Evil Genius

by Catherine Jinks

  Perhaps, if he whispered, no one would notice that he didn’t have a girl’s voice.

  After breakfast, he accompanied Vadi to a sleek grey BMW parked near the front steps. Outside, the light was dazzling. It flooded a scene of great beauty, which nevertheless made Cadel’s heart sink. How far away they were from everything! The house, a modern structure made of glass and steel and stone, was sitting right on the point of a wooded headland. Behind it rose a hill covered in gum trees, through which threaded a winding road. The road led straight to Thaddeus’s front door, switching from asphalt to gravel where it formed a circle at the base of the steps that led up to the house. There was no garden wall that Cadel could see: just the road appearing out of the bush. Between the bush and the house was a lawn, a fountain, a handful of trees and a collection of heathery shrubs. Seagulls wheeled overhead.

  ‘Where are we?’ Cadel asked, when Vadi was comfortably installed in the driver’s seat.

  ‘Curramulla,’ said Vadi, turning a key in the ignition. As they followed the curving road up into the trees, Cadel racked his brain. Curramulla? It didn’t ring a bell.

  Only when they had travelled for about five minutes, and passed through an automatic gate in a high brick wall, did Cadel begin to understand. He saw the brass letters by the gate and realised that Curramulla was the name of the house. The house and all the land attached to it, which must have cost a fortune.

  Cadel wondered if Thaddeus owned any other headlands around the place. Or any islands, perhaps? Someone like Thaddeus could only live in very isolated spots, away from prying eyes. Where he could come and go without being noticed by sticky-beak neighbours.

  After leaving Curramulla, Vadi and Cadel drove for a long time on a rather featureless highway, littered with turn-offs. Cadel didn’t recognise many of the names, though one or two of them seemed familiar. Vadi was heading north, at any rate. The young man drove in silence, his dark eyes fixed on the road ahead. Cadel noticed the webbing between his fingers; it reached almost to the lower knuckles. He wondered about Vadi’s feet: Were they also webbed? But Cadel didn’t let his gaze linger on Vadi’s webbed fingers, or his pinched nostrils, or his oily skin. In fact he made a point of keeping his face turned away from his companion. There were plans to be made, after all. Cadel didn’t want to reveal himself while he plotted and schemed. The slightest change of expression could be dangerous.

  Then he saw the turn-off to Wollongong, and began to get a sense of where Thaddeus was living.

  ‘Oh!’ he said. ‘We are far away.’

  Vadi said nothing. But that didn’t matter: Cadel knew where he was now. He settled in for a long drive – much longer than he’d anticipated – calculating that they wouldn’t reach the North Shore until at least three o’clock, or even later. If he managed to escape during the trip back to Curramulla, then he might find himself still wandering around when night fell. Would that be a good thing or bad? Probably bad. While the darkness would make him harder to find, it would also be dangerous for an unaccompanied girl.

  He thought he might go interstate, to begin with. Not by air; airline databases were too vulnerable. No, he would hitch a lift. Or buy a train ticket. Something like that.

  He was still weighing up his options when he dozed off, waking with a start to the sound of a nearby horn. Blearily, he gazed around. They were on the Pacific Highway, crawling through Chatswood.

  ‘Jeez,’ he mumbled, and checked the car clock. ‘It must have been that chloroform.’

  Vadi didn’t reply.

  ‘Ugh,’ said Cadel. His mouth was dry. ‘I’m really thirsty.’

  ‘There’s lemonade in the glove box,’ Vadi informed him. To Cadel’s surprise, the lemonade was home-made. It had been poured into a stainless-steel thermos flask, and was very, very good.

  Cadel sipped it quietly until they were further up the highway. Then he instructed Vadi to ‘turn off here’.

  ‘It’s all right, sir,’ Vadi replied. ‘I know the way.’

  He did, too. He guided the big, purring car through a maze of peaceful suburban streets until he reached the Piggotts’ house, which could not be seen behind its hedge. The sight of that hedge filled Cadel with a complicated mixture of anger, fear and nostalgia. He reached for his door handle.

  ‘Wait,’ said Vadi, and punched the horn several times. Obediently, Cadel waited. At last Stuart Piggott appeared, lumbering down the driveway onto the road. He raised his hand in greeting.

  Cadel suddenly felt sick.

  ‘Okay, sir.’ Vadi nodded at him. ‘Dr Roth has instructed me to keep watch here until you’re done.’

  ‘Th-thanks,’ Cadel stammered. Slowly, he got out of the car. Slowly, he approached Stuart Piggott – or James Guisnal – who gestured towards the unseen house.

  ‘Any help you need, just ask,’ James said calmly. ‘Sue’s inside.’ For a moment, Cadel was speechless. He gazed up into the fat, red face with loathing. Thaddeus had never mentioned the Piggotts! He had never said that they would still be here!

  Cadel turned abruptly and began to trudge up the driveway. But when he heard the crunch of Stuart’s tread behind him, he stopped.

  ‘You can stay here,’ he croaked.

  ‘But –’

  ‘Stay here.’ He whirled around, his face working. ‘I don’t need your help!’

  How he hated them both! It must have shown in his expression, because James pursed his lips and shrugged. There was obviously no point arguing. Cadel left him there at the letterbox. I should have spat at the bastard, Cadel thought. I should have punched him in his big, fat belly. Sweating and panting, his teeth clenched, Cadel marched towards the house without once looking back. Upon reaching the front door, he kicked it open with such force that it almost sprang back into his face. Then he headed towards his bedroom.

  ‘Cadel?’ A familiar voice hailed him from the kitchen. ‘Is that you?’

  Mrs Piggott. Sue whatever-her-name-was. Cadel didn’t even want to look at her.

  ‘Piss off,’ he hissed, without turning his head.

  ‘Cadel –’

  ‘Get out of here!’ He rounded on her, the hot blood rushing to his cheeks. ‘I don’t want to see you! You make me sick! Get the hell out of here, you piece of slime!’

  ‘Just doing our jobs,’ the woman responded, coolly. In the shadowy vestibule, it was hard to see her face. ‘No need to get personal.’

  ‘No need to get . . . ?’ Cadel was gasping for breath. No need to get personal? She was supposed to have been his mother, for God’s sake! ‘That’s been your motto all along, hasn’t it?’ he cried. ‘“No need to get personal”! Funny way to bring up a kid, don’t you think?’

  Sue shrugged. Cadel, almost retching with disgust, stumbled down the hallway. She was right behind him when he reached his bedroom door.

  ‘I told you to get lost,’ he spat.

  ‘I’m not supposed to leave you alone.’

  ‘You what?’ He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘All you ever did was leave me alone!’

  ‘I –’

  ‘Get the hell out of here! Get out! Or I’ll tell Thaddeus you hit me!’

  The woman recoiled. It was as if Cadel had hit her. Cadel threw himself over the threshold and slammed the door in her face. Then he locked it. He was nearly in tears by this time, but he told himself that it was all right. Thaddeus wouldn’t suspect anything. It was natural to feel the way he did about the Piggotts. It was natural to hate them, after being forced to endure them for so many years.

  But he would have to pull himself together. This was no time to lose his cool.

  He glanced around the room, which hadn’t changed a bit. Everything was in its proper place, including the computer. He had lost his backpack – Max had taken it – but that didn’t matter. He kept another on the top shelf of his wardrobe. Once he had dragged it down, he turned on the computer and pretended to download information. Meanwhile, between commands, he rifled through his wardrobe. Pulled out an innocent-loo
king t-shirt. A pair of leather shoes. The jacket with the forged documents concealed in its lining.

  His Indian skirt and make-up were concealed inside a folded jumper. Knowing that his movements were probably being monitored, he had to remove this garment from under his bed and place it in his backpack without allowing any stray bits of hem to show. He had just accomplished this tricky manoeuvre to his satisfaction when he heard Vadi’s horn again: three short, sharp blasts in the distance.

  There was a shriek from somewhere nearby.

  Cadel, who had been kneeling, rose to his feet. Footsteps pounded down the corridor.

  ‘Cadel!’ Sue cried. She began to jiggle the knob on his bedroom door. ‘Quick! Come on!’

  Cadel hesitated.

  ‘Cadel!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Open this door! They’re coming!’

  And then the shots rang out.

  FIFTY-TWO

  Cadel had twice heard gunshots before at the Axis Institute. He recognised them instantly.

  Out in the hall, Sue cursed him.

  ‘Quick!’ she shrieked. ‘Godammit!’

  She began to kick at the door. Cadel stood frozen. He didn’t know what to do. He heard her gabbling away between kicks – Tory, this is Pepper. We’re clocked, repeat, clocked – and realised that she must be talking into a mobile phone, or a two-way radio.

  What did ‘clocked’ mean? Spotted? Pinned down?

  ‘Cadel!’ Sue yelled, and all at once there was an enormous crash from the direction of the living room. Cadel heard the sound of hurried footsteps. Raised voices. Another shot, closer this time . . .

  Cadel dived under the bed. He was scared out of his wits – too scared even to think. He curled himself into a tiny ball, holding his breath, as the terrifying noises continued. Lots of yelling. A heavy tread that seemed to shake the foundations. Glass breaking. Doors banging.

  Please God, Cadel prayed to himself, please God save me. Please don’t hurt me. Don’t let them find me.

  Thump. His own door had just repelled a large weight.

  ‘Hello?’ A voice was raised, outside in the hall. A male voice with an American accent. Cadel didn’t recognise it. ‘This is the police! Is anyone in there?’

  Cadel swallowed. The police?

  But it might not be. A little warning sounded inside his head. It might be something to do with Max. That’s an American accent, after all.

  ‘Hello?’ the male voice repeated, and there followed a short, muttered conversation. Then the whole room seemed to explode. Cadel couldn’t help squeaking; the vibration ran straight up his spine and made his ears ring. He cowered. He trembled. He tried to disappear.

  As his door slammed against the wall, he realised what had happened. Someone had shot out the lock.

  ‘Check the wardrobe,’ one man ordered. Cadel couldn’t see him through the hanging folds of hand-woven bedspread, but could feel the weight of each heavy boot hitting the floor. He was certain that anyone in the room must have picked up the pounding of his own heart. He tensed every muscle. He tried to stop breathing . . .

  Light hit his face.

  The game was up.

  ‘Ah.’ A pair of small, grey eyes. A long jaw. A gun muzzle. ‘Here he is. Under here.’ The gun was whisked away, as the man with grey eyes dropped to one knee. ‘It’s all right, Cadel,’ he said. ‘I’m a friend of Sonja.’

  Nothing but that particular name would have pierced Cadel’s cocoon of fear. Sonja. A friend of Sonja?

  ‘You can come out,’ the man continued, trying to soften the gruffness of his tone. ‘I won’t hurt you. My name’s Kale Platz, and I work for the US government.’

  Dazedly, Cadel watched Kale flash his identification. It looked convincing – though what wouldn’t have? No fancy shield by itself would have lured Cadel out from under that bed. Only Sonja’s name did the trick.

  ‘That’s it,’ said Kale, retreating to give Cadel some space. Wriggling slowly into the light, dragging his backpack behind him, Cadel disturbed a lot of dust. He started sneezing. To his surprise, Kale passed him a handkerchief.

  ‘You okay?’ the American inquired. ‘Not hurt?’

  Cadel shook his head, wiping his eyes. ‘You – you know Sonja?’ he stammered.

  ‘That’s right.’ Kale, who had holstered his pistol, touched Cadel lightly on the back. He was small and slim and dressed in a black suit with a narrow grey tie. His complexion was sallow. His mousy hair was cut very close to his skull. ‘Let’s get out of here, eh?’

  ‘They’ve brought a car up,’ Kale’s companion remarked, glancing out the window.

  ‘Good,’ said Kale.

  ‘But how?’ Cadel allowed himself to be led down the corridor, too urgently in need of an answer to worry about where he was being taken. ‘How do you know Sonja?’

  ‘Well, now, that’s complicated.’ Kale hesitated in the vestibule. ‘Hey, Nick?’ he called, to someone outside. ‘We all clear? ’

  ‘Yeah!’ came the reply.

  ‘Okay. Go.’

  Before Cadel could say anything else, there was a flurry of activity. He found himself suddenly hemmed in by six big men in suits and uniforms. Three were wearing helmets. He was swept out the front door, down the stairs and into a dark blue car that was parked in the driveway.

  Not until he had landed on the back seat of this car did he catch a glimpse of his adoptive mother. She lay flat on her face in a bed of annuals, with her hands cuffed behind her back and an armed man standing over her.

  ‘Hey!’ said Cadel, as Kale Platz slid into the seat beside him. ‘Hey, what are you going to do with her?’

  ‘Her?’ Kale didn’t sound very concerned. ‘She’s under arrest. She assaulted a police officer.’ He leaned forward, and addressed the driver of the car. ‘Okay. Let’s go.’

  The car began to move. Craning back over his shoulder, Cadel saw camellia hedges closing in behind them, blocking the Piggotts’ house from view. He tried to count the police officers scattered around, but the car was moving too fast. Then they were on the road, and there were more cars, and more people, and someone was winding yellow crime-scene tape around telephone poles and tree trunks. Cadel saw, on the footpath, a shrouded human shape.

  He gasped.

  ‘Who – who – ?’

  ‘Nobody you know,’ Kale interrupted, grimly. ‘A police officer.’

  By this time, however, Cadel was on his knees, peering out the back window. He had seen the grey BMW. It was empty. Its windscreen was shattered.

  But Cadel’s car was gathering speed, and the BMW rapidly dwindled in size before disappearing behind a screen of fir trees.

  ‘Where’s Vadi?’ Cadel demanded. ‘He was in the grey car –’

  ‘He got away,’ said Kale. ‘But we’ll find him. Sit down. Keep your head low.’

  ‘How do you know Sonja?’ Cadel was still confused, but there was one thing, at least, that he had find out. ‘Tell me!’

  ‘I spoke to her,’ Kale replied. ‘I got the whole story. She was worried about you.’

  ‘She was?’ said Cadel.

  ‘I’m not surprised.’ The driver of the car was a policeman. He seemed to be chewing gum. He had an Australian accent. ‘Just look at the size of this kid.’

  ‘Good things come in small packages,’ Kale rejoined, enigmatically.

  ‘But how do you know her?’ Cadel exclaimed.

  ‘She contacted us,’ said Kale. ‘You were supposed to phone her on Sunday, and you didn’t, so she figured you must be in trouble.’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘Yeah. Well. She’s not stupid, is she? Poor kid. Anyway, she mightn’t have attracted much attention if she hadn’t mentioned the name “Darkkon”. Because of the Darkkon alert.’

  ‘The what?’ said Cadel.

  ‘We know who you are, mate.’ The driver glanced into his rear-view mirror; Cadel saw his eyes reflected there. ‘You’re his son, right?’

  ‘Let’s not talk about that now,’ sai
d Kale, without expression.

  ‘But I want to talk about it!’ Cadel was becoming agitated. What did it all mean? What was happening? ‘What’s the Darkkon alert? Is it an international hot button, or something? Do you have to ring a special number, if someone mentions the name Darkkon?’

  The driver snorted, as if he was trying to swallow a laugh. Kale regarded Cadel thoughtfully.

  ‘If a crime has been committed anywhere in the world and there appears to be a Darkkon connection, then my office is informed,’ he finally said. ‘I flew in yesterday.’

  ‘Because of Sonja?’ asked Cadel.

  ‘Because of the lawyer. Guy who murdered his girlfriend. He’s scared to death of Darkkon, goes straight to the nearest lock-up and spills his guts in exchange for protection. That was on Friday. Took a bit of time for word to filter through. Then your friend Sonja starts talking about someone called Cadel Darkkon, son of Phineas. At first we thought it might be a hoax. But Barry Deakin confirmed.’

  ‘And Sonja had my address,’ Cadel murmured, the scenario unfolding in his head. ‘And you’ve been staking the place out, waiting to see if I came back.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Cadel didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Sonja had been worried! About him! He hugged the knowledge close, letting it warm his chilled heart.

  ‘Listen, Cadel,’ the American went on. He spoke quietly. Dryly. ‘Sonja says you’ve had enough of your dad. She says you’ve been trying to dodge him. Is that right?’

  Cadel nodded. He was hardly listening, being preoccupied with his own thoughts. Sonja! Where was she? Did she know that he was all right?

  ‘Well, we can help you there,’ Kale went on. ‘We’ve had enough of your dad ourselves. This Axis Institute cesspit – we’re only just getting a grip on it, but it’s the kind of thing I’m talking about. The kind of thing we could do without.’ A pause. ‘Cadel?’ He prodded Cadel’s arm. ‘Are you listening?’