Evil Genius (59 page)

At that instant, while he stared at the arrangement of coral branches on the hall table, something clicked inside Cadel's head. His eyes widened. He caught his breath and slowly turned around, ignoring the gun that hovered at eye level. He gazed up at Thaddeus.

Someone knocked on the front door.

"Mr. Felton?" said a vaguely familiar voice. "Are you there?"

Thaddeus sucked in air through his teeth. He looked over at the door beneath the stairs. Though fleeting, this glance was enough—enough to give Cadel a head start.

He made a run for it.

"Cadel!" cried Thaddeus.

"Mr. Felton?"

No shot rang out. Cadel hadn't been expecting one. He reached the front door and would have hauled it open.

But before he could do so, Thaddeus was beside him, gun in hand.

"Take one more step," Thaddeus whispered, pressing the gun against Cadel's temple, "and I'll blast your brains out."

Cadel froze. Then he swallowed. Then, without moving his head, he let his eyes slip sideways until they found Thaddeus.

He and Thaddeus surveyed each other for a long, tense moment. The psychologist's hand was rock steady.

Cadel took a deep breath.

"No, you won't," he said, and drew the latch. "
I'm coming outside!
" he called. "
Don't shoot me!
"

"Cadel?" The familiar voice was now directly on the other side of the door. Cadel recognized it as belonging to Kale Platz. "Cadel Darkkon, is that you?"

"Yes! And I'm coming out!"

There was a scuffle of boots, suggesting that the people on the front steps were taking cover. Thaddeus cocked his gun. Cadel flinched but didn't yield.

Slowly, he turned the doorknob. Slowly, he pulled open the door.

He caught a glimpse of Thaddeus's crooked smile, as the silver gun was lowered.

Then he walked out into a blaze of spotlights.

"Hands in the air, Cadel. That's the way. Just a few more steps..."

Blinded by the glare, Cadel allowed himself to be yanked, jerked, and patted down. He realized that tears were streaming down his face. Someone gave him a tissue. A hand on his shoulder steered him quickly away from the house while Kale fired questions at him. "Who's in there? How many people? Have they got weapons? Guns?"

"Where's Gazo?" gasped Cadel.

"What?"

"He was out here." Wiping his cheeks, Cadel looked back at the house, which was bathed in light. The police had brought their own lights with them. He heard a helicopter and peered up into the night sky. "Didn't you see him? He was on the ground..."

"Guy in the white outfit, you mean?" said Kale, and someone behind him remarked, "Oh, we picked
him
up. He's with the other one—the one in the tailcoat.
They
won't be going anywhere in a hurry."

"You mean—Gazo's alive?"

"He's breathing," Kale rejoined, and his hand tightened on Cadel's shoulder. "Look at me, Cadel. That's it."

"He's my friend!" Cadel cried. "You mustn't hurt him! He was trying to help me!"

"Well, we'll sort that out later. In the meantime, I need
your
help. Are you listening?"

"But is he hurt?"

"
Cadel. Listen to me.
" The American's tone was stern. "Who's in there? How many are left?"

"Thad—Prosper is in there."

"Prosper
English
? He's
in
there?"

"Don't hurt him." Cadel was frantic. "Don't shoot him."

"Who else? Who's with him?"

"I don't know. Wilfreda..."

"Get this kid out of here," an Australian voice commanded. "Get him right out of the way. It's too dangerous."

"But if we need to negotiate—"

"This kid's nonnegotiable.
Where's Jenny? Bring her over!
"

Cadel was helped into a car. He was vaguely aware of a whole ring of cars out at the edge of the lawn. Milling bodies looked identical in the poor light. The soothing, rhythmic sound of the ocean seemed at odds with the urgent voices and flurries of movement.

There were dozens of people around. Thirty at least, that Cadel could see. And distant shouts told him that there were even more, hidden away in the shadows.

Nearby, a muttered argument was going on between a man and a woman.

"But sir—"

"Jenny, will you
get in
?"

"But I'm on the squad—"

"He's a kid. He'll feel more comfortable with you. So get in. That's an
order.
"

Someone buckled Cadel's seat belt. Someone else slid into the car, next to him. The woman—Jenny—threw herself into the front passenger seat. Doors slammed. The engine roared.

"You'll be all right, son," declared the man beside Cadel. It was Kale Platz. "We're just making sure you're out of harm's way."

"What are you going to do?" Cadel's voice cracked. "You're not going to kill him?"

"We won't kill anyone if we can help it. You should know that—we're the good guys."

"It wasn't my fault..."

"Shhh. Take it easy."

"I just—I just wanted to get away! From everything! I'm sorry! I'm very sorry!"

"We can talk about that later."

"I just want to be
normal
!"

"Oh, Christ," Kale muttered. He placed an unexpected hand on Cadel's forearm and squeezed it. The car plunged down the winding dirt road, illuminating gum trees on its way. Cadel heard whistles blasting somewhere back near the house. He cried and cried. He felt as if his heart was breaking, but he didn't know why.

At last they stopped. They were near the big gate in the high brick wall. Three more cars were parked in the same spot.

"You want some chewing gum?" Kale inquired, offering a piece to Cadel. Then, somewhere on his person, a two-way radio crackled to life.

A distorted voice announced that, back at the house, Prosper English had surrendered.

He had suddenly walked out of the front door with his hands up.

To: II Primo
From: Stormer

Hi there, Sonja!

It's me—Cadel. I guess you thought you wouldn't be hearing from me ever again. Maybe you were hoping that you wouldn't. I can understand if that's how you feel. It's all been a big mess.

But I wanted you to know how grateful I am for what you did. If it hadn't been for you, things might not have turned out so well. Not that everything's GREAT—I'm not allowed to see you, for one thing—but at least I'm alive.

The reason I didn't call when I promised to last week is that I was kidnapped. Were you told? Probably not. I was kidnapped, then I was rescued, then the police found me, then I escaped, and then I had a bit of bad luck. Well, a lot of bad luck, really. Remember how I said I wanted to find a hiding place and get on with my life? Well, that's not going to happen anymore. I blew it.

Maybe I didn't deserve to succeed.

It's amazing how much they've managed to keep out of the news. There was a lot of stuff about Prosper English—did you see it?—but almost nothing about me. Just the odd mention. I guess it's because I'm underage, and they don't want a media circus. That's what my lawyer said: "The last thing we want is a media circus. "They're worried about me. I don't think they know what to do with me, for one thing. They've got me holed up in a
big house (I can't tell you where—security reasons) while they work out who the hell I am. You see, officially, I don't exist. My birth was never registered in America. I was smuggled into Australia. They don't know where I belong, or who I belong to. I'm a bit worried that I'm going to be kicked out of the country, actually. After all, who wants the trouble? On the one hand, someone might try to kill me. On the other hand, I might try to escape again. I told them I wouldn't, but it's no good. Some of them don't trust me, and probably never will. (I blew that, too.) The ones who do trust me think I'm a sad, twisted little kid. (They're not far wrong, I suppose.) There's only one guy—an American—who's keeping his opinions to himself. He's always debriefing me, trying to find out how much I know about Dr. Darkkon's empire. I hardly know anything, but I'm not sure if he believes me or not. He always seems to, and then he always comes back with more questions. My social worker, a really nice woman, is constantly complaining about that. They have a lot of fights over me. I hate it.

I hate the whole place.

Maybe I won't be here for much longer, though. I hope not. I'd rather not stay floating in limbo for the next four years while they work out what they're doing. I'd like to go to university—a real university. Not like the Axis Institute. I guess you've heard about the Axis Institute. I went there, did they tell you? It wasn't very nice. But then, I wasn't very nice, either, so maybe it was the best place for me. I've done some terrible things, Sonja. I might even have to pay for them—I don't know yet. There's a lot of talk about that. At least I've started to make things right, though. I just signed a legal document that will change the lives of a lot of kids at my old school (I hope). By doing so, I wanted to convince everyone that I could do better. That I could
be
better. Most of all, I wanted to convince myself.

The trouble is, I'm still a minor. Which means that I don't have control over where I live, or everything I do. Next thing they '11 probably make me a ward of the state (if there's any state that even wants me) and I'll end up in some kind of foster home, or something. I wish I was eighteen. If I was, I'd be able to make some of my own decisions.

I'm getting an idea of what it must be like for you.

But I shouldn't complain. The thing I have to do is, I have to look at this whole situation in a positive way. I have to regard it as an opportunity. So what if I'm in limbo? It will give me a chance to work out what I'm going to do with my life. Before this, someone else always made the decisions for me when it came to the future. Now I'm on my own. Phineas Darkkon can't get at me. Prosper English can't get at me. I suppose, in a way, I am free. Though freedom isn't quite what I expected.

In case you haven't been told. Prosper English was my therapist. They've got him locked up somewhere for questioning, and one of these days there might be a trial, though I wouldn't count on it. He's very clever. The latest I heard, he's saying that he was just renting the house that he was found in and didn't know about the secret room full of arms and ammunition. He even has the lawyers all lied up in some kind of argument about search warrants. Also, I've got a feeling that he's covered his tracks pretty well when it comes to the Axis Institute. Kale—the American—keeps coming to me with more and more questions about what Prosper did, as if no one can find any solid proof. It's a bit of a worry. Because if they have to rely on witnesses, they 're in trouble. All kinds of things can happen to witnesses.

As for me, I'll probably have to testify against Prosper. God. I mean, I'd do it. I would. But I really don't want to. I really, really don't. He'd be in the same courtroom. I'd have to look him in the eye. I haven't seen him at all since he was arrested, and I'm hoping that Kale won't ask me to go and talk to him in the hope that Prosper will "open up." It would be so hard. You don't understand what Prosper's like—no one does. It's very complicated. He's different from other people. He's even different from Phineas. Despite everything he's done, I can't hate him. I try to, but I can't.

I guess I'm hoping that I'm a bit like Prosper, in that one respect. I'm hoping that, despite everything I've done, you can't hate me. Because you 're my best friend. My only other friend—well, he '$ gone now. The police arrested him, but he escaped. He has this special skill that they didn't know about—not until it was too late. I don't know where he is, and I don't expect I'll see him again. Maybe I'll have more friends in the future (I'm working on it), but that won't change how I feel about you.

I don't expect you to reply—not really. But if you can just read this letter, and the ones that come after it, at least you'll know what I'm doing. How I'm going. And maybe, in a little while, I might hear from you again. When you realize that I'm not completely bad.

You see, I have this vision in my head. It's of you and me playing chess in a park somewhere. You don't know how important that picture is to me. I think about it a lot of the time, for some reason: playing chess in a park. For the whole afternoon. As the shadows lengthen and everyone slowly goes home except us.

Maybe it means something, though I don't know what.

I guess I'm not so smart after all.

To: Stormer
From: II Primo

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