At that moment, Kunio joined them, with Dr. Deal following close behind. If the sight of Cadel affected the lawyer in any way—if his eyes flickered or his hands shook—Cadel didn't notice. He was too busy processing the image that had leaped into his mind, of Abraham cowering in a cupboard, shielding himself from the electric light.
Then Dr. Deal greeted them all, and the moment had passed. After unlocking the door to lecture-room one, he stepped back to let his class in. When Cadel glanced up, the lawyer wasn't looking in his direction.
Whether this averted gaze was deliberate or not, Cadel had no way of knowing.
When he and the lawyer finally did make direct eye contact, they did so without a change of expression. Dr. Deal was explaining the difference between battery and assault, when Abraham's nose started to bleed. The blood gushed out, soaking his handkerchief, his sleeve, and Cadel's supply of tissues (which Mrs. Piggott had insisted he keep in his bag, for emergencies). It was unnerving. After losing quantities of blood, Abraham was at last forced to excuse himself. He didn't really have a choice. He had run out of tissues and had turned a deathly color.
Dr. Deal, who had been speaking steadily through all the furtive nudging and dabbing, watched Abraham go, without pausing in his discourse on the
Butchard v. Barnett
case. He did, however, catch Cadel's eye. Cadel returned the look blandly, determined not to reveal anything.
"...Assault is the
threat
of force to the person of another, while battery is the application of that force," Dr. Deal was saying. "These days, there's a lot of confusion between the terms, but let me put it this way: If I were to threaten to punch someone if they didn't shut up, and then I punched them—well, that would be a case of assault
and
battery, punishable by law. Of course, I'd have been a bloody fool to do it."
Cadel dropped his gaze. Dr. Deal, he knew, was trying to apologize. Cadel hoped that nobody else in the class realized this, but one quick scan of the room left him satisfied. Now that Abraham was out of the picture, Cadel was the only student who had the ability to understand what was going on. Kunio was still floundering, defeated by his imperfect grasp of English. Gazo was too slow. Besides, they were both distracted by Abraham's retreat: the faltering steps, the trail of blood, the banging door.
Only three left, Cadel suddenly realized. Three out of the original eight in the class.
He swallowed and glanced at the clock over the door. It had been twenty-seven hours since Kay-Lee had sent her last message.
For the rest of the day, Cadel kept checking and rechecking his e-mail. Despite the odd interruption, he was able to stay at his keyboard, combing through staff databases, keeping an eye on his e-mail, and sending off the odd message to Kay-Lee, in the hope that he would finally get a reply.
He didn't.
At lunchtime, Gazo came looking for him. "I won't stay long," he assured Cadel, scanning the room nervously for Dr. Vee. "Just dropping off a sandwich."
Cadel watched in astonishment as Gazo placed on his desk a paper bag containing a chicken sandwich wrapped in greaseproof paper.
"You're bringing me
lunch?
" Cadel gasped, and Gazo shrugged, almost bashfully.
"I know you get caught up, and that," he said, obviously pleased at his own thoughtfulness. "I fought you mightn't eat, so I brought you somefink. It's not much," he added. "There's mayonnaise on it."
Cadel stared, dumbfounded. Was Gazo trying to suck up to Dr. Darkkon's son for selfish reasons? Or, even worse, did Cadel's appetite genuinely matter to him? Cadel feared the latter.
"Gazo," said Cadel, "are you sure you're cut out for this place?"
"What do you mean?" Gazo's tone became defensive. "It ain't no big deal. I didn't make that sandwich, I bought it."
"Well, thanks." Cadel was reluctant to become involved in a long discussion about friendly gestures and how they didn't belong in the Axis Institute. Any further talk would simply encourage Gazo to hang around longer. "Thanks, Gazo."
"Did you hear about Carla? She died last night."
"I know." Cadel had been plugged into the electronic grapevine. "Poison."
"Really? Poison? Wow," said Gazo, his eyes widening behind his mask. "What kind of poison?"
"Look—uh—I think you'd better go," Cadel advised. "Before Dr. Vee gets back."
"Oh. Right."
"We can talk later," said Cadel, ignoring Gazo's obvious disappointment.
"Sure. No problem." Gazo nodded, then began to back out of the room. "Enjoy the sandwich!" he said, before disappearing.
Cadel didn't enjoy the sandwich. He didn't even sample it; he had gone off institute food. The Axis mailboxes were now full of reports on Carla's condition, which had finally been diagnosed: She had been poisoned with a fatal dose of thallium. Nothing could have been done to save her, since the effects of the poison can't be reversed once it has been in the stomach for more than half an hour. Gloomily, Cadel read through the e-mails that Luther Lasco was dispatching in all directions.
The thallium, Luther assured Thaddeus, had not come from his own stash. Like the rest of his poison supply, his own stock of thallium was completely secure. Had Carla read the early intervention training material distributed to every staff member, she would have known that symptoms like vomiting, diarrhea, and joint pain often mean more than a tummy bug. By the time she'd started to lose feeling in her toes and fingers, it had been too late.
I can't stress enough,
Luther wrote to Terry,
the importance of early intervention in poisoning cases. At the Axis Institute, there is
no such thing
as a harmless tummy bug.
Thallium, he added, was tasteless and colorless, and in this case had probably been administered in the labs, since Carla had been at work for more than three hours before being whisked away in the ambulance.
Luther advised Terry to have the labs thoroughly searched once again. Anything edible was to be removed and destroyed. The taps in the bathrooms had to be tested. Meanwhile, he said, he was "working the source" for further information.
Cadel wondered who, or what, this mysterious "source" might be. Just before leaving the institute, he found out. One last sweep through the network uncovered an encrypted message sent to Terry by Thaddeus. Cadel decoded it easily, to discover that Thaddeus wanted Terry's urgent assistance in disguising Carla's death as something "trouble-free." They had identified the culprit—Doris Deauville. They had identified the agent—thallium. Was there any way in which Carla's rapid decline could somehow be blamed on natural causes? Or would they have to resort to more drastic action? They couldn't afford to have the coroner order an autopsy, so the corpse might have to be disposed of.
Doris Deauville,
thought Cadel, swallowing hard. He wasn't surprised. Though he did wonder why Doris, the expert poisoner, had used a poison that left traces of itself in the victim's body. Surely there were other, undetectable poisons? He remembered the twins talking about a certain substance—insulin, was it? Or something else?
Maybe Doris had simply lost her temper and used the first thing that came to hand. Whatever the reason, Cadel preferred not to think about it. He was far more concerned about Kay-Lee. On his way from the institute to Thaddeus's office, he decided that if he hadn't heard from Kay-Lee by eight o'clock that evening, he would call Weatherwood House. Just to make sure that she was all right. He didn't have to reveal who he really was. He could pretend to be collecting for a charity, or something.
When Cadel arrived for his usual appointment with Thaddeus, Wilfreda informed him "that the doctor had been delayed." She bared her blackened teeth at him and suggested that he wait in the upstairs office. Then she asked Cadel if he would like something to eat. A cookie, perhaps? A drink?
"Yes, please," he replied. Wilfreda kept one jar of chocolate cookies under her desk, doling out the contents when she was in a good mood.
Cadel took two cookies and a glass of water before trudging up to the top floor. Nothing had changed on the staircase since his first visit. The same mottled engravings hung on the wall. The same shabby runner was pinned down by the same tarnished brass stair rods. The bathroom off the first landing had not been touched, save for the occasional scrub-down and change of toilet paper. It remained gloomy and old-fashioned, with its wooden toilet seat, dangling chain, and cream tiles.
But Thaddeus's room had changed. Thaddeus had installed two brand-new micro-suede couches the previous week, and hung new curtains at the windows. The carpet was now about three years old. And the technology, of course, was state-of-the-art.
Cadel sat down in front of the psychologist's computer. Munching on a cookie, he checked his own e-mail—and almost choked.
A message from Kay-Lee!
Weak with relief, he opened the file. There it was.
Get stuffed,
it said.
This conversation is officially terminated.
Cadel caught his breath. He couldn't believe his eyes. Get stuffed? What was that supposed to mean?
What are you talking about?
he wrote.
What's the matter?
Then he thought,
Why am I doing this?
And he picked up the phone.
He had memorized the Weatherwood House number. It rang three times before a woman's voice cut in, telling him that he had reached Weatherwood House and how could she help? He asked to speak to Kay-Lee McDougall.
"One moment, please," the voice trilled. There was a click, then "Greensleeves" began to play. After about two minutes, Cadel heard another click, followed by heavy breathing.
"Hello?" somebody panted. "This is Kay-Lee."
Cadel was suddenly speechless.
"Hello.
Hello?
"
"Kay-Lee," Cadel finally croaked.
"Speaking." She was beginning to sound impatient. Her voice was unexpectedly rough—she drawled her vowels.
"Kay-Lee, it's—it's..." For a moment, his mind went blank. "I'm a friend of Eiran's," he gasped, knowing that the pitch and rhythm of his own voice were a dead giveaway. He quite obviously wasn't a thirty-four-year-old alcoholic Canadian.
There was a long pause.
"Oh."
"Eiran wants to know what that message was all about," Cadel continued. "Why you sent it."
"Look—"
"He wants to know if you're all right. If something's wrong—"
"Look, forget it," said Kay-Lee. She sounded tired, and not particularly upset. "Just forget it, okay? Lay off."
"But—"
"Not interested. Okay? Sorry, but you've caused enough trouble."
Clunk.
She hung up.
For an instant, Cadel found it hard to breathe. That broken connection was like a punch in the belly. He thought he was going to be sick. It didn't make sense. It couldn't be true.
He was still sitting, motionless, at Thaddeus's desk when the psychologist walked in.
"Ah! Cadel. I'm
very
sorry, it's inexcusable to be so late, but I couldn't help it. Emergency at the institute. Well..." Thaddeus gave a short laugh. "I don't have to tell
you,
of all people. It was Doris, of course. We had our suspicions right from the start. Hmm." He had picked up some unopened mail from his desktop and was flipping through it. "How on earth do these people track me down?" he remarked, tossing a letter into his trash can. "Do you know I've dodged some of the world's leading intelligence agencies? But when it comes to charitable organizations and insurance companies—well, they always find me in the end." He looked up, and his gaze became intent as it focused on Cadel. "What's wrong with you?" he asked.
"What?" said Cadel stupidly.
"Are you feeling sick?"
"Uh—no."
"You're very pale."
"Am I?" Cadel glanced around vaguely, as if expecting a mirror to materialize. He knew that he was suffering from a mild case of shock. "I—I guess I didn't eat much today."
"Ah." Thaddeus nodded. "Stuck at your computer again, I suppose."
"Something like that."
"I'll send Wilfreda out to get you a bite." Because there was no intercom connecting the upper and lower floors of the house, Thaddeus strolled onto the landing to summon his secretary. He called to Cadel, "What do you want? Something hot? Fish-and-chips?"
Cadel couldn't think. He mentioned the first thing that popped into his head.
"Sausage roll?"
"Not very nutritious, Cadel."
"Pizza, then. Vegetarian."
As Thaddeus and Wilfreda discussed which restaurant she should call and how they would pay for the delivery, Cadel erased Kay-Lee's message from Thaddeus's computer. Although Thaddeus knew about Kay-Lee, he had never much approved of her. Cadel didn't want him to find out what she had done. It would be unbearable if Thaddeus turned around and said, "I told you so."
Cadel himself still couldn't believe what had happened.
"Your father wants to talk to you," Thaddeus announced when he reentered his office. "He has something important to say. I'm not sure what it is, but he was very insistent. We'll have a transmission download in exactly"—he checked his watch—"two minutes and thirty seconds. I've got it all set up, as you can see."
"Do you think...?" Cadel hesitated, before plucking up his courage. "I mean, it can't wait, can it? Till next time?"
Thaddeus raised his eyebrows. He hardly needed to say no, because Cadel immediately backed down.
"No, of course it can't wait," he said. "Sorry. Not thinking. But can I go to the bathroom first?"
Thaddeus nodded, studying Cadel intently. Avoiding his gaze, Cadel hurried out the door and down the stairs. He shut himself in the bathroom. His stomach was churning, and he was afraid that he might be sick—or worse. But nothing happened.
Nerves, he decided. It must be nerves.
Mrs. Piggott often talked about her nerves. They caused her all sorts of problems, like headaches and stomach upsets. For the first time ever, Cadel found himself sympathizing with her.