Unnerving.
Though Cadel had always liked and admired Thaddeus, he had never ceased to regard the psychologist with a touch of fear. Thaddeus would make a formidable foe. And Cadel also knew that Thaddeus wouldn't stop—ever—until he tracked Cadel down. It wouldn't be hard, not for Thaddeus. He knew Cadel so well. Cadel had confided in him, trusted him, believed in him....
Suddenly, Cadel leaped up, driven to his feet by the force of his own feelings. With clenched fists, he moved about distractedly from wall to wall, bouncing off them like a ball in a pinball machine. The sheer
scale
of the deception—the
perfidy
of it! Oh, but he had to calm down. He had to focus on the task at hand. He had to work out what was the best thing to do.
He sat down again and doggedly, desperately, reviewed his options. He knew that if he was going to disappear, he would have to do it properly. Half measures would not be good enough. He would have to find himself another home, another identity—perhaps even another country. Of course, if he made contact with the police, then the police would do it all for him—but Cadel was wary of the police. To begin with, he wasn't sure that the police could outwit Thaddeus Roth. For another, he didn't know if Dr. Darkkon might have employees working within the police force.
Moreover, once the police were involved, there would be no turning back. He would have declared himself Dr. Darkkon's enemy for all time. And as Dr. Darkkon's enemy, he would also be Thaddeus Roth's enemy.
That was something he very much wanted to avoid.
Cadel considered his cache of forged documents. Many of them were made out in the name of someone called Ariel Schaap—an eighteen-year-old girl he'd created for his course work. Suppose Ariel became the girl in the Indian-cotton skirt? She already had a birth certificate, and even a series of bank accounts. (Fake bank accounts were fundamental to his embezzlement course.) He could easily whip up a passport to match, using his own photograph. Ariel had become his "John Citizen"; her existence was something he had been working on almost as a hobby. Though perhaps, deep down, he had known that he would need her sometime. Perhaps he had known that she was his ticket out of this cage.
Except, of course, that she wasn't. Not while Art and Brendan and Alias were around. All of them had marked his Ariel assignments. All of them knew about Ariel. Alias had actually
seen
her, dressed up in her Indian-cotton skirt. If Cadel was going to escape (and he would have to do it soon, or somehow—he was sure—Thaddeus would begin to read his mind), then he would have to arrange that those three Axis staff were out of the picture. Those three and Dr. Deal, who had also seen Cadel in his Ariel disguise. And perhaps even Luther Lasco? Cadel didn't want Luther called in to "deal" with him.
Yes, Luther was a problem as well.
Cadel tried to work out if there was a flaw in his reasoning. It really didn't seem so. Students were supposed to destroy the documents that they produced for Art's course, so he had been very careful with the ones he'd kept. Unless cameras had been installed inside his wardrobe—a very remote possibility, in Cadel's opinion—then no one would have seen him transferring Ariel's documents from the pocket of one garment into the lining of another. What's more, if Alias had told Thaddeus about the Ariel disguise, then the Fiihrer's surveillance team wouldn't have lost Cadel in the mall. It was clear, Cadel thought, that Thaddeus wasn't keeping a very close eye on his course work—just on his results. Just on what would please Dr. Darkkon, no doubt. Because did either of those two
really
care about Cadel? Of course not. Cadel was just another tool—another means to an end—another step in the program....
This time the rage and misery seemed to blast through Cadel's head with such strength that they propelled him off the bed, across the room. They scattered all his well-organized arguments and interfered with his breathing. At last, unable to stand the confusion, he slammed his head against the wall: once, twice, three times.
The shock of the impact helped him, oddly enough. He recovered a little. His hands stopped shaking, and he was able to catch his breath.
Yes, he had been abused. Yes, it was unbearable. But he had to move on. He
would
move on. He would remove those five institute staff from the picture and create a new life for himself.
Of course, he wouldn't be able to focus his attention solely on his own teachers; not if he wanted to avoid all blame. Someone, probably Thaddeus, would put two and two together. No, he would have to involve other staff. Other staff from the other campus. Staff who had nothing to do with him.
Cadel returned to his bed and lay on it. Slowly he allowed his tangled emotions to settle at the back of his mind, like sediment at the bottom of a pool, as he concentrated on the problem he had set himself. His brain began to turn over, smoothly and efficiently. Synapses began to fire. Patterns began to emerge. He knew that his half-completed predictive program would have been very helpful, but he didn't know who might have been monitoring his databases. So he was forced to rely on the complex programs in his own head.
Even committing an equation to paper was out of the question. He couldn't let anyone see what was going on. It was
vital
that he keep his plans secret, especially from Thaddeus Roth.
Cadel lay thinking until dinnertime. Mrs. Ang was the one who called him to the table, informing him as she did so that she was going now but that Mrs. Piggott would be back soon. Cadel therefore ate alone in the big dining room, forcing himself to swallow a few mouthfuls of the casserole that Mrs. Ang had heated up in the microwave. He wasn't the least bit hungry. Afterward, he stared at the television for a while, his mind working busily as the pictures unfolded before his blank gaze. He couldn't go to bed—not yet. It would have seemed odd. Unusual. He couldn't afford to relax his guard for a moment.
Finally, at nine o'clock, he retired for the night. It was a great relief to lie in bed again, though even here he had to be careful. For all he knew, there were infrared cameras planted in the air-conditioning vent above him. Therefore, although he would have liked to thrash about, pace the room, and perhaps go outside to stare at the stars, he could not. For most of the night, he lay with his eyes shut, thinking and thinking.
Only when the dawn light filtered into his room did he drop into a restless slumber. For by then, at last, the new construction in his head was complete.
Mrs. Piggott woke him at eight.
"Cadel! Pet! How are you feeling?" she crooned, entering his room without knocking first. "I'm going now, but I'll be here tonight. And Dad will be home, too, thank goodness. We can all have dinner together!"
Cadel grunted. Blearily, he realized that he could think of nothing worse.
"Are you okay? Yes? Then you'd better get up, honey, or you'll be late for your first class. Come on, now. Up, up, up!"
Cadel's first class was at ten. He had a busy day ahead of him. Pure evil would be followed by disguise, infiltration, and Dr. Deal's law class, which was at four. He probably wouldn't make the Maestro's session; he had other things to do. Poor Gazo would have to face Maestro Max alone.
He felt sorry for Gazo, but it couldn't be helped.
After skipping breakfast, Cadel began to look on the Internet for Abraham's address, careless of anyone who might be monitoring his activities. When he found it, he scribbled it down, threw on his clothes, and ran to catch a train.
It was his normal train, but it didn't take him to the institute. Instead, he alighted before he reached his usual stop, emerging into a soiled, gritty area of inner-city streets and dark little row houses. Toiling up and down hills, past murky corner shops and dressmaking businesses, and little parks smeared with dog poo, Cadel kept glancing back, trying to work out if anyone was following him. It was impossible to tell. There were quite a few odd-looking people walking around, any one of whom could have been a Grunt.
At last he found the dingy row house where Abraham lived. The handkerchief-sized front yard had been paved over, though there was one dark-leaved tree, which grew out of the cement and threw gloomy shadows over the building's facade. Since it was now 9:45, Cadel was hoping that all its other occupants (there were three, if he remembered correctly) would be out at work.
As promised, the key was sitting on top of the fuse box by the entrance. In fact, there were two keys: one opened the iron-barred gate that protected the front door, and one opened the door itself. Cadel was careful to lock both behind him, conscious of the house's smell even before he noticed its layout. The smell was a moldy one—moldy and septic, like the smell of bad drains. From the front entrance, a long, dark hallway led past two open doors, to a flight of stairs. Behind the stairs was a larger, lighter room, but before Cadel could explore it, a voice rang out from somewhere down the back of the house.
"
Who's that?
"
Cadel's heart missed a beat.
Damn,
he thought.
"Uh—my name's Cadel Piggott."
"What?"
"I'm a friend of Abraham Coggins."
Padding footsteps heralded the approach of a young woman who appeared suddenly at the top of the stairs. She was dressed in a short black skirt and a neat white blouse, but her feet were bare. Gazing down at Cadel, she said, "How the hell did you get in?"
"Abraham told me where the key was," Cadel replied. "He asked me to get some things."
"Abraham's in the hospital."
"I know. I saw him yesterday—"
"You're just a kid!"
Cadel didn't know what to say to that. He waited as the young woman descended the stairs, doing up the buttons of her sleeve. It occurred to Cadel that, had he waited a few more minutes, this occupant too would have been hurrying off to work.
Bad timing.
"Abe shouldn't be telling all and sundry about our spare key," she complained, stopping in front of Cadel. "What did he want, anyway?"
"Uh—some of his clothes. One of his books." As Cadel racked his brain for a likely list of requirements, he blinked his big blue eyes and sucked in his mouth.
It worked.
"Well,
I
can't help. I'm late already," the young woman snapped, brushing past Cadel and turning toward the kitchen. "Do you know where his room is? Upstairs, right down the back. Don't go into any of the others. And if we're robbed, we'll know who to blame. What's your name again?"
"Cadel Piggott."
She grunted and disappeared. Finding himself alone, Cadel mounted the stairs. He noticed that the plaster on the walls was cracking and that the light at the top of the stairs was a naked bulb hanging on a wire.
When he passed the bathroom, he realized that it was the source of the smell: Its ceiling was covered with mold.
Yuck,
thought Cadel,
what a place to live.
Abraham's door was shut but not locked. When Cadel pushed it open, something fell off the hook that was nailed onto its back: a belt, Cadel saw. The room contained one double bed, one bookcase, and one clothes rack—there wasn't room for much else, except a few stacks of plastic storage boxes full of paper. A limp curtain hung over the window, so Cadel turned on the light.
Almost immediately a cockroach skittered across one wall, disappearing behind the bed.
Cadel gritted his teeth. He went straight to the bookcase, which he scanned with a practiced eye.
Principles of Internal Medicine
was a large volume sitting in the middle of the bottom shelf. When Cadel pulled it out, the dust he dislodged made him sneeze.
He was half afraid that Abraham had been feverish, so he didn't necessarily expect to find the key. But it was there, taped to the inside back cover as Abraham had promised. Cadel removed the key and replaced the book. Then he looked around the room for the sorts of things that Abraham might need in the hospital, finally choosing a grubby old bathrobe, a little address book full of phone numbers, a couple of pairs of underpants (from a plastic bag hanging on the clothes rack), and a bottle of pills. He didn't know what the pills were for; he just pushed them into his backpack with the rest of the stuff.
"Can I use your phone?" he loudly asked Abraham's housemate, as he descended the stairs. He knew that she was still around, because he hadn't heard any doors shut. "I'll pay for it. It's just a local call."
"It's in here," came the reply. Cadel followed her voice into the living room, where she was standing in front of the mirror that hung over the mantelpiece, pinning up her hair. The room made Cadel's skin crawl. Its shaggy carpet looked like the coat of an old and filthy dog. Its white sofas were stained and sagging. Only the TV and sound equipment were in good condition.
"Did you find what you wanted?" the young woman asked, twisting and turning in front of the mirror. She was now wearing shoes.
"Oh, yes, thanks," said Cadel, offering her his backpack. "I got the bathrobe, and the address book, and the underpants—"
"Ugh," she interrupted. "Don't tell me. I don't want to know." Then, because she was obviously satisfied with her hair, she turned to Cadel with an outstretched hand. "So?" she went on. "Where's the money?"
Cadel blinked. Then he realized what she was talking about.
"Oh! For the phone, you mean? Here." He dug into the front pocket of his trousers, drawing out a few coins. "I promise, it's only local. I don't have a cell phone."
"You can call whoever you want," the young woman interrupted. "I won't have to worry about the phone bill. I'm leaving this dump next week—it's impossible living here." On her way out, she picked up her handbag and addressed him over her shoulder. "Lock up when you leave, all right? And don't even
try
to get into my room. It's padlocked."
As if a padlock could keep
me
out,
Cadel thought. But he said nothing—just waited until the front door slammed. Once again, it seemed, his innocent appearance had worked in his favor.