Cross-Check

by Phil Lollar

  Tom crossed to his friend and gripped his shoulder firmly but gently. Whit looked up at him. “You’re doin’ what you believe is right, John Avery. You have to have faith that God’ll honor that. Now, I seem to recall somebody just a minute ago saying something about putting things in the Lord’s hands and trusting He’ll do what’s best.”

  Whit smiled. “You’re right, my friend.” He rose and turned the pail right side up. “Looks like we could both use a little prayer action.”

  Tom removed the straw and flicked it away. “Now, that’s the best idea I’ve heard all day.”

  Leah and Rachel, who had long since finished their breakfasts and were once again at their stall gates, looking at the two men, picked that moment to whinny together loudly. Tom grinned. “And it seems I’m not the only one who thinks so!”

  Both horses nickered and bobbed their heads. Whit and Tom chuckled.

  Chapter Ten

  That afternoon found Richard Maxwell sitting in a secluded booth at Whit’s End. He was still a bit shaken by Blackgaard’s outburst yesterday, and especially by his own reaction to it. It was the first time since he began working with Blackgaard that he’d felt truly scared by him—scared and out of control—even when Blackgaard had Glossman kidnap me, he thought.

  The last time he’d felt so out of control was when he was a boy, after his folks divorced and his mother took up with Osgood Brownlow. At least, that was the name he was going by when he entered their lives all those years ago.

  Maxwell leaned back in the booth, closed his eyes, and grimaced at the memory. They were living in Millsburg, and his father, Mickey, was a very smart man, one of the early computer wonks. Turns out he was more interested in his work than he was in his young family, so much so that Richard’s mother, Melissa, decided they’d be better off without him. So she took him and his sister, Rachael, moved them all into an apartment, and filed for divorce.

  Once it was finalized and she got custody of the children, Mickey moved to Chicago, and Melissa went back to her maiden name: Woodworth. That was when Brownlow came along. I was what? About ten? Yeah, and Rachael was two. Melissa never married Brownlow, but he was a regular presence in their lives over the next several years.

  He liked Brownlow at first. The gent took care of them financially, had a funny way of talking, and laughed when Richard would charm and flatter his mother out of extra snacks, cookies, candy, and even money. Brownlow told him he had a real talent for smooth talking, and he taught him games and fake-outs to fool his friends.

  Only when Maxwell got a little older did he realize that the games and fake-outs were actually cons and scams. When asked about them, Brownlow called them “survival tools.” He told Maxwell, “A man’s gotta survive, don’t he?”

  Not that I actually minded scamming kids out of money, Maxwell thought with a smirk. His family needed it, and he also was pleased to learn that he was good at cons—very good. And so everyone got along, at least for a while.

  Then, about five years into this arrangement, things fell apart. As he got better and better at scamming, and more money came in, Brownlow started demanding a cut of it, which he hadn’t done before. When Maxwell balked, Brownlow threatened to tell Melissa what he had been doing.

  When Maxwell counterthreatened to tell his mother that Brownlow had been behind it all, Brownlow reacted in much the same way Blackgaard had yesterday. He backed Maxwell into a corner and said in a deadly quiet voice, “Better think twice about that, lad. It’d be a shame if someone you cared about got hurt.” Then he backed away and laughed. “On second thought, go ahead and tell her. Who do you think she’ll believe?”

  Much as he’d hated to admit it, Maxwell suspected Brownlow was right. Melissa would undoubtedly take his word over her own son’s.

  Maxwell’s suspicion was confirmed a few weeks later. On his way home from school one afternoon, he saw Brownlow walking downtown with a woman who was definitely not Melissa. He followed the two discreetly. They went to a pawnshop and walked inside. Maxwell sneaked up to the window and saw what Brownlow and his companion were pawning: several pieces of Melissa’s jewelry. Once the transaction was complete, Brownlow gave the money to the woman, who hugged and kissed him.

  Maxwell raced home and told his mother about it. As predicted, she accused him of lying. But he had proof. They went to her bedroom and looked in her jewelry box. It was nearly empty. She still didn’t believe him.

  They went down to the pawnshop, and Maxwell demanded to see the jewelry. The broker produced it. Surely this would convince her Brownlow was no good.

  But it didn’t.

  Incredibly, she still sided with Brownlow. She accused her son of stealing and pawning the jewelry just to make Brownlow look bad. She didn’t even believe the pawnbroker when he said he’d never seen Maxwell before. They were all lying, she said, all trying to destroy her happiness.

  Maxwell winced at the memory. Though he had suspected the truth, when it was actually confirmed, it hit him like a punch to the gut. His mother loved the scoundrel she had brought into their lives more than she loved her own boy.

  They walked home from the pawnshop in silence. Rachael was at a friend’s house, and Brownlow was nowhere to be seen. Maxwell packed his things and strode out of the house without a word. Melissa made no effort to stop him. He went to the bus station and took the next bus to his father’s place in the Windy City. He was 15. I never even told Rachael good-bye.

  Maxwell sighed. Despite living in the same apartment over the next three years, the only real interaction he had with his father was when Mickey taught him about computers. Maxwell quickly realized his father was a genius in the subject, and he was pleasantly surprised at his own aptitude for it. He actually understood what his father was talking about when it came to information technology. It didn’t make up for Mickey’s almost complete lack of affection and closeness—but, hey, at least I got another “survival tool” out of it, right?

  He smiled again. He had graduated early from high school and, thanks to his father’s tutelage, progressed rapidly through the computer science courses at the local community college.

  He was bored, though, and in need of cash, so he began scamming again. He also got a series of odd jobs to supplement the income from his cons. There was always something to do in Chicago—busboy, pizza delivery, janitor, and he even did a stint on the maintenance crew for the sanitation department. He hated it, but he learned how to get around through a bunch of service doors down in the sewers, which could come in handy if he ever needed to move about without being seen.

  He also met Greg Kelly in the sanitation department. Greg, he learned, had actually told Blackgaard about him in the first place. If I ever see him again, I’ll have to give him a special “thank-you” for that.

  Then on the morning after his eighteenth birthday, Maxwell woke up to find that Mickey had left. No note, no good-bye, just . . . gone.

  Only when Maxwell’s computer said, “You’ve got mail!” and he accessed his e-mail account did he learn where Mickey went. His father had taken a job someplace in the Far East, the missive said, and he didn’t know when or even if he’d be back.

  Mickey explained that he had prepaid his son’s tuition at Campbell College in a place called Odyssey. They had an excellent information technology department, and Maxwell could benefit greatly from it and the rest of his formal education as well. His father had also provided a stipend for living expenses, though Maxwell would have to get a job to supplement it.

  Additionally, the missive said, Odyssey was just a few hours from Millsburg, in case he should want to visit his mother and sister. And that was how the e-mail ended, without so much as a good-bye. Only slightly less affectionate than he was in person, Maxwell thought.

  The last thing he wanted was to move closer to his mother, but seeing Rachael again held some appeal. And since both his jobs and his scamming opportunities were drying up where he was . . . and his education was paid for . . . and he would have so
me spending money, he decided to give small-town living another try. The following morning he was on a bus, Odyssey-bound.

  Much to his surprise, he actually liked the place. It was friendlier than he remembered Millsburg being and far less hectic than Chicago.

  His father was right about Campbell College’s IT program. It was great, and he learned a lot. He found an inexpensive place off campus to live in, and he had all new victims for his cons and scams. In no time, he had hooked up with some of Odyssey’s seedier characters, like Myron “Jellyfish” Horowitz, and started using his other “survival tools” around town as well, in places like the Odyssey Retirement Home. All in all, life was pretty good . . .

  . . . for about six months. That was when a surprise showed up on his doorstep: Melissa and Rachael. Brownlow had abandoned them—ran off after a bigger scam, no doubt, Maxwell thought. Probably even changed his name.

  To say things were awkward would be a gross understatement. Over the next year, he and Melissa tried to get along, but their previous unpleasantness, her aloofness, and Rachael’s misbehavior kept getting in the way. It was apparent that Brownlow had taught his sister the same games and fake-outs he’d taught him, only she wasn’t very good at them. Rather than try to scam or con or finesse, Rachael just took and did whatever she wanted. She kept getting into trouble, and she wouldn’t listen to anything he or their mother said.

  Then earlier that year, things went from bad to worse: Melissa ran off as well. He never knew where. All she said in the note she left was that she’d needed to find a new life. She ended the note with “Take care of Rachael.”

  Maxwell sighed. I tried, I honestly did! But with their mother gone, Rachael really went off the deep end and became virtually uncontrollable. He thought she might calm down when she befriended Donna Barclay, and for a few weeks Donna’s niceness seemed to rub off on her. But then they had a falling-out, and Donna broke off their friendship.

  Despite his warnings and threats, Rachael went and got herself arrested—again—for shoplifting. And since there was no actual parent in their home, she was sent to juvenile hall.

  He scowled at the bitter taste of bile these recollections erupted in him: disgust for his folks for dumping their responsibility for Rachael on him, loathing for Brownlow for corrupting her, and hatred for himself for not fighting to stay and at least try to protect her.

  A thought struck him, and his eyes snapped open. Yesterday, he had tried to help Blackgaard do to Connie what Brownlow had done to Rachael—take a completely innocent girl and corrupt her. And here he was, in Whit’s End, about to do it again! How had he not seen this?

  He couldn’t let it happen—he wouldn’t. But Blackgaard had shown yesterday that he was not a man to be denied. And Blackgaard would have no compunction against personally using physical violence in the pursuit of his goals. Maxwell had to follow through; he had no choice.

  Then a different thought struck him: If his goal was now to prevent Blackgaard from corrupting Connie, then what he was about to do would fulfill that goal and satisfy Blackgaard, wouldn’t it?

  And just like that, the nefarious scheme he had planned became ennobled in his mind. He smiled broadly, pleased at his ingenuity. He’d need even more cleverness to complete the rest of what Blackgaard had tasked him to do without anyone getting hurt, but he knew he could ennoble that somehow as well. He was back in control.

  The bell above the front door of Whit’s End tinkled as the door swung open, and the person he was waiting for entered.

  Lucy.

  Chapter Eleven

  Maxwell pressed himself back into the booth and watched Lucy hang her hat and coat on the rack by the door. Though they had met formally only yesterday, he remembered her from her frequent visits to the Odyssey Retirement Home with her church youth group. He wondered if she knew Rachael. Probably not, he thought. She seems even more the conscientious type than Donna Barclay.

  After the tense exchange between Lucy and Connie yesterday, though, he thought there might be something there he could use. Lucy’s unmistakable attraction to him would also come in handy. And after Blackgaard’s outburst, he knew he’d have to use both.

  She walked into the main room and looked around, her back to the booth. Let’s have a little fun, he thought. He cupped his hands over his mouth and said aloud in an otherworldly voice, “Luuucyyyy . . .”

  She stopped, startled, her eyes darting around the room. “H-hello?” she said.

  “Luuuucyyyy!”

  She stiffened, and her voice trembled slightly. “W-who is that?”

  He chuckled and said in his normal voice, “Just me—over here in the booth behind you.”

  Lucy wheeled around and then exhaled and smiled. “Oh, Richard! You scared me!”

  “Aw, I’m sorry!” he said. “C’mon over and sit.”

  She crossed to the booth. “What are you doing here?”

  He grinned. “Looking for you.”

  Her face flushed, and she sank into the bench opposite him. “Why?”

  “Why? ’Cause I like you!”

  Her face grew redder, and she frowned. “I don’t see how you can like me after the way I acted last time you were here.”

  He furrowed his brow, pretending to remember. “You mean that little scene with Connie?”

  “Yeah . . .” She looked at the table.

  First, the setup. “Oh, that wasn’t so bad. From what I could tell, you had good reason to be upset. You were trying to help somebody, and you got in trouble for it.”

  Lucy sighed and nodded. “Yeah, that seems to happen a lot to me. But Connie was only trying to do her job too. And she was upset about getting fired from here. I shouldn’t have gotten mad at her. That’s why I came in. I want to find out where Connie lives so I can apologize to her.”

  Now the bait. “Lucy . . . how’d you like to do something better for Connie than just apologize?”

  Her face brightened. “I’d like it! But . . . what?”

  Maxwell was about to respond when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Eugene Meltsner emerge from the kitchen carrying a large bin of ice cream under each arm. Meltsner set them on the counter, opened the freezers under the countertop, and ducked into them, rearranging their contents so the new bins would fit.

  Maxwell figured that was their cue to leave. “We can’t talk in here,” he said, scooting out of the booth. “Let’s go outside and I’ll tell you all about it. Okay?” He held out his hand for her.

  Lucy looked unsure, then said, “Well . . . okay . . .” and placed her hand in his. He helped her to her feet, and they headed for the front door. As she put on her coat and hat, he glanced back at the counter. Meltsner’s head and upper torso were still buried in the freezers.

  Once outside, they took a walk around McAlister Park, and he told her his plan. Next, the sell. “So that’s it, Lucy,” he said with a small shrug. “What do you think?”

  They stopped in front of a park bench. She looked torn. “I-I don’t know, Richard.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  She sat. “I just don’t know if I should do it.”

  He eased down beside her. “Why not?”

  “’Cause . . . I’d be lying.”

  Ease her in . . . “No, you wouldn’t, not really.”

  “‘Not really’?” she said skeptically. “A lie is a lie, Richard.”

  Careful. “I know—you’re right. But we’re only doing it to make things better here, aren’t we? I mean, that is what we want to do, isn’t it, make things better?”

  She looked confused. “Y-yes . . .”

  Move in. “Look, do you think Connie wants to work at Whit’s End again?”

  “Yeah . . .”

  “And do you think Mr. Whittaker wants her to work there again?”

  “Yeah . . .”

  “Well, the only way that’s gonna happen is if they get together and talk about it, right?”

  She leaned back. “Well . . . yeah . . .”

 
; He held out his hands. “See? You’re just helpin’ them do what they already want to do! That’s not lying!”

  Her brow furrowed again. “It still doesn’t seem right.”

  “What’s not right? You’ll be helping Connie, you’ll be helping Mr. Whittaker, and you know what else?”

  She looked at him. “What?”

  Time for the net. “You’ll be helping me, too.” He took her hand. “I’d really appreciate it.” He gave her his most charming smile. “Whaddya say?” He squeezed her hand gently, and her breath quickened as her face flushed completely.

  She looked off but didn’t pull her hand away. C’mon . . . c’mon . . . She took a deep breath and said hesitantly, “Tell me what I have to do again?”

  Yes!

  He felt the familiar rush of excitement—the conquest, the play, slowly reeling in the mark until finally . . . the score! There was no better feeling, just as Brownlow had taught him—

  He stopped. A lump suddenly appeared in his throat, and a pang of guilt stabbed his conscience. He froze for a moment, then shook it off. No. No! This is different! Yes, he was using Lucy, but this time he was using someone for good—to protect Connie. Yes, that’s it! And he would protect Lucy, too. He could handle this. I’m still in control.

  “Richard?”

  Her large brown eyes gazed at him with concern through her round glasses. He smiled again and responded smoothly, “I knew I could count on you! You’re the best! All you have to do is go to Whit’s End tomorrow morning at about a quarter past ten and make a phone call.”

  Chapter Twelve

  At precisely 10:15 the next morning, the phone rang at Connie’s house. June answered it with a pleasant, “Kendall residence.”

  Through the receiver, she heard Lucy’s filtered voice say, “Hi, is Connie there?”

  “No, she went to the store. I’m expecting her back any minute, though. Can I take a message?”

  Lucy cleared her throat. “Um, yeah, uh, this is Lucy, one of the kids at Whit’s End.”