by Phil Lollar
Despite them and the building materials, the space was still empty enough that voices and footsteps echoed off the barren walls. Connie shivered and was just getting ready to leave when the “Private” door opened and Maxwell reappeared, followed by a tall, angular, handsome man with jet-black hair that was streaked with white at the temples and a neatly clipped Vandyke on his chin, wearing an immaculate three-piece suit. A large, fluffy, gray cat also darted out the door and disappeared behind the huge boxes.
Maxwell and the man strode across the room to her, and the closer they got, the taller the man seemed and the more unnerved Connie felt. Maxwell was all smiles. “Here he is, Connie,” he said. “Boss, I want you to meet Connie Kendall. Connie, this is my boss.”
The man stepped forward and extended his hand. “How do you do, Miss Kendall?” his rich baritone intoned. “My name is Blackgaard.”
Connie took his hand, gave it a quick shake, and dropped it. “Hello, Mr. Blackgaard,” she replied.
“That’s Doctor Blackgaard, Connie,” Maxwell cut in.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Are you into medicine?”
Blackgaard shook his head. “No, I’m a PhD.”
Maxwell jumped in again. “He’s an expert on kids.”
Connie’s eyebrows rose. “Really?”
“I know something about them,” Blackgaard responded with a smile. “So, Miss Kendall, Richard tells me you’re looking for employment?”
“Well . . . maybe.”
“Only maybe?”
She shrugged. “Uh, well . . . yeah, I guess I am.”
Blackgaard gestured grandly around the room. “I may have a position for you here at Blackgaard’s Castle, once it opens.”
Connie gazed around the room once again. “That’s what you’re gonna call this place—Blackgaard’s Castle?”
Maxwell wagged his eyebrows. “Yeah—pretty radical, huh?”
Connie managed a weak smile. “Uh . . . yeah . . . radical.”
Blackgaard leaned casually against a pallet of drywall sheets. The cat jumped up on them and sat next to him. He stroked the cat’s neck absently and said, “So, Connie, why don’t you tell me about yourself, your background?”
Connie took a breath. “Well . . . I’m 16 . . . I’ve lived in Odyssey for almost two years now . . . uh . . . I go to Odyssey High . . . um . . . I’m really active in my church . . .”
“What about your employment experience?” Blackgaard asked. “Have you ever worked with children before?”
Maxwell snorted. “Are you kidding?” he said. “I told you she worked for—”
Blackgaard stopped stroking the cat. “If you don’t mind, Richard,” he interrupted curtly, “I’d like to hear it from her.” His coal-black eyes snapped but never stopped looking at Connie.
Maxwell cleared his throat and stepped back. “Oh . . . uh, yeah. Sorry.”
Blackgaard resumed stroking the cat and nodded for Connie to continue.
She licked her lips nervously. “Well, like Richard was about to tell you, I used to work at Whit’s End, across town.”
“Used to? You don’t work there anymore?”
She dropped her gaze to the floor. “No.”
“What happened?” Blackgaard asked gently.
“I was . . . fired.”
“I see. May I ask why?”
She sighed heavily. “Well, it’s kinda complicated. I sort of used a computer program I wasn’t supposed to use.”
Maxwell piped up. “You mean Applesauce?”
Connie’s head jerked up, and she blinked. “Yeah! How’d you know?”
Maxwell smiled wanly. “Eugene told me.”
Blackgaard picked up the cat, which purred contentedly. “You say you ‘sort of’ used it?”
Her gaze returned to the floor. “Yeah . . . I . . . I just wanted to see how it worked. I don’t know anything about computers, but I guess I accidentally did the right thing, ’cause before I knew what was happening, it started up.”
Blackgaard’s brow furrowed. “So you were fired for being curious?”
She shook her head slightly. “Well, not exactly. I wasn’t supposed to be in the computer room in the first place. In fact, I wasn’t even supposed to know there was a computer room.”
Blackgaard pondered her words for a moment. “It still sounds like you were fired for simply being curious. That’s terribly unjust. I don’t blame you for being upset.”
Connie looked up at him quickly. “Oh, I’m not upset. I don’t think it’s unjust, either. If Whit—I mean, Mr. Whittaker—wanted me to know about the computer room, he would have told me. He trusted me, and I let him down.”
Maxwell had moved around behind her so quietly she jumped when she heard his voice. “Sounds kinda paranoid to me,” he said, “keepin’ all sorts of secrets like that, I mean.”
She whirled to face him. “He is not paranoid!”
Blackgaard stood. “No, of course not, Richard,” he said smoothly. “Obviously this Applesauce is a very special program.”
Connie turned back to him. “That’s right! That’s what Whit said.”
Blackgaard smiled and nodded. “Yes . . .” He leaned slightly toward her. “Do you . . . remember what it did?” he asked offhandedly.
She looked down again and cocked her head to one side. “Well, it . . . it—” She stopped suddenly and looked back and forth between them.
Blackgaard still leaned toward her, smiling benignly. The cat also gazed at her from the crook of his arm. But Maxwell stared at her hungrily and was leaning so far forward he seemed about to topple over. “What?” he whispered insistently. “It what?”
Connie backed up a few steps, swallowed hard, and said, “I . . . I don’t see what that has to do with my getting a job here.”
For a long moment everyone stood immobile. Blackgaard still gazed calmly and steadily at Connie, but her eyes darted between him, the cat, and Maxwell, while Maxwell glanced at Blackgaard and then back at her.
Finally Blackgaard smiled widely and stood up straight. “You’re quite right, Connie,” he said disarmingly, “quite right. Forgive our questions. The only reason we ask is because Blackgaard’s Castle will also employ computers, the very latest in technology. And, naturally, we’re curious about any new programs that may come along. You understand.”
She exhaled. “Uh, yeah, I understand.”
Maxwell had also backed off, shrugged, and smiled charmingly. “Yeah, it’s just curiosity.”
Blackgaard leaned up against the stack of drywall again and set the cat back on it. “Well, Connie,” he said, “I must say I am impressed. If you’d like to work here at Blackgaard’s Castle, I can certainly find a spot for you.”
Maxwell rubbed his hands together. “Hey, that’s great!” he said.
Connie smiled graciously. “Uh, well, I don’t want to appear ungrateful, but could I have some time to think about it?”
“Of course!” Blackgaard said with a nod. Then he held up a finger and added, “But I’d advise you to give your answer quickly, because we’ll be starting business here within the next few weeks.”
Maxwell gave her forearm a gentle squeeze. “It’ll be great working with you, Connie!”
She looked at his hand, then at his face, and then at Blackgaard’s. The cat peered around him at her. “Yeah . . . well . . . I’ll let you know as soon as I can.” She turned and walked to the front doors. Once there, she turned back and waved. “Good-bye.”
“Good-bye!”
“So long!”
They watched her exit through the doors. Maxwell was about to say something when Blackgaard held up a hand to stop him. They both moved stealthily to the front doors. Blackgaard opened one slightly and peered out. Connie was running from the building as fast as her legs could carry her. Blackgaard stifled a chuckle, closed the door, and moved back into the room.
Maxwell followed him. “So whaddya think?” he asked. “You gonna hire her?”
“No. Whittaker’s hold over her is
too great. However, she may still be useful for our immediate purposes.”
Maxwell nodded. “Getting Whittaker out of the way for the vote.”
“Yes. But it must be done carefully so they don’t suspect anything.”
“I think that can be arranged,” Maxwell said, smirking.
Blackgaard returned his smirk with one of his own. “That’s why I hired you . . . excellent. And what about Tom Riley? Are the plans in motion?”
Maxwell’s face fell. Blackgaard hadn’t forgotten after all. “Uh . . . n-not exactly . . .” He turned and took a few steps away from his boss. “I mean . . . I’m not so sure about it . . . I mean, manipulating kids is one thing, but . . . that’s too much.”
There was a long pause. Suddenly Blackgaard’s deep voice growled with a hostility Maxwell had never heard from him before: “You silly little sniveling coward.”
Maxwell whipped around, stunned. “W-wha—?”
What he saw coming turned his surprise to terror. Blackgaard all but charged at him, face red with fury, lips curled into a snarl. “You dare even think about disobeying my orders? Just remember, my fine young man, that I hold your future. We both know you’re guilty of far worse acts than changing the grades of a few eggheads at the college. Perhaps you’d like me to pick up the phone and tell the authorities about them!”
The ferocity of Blackgaard’s attack caught Maxwell completely off guard. He backed up against the Zappazoids game, colliding with it hard, bumping his head against its side and nearly toppling it. Sasha screeched and scrambled for cover and safety. Blackgaard towered over Maxwell, teeth gritted and bared, nostrils flared, one hand clutching Maxwell’s shirt, the other raised in a fist.
There was no time to conjure a clever verbal comeback. All Maxwell could manage was to hold up his arms in front of his face defensively and whimper a meek “N-no, please!”
And suddenly, Blackgaard’s visage returned to normal, as though his outburst of fury had been a passing summer shower. He lowered his fist, released his grip on Maxwell’s shirt, and smoothed out the wrinkles in it. His voice was once again silky smooth. “That’s better,” he said. “You’re a smart fellow, Richard. I’m going to need people like you to help me run this town—and for even bigger things. Just make sure you don’t let me down.”
Maxwell trembled, and it took everything in him to stop it. For a moment he thought he would pass out. But he finally regained control and whispered, “I-I won’t.”
The incident was evoking in him memories he had long suppressed, and he didn’t like it. He rubbed the back of his head gingerly, winced, sank to the floor, and then glared up at Blackgaard with a deep frown.
Blackgaard chuckled, then patted him on the cheek. “Oh, don’t have such a long face! This should be a lot of fun for you, Richard! After all, it’s not everyone who gets to ruin two of Odyssey’s most powerful men at the same time.” He threw back his head and laughed loud, long, and deep, then turned and headed back to the “Private” door, calling out, “Sasha!”
The cat emerged from between two of the huge boxes and loped across the room to join him. They both disappeared behind the door, leaving Maxwell huddled against the game, shaking.
Chapter Nine
“Tom, she’s beautiful!”
John Avery Whittaker stood in Tom Riley’s barn, scratching and patting the long, sturdy, brown-and-white neck of an Appaloosa mare. The morning sunshine poured through the barn’s open door, and a soft breeze brought the occasional and faint whiff of apples from the acres of orchards outside.
The pony nickered and pressed her soft lips against Whit’s other arm, sniffing for more sugar cubes. He obliged, fishing them out of his jacket pocket. “There you go,” he murmured softly. As the pony nibbled them, he cooed, “Oh, my, you’re a good girl, aren’t you? Yes, you are.”
Tom finished breaking up a bale of hay at the far end of the barn and observed Whit and the pony with a smile. “Yeah, I’m pretty pleased with her,” he said.
“What’d you name her?”
“Rachel.”
Whit rubbed Rachel’s nose gently. “You’re a real beauty, Rachel!”
There was a sudden and very loud whinny, followed by a gentle nudge against Whit’s shoulder from the American paint mare in the next stall. Whit turned and chuckled. “Oh ho, Leah!” he said. “Sneakin’ up on me, eh?”
Tom laughed. “She’s still a little jealous.”
Whit fished in his pocket for more sugar. “Don’t worry, I have some for you, too.” He held out the cubes in his flattened palm, and Leah scooped them into her mouth and crunched them contentedly. Whit patted both horses. “So now you have Leah and Rachel, just like in the Bible.”
Tom speared a forkful of hay and lugged it over to Leah’s stall. “Yeah. It was my wife’s idea.” He plopped the hay into the feed trough just inside the gate.
“Where is Agnes anyway?” asked Whit.
Tom retrieved another forkful of hay and brought it to Rachel’s stall. “She went to visit her sister back East. She’ll be gone for a couple of weeks.”
“Oh.” Both horses now turned their attention to the hay. “Well, I’d say you have two fine horses here, Mr. Riley. They seem to be very open and trusting.”
Tom retrieved two salt licks on ropes from a storage bin and crossed to Leah’s stall. “Yeah,” he sighed, tying one lick onto the inside of the gate. “If only people were like that.”
Whit chuckled. “Now, that’s a cue for a conversation if I ever heard one!”
Tom also chuckled. “Guess it was pretty obvious.” He tied the second lick onto Rachel’s stall gate.
“You worried about the vote tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” Tom said, nodding. “I don’t know about this Blackgaard feller. I guess I shouldn’t be so hard on him, but I just find it suspicious that he won’t tell us what he wants to do with his place.”
Whit upended a large pail and sat on it. “Well, for what it’s worth, I think you handled it the right way. You’re certainly right to be concerned, and you’re trying to be fair.”
Tom put his foot on the bottom rail of Rachel’s stall and rested his arm on the top rail. “Tell that to Glossman.” He shook his head. “I declare, he’s the most argumentative man I ever met!”
Whit chuckled again. “You and he do seem to butt heads quite a bit.”
“Yeah, but I’m not sure I’m gonna come out on top this time. This vote could go either way. You’re gonna be there, aren’t you?”
“I sure plan to,” Whit said. “Right beside you all the way.”
“Good,” Tom sighed, “’cause I’m gonna need all the help I can get. I just hope it’s enough.”
Whit leaned back against a post. “Remember what David said when he went up against Goliath: ‘The battle is the Lord’s.’ You need to put it in His hands and trust that He’ll do what’s best.”
“Yeah . . .” Tom stroked his chin for a moment. “Y’know, John Avery, that sounds like a piece of advice you might want to apply to yourself.”
Whit’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
“Does the name Connie Kendall ring a bell?”
Whit lowered his gaze. “Mmm . . . I guess that’s pretty obvious too.”
Tom nodded. “Uh-huh. Have you talked with her again since you last saw her?”
“No . . . and that worries me.”
“Why?”
Whit sat up. “Because the last time I saw her, she was with Richard Maxwell. I told you about what he did at the college, didn’t I?”
“Mmm-hmm—makin’ that little boy change all those grades.”
“Yes. Eugene said Maxwell was talking to Connie before we came in the other day.”
Tom plucked a piece of loose straw from his shirt. “You think that’s why she left so sudden?” He stuck the straw in the corner of his mouth.
Whit shook his head. “I don’t know.” He leaned forward, picked up a halter from the ground, and began absently unbuckling and then
rebuckling the crownpiece.
Tom turned and half sat on one of the gate rails. “Whit, why did you let her leave yesterday? Why didn’t you give her her job back then and there?”
“She didn’t ask for it back,” Whit said quietly. “She has to ask for it back.”
“Don’t you think you’re being too harsh on her?”
Whit stopped fiddling with the halter and looked at Tom. “Let me ask you something: Why didn’t you agree to grant Dr. Blackgaard a license at the town council meeting last week?”
Tom straightened up. “Well, like I said, I didn’t know what kind of business he wants to start. I need more information about it.”
Whit nodded. “Well, I need more information about Connie. See, I could hire Eugene back because I knew he understood why I fired him in the first place. He had an experience that taught him. But I can’t say that about Connie. I don’t know if she understands or not.” He started fiddling again. “And now if she’s associating with Richard Maxwell . . . who knows what he’s capable of? I don’t like to judge people, but he didn’t have the least bit of remorse about what he made Nicholas do. And with Connie in the frame of mind she’s in . . . well, it just worries me, that’s all.”
Tom rose, crossed to Whit, and took the halter from him. “I think Connie has more strength than you’re givin’ her credit for,” he said. He hung the halter on a hook near the barn door.
Whit leaned back again. “Maybe . . . and maybe firing her wasn’t such a good idea.”
Tom turned back to him and plucked the straw from his mouth. “Now, John Avery, you don’t really believe that, do you?”
“No,” Whit sighed. “I don’t see how I could have handled it any other way.”
“You can’t back out now. You need to stick to your guns.” Tom spat on the floor and replaced the straw in the corner of his mouth.
Whit closed his eyes. “I know,” he said wearily. “And when she’s ready, I’ll be there for her. Until then . . . all I can do is wait.”
