by Phil Lollar
Eugene nodded. “Agreed. But I sincerely hope you don’t close down Whit’s End.”
“So where do we stand?”
“Well, as I said earlier, all of the machines check out perfectly.”
Whit shook his head. “We’re obviously missing something . . . I just wish I knew what it was.”
Eugene scratched his nose, smudging his glasses in the process. He took them off and cleaned them with his shirt. “I’ve been giving it some thought, Mr. Whittaker, and I believe there is a rather simple fact that we haven’t yet considered.”
Whit blinked. “Oh? What is it, Eugene?”
“It’s probably unimportant,” he replied, replacing his glasses, “but Mabel, your computer, was designed to keep a log of the activity on all the displays and attractions at Whit’s End, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Does that include Applesauce?”
Whit stroked his chin, and his eyebrows rose. “Hmm . . . I see what you’re getting at, Eugene, and it’s a good thought! A hacker! You think someone broke into it from the outside!”
“It is possible, isn’t it?”
Whit nodded. “Very possible! C’mon!” They hopped off their stools and headed for the stairs.
Chapter Eleven
A few minutes and several keystrokes later, Whit confirmed Eugene’s hypothesis. They stood at Mabel’s keyboard in the computer room. The familiar hum of the machines filled the space. “You were absolutely right, Eugene!” He pointed to Mabel’s screen. “See, these are all the times I’ve accessed Applesauce . . . and here are yours and Connie’s run-ins with the program. Aside from those, someone else has broken into Applesauce on two separate occasions! First-rate thinking, Eugene! Well done!”
Eugene blushed. “Thank you.”
“Now all we have to do is figure out who has been doing it—something the program doesn’t tell us, unfortunately.”
Eugene cleared his throat. “I believe the ‘who’ would be easier to figure out if I knew the ‘why.’”
Whit frowned. “I don’t follow you.”
“Well, breaking into level one of Applesauce seems hardly worth the risk of getting caught,” Eugene explained. “The hacker must be after something more . . . say . . . level two?”
Whit thought for a moment, and then took a deep breath and nodded. “I’m sure you’re right again, Eugene. And again, first-rate thinking.” Eugene’s blush returned. Whit went on. “It’s also time I told you about level two.”
“If you think it wise, sir,” Eugene said seriously.
“I do. Let’s have a seat out in the office.”
They exited the computer room, and Whit closed and locked the bookcase door. As he walked to the chair behind his desk, he pointed to a chair in front of the desk, and Eugene sat in it. Whit sat and leaned on his elbows, rubbing his hands together. “Well, to start off, you know that Whit’s End is not the only business I own.”
Eugene nodded. “Yes, sir—you are also the chairman of the board and chief stockholder of the Universal Press Foundation, an encyclopedia publisher, whose subsidiaries include—”
“We don’t need to go into all that,” Whit cut in. “Anyway, several years ago, Universal Press was approached by members of our government to create a computer program that would aid in national security and defense. Because of my inventing background, I was deeply involved in the development of the program.”
Eugene’s jaw dropped. “Applesauce?”
“Yes.”
“So that’s why you didn’t want us to know anything about it!”
“Yes.”
“And why you fired us when we started it up!”
Whit shook his head. “No, I fired you because you disobeyed me—something I consider to be just as serious as knowing about Applesauce.”
Eugene looked subdued. “Oh, uh, yes, of course . . .”
Whit continued. “Well, to make a long story short, it’s a very powerful program with capabilities beyond anything we’ve ever developed. And up to now it has been top secret. Obviously, someone knows about it who isn’t supposed to.”
Eugene looked puzzled. “Then . . . why are you telling me?”
Whit leaned back in his chair. “One reason. Because if anything happens to me, I want you to destroy Applesauce.”
Eugene bolted up. “Happens to you? Do you really think things have gotten that serious?”
Whit shrugged. “Whoever has broken in has already shut this place down, drained power from the Imagination Station, and put Lucy in the hospital . . . What do you think?”
Eugene sank down into his chair. “Point well taken,” he said nervously. “Perhaps we should call the authorities?”
Whit shook his head. “Not quite yet. I want to know who we are dealing with first.”
Eugene leaned back and looked at the ceiling. “It’s obviously someone who has very little regard for the law . . .”
“Yes, and who also has a great deal of computer knowledge.”
There was a pause, and then they looked at each other and said together: “Richard Maxwell.”
Eugene sat up and nodded slowly. “He certainly has the ability, but I still question his motive. Why would Richard want Applesauce?”
Whit’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe he doesn’t.”
“Then who?” Eugene asked quizzically.
“How about the guy he works for?”
Eugene’s jaw dropped. “Dr. Blackgaard? Of course! He said Richard set up his entire network—he could have easily used that equipment to access Applesauce!”
Whit leaned forward. “I think Blackgaard has had him doing a lot more than hacking into my computer.”
Eugene’s eyes widened. “Such as?”
Whit put his elbows on the desk and folded his hands again. “First, he may be influencing Lucy at his boss’s behest. After the place shut down yesterday, Connie mentioned that Lucy came by and wanted to see me, but she left because Connie said she was concerned about Lucy spending so much time with—”
“Richard Maxwell,” they said together again.
Eugene shook his head. “He certainly is getting around!”
Whit nodded. “There’s more to consider. We’ve established a connection between Maxwell and Blackgaard, but there is also a connection between Blackgaard . . . and Philip Glossman.”
Eugene’s brow furrowed. “I’m not following.”
“Glossman has been championing Blackgaard’s getting a business license ever since Blackgaard came to town,” Whit explained. “And both Tom and I were distracted away from the council meeting where the vote to grant him the license took place. I was distracted by my meeting with Connie—a meeting that Lucy set up.”
Eugene’s hand rose to his mouth. “Oh, my . . . but Mr. Riley was kept from the meeting by something much more serious—his barn burning! Surely you don’t think Richard had anything to do with that?”
“The police did find a kerosene can and a burned shirt behind the barn.” Whit frowned. “I don’t want to believe Richard had anything to do with it, but we have to consider all possibilities.”
“Indeed,” Eugene said gravely.
They sat in silence for a few moments, and then Whit chuckled softly. “Actually, Richard probably wasn’t involved with the barn fire—with that cheap, awful cologne he seems to bathe in, we would have smelled him a mile away.”
Eugene jumped out of his chair. “Cologne!” he shouted. “Eureka!”
Whit lurched back. “Easy, Eugene!”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Whittaker,” Eugene said excitedly. “But I believe I have another connection between Richard and Glossman!”
“Explain.”
Eugene took a deep breath and began to pace around the office. “After you fired me, I sought employment at Mansfield’s Computers. While I was there, I ran into none other than Philip Glossman. Or should I say he ran into me—quite literally, in fact. He questioned me about my work here, and then he suggested that I apply for the job in t
he computer department at Campbell County Community College!”
Whit looked confused. “I’m not seeing the connection yet.”
Eugene held up a finger. “I noticed Councilman Glossman was wearing a very strong cologne—the same cologne that Maxwell wore when he visited Nicholas Adamsworth in the computer department! Until you mentioned Maxwell, Glossman, and the cologne in the same context, I couldn’t put it together! It has been driving me batty!”
Whit cocked his head. “They could just like the same cologne—though I don’t know why anyone would like it. But that brings up another possible connection as well.”
“Which is?”
“Didn’t Mansfield’s Computers used to occupy the location where Blackgaard’s Castle is now?”
Eugene threw his hands in the air. “To employ the colloquialism, ‘Good Grief!’ Just how tangled is this web?”
Whit shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said seriously. “And it’s all circumstantial—we still have no actual proof of any of this—or at least most of it. But it does strengthen the possibility that Maxwell, Glossman, and Blackgaard may be in league together.”
“And their goal . . . is Applesauce,” Eugene added ominously.
The phone rang, and Whit answered it. “Whit’s End . . . Yes . . . She is? Wonderful! We’ll be right down!” He hung up the receiver and smiled broadly. “That was Connie! Lucy’s awake, and she says she wants to talk to me. C’mon, help me close up!”
“Yes, sir!”
Chapter Twelve
Lucy sat up in her hospital bed and nibbled at some toast and tapioca pudding. Her body could best be described as one gigantic ache, but all of that pain was nothing when compared with what she felt on the inside. In fact, she would have gladly taken on even more physical pain if it meant ridding herself of the emotional and mental anguish she had brought on herself.
She dropped the toast back on the plate, then pushed the tray table away. Food tasted terrible, and she had the feeling it wasn’t just because it was hospital food.
There was a gentle knock on the door, and she called meekly, “Come in.”
It opened, and Connie poked her head inside. “Lucy?”
Despite the pain it caused her, she sat up straighter. “Connie!”
Connie came into the room and the door automatically closed silently behind her. She crossed the floor to Lucy’s bedside. “The doctor said you were awake and that I could come in.”
Lucy shook her head, and it felt as if it would fall off. “I have to talk to Mr. Whittaker!” she interrupted. “I have to tell him something very important—”
Connie put her hands on Lucy’s shoulders and eased her back. “Now, calm down, calm down . . . Your parents told me, and I’ve already called him. He’s on his way.”
Lucy let herself relax. “Oh, good.”
Connie removed her hands. There was an awkward pause. Finally, Connie asked, “So . . . how do you feel?” She immediately rolled her eyes and muttered, “Dumb question.”
Lucy shook her head slightly this time, which felt like someone hitting her with a very stiff pillow. “No, it’s not. I’m okay . . . Everything aches, though—outside and inside.”
Connie nodded sympathetically.
There was another pause, and Lucy thought the silence was more painful than anything. When she couldn’t bear it anymore, she burst out, “Oh, Connie! I’ve really messed things up!”
“Lucy . . .”
“I just got tired of being Little Miss Perfect and Lucy-Who-Never-Does-Anything-Wrong! I wanted to be different and try new things and be daring, and all I did was cause problems! . . . And then I was so mean to you . . . and I lied to you and Mr. Whittaker . . .” She felt tears welling up, and that hurt too. “I’m sorry, Connie. I’m so sorry . . .” And then the tears came, streaming down her cheeks.
Connie brushed back Lucy’s hair and whispered, “Shhh. It’s all right, Lucy.”
“I’ve made this a rotten summer for everybody!” Lucy cried. “I got just what I deserved.” With great effort, she raised her hands to her face and wept.
Connie moved to her side and hugged her gently. “Shhh . . . hush now.” But she let Lucy lean against her and cry it out.
Strangely, or perhaps not, each tear that fell made Lucy feel less and less pain. After several minutes, she lapsed into sniffles.
Connie eased her back onto her pillow and faced her. “Listen, Lucy, I don’t know about you deserving to be in a hospital bed. But I do know that no one expects you to be Little Miss Perfect.” She took Lucy’s hands in hers. “You’re gonna make mistakes, Lucy—you’re gonna stumble and fall. We all do. You are human, you know.”
Lucy sniffed. “Well, if I didn’t think so before, I sure do now.”
Connie chuckled, and Lucy broke into a soppy giggle.
“Besides,” Connie continued, “I owe you an apology, too. I should’ve been gentler . . . more understanding . . . I guess I—I just feel . . . well, protective of you, that’s all. You mean a lot to me, and I don’t want to see you hurt . . . And I’ve got all the tact of a bulldozer.” She squeezed Lucy’s hands. “I’m sorry, Lucy.”
The younger girl smiled—which also hurt. “I accept your apology, but you were right—about Richard and everything. It all seemed so simple when it started out, but now that I look back on it, it was so wrong. I don’t know what I was thinking. That’s a strange feeling . . .”
Connie nodded. “It’s called growing up.”
“Yeah, well, that’s why I want to talk to Mr. Whittaker,” she said urgently. “I need to tell him about everything—especially about Richard Maxwell—”
A familiar voice said, “Somebody mention my name?”
Connie and Lucy both started and looked at the door. Maxwell stood in the doorway, smiling complacently.
Lucy gasped. “Richard!”
He came in and moved to the opposite side of the bed from Connie. “Hiya, kiddo.” His expression changed to concern and his tone softened. “So, how ya doin’?”
Connie still held one of Lucy’s hands. “She was doing just fine until a few seconds ago.”
Maxwell scowled at her. “I was askin’ Lucy, if ya didn’t notice.”
“I’m fine, Richard,” Lucy replied curtly.
“Kinda banged up, huh?”
Lucy nodded. “Yeah.”
“That’s what usually happens when a machine blows up in your face,” Connie huffed.
Maxwell gave her a sneer. “Thanks for the update—if I need any more info, I’ll let you know.” He turned back to Lucy and said gently, “Did the doctor say how long you’ll be here?”
“Long enough to get well, obviously,” Connie spat out.
He turned to her and snapped, “Connie, I came to talk to Lucy—do ya mind?!”
“Yeah, well, I don’t think you should’ve come at all, Richard,” she snapped right back.
Maxwell scoffed, “What are you—her guard dog? Lucy, you wanna tell the Gestapo here to get off my back so we can have a conversation—in private?”
Connie opened her mouth to retort, but Lucy squeezed her hand, stopping her. “It’s all right, Connie.”
Connie glared at Maxwell and then said to Lucy, “Are you sure?”
Lucy nodded. “Yes, I’m sure.”
Connie scowled at Maxwell. “Well, okay. But I’ll be right outside if you need me—”
He cut in rudely. “Yeah, yeah, she knows, she knows, good-bye!”
Connie glared at him. Then Lucy tugged her hand and nodded reassuringly. Connie squeezed Lucy’s hand, let it go, and headed for the door. She pulled it open, gave Lucy one last smile and Maxwell one last glare, and then left the room. Maxwell shook his head and looked back at Lucy.
She glanced up at him and then stared straight ahead, crossing her arms defensively, which sent a jolt of pain all the way up to her shoulders. She winced. “Okay,” she said as flatly as she could, “we’re alone. What did you want to talk about?”
; Maxwell pulled a chair close, sat, and took a deep breath. “Well, uh, I read about the accident in the paper . . . and I just wanted to stop by and . . . well, uh, tell you how sorry I am—that you’re in the hospital, I mean.”
Lucy, still staring straight ahead, grunted, “Mm . . . is that all?”
Maxwell opened and closed his mouth a few times, then exhaled. “Uh . . . yeah . . . um . . . I guess that’s it.”
There was a long, awkward pause. Finally, Lucy said quietly, “I know, Richard.”
Maxwell swallowed hard and tried to smile. “Uh . . . know? Know what?”
At last, Lucy looked up at him, her eyes piercing. “About Applesauce . . . about how you’re trying to steal it from Mr. Whittaker . . . and how you tried to get information out of me.”
Maxwell’s head drooped. “How’d you find out?” he asked.
“I was in the hallway when you were talking to Dr. Blackgaard before the Imagination Station blew up. Oh, by the way, did you do that, too?” she asked sarcastically.
“I tried to stop him,” he mumbled. “I didn’t want to hurt anybody—especially you.”
Maxwell looked genuinely anguished—so much so that Lucy almost softened. She uncrossed her arms, and then steeled herself. No—it’s all just an act! “You used me, Richard,” she said. “Everything you said to me was a lie.”
His face contorted with sorrow. “Not everything,” he whispered.
She would not cry in front of him! She would not! She inhaled sharply and clenched her teeth. “Yes—everything.” She looked away from him.
“Lucy.” Maxwell sank to his knees beside the bed and clasped his hands together. “L-look, I know . . . I . . . lied. But I’m gonna make it up to you—to everyone! That’s what I came to tell you—”
She cut in. “You don’t have to tell me anything, Richard,” she said coldly. “You can tell Mr. Whittaker.”
Maxwell’s sorrow turned to alarm. “Whittaker?”
“Yes. He’s going to be here in a few minutes.”
Maxwell sighed heavily and muttered, “Oh, great.”
