Rook's Ruse

by Phil Lollar

  Connie turned timid. “Well, yes . . . but the question is . . . will she have anything to hop around to?”

  Whit’s brow furrowed. “I don’t get your meaning.”

  “In other words, Mr. Whittaker,” Eugene jumped in as Connie shot him an irritated glance, “have you reached a decision about reopening Whit’s End?”

  Whit looked from face to face. The two of them stared back at him so anxiously he could almost hear their hearts pounding. He turned and placed The Last Battle back in its spot on the shelf. “Well, I’ve given it a lot of thought, and I just don’t see how I can . . .”

  He heard both of them deflate.

  Connie muttered a subdued, “Oh.”

  He turned to face them. “. . . in anything less than a week, that is. I mean, we have to restock everything, and we’re definitely gonna need some new wiring, and—”

  He grinned and their faces got brighter and brighter; their smiles broader and broader, and finally, Connie lunged at him and wrapped her arms around his neck. He hugged her with one arm, while Eugene also rushed forward and pumped Whit’s other arm in a hearty handshake. Whit laughed affectionately.

  When Connie finally stepped back and Eugene released his grip, Whit put both hands on his hips and said, “Well, what are you both standing around for? We have work to do!”

  Connie whooped. “We sure do! C’mon, Eugene!”

  “Indeed!” Eugene exclaimed. “Right behind you, Miss Kendall!”

  They bolted from the office, and Whit called after them, “I’ll join you in just a minute!” He eased the door nearly shut, went back around to his desk, knelt down and prayed, “Heavenly Father, thank You for seeing us through the past few months, and for protecting us during them. Thank You for Lucy getting better. Help us to trust You more. And please help things to get back to normal around here—”

  Through the crack in the office door, he heard his employees’ voices rise: “All right, Eugene, why don’t you handle the downstairs and I’ll start up here—”

  “Actually, Miss Kendall, I think it would be much better if you handled the kitchen and the counter downstairs, while I work up here—”

  “Now, wait a minute! Why do we always have to do things your way?”

  “Because my way is the better way . . .”

  They continued, and Whit chuckled. “You are good, Lord . . . thank You.” Then more seriously, “And help us face what lies ahead, in Jesus’ name, amen.”

  He rose, took a deep breath, smiled, and then headed out of the office to join his squabbling, often exasperating, and always dear, dear friends.

  “Thank You for Lucy getting better. Help us to trust You more. And please help things to get back to normal around here—”

  Outside Whit’s End, two figures—a man and a woman—sat in a dark car with tinted windows, listening to Whit pray over a small speaker. “He really believes, doesn’t he?” said the man. He spoke with a Scottish accent.

  “Yes,” replied the woman. “He really does.”

  “And help us to face what lies ahead in Jesus’ name, amen.”

  “‘What lies ahead . . .’” The man raised an eyebrow. “Curious choice of words to end a prayer. Think he knows something?”

  The woman shrugged. “He is John Avery Whittaker. You know how the Whittakers can be.”

  The man chuckled softly. “Aye . . . I do.”

  They heard Whit get up, leave the office, and mitigate the disagreement between his employees. The woman turned down the speaker. “Bug’s working beautifully—if illegally.”

  “We have special authorization, thanks to Applesauce,” the man replied. “And it’s a good thing you planted it when you did, considering what we just heard Whittaker do.”

  “True.” The woman sighed. “I had a feeling he would want to destroy the program—especially after the little girl got hurt.” She mused for a moment, then added wistfully, “Whit is a man of . . . special conscience.” She held up a portable hard drive. “But I can’t allow him to destroy our work.”

  “Mm,” the man grunted in agreement. “At least, not when the security of the world is at stake.” He tapped the hard drive. “You certain you got the whole Applesauce program?”

  The woman nodded. “It’s all here—trust me.”

  “You know the general will want a copy of it for use at the Department of Defense.”

  “I’ll see to it that the general gets what he thinks he needs.” The woman smiled.

  “Some of the funding for this came from their budget, too, lass,” the man said reprovingly.

  “And they’ll get what they paid for,” said the woman. “As for the rest, it’s not their concern. Besides, it needs more development.”

  He shook a finger at her. “Just be careful.”

  She looked at him scornfully. “What is it you always say? ‘You know the risks’?” She laid a hand on his arm and smiled. “I’ll be careful, Donovan. I promise.”

  The car phone rang. She put it on speaker. “Twenty-three-sixty-two.”

  A warm voice came from the speaker. “Hi, Tasha.”

  “Jason!” she said with delight. “Headman and I were just talking about you . . .”

  Preview of Book Five

  It was late. The streets were deserted, which wasn’t unusual for that part of Odyssey at that time of day, especially after what had happened there last week. A car pulled into the parking lot of what ten days ago had been a thriving business and the newest entertainment attraction in town but was now the burned-out shell of a building.

  The car rolled across the lot and parked on the far side of the ruins, out of view of the street. Its occupant, a stocky, neatly dressed man with thick, longish white hair, large round glasses, and a rather bushy white mustache, shut off the engine and lights, exited the car, and headed toward the scorched building, moving with a slight limp.

  John Avery Whittaker thought about recent events as he walked toward what used to be Blackgaard’s Castle. Richard Maxwell, the young man who had caused the fire that destroyed it, was under arrest and locked up in jail. He had nearly died in the fire thanks to his boss, the owner and the place’s namesake, Dr. Regis Blackgaard, who caused Maxwell to be pinned under an arcade video game.

  According to Maxwell, Blackgaard and his cat then disappeared into the burning building. That’s the reason Whittaker was there—well, one of the reasons. He needed answers to a good many questions.

  He strode up to where the front doors of Blackgaard’s Castle used to be and walked into the smoky wreckage. Though the walls were still in pretty good condition, the ceiling was a total loss, as were all of the games and machines inside. Their blackened shells stood like tombstones, silent monuments to better days, even if they’d been brief.

  Whit clambered over heaps of ceiling debris and around the charred wreckage of the games, and finally reached his destination on this floor: a door marked Private. It, too, was seared, and the sign now read Pri . . te. Whit tugged on the door, and it opened rather easily. He pulled a flashlight from his pocket, slipped inside the door, and descended a staircase.

  The flames had not come down here, though there was still a strong smell of smoke and dankness from the firefighters’ water, which had trickled down the stairs and onto the floor of the corridor that stretched before him.

  Both the police and fire departments had searched down here, but no trace of Blackgaard or his cat had been found in the hallway or in any of the rooms—even in the office. They assumed he had gotten out a different way upstairs, but Whit suspected otherwise. Lucy had told him about her encounter down here, and her discovery of the oddity in the wall.

  Boxes stacked on both sides of the hall formed a kind of maze. He maneuvered around them, checking them as he went; most were completely empty. Then about halfway down the corridor, he came to a stack that wasn’t empty. He pushed it over. The top box split open and out spilled an odd assortment of old newspapers and magazines. A quick check of the other boxes in the sta
ck showed they contained the same. There was nothing valuable about them; they were full so they could not be easily moved, and stacked to hide what was behind them.

  Sure enough, when he examined the wall behind the stack, he confirmed Lucy’s discovery: the outline of a door. It was very faint; one would have to either really look for it or run one’s fingers over it, as Lucy had, to find it. But moving the boxes revealed more: The door and a bit of the wall around it had been recently plastered. The boxes, combined with the dim lighting in the hallway, concealed this very well. By design, no doubt, Whit thought.

  He examined the door. It had no knob or handle. Whit pushed it, but it wouldn’t budge. He traced the outline of the door with his light and finally found what he was looking for: At the bottom left of the door near the floor, a small screw protruded from the wall, again easily concealed by the boxes. Whit tried toggling it in all directions; it wouldn’t move. He pulled on it; again, nothing. He then pressed it into the wall and was rewarded with a metallic click. He pushed on the door again, and this time it opened easily.

  Whit stepped through the doorway and shined his flashlight around the space inside. It hadn’t really been affected or touched by the fire above it. The room was filled with lab tables and accoutrements, mainly of a chemical nature—beakers and tubes and burners. Some were broken, but most hadn’t been touched; indeed, much of the equipment was still in boxes.

  Curiously, though, the company names on all of the boxes and equipment had been either scratched off or marked over. Blackgaard apparently didn’t want anyone to know where they came from, and he also apparently didn’t want his staff to know this room even existed, since Maxwell had said nothing about it when he was being questioned. The room looked as if it hadn’t been used much, but was being prepared for use, and from the looks of things, massive use.

  Whit shone his flashlight around the area. Nothing stood out, except for one small box sitting on a table. He could make out some of the letters of the company name on it: “. . . ebit..”

  Strange. He pulled out a notepad and pen and copied down the letters as they appeared, spaces and all.

  Whit made a perimeter search of the room but found very little until he came to a spot almost directly opposite the entrance door. That’s when he felt a draft by his foot. At first he thought it came from the corridor, but when he headed that way, the draft disappeared. He shone light at the wall. It appeared normal, but then so had the wall in the corridor. He bent down and put his hand next to the floor. The draft was definitely coming from behind the wall.

  He rose and pushed on it. It didn’t move. He looked along the base for another screw, found one, and pushed on it.

  Click!

  This time, the door bumped inward. Whit pulled it open to reveal a large tunnel extending into the darkness. “So that’s how he and the cat got out,” he muttered. He pointed his light down the length of the shaft but couldn’t see beyond a few yards. He took a few steps inside and heard a crinkle beneath his foot. He shined the light down; he was stepping on some folded papers. He picked them up, tucked the flashlight under one arm, and unfolded them. One appeared to be the blueprints of Blackgaard’s Castle before it was Blackgaard’s Castle. But when he examined the second one, his eyes widened, a chill went up his spine, and he nearly dropped the flashlight.

  It was very old, had been laminated—no doubt to protect it—and bore the title “Odyssey Passageways” printed across the top in ornate lettering. It was a map of a network of interwoven tunnels connecting various spots around town. Two of those spots were Gower’s Landing, which had become Blackgaard’s Castle, and the Fillmore Recreation Center, which had become his own place, Whit’s End. But that wasn’t the cause of his reaction.

  He had seen this map before.

  At Whit’s End.

  He had found it stuffed between two wall studs when he tore out the plaster and lath while renovating the space that had become the Bible Room. He had sent it to one of his oldest friends who collected and studied antiques.

  Jack Allen.

  Whit tucked the map in his jacket and bolted back through the lab space, into the corridor, up the stairs, out the remains of the arcade, and toward his car.

  He hadn’t talked to Jack in more than five years, before he bought the Fillmore Recreation Center. In fact, the last time they’d been together was in Nebraska at the orphanage Jack ran—the incident with Clara. Whit had been so upset about what had happened he’d told Jack he didn’t think he ever wanted to see him again. When he cooled down, Whit had regretted saying that and had tried to talk with Jack over the ensuing years, but they’d never reconnected. He had even sent Jack the map as a sort of peace offering, but Jack never acknowledged he’d received it. Whit knew he needed to get ahold of his old friend somehow, to make sure he was all right. Questions raced through his mind.

  How had Blackgaard gotten the map from Jack? Was Glossman actually representing Blackgaard when he fought Jenny for the Fillmore Recreation Center all those years ago? Did Blackgaard plan to use the tunnel to sneak into Whit’s End and steal Applesauce? How did Blackgaard even know about Applesauce to begin with?

  He was almost to his car when a new thought struck him—one so frightening it made him stop dead in his tracks.

  What if Applesauce was just a feint, the tip of the iceberg?

  What if something much deeper—and far more terrible—was really going on?