by Phil Lollar
“Back at Whit’s End,” replied Whit. “She didn’t want to come for some reason.”
Blackgaard nodded, still smiling. “Ah. Well, perhaps she’ll make it another time.” He took a few steps past them and gestured around the room. “So how do you like my little amusement house?”
“It’s very . . . interesting, to say the least,” said Eugene.
Blackgaard’s smile turned into a smirk. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
Eugene went on. “I noticed that all of your displays and activities are computerized. Are they run through a central system?”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to talk to Richard about that,” Blackgaard replied, shaking his head. “I’m somewhat illiterate when it comes to computers.” He peered around the room. “I know he’s here somewhere, probably with that young friend of his, uh . . . Lucy.”
Whit’s brow furrowed. “Lucy?”
“Yes,” Blackgaard said brightly. “She’s become something of a fixture here now, thanks to Richard.” He leaned toward Whit and whispered conspiratorially, “I believe she has a crush on him.” He chuckled and placed a hand over his heart. “Oh, the pains of adolescence.”
Whit frowned. “Yes.”
Blackgaard clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “So, speaking as a professional, what does the great Whit think of Blackgaard’s Castle?”
Whit looked around once again and tried his best to keep a neutral expression on his face. “Well . . . it’s rather . . . maddening, isn’t it?”
The doctor’s eyebrows rose. “You mean the noise? Yes, it was a bit disturbing at first, but as I’m sure you know, you get used to it after a while.”
“Do you always let the kids run wild this way?” asked Eugene.
“Children are free spirits, after all.” Blackgaard shrugged. “They need room to play.”
“Agreed,” said Eugene. “But there should be some order, even in play.”
“Nonsense,” Blackgaard scoffed. “Children already have too much structure in their lives—at home, at school, at church.” He sniffed haughtily. “What they need is freedom—”
Suddenly there was a loud “Aaaaarrrrgh!” followed immediately by a series of harsh thumps behind them. “What in the world!” Whit exclaimed, and when they turned he got an answer. Nathan, one of the former regulars at Whit’s End, was wailing away at the Zappazoids machine, kicking and pounding it with his fists for all he was worth. Whit bounded over to him, followed closely by Eugene. Blackgaard brought up the rear.
“Nathan!” Whit barked. “Stop that!” He grabbed the boy’s arm.
Nathan ceased flailing and jerked his head up at Whit, his face still flushed with anger. “Oh, hi, Mr. Whittaker,” he growled.
Whit let go of the boy’s arm. “What are you doing?”
“This dumb machine made me lose!” He kicked it again.
Whit pulled the boy away from the game. “That’s no reason to kick it! It’s not your property!”
“Oh, that’s all right!” Blackgaard almost sang. “He’s just venting his feelings, that’s all. You go right ahead and kick it, Nathan.”
The boy scowled at the machine, glanced at Whit’s stern face, and replied, “Uh—no thanks. I’ll play with somethin’ else.” He turned and ran off.
“As you wish!” Blackgaard called after him. He turned back to Whit and Eugene with a superior look. “You see, Mr. Whittaker, he feels good about himself because he just had a very healthy release of emotion.”
Eugene eyed the scuff marks on the front panel of the Zappazoids game. “His ‘healthy release of emotion’ damaged the front of your machine.”
Whit scowled. “Don’t you teach respect for other people’s property here, Dr. Blackgaard?”
“Yes, but not at the expense of self-esteem,” Blackgaard said patiently, as though he were explaining things to a child. “If he’d broken it, Richard would’ve fixed it. That’s why I hired him. I designed this place for children’s enjoyment, Mr. Whittaker. Pure, uninhibited fun is what we teach here.”
Whit pointed across the room. “Like Madam Ouga’s Astrological Forecaster?”
Blackgaard blinked. “Oh, I take it you don’t approve of that either?”
“Do you really think it’s wise to present the occult as a plaything?” Whit said scornfully.
“The occult?!” Blackgaard chortled. “Oh, come now! Aren’t you overreacting just a bit? You know as well as I do that the so-called ‘fortunes’ Madam Ouga spits out are made up by a writer in a warehouse somewhere. It’s just a harmless little machine—”
And right then, another ruckus flared up, directly in front of Madam Ouga. Nathan and Jeremy, another former regular at Whit’s End, were in a shouting match that was quickly progressing to a shoving match.
“Hey, I’m still having my fortune told!”
“Get outta here! You’ve been hogging it ever since we came in!”
Whit glared at Blackgaard. “Harmless, huh?” He and Eugene rushed toward the boys.
“There’s no cause for concern . . .” Blackgaard cooed and slowly followed them.
The two combatants were now entangled on the floor, while a small crowd around them chanted, “Fight! Fight! Fight!”
Whit and Eugene waded into the thick of it. Eugene wrestled with Jeremy. “Cease and desist at once!”
And Whit collared Nathan. “C’mon, you two! Break it up! Break . . . it . . . up!”
The boys finally stopped struggling and the crowd quieted down just as Blackgaard approached, looking as though he were on a nice springtime stroll. “All right, now,” he purred, “what seems to be the problem?”
Both boys started in again, talking over each other.
“I was trying to get my fortune told—”
“He’s been hogging it all afternoon—”
“He shoved me outta the way!”
They lunged for each other, and Whit and Eugene pulled them apart again.
“That’s enough!” Whit snapped. “Stop it!” He glowered at both boys and they slunk back.
“You two know you shouldn’t be fighting!” Eugene scolded. “You don’t fight at Whit’s End!”
“This isn’t Whit’s End!” Jeremy sneered.
“Yeah!” Nathan snorted. “All you got there is the Train Room and the Bible Room . . .” There was an uncomfortable pause. Nathan lowered his eyes. “I’m sorry, Mr. Whittaker. I—I didn’t mean it that way.”
No one said anything for a long moment. Then Blackgaard chimed in. “Well, it’s all over—no harm done! But it appears we’ve lost our happy mood. That won’t do at all!” He raised his head and called out, “Free ice cream for everyone!”
The kids cheered and raced to the counter. Nathan and Jeremy wrenched themselves free from Whit and Eugene and joined the mob there, where a middle-aged, unshaven, harried-looking soda jerk in a stained white shirt, sweaty paper hat, and spotty apron grimaced and then began dishing out scoops of ice cream for everyone.
Blackgaard smiled. “That’s how to break up a fight, eh, Mr. Whittaker? Would you both care to join us?”
“No, thank you,” Whit growled quietly. “We really must be going.”
“So soon?” Blackgaard said with mock sincerity. “Well, it was a genuine pleasure having you here. I do hope you’ll come again—and next time, Eustace, bring Connie with you.”
“It’s Eugene, and, uh, we’ll try.”
“Good. I trust you can let yourselves out? I have some business to attend to.” Blackgaard nodded to them. “Gentlemen . . .” He glided away from them.
They turned and headed toward the front doors. Neither spoke. At the exit, Whit stopped, cast a sad look back at the room, sighed heavily, and shook his head. Eugene eyed him apprehensively. “I wouldn’t be concerned about what those boys said, Mr. Whittaker.”
Whit glanced at him. “Hm? Oh, I’m not, Eugene. I expect them to act that way—and worse—in a place like this. No, what really concerns me is Lucy.”
&nb
sp; Eugene nodded. “Indeed. Her infatuation with Richard Maxwell is definitely cause for alarm. Oh, allow me to get the door for you.” He opened it, they stepped outside, and the door slowly swung shut, muting the mind-numbing chaos inside. Eugene lowered his own volume accordingly. “I’ve tried to speak to her about it—tell her what Richard did to Nicholas Adamsworth at the college—but whenever I’ve had the opportunity, I can’t seem to find the words.”
“I’ve been meaning to talk to her myself. I still haven’t found out why she deceived Connie and me—although now I suspect Maxwell had something to do with it,” he said thoughtfully. After a second, he shook away his concerned expression. “Well, I, for one, am certainly glad to be out of that madhouse!” He jerked his head toward the doors.
“Agreed!” Eugene responded enthusiastically. “I never thought I’d prefer the sound of traffic to the din of children.”
Whit looked up at the blue sky and took a deep breath. “It’s such a nice day! Hey, instead of taking the bus, let’s walk back to Whit’s End!”
Eugene’s eyes widened. “Are you sure, Mr. Whittaker? It is quite a distance for a man of your—”
“Careful.”
“—social position.”
Whit chuckled. “Eugene, just do your best to keep up!”
Chapter Three
“Okay, the coast is clear!”
Richard Maxwell peered out from behind the photo booth in Blackgaard’s Castle. The front doors had just closed behind Whittaker and Eugene, and Blackgaard had headed off across the main room. Maxwell drew back the curtain, and Lucy emerged from the booth, looking very guilty. “I feel bad about hiding from them that way,” she said.
Maxwell chuckled and waved off her concern. “It’s no biggie. Besides if we hadn’t, you wouldn’t have gotten all these great pictures!” He handed her a strip of four photos of her in various goofy poses.
She giggled. “It was fun.”
He gave her a smile, but it faded quickly when she directed her gaze toward the pictures. He didn’t want to face Whittaker, either.
As Blackgaard had told Eugene, Maxwell had also kept himself quite busy in the months since his involvement with the Riley barn burning. He had used his computer skills to set up a network around Blackgaard’s Castle, and as Eugene noticed, to computerize all of the games and attractions. It was a massive effort; one that Maxwell threw himself into, mainly to distract himself from what had happened at the barn.
When his guilt about his actions seeped in, he eased it by reminding himself that the barn burning accomplished the goal of keeping Riley from the vote, which pleased Blackgaard. And, anyway, burning down the barn hadn’t been intentional.
When his guilt about his cowardice in not helping Riley or the horses persisted and pressed in on him, he chased it away by muttering forcefully, “No one got seriously hurt!” He then plunged into writing a particularly complex piece of programming code. And when even that didn’t work, he forced his mind to repeat, almost mantra-like, that he had to do what he did to shield Connie from being corrupted by Blackgaard. He had convinced himself that Blackgaard was lying when he said he didn’t want to hire Connie. Well, now she was back at Whit’s End, thanks to him, and Blackgaard couldn’t touch her. Mission accomplished; he had protected her.
And he would have to protect Lucy as well. She had been at Blackgaard’s Castle every day since the grand opening, and even quite a bit before it, under the pretense that she was thinking about becoming a reporter for her school newspaper and wanted to break in by writing articles about Odyssey’s newest entertainment attraction for kids.
Maxwell knew, though, that all of that was just an excuse for her to hang around with him. He didn’t mind; he liked the adulation. She reminded him of his sister during their better times, and her attentions also helped to distract him from his nagging conscience—at least for a little while.
The problem was, since Maxwell’s success in getting her to distract Whittaker from the town council vote, Blackgaard had been pressuring him to use her crush on him to get information about Whittaker and everything going on at Whit’s End, including the Applesauce program. Maxwell had gathered a bit of information about it from her, but he knew it wouldn’t be enough to satisfy his boss, and it would just be a matter of time before Blackgaard would start dealing with Lucy directly.
They headed to the soda counter. The rush of kids wanting free ice cream had thinned out. Maxwell helped Lucy onto an empty stool at the far end of the counter and then hopped on one next to her. He signaled to the soda jerk and called out, “Hey, Joe! Set up a round of sodas!” and pointed to the counter in front of them.
Joe scowled and grunted.
“I really shouldn’t, Richard,” Lucy said, looking guilty again. “I’ve already had two.”
He again waved off her concern. “Ah, live it up! It’s on the house!”
Lucy grinned. “Well . . . all right.”
Joe set down their sodas, grunted again, and went back to the other end of the counter.
Lucy sipped her soda, while Maxwell took a large swig from his glass. “Ahhh!” Time to press a little. “So I take it from the way you hid from Mr. Whittaker and Eugene that you haven’t been back to Whit’s End lately.”
She swallowed her sip and looked at the counter. “No, I have, a little. It’s kind of uncomfortable now that Connie is back.”
He nodded sympathetically. “I understand . . . it’s just that . . .”
She glanced up at him. “What?”
He swiveled his stool so he could lean forward on his elbows. “Well . . . I was wondering if you’d made any progress on our little information-gathering project.” He lifted his cup and took another swig.
Now she turned and faced the counter. “Oh . . . that.” She took a deep breath.
He turned back to her. “Did you find out more about Applesauce—or anything?”
She shook her head. “No, not really. It’s kind of difficult to bring up. And besides, I have a funny feeling about doing that—like I’m spying or something. I—I just don’t feel right about it.”
He touched her arm gently. “You’re so considerate! Listen, you’re not doing anything wrong. All you’re doing is asking about stuff. No harm in that.” He smiled at her. “You said you wanted to be a reporter; isn’t that what a reporter does—gather information?”
Her face flushed at his touch and smile. “Well, yeah, but . . . I—I don’t know.”
“You’d be doing me a big favor. Will you at least try?” Press a little harder. “You don’t want me to get fired, do ya?”
She looked at him, alarmed. “Fired? No! But I—I just . . . need to think about it . . . okay?”
He nodded. It’s no good. She’s not giving in. He admired her for it. She was stronger than she looked—stronger than he was.
Fortunately, he had another ace up his sleeve, one he had just completed that morning. It would let him keep control of the situation, and both protect Lucy and give Blackgaard what he wanted. He glanced up. Speak of the devil.
His boss was headed directly for them. “Richard,” he called as he approached. “You—oh, hello, Lucy.”
“Hi, Dr. Blackgaard.”
Blackgaard eyed the empty glasses on the counter and a raised an eyebrow. “I see you’re enjoying another soda.”
Maxwell stood uncomfortably. “Yeah, uh, listen, Lucy, I really need to talk to the doctor.”
She nodded. “I have to go anyway.”
He helped her off her stool and put a hand on her shoulder. “Think about what I said, okay?”
She glanced at Blackgaard. “Yeah . . . I will.” She turned and headed for the front doors.
“Good-bye, Lucy,” Blackgaard called after her.
She looked back and waved. “’Bye.”
Maxwell returned her wave as she exited through the doors.
Blackgaard immediately pointed his finger at Maxwell and growled forcefully, “You. Office. Now!”
Chapt
er Four
Maxwell followed Blackgaard through the raucous main room to the door marked “Private.” Blackgaard pulled the door open, impatiently gestured for Maxwell to step inside, and then closed the door behind them. The noise level dropped considerably. Blackgaard preceded Maxwell down the metal stairs. As they went, both their steps and voices echoed off the bare walls.
“I take it you two had a nice talk?” Blackgaard said.
“Yeah, we did.”
“What did you find out?”
“You mean about Applesauce?”
Blackgaard reached the bottom of the staircase and whirled on Maxwell. “No, I mean about the price of soda syrup,” he sneered. “Of course I mean about Applesauce!” He turned and navigated his way around stacks of boxes down the dank hallway. “What did she tell you?”
Maxwell hopped down the remaining steps and scurried to catch up. “Well, she said she heard some of the kids talkin’ about how the gadgets in Whittaker’s place went nuts and shut down a couple of months ago.”
“Go on.”
“She said they heard it shut down because of a program run by a big computer hidden somewhere in Whittaker’s office . . . and that the program runs everything at Whit’s End.”
“And?”
“And . . . Whittaker really wants it kept secret.”
They stopped outside the office door and Blackgaard glared at him. “Is that all?”
Maxwell held up his hands. “Don’tcha get it? If Whittaker wants the program kept secret that badly, then he must be tryin’ to hide somethin’ really big!”
Blackgaard grimaced. “Of course he’s trying to hide something really big, you dolt! He’s trying to hide Applesauce! We’ve known that for weeks!”
Inwardly, Maxwell was roaring with laughter. I love yanking your chain, you pompous windbag. He looked at Blackgaard defensively. “We didn’t know it; we just thought it. Now, we’re sure.”
“That’s all you have for me?”
Maxwell shrugged. “Well, Lucy’s gonna check around some more . . .”
