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  Cadel eyed the magazines, some of which were already turning to pulp. He knew that no hair dryer would ever revive them; his plan had worked. Nobody, moreover, would ever learn of his part in the affair. His sugar trail had been carried away by ants. The Donkins had accepted full responsibility for leaving Mace's precious magazines out in the rain. Cadel had well and truly covered his tracks.

  All the same, he didn't feel good about it. Hazel was very upset. Leslie was furious with himself. Even Mace cut a pitiful figure, as he pathetically tried to separate the sodden pages, his eyes brimming and his nose running. He mumbled about his brother while Hazel patted his back, and Leslie offered him a handkerchief, and Janan suggested that a chocolate bar might help him feel better. Even Janan's social worker hovered sympathetically in the background, assuring Mace that his brother would never blame him for what had happened to the magazines.

  Everyone ignored Cadel. Everyone seemed to have forgotten that Mace had threatened to kill him.

  Standing alone and isolated in one corner, Cadel realized that what he had just done would have made Sonja cringe, and Prosper smile. In other words, the old Cadel had reared his ugly head. By punishing Mace, Cadel had been dragged down almost to his foster brother's level.

  Later, sitting in his room, Cadel vowed not to make the same mistake ever again. If only he weren't so bored. He remembered an old saying: The Devil makes work for idle hands. That was his problem, without a doubt. He didn't have enough to do.

  Talking with Sonja might have helped, but Sonja always found telephones difficult. And the computer, at present, was out of bounds. Even though Mace wasn't actually using it, he was entitled to. Even though it was just sitting there, going to waste, Cadel knew quite well what would happen if he went anywhere near it. Mace would immediately claim that it was his turn and throw a fit.

  The only solution would be to log on that night, while everyone else was asleep.

  Not that this would allow him to chat with Sonja, since she, too, would be sleeping. He would, however, be able to leave her an e-mail message. And he would also be able to finish his trace. The only challenge would be staying awake for long enough—because Cadel couldn't set an alarm clock. An alarm clock would disturb everyone else. But if he fell asleep without setting an alarm clock, there was no guarantee that he would wake up before morning.

  To solve the problem, Cadel tucked a flashlight and a hairbrush into his bed that evening before he climbed under the covers. Then he lay on the hairbrush and occupied himself with a very complicated mathematical structure. Every so often he would stop to check his watch in the glow of the flashlight; every so often his binary associative operations would get a little fuzzy and he would have to pinch himself. Eventually, however, the hallway floor stopped creaking. The toilet stopped flushing. The light showing under his bedroom door was suddenly extinguished. It was twenty past eleven.

  After waiting another fifteen minutes, Cadel slipped out of bed. He padded across the room on bare feet, and winced at the noise that his doorknob made. The living room was dimly lit by the glow of a street-lamp filtering through the venetian blinds. The only sound was the hum of the Donkins' fridge, the ticking of their clock on the sideboard, and the distant chirping of crickets.

  The beige shag carpet muffled his tread.

  When he sat down in front of Hazel's computer, her typist's chair creaked alarmingly. The snap of the ON switch sounded like a whip crack in the silence. The grinding of the processor seemed extraordinarily loud. Even the click of the mouse made him hold his breath.

  Trying not to shift his weight in the creaky old chair, Cadel set about reconfiguring the information probe concealed on Hazel's hard drive. Instead of dismantling it, he planned to use it. The next time it dumped its load, the information deposited in the chat room would be tagged with something vaguely like a homing signal. Cadel might therefore be able to follow its subsequent route and locate the person collecting it.

  "Cadel!"

  He jumped, then turned. Hazel was standing in the doorway, wearing flannelette pajamas.

  "What are you doing?" she whispered. "Go back to bed!"

  "I was just—"

  "This is sleep time, Cadel. This isn't computer time!"

  "I know, but there's something I have to do."

  "Not at midnight, you don't."

  "It's not midnight. Yet."

  "Now, Cadel." Stepping forward, Hazel cocked her head, folded her hands across her ample tummy, and addressed him in a calm but reproachful tone. "I have to set some limits, you must understand that. If I don't, what's to stop you from spending all night on the computer? It's not healthy, dear. It's bad for you."

  "But—"

  "A boy your age needs his sleep. If you really, really want more computer time, I'll drop you at the library tomorrow when I take Janan to school."

  "But those library computers are always booked up!" Cadel hissed. "And anyway, I'm doing this for you. I'm trying to stop a hacker! Someone's been hacking into your machine!"

  "Well, I'm sure we can sort it out," Hazel replied soothingly. "Not right now, though. Right now I want you back in bed."

  Cadel stared at her in amazement. Had she no idea what it meant to have a hacker in your system? Obviously not. Her expression was tranquil as she turned off the machine. Tranquil but firm.

  "I won't take any of the power cables with me," she said, "because I trust you. You re an honest boy, and a clever boy. You're smart enough to know that this isn't going to do you any good at all."

  Cadel slumped. How could he possibly argue with a person who didn't understand the full implications of a hack-attack? It was impossible. He would be banging his head against a brick wall.

  So he went back to bed without further protest.

  SEVEN

  The next morning, before Mace left for school, he and Cadel were sent outside to collect the empty trash bins. These bins had to be moved from the front gate to the backyard, once the garbage trucks had done their job.

  Normally, it was a chore that took them all of three minutes. But when Mace reached the path that ran between the garage and the side of the house, he began to mutter.

  Oh no, thought Cadel, quickening his step. He had picked up the black recycling bin (as usual), because the green wheelie bin was bigger and more unwieldy. Mace was in charge of the wheelie bin. He would drag it behind him—bumpety-bump—along the path. He even liked the din that it made. And he had enough muscle to maneuver it into its customary spot, by the old laundry shed.

  But as large as it was, the wheelie bin didn't slow Mace down very much. After Cadel had dropped his black bin near the laundry, he turned to find a flushed Mace looming over him.

  "You did it," said Mace, with infinite menace. "I know you did it."

  "Did what?" Cadel was playing for time. "What are you talking about?"

  "I don't know how you did it, but you did it." Mace took a step forward. "And I'm going to kill you for that."

  Cadel ducked sideways and might have escaped if he had judged his route more expertly. As it was, he almost ran up against the hot-water system when he rounded a corner on his way to the back door. And that split-second delay was all Mace needed. Closing the gap between them, he grabbed Cadel's T-shirt and jerked him backward.

  Suddenly Cadel was on the ground, crushed beneath a heavy weight. He could hardly breathe.

  "You better admit it," Mace growled, shoving his contorted face into Cadel's, "or you're going to die."

  "Can't...," Cadel wheezed. One big, beefy forearm lay across his throat, pressing down hard. Leaning on it. Mace was choking him.

  "Get off!" Cadel gasped. "Yeowch!"

  "I told my brother about you," Mace went on. "He said I should teach you a lesson, and that's exactly what I'm gunna do now, you little dickhead!"

  Cadel was growing dizzy. He couldn't expand his lungs. His vision was darkening at the edges.

  And then, all at once, the pressure was gone. He could breathe again. Mov
e again.

  He rolled over, coughing. It was a moment before he could look up. When he did, he saw that Mace was being held in a professional-looking armlock by none other than Saul Greeniaus.

  Cadel gaped in astonishment.

  "All right," said Saul, calmly addressing Mace. "Are you listening to me?"

  The reply that Saul received was just a torrent of profanity. So he waited, keeping a firm grip on Mace as he nodded at Cadel.

  "Okay. You finished now?" the detective said at last, when Mace had run out of insults. "Because I want you to listen. What I saw then was a clear case of assault. You can end up in juvenile court for something like that. And you will if it happens again." Saul applied a slight pressure to his armlock, causing Mace to wince. "Okay—I'm gonna set you free," the detective promised. "And you're not gonna do anything stupid, like attack a police officer. Because you're not stupid. Are you?"

  Mace shook his head, whereupon Saul released him. The two of them stood for a moment, surveying each other: Saul with his hands on his hips; Mace rubbing his elbow.

  "Now, I want you guys to get along," the detective commanded. "No fighting. No sabotage. No pissing on beds."

  "He ruined my magazines!" Mace squawked. But Saul held up one hand.

  "I don't want to hear it," he replied flatly. "I'm not interested. From now on, you guys are gonna be polite to each other. And if I find out that you've laid a hand on this kid again," he concluded, fixing Mace with his dark and somber stare, "you'll be in a lot of trouble. Is that clear?"

  Mace grimaced. His eyes were wet and his face was red. He looked as if he could hardly contain his protests.

  But he managed a nod.

  "Good," said Saul. "I knew you were a smart kid. Now, off you go; I don't want you late for school."

  "You hurt my arm." Mace narrowed his eyes. "How can I do any work if my arm hurts?"

  "It won't last."

  "It might."

  The detective regarded Mace thoughtfully, as Cadel's foster brother raised his chin. They were almost the same height.

  But while Mace was heavier, Saul seemed more formidable.

  "Well, sure," the detective eventually remarked. "You can lay a complaint if you want. With your record, though, there are bound to be questions." He shrugged. "It's up to you," he said. "Personally, I wouldn't want to be drawing attention to myself."

  Mace seemed to concur. As Cadel scrambled to his feet, his foster brother slouched away, disappearing around the side of the house. Only when Mace was out of sight did Saul turn his attention to Cadel.

  "Are you all right?" the detective asked.

  "Uh—yeah." Cadel cleared his throat experimentally.

  "Has he done this before?"

  "Done what?"

  "Tried to strangle you."

  "Oh." For some reason, Cadel felt slightly sheepish. "Well, not exactly."

  "He's had a hard life," Saul acknowledged, squinting toward the house. "But I want you to stay out of his way."

  "That's what I've been trying to do."

  "No. I mean it." The detective's clear, brown gaze fastened on Cadel. "Stay out of his way."

  "And how am I supposed to do that?" Cadel demanded. "When he won't leave me alone? Do you think it's easy?"

  In response, Saul cocked his head.

  "What's all this about magazines?" was his measured rejoinder. And Cadel swallowed.

  He tried not to look as guilty as he felt.

  "Nothing," he said. "Mace's magazines got wet."

  Saul Greeniaus absorbed this in silence. Then he began to fish around in the lining of his jacket.

  "I'm familiar with your record, too," he announced dryly. "I know what you're capable of." At last he found what he had been searching for, and produced it like a conjurer producing a white rabbit. "Here," he said. "I've brought you a cell phone. You can use it to call me if you're worried about anything."

  Cadel blinked. Wordlessly he accepted the neat little mobile phone.

  "It's not yours to keep," the detective warned. "I'm just lending it to you. And if you start running up big bills, you'll be paying them yourself. Unless the calls were made to me or Ms. Currey."

  He fell silent, as if waiting for an answer. So Cadel obliged.

  "Thanks," he said.

  "You're welcome." Saul glanced at his watch. "Well—I'd better go. I only dropped in to give you that." He nodded at the phone. "Ms. Currey will have my hide if I talk to you for too long without her."

  "Uh—Mr. Greeniaus?"

  Cadel was almost surprised to hear his own voice. He hadn't given much thought to what he was going to say.

  Saul didn't speak. He just waited, motionless.

  "I—um—I've had a message from Com," Cadel continued. "Remember him? The guy from my infiltration class, at the Axis Institute?"

  "Go on."

  "It was a coded message. On e-mail. It said 'Cadel, let's catch up. Com.' That's all." Conscious of Saul's intent regard, Cadel added, "I haven't finished tracing it, yet, so I don't know if ... I mean, it might not be Com. It might be..." He trailed off, unnerved by the detective's grim expression. "It was sent to Hazel's address," he finished. "Disguised as spam."

  "Did you reply?" Saul queried.

  "No. I didn't want to. There's been a hacker poking around in the system, you see, so—"

  "You haven't been talking to anyone else? Online? You haven't mentioned your name, or where you live?"

  "No, but—"

  "Damn it to hell." Saul uttered these words so slowly and carefully that they hardly sounded like a curse. "How would anyone know you were here?"

  "Well, the police know," Cadel pointed out. "Fiona knows. My lawyer knows. The address is bound to be on a computer file somewhere. It wouldn't be hard to find."

  Saul frowned. He seemed to be thinking. After a while he said, "What was that about a hacker?"

  "Someone planted an information probe in Hazel's system," Cadel explained. "It's been gathering data."

  "For whom?"

  "I don't know. I was going to finish the trace today, before I went and tracked down that e-mail." Cadel was suddenly struck by a dazzling idea. He straightened, and his whole face lit up. "Do you want to see?" he eagerly inquired, anxious to commandeer the computer. "I can show you—"

  "No."

  "But—"

  "Listen." Saul put a hand on Cadel's shoulder. "Don't you touch that machine. It's out of bounds. Understand?"

  Cadel caught his breath.

  "What—what do you mean?" He gasped.

  "If what you say is true, then we can't risk having you go anywhere near the computer. Just in case."

  "But that's ridiculous." Cadel was shell-shocked. "There's no risk. I'm going to reconfigure the cookie so that nothing will go out unless it's tagged. And the tags will be like route markers."

  "No."

  "But you can't!" Cadel cried. The horrible truth was finally beginning to sink in. "You can't stop me using the computer!"

  "I have to." Saul moved his hand to the top of Cadel's head, bending down until they were eye to eye. "My first priority is to keep you safe," he said firmly. "That's my job. We don't know who we're dealing with right now, so we can't be too careful. There's no saying what might happen if I let you wander about online unprotected."

  "But I can protect myself online! Way better than anyone else could!" Cadel found it hard to believe that Saul was unable to grasp this fact. "Don't you understand? It's what I do!"

  "Listen to me." Saul's grip tightened on Cadel's scalp. "There are people I can bring in here to conduct an online investigation. They can turn that machine inside out in a couple of hours. They're experts."

  "So am I!"

  "Yes, I know. But you're also the target." Saul's tone was grave. "Your safety is paramount. Paramount. I don't want Prosper English messing with your head."

  Cadel tried to speak, but he couldn't. There was a lump in his throat. Something of the anguish that he felt must have shown in his face,
because Saul's own expression changed slightly. Before the detective could say anything, however, Hazel addressed him from beside the hot-water system.

  "Mr. Greeniaus?" she said, and he swung around.

  "Good morning, Mrs. Donkin."

  "Thomas told me you were here, but..."

  "It's a little early, I know."

  "Isn't Miss Currey with you?"

  "No. I'm afraid we have a problem." Saul's tone was very formal. Very official-sounding. "I'm afraid we're gonna have to confiscate your computer for a short time."

  Hazel's mouth formed a perfect O.

  "We may not have to remove it from this site, but it will be out of bounds to all the occupants of your home," Saul went on. "Until such a time as we're satisfied that it's safe to use."

  "But—but why?" Hazel asked. Her glance shifted toward Cadel, who stiffened.

  "This isn't Cadel's fault," the detective quickly assured her. "On the contrary. He's the one who uncovered the problem."

  "But—"

  "Let's go inside, shall we? I need to make some calls."

  So they went inside, where Saul immediately took over the whole house. He dispatched a sullen Mace to the bus stop. He sent Hazel off to school with Janan and left a message on Fiona's voice mail. He put through a request for some kind of forensic information technology team. Then he made a full report to his superior, using his own cell phone.

  When he'd finished, he settled in front of the computer and addressed Cadel—who was slumped on the living-room couch, fiddling with the TV remote.

  "Am I correct in thinking that Mr. Donkin has already left for work?" the detective asked.

  "He leaves early," Cadel replied, without glancing in Saul's direction. "He works a morning shift."

  "Then I'm out of order." Saul clicked his tongue. "I shouldn't have sent Mrs. Donkin away until Ms. Currey arrived." After a moment he added, "I'm sorry, Cadel, I really am."

  Cadel said nothing. He stared straight ahead, glum and embittered, wondering why he had ever opened his big, fat, stupid mouth. It was all so insulting. First they'd taken away his computer. Now they were going to take over his trace. And what was he supposed to do in the meantime? Sit in front of the TV?