Six (8 page)

Clown Apocalypse was not only Mr. Nowak's favorite game—it was also the most downloaded game in history. “No wonder you have all this stuff.”

“They're never home, so they pretty much buy me whatever I want. I think it's a guilt thing,” explained Michael. He sounded embarrassed. He took a seat in a leather office chair and pushed an identical one next to him in Parker's direction.

“My dad just buys ice cream when he feels guilty about working too much. I think I need to have a talk with him,” said Parker, smiling as he sat down.

Michael didn't reply. Instead he turned on the two screens in front of them, handed Parker a pair of headphones, and started up a computer game—the third installment of the car game they had been playing the day before.

“I thought this wasn't coming out until next month,” said Parker.

“Perks of having a dad who owns a gaming company,” said Michael.

Parker grinned. He turned, saw that Emma was busy exploring Michael's collection of toys, and picked up his headphones.

“Right,” he said, choosing his car, “let's do this. I hope you're a good loser.”

“I wouldn't know,” said Michael, with a straight face. “I never lose.”

Michael put his headphones on, and Parker turned back to his screen, but not before catching the sight of Michael's mouth curling up into a smile.

*  *  *  *  *  *

Parker would have stayed at the computer all day—and he suspected Michael would have been happy to do the same—had it not been for the housekeeper, Hilda—a stern-looking woman with an efficient tone of voice—coming into the room to call them down for lunch. Parker, Michael, and Emma followed her down to the kitchen to find three bowls of steaming spaghetti Bolognese and warm freshly baked bread waiting for them. By the time they finished eating, the weather had cleared and the sun was shining—exactly as Michael had predicted.

“Let's get our bikes. We can ride up to the tree house,” said Michael, leading them out of the main building and into a glass-covered walkway that branched in opposite directions ahead of them. They took the left path, which led to a set of elevator doors.

“Where does this go?” asked Parker.

“The basement,” said Michael as they stepped inside. He turned his back to Parker and pressed the button marked B. Parker looked over at Emma to give her an isn't-this-amazing? look, but she was too busy staring at the sleek leather-padded walls of the elevator. Her face was scrunched up in thought.

Parker pressed down on his wrist.

Without looking down at her arm, she pressed down on her wrist to answer.

You okay?
he said.

Emma looked over at him and gave a small shake of her head.
I'm just trying to work out how many schools could have been built in Africa with the money they spent on this house.

Lighten up, Emma. Seriously, it's annoying. You can't think like that about everything.

Yes, I can,
replied Emma as the elevator came to a smooth stop.

Ding.

The doors opened and Michael stepped out.

Just try to enjoy it,
said Parker.

Emma gave a small shrug and rolled her eyes.
Fine,
she said. She turned off Effie and stepped out in front of Parker as the lights in the room flickered on.

Without waiting for them, Michael began to cross the space. Parker and Emma followed slowly behind, surveying the room as they walked. It was, other than the curved ceiling, much like a regular garage—only at least twenty times bigger. In stark contrast to the rest of the house, this floor, being underground, had no windows and therefore received no natural light. Instead stark white light shone down from the spotlights that ran the length of the room and bounced off the smooth gray floor and white walls, giving the space a clinical feel. At the other end of the room, opposite an open archway that Parker guessed led outside, three vehicles were parked side by side: the one that had picked them up that morning, a shiny red sports car, and a golf cart. Beyond that, a line of bikes hung from a rack mounted on the wall. Other than that, the room was empty. Parker's eyes scanned the floor as he crossed it and found nothing—not a single leaf, nor a speck of dirt.

“How long have you lived here?” asked Parker.

“I don't know—about five years maybe. Why?”

“It's just so”—Parker searched for the right word—“tidy.”

“It's called minimalist.”

“It's definitely that. Don't you ever just feel like—I don't know—throwing paint around or something?”

“Er, no. Why? Is that what you do in your house?”

“No, of course not. It's . . . oh, never mind. Hey, there's my bike!”

Brendan had hung Parker's bike on the first slot of the rack. Next to it was the only bike that looked as if it had been used recently—a state-of-the-art mountain bike with mud-covered wheels.

“That must really bother you,” said Parker, grinning as he reached out and spun the wheel of the bike. A smattering of dried mud fell to the floor and Parker flinched.

“I'm really sorry,” he said. He bent down and began to brush the mud into his hand.

Michael gave Parker a quizzical look. “It's okay—I don't have a phobia about dirt or anything. You can leave it there.”

“Oh, okay. Good,” said Parker, brushing his hands and letting the dirt fall to the floor once more.

“Though we will have to get the room disinfected now.”

“Seriously?”

“No, of course not. You're kind of weird, Parker.”

Parker raised his hands and brushed the remainder of the dirt on his palm in the direction of Michael, whose knee-jerk reaction was to jump back.

“Takes one to know one,” said Parker.

He smiled as Emma tapped him on the shoulder.

“They all look too big for me,”
signed Emma.

Parker looked along the bike rack and saw that Emma was right. “Which one can Emma use?” he asked Michael. “I think they're all too big. She can use mine if you don't have one for her.”

“No, no, it's fine. I've got one for her,” said Michael. He waved Emma over and pointed to a spot behind the golf cart. Leaving Emma to it, Parker turned his attention back to his own bike. He lifted it up off the rack and was about to swing his leg over to mount it when he heard a loud gasp. Parker turned and saw Michael standing by the golf cart, biting his thumb nervously.

Parker quickly rested his bike against the wall and hurried over.

Emma, Parker found, was standing next to a purple bike that was exactly the right size for her. Even if it hadn't had a large red bow tied to the handlebars, Parker would have guessed anyway—from the gleaming paintwork and spotless tires—that it was brand-new.

Emma ran her hands over the bow and turned to Parker with a confused look on her face.

“Is it a gift?”
she signed. Parker translated the question to Michael.

“Yes, but it's not from me.”

“You
bought
my sister a bike?”

Michael looked embarrassed. “I already said: it's not from me.”

Parker shook his head, not knowing what to make of the situation, just as Emma found the tag hanging from the handlebars. Parker watched as she turned it over, then, upon reading what was written on it, let out a small laugh.

Parker walked over, leaving Michael standing by the cart, and looked at the tag that Emma was now holding out for him to read.

To Emma, from Gary the Goat.

Parker read it again to check that he had read it correctly. He looked over at Michael. “
Seriously?
Gary?”

“That's a very popular goat name in Africa,” said Michael, shrugging. “Is it okay?” he asked Emma.

Emma considered her answer for a moment and Parker winced. He knew exactly what Emma was going to say—she was going to tell Michael to take it back. He was just wondering whether this was going to make the rest of the day awkward when, to both Parker's and Michael's surprise, she broke out into a run and threw her arms around Michael. Michael stood stiffly, his arms by his sides, until she let go.

“I love it,”
she signed.

“It's no big deal,” mumbled Michael. He turned and lifted his bike off the rack, then looked at Emma and Parker. “Shall we go?” he asked. He pedaled off and disappeared up the ramp before Parker or Emma could answer.

Parker was still shaking his head in disbelief as he picked up his own bike. He pressed down on his wrist.

Think of how many goats that bike's worth,
said Parker.

Oh, lighten up, Parker,
said Emma as she cycled past him with a wide grin on her face.

At two o'clock that afternoon, at the precise moment that Parker and Emma encountered a tree house larger than most people's homes, Parker's father, Dr. Geoffrey Banks, was preparing for possibly the most important moment in his career. Whether it would be his greatest moment, or his worst, was still very much of an unknown. Dr. Banks wiped the sweat from his brow. If successful, he and, more important, his children, would be rewarded with the greatest gift imaginable. If it failed, he would almost certainly lose his job. Or worse.

“They're waiting, Dr. Banks.”

Dr. Banks looked up and saw Lina standing at the door of his office. The expression on her face was easy to read.

“You have nothing to be scared about, Lina; they're not going to blame you. I'll make sure of it,” he said, standing up.

“I'm not worried about myself,” she replied in a quiet voice.

“It could work—have you considered that?” said Dr. Banks with more confidence than he felt. “In three weeks we've got it up to a seventy percent success rate. Chances are, it will work.”

“And if it doesn't?”

Dr. Banks didn't answer. Instead he took a deep breath, did the top button of his lab coat, and stood up straight. He forced a smile onto his face.

“Right, Miss Chan, let's get this over and done with. Lead the way to my execution.”

It was supposed to be a joke, but Lina didn't laugh.

*  *  *  *  *  *

Bowveld was waiting in the corridor by the doors of Laboratory One. He also wore a white lab coat, which, in case anybody should need reminding, had his name and title embroidered across the upper left:
Dr. Warren Bowveld III, Director
. Everything about him, from his helmet of dyed black hair to his snakeskin loafers and oversize gold watch, suggested a man determined to impress his power upon the world.

Dr. Banks turned to Lina. “You go ahead,” he said in a low voice. “Double-check everything.”

Lina nodded and walked quickly past the director with her head held down. The director acknowledged her only by stepping aside to let her through. He waited until the doors had closed behind her before speaking.

“Are you ready?” asked Bowveld.

Dr. Banks refused to use the title Doctor in front of his boss's name. He did this mainly because it irked Bowveld when he did that, but also because Dr. Banks had learned before starting the job that Bowveld had never earned the title—it was just something he'd added to his name to make himself sound more competent than he was.

“You know the answer to that,” replied Dr. Banks.

Bowveld glared his disapproval. “Do I need to remind you of the importance of today?”

“No, you do not,” replied Dr. Banks. He could feel the anger rising inside him. He stopped, took a deep breath, and reminded himself that, though he had no choice about working for this man, he didn't have to give him the satisfaction of letting him know how much he resented it.

“However,” Dr. Banks continued, his voice now more controlled, “that doesn't change the fact that I've only had three weeks to try to solve a problem that nobody has managed to solve in over thirty years.”

Bowveld lifted his finger and, with a deep scowl, pointed it slowly at Dr. Banks.

“
You
were the one who said you could do this.”

“And I can,” replied Dr. Banks. “I'm almost there. But I need more than three weeks.”

“Well, you don't have it. Your demonstration
must
be successful. This entire company, not to mention the Bowveld family name, is on the line. . . .”

But Bowveld's reputation wasn't the only thing at stake. He had in his power something that was far more important to Dr. Banks. It was what had forced Dr. Banks to come to work here, to move to a new country, and to uproot his children. There were only three things that mattered in Dr. Banks's life, and Bowveld held the fate of one—if not all—in his hand. The director wasn't going to let him forget it.

Slowly, Bowveld leaned down so his mouth was next to Dr. Banks's ear, and in a hissed whisper Bowveld pulled out the ace he kept up his sleeve.

“I'm sure your wife would like to see her children again, Dr. Banks.”

The words cut through Dr. Banks like a knife. It didn't matter that he had heard them before, or that they haunted him every second of every day; the impact of them never lessened. Dr. Banks stepped back and met the director's eyes.

“I'll do my best,” he said finally.

The director smiled like a predator savoring his helpless prey, and his brilliant white teeth sparkled.

“Yes, you will,” he said.

There was nothing more to say and both men knew it. Bowveld turned and opened the doors to the laboratory, leaving Dr. Banks still trying to regain his composure.

It was showtime.

Laboratory One, the largest of the ten laboratories housed deep underground below the headquarters building of Avecto Enterprises, was quiet as Dr. Banks walked in behind Bowveld. Seated in silence in rows behind the wall of safety glass were some of the most important and influential people in the world. Dr. Banks didn't allow himself a closer look; his nerves were frayed enough as it was.