet Cadel’s, but not as if he had any message to convey. ‘Right . . . right . . . okay,’ he grunted. ‘Yeah, I’ll find Thaddeus. Yeah. Chrisd, really? Okay.’ At last he signed off, putting the receiver down very gently. For a moment he and Cadel looked at each other.