by Phil Lollar
The Blackgaard Chronicles: Opening Moves © 2017 Focus on the Family. All rights reserved.
Focus on the Family and Adventures in Odyssey, and the accompanying logos and designs, are federally registered trademarks of Focus on the Family, 8605 Explorer Drive, Colorado Springs, CO 80920.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of Focus on the Family.
This book is based on Adventures in Odyssey audio drama episodes “Connie, Part 1” and “Connie, Part 2”; “An Encounter with Mrs. Hooper”; “A Bite of Applesauce”—original script by Paul McCusker; “Connie Comes to Town”—original script by Steve Harris and Phil Lollar; and “Recollections”—original script by Phil Lollar.
Novelization by Phil Lollar
Cover design by Jacob Isom
Cover illustration by Gary Locke
For Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data for this title, visit http://www.loc.gov/help/contact-general.html.
ISBN: 9-781-58997-926-0
ISBN 978-1-68428-194-7 (ePub); ISBN 978-1-68428-195-4 (Kindle); ISBN 978-1-68428-193-0 (Apple)
Build: 2019-05-16 18:13:51 EPUB 3.0
For Katie Leigh
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Book 2 Preview
Chapter One
Philip Glossman was hungry. He had missed lunch that afternoon because of an Odyssey City Council meeting, and now it was past his suppertime. His potbelly rumbled, and he felt weak, but he knew he couldn’t leave. Not yet. Not until he called. The note said he would, sometime this evening. He didn’t like to leave messages, and he certainly wouldn’t like it if his phone call weren’t answered because of something so mundane as eating. So supper would have to wait.
He hadn’t called in almost five years, just communicated through occasional written messages, mainly commenting on Glossman’s monthly reports, or telling him what issues to raise and how to vote on them. If he wanted to actually talk this time, something important must be brewing—something very important.
Glossman paced the length of his top-floor office in the McAlister building, stopped in front of a small mirror hanging on the wall opposite his desk, and stared into it. I need to get outside more, he thought. My skin is getting pasty. He ran his fingers through his thinning salt-and-pepper hair and counted the lines around his gray eyes.
I used to be better looking, he mused. Not that he was bad now, just not like when he first came to town. Now he’d grown soft, mushy, out of shape.
He sighed. How did he wind up in a podunk village like Odyssey? He’d been a rising star in the New York City business scene, a smart, ruthless go-getter. A bit too much of a go-getter, as it turned out. He thought he had covered all of the bases—that no one would ever know about how he manipulated that deal. But what was the verse those Bible thumpers Whittaker and Riley were always quoting? “Be sure your sin will find you out.”
Well, he was found out all right, but not by his sin. By him. He discovered everything somehow, and he gave Glossman a choice: go to prison or go to Odyssey. So now he was calling the shots—and not calling on the phone—just to show who was in charge.
Glossman’s belly rumbled louder. He turned away from the mirror and looked at the phone. “Why don’t you ring already!” he muttered. But the phone just sat there, silently defiant.
Glossman moved to the window. There was hardly any traffic on the streets. Everyone was heading home. Everyone but him. He sighed again. He didn’t have it bad, really, with the exception of tonight. His benefactor paid him well, albeit under the table. He was a respected member of the tiny community, all but permanently seated on its highest governing body. And all he had to do for the money and the position was prepare the monthly reports that pretty much detailed what Whittaker and Riley were up to, which, since their last big run-in, was mostly Whittaker working late and Riley doing nothing.
His thoughts turned bitter. Whittaker and Riley. Two names he’d love to never hear again, belonging to two people he’d love to never hear from again. They were the real reason he was still stuck in Odyssey. They’d outmaneuvered him, wrecking things, thwarting plans, keeping him in check, though neither of them realized that’s what they were doing.
Glossman had failed and was still being punished for it. Instead of wheeling and dealing on Wall Street, he was now wheedling and dealing on the Odyssey City Council over things like easements and red zones and beautification projects. And his opponent on almost every single issue was Tom Riley. Their battles were growing quite tiresome. The one they had today was the reason Glossman had missed lunch. How that apple-growing hick ever got elected to the council in the first place—much less elected chairman of the council—was a mystery. Or maybe not, now that Glossman thought about it. Riley’s farm was one of the largest in the area, which gave him a lot of clout with the other farmers. They considered him a classic man of the people, no doubt. Glossman sneered. More like the champion yokel of the yokels.
Then there was Riley’s friend Whittaker. John Avery Whittaker, do-gooding crusader, everybody’s favorite, loved by kids and parents throughout Campbell County—and all because of that silly business of his: Whit’s End. A piece of property that valuable, and Whittaker turned it into—how did he describe it?—a discovery emporium?
Glossman snorted. It was more like a playground with train sets and talking mirrors. Games and puzzles and gizmos. Ice-cream sundaes at the soda fountain. An “Inventors’ Corner,” where the kiddies could do little science projects, and a “Bible Room,” where they could all learn to be do-gooders just like Whittaker and Riley. The snort nearly turned into a gag.
Whittaker couldn’t possibly be making any money out of the place. Then again, being a rich man, he didn’t have to, did he? That came as a surprise. He’d thought Whittaker was just a middle-school teacher. The city council had given him an award for excellence in education just prior to Glossman’s election to the council. Taking that building should have been as easy as pie. Everything was going so well. Then Whittaker showed up.
No. Not Whittaker. Mrs. Whittaker. His wife, Jenny. She was the one who’d made things difficult. Glossman winced at the memory. He could still see her fiery red hair flying and her hazel eyes snapping and hear her whiny voice as it yammered away at them from the speaker’s lectern, her husband watching from the audience and Riley sitting in the chairman’s seat, listening with a smug smile on his face.
Chapter Two
Five years earlier . . .
“The Fillmore Recreation Center was refurbished in 1934 as part of a Depression relief effort. It was designed to give families, especially youngsters, a place to engage in wholesome activities—such as sporting events and games—as well as serving as a public meeting place. Several churches and civic groups have made use of the facility throughout the years. In fact, the city council called the rec center home prior to this present location being built. It holds many treasured memories for the people of this town. And that alone should make it worth saving.”
Riley’s chair creaked as he leaned forward. “Well, thank you very much, Mrs. Whittaker. Does anyone on the council have any questions for Mrs. Whittaker about the rec center?”
“I do, Chairman Riley.”
�
��I thought you might, Mr. Glossman.”
“Mrs. Whittaker, it’s obvious you’ve done your homework, and you are to be congratulated for your efforts. Tell me, in your research, did you find it to be the oldest building in town?”
Jenny brushed a strand of silver-red hair from her eyes, adjusted her glasses, and, looking uncomfortable, shifted her petite frame from one foot to the other. “Well, no, sir.”
“Did you find it to be one of the oldest?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“As a matter of fact, there are several buildings older than Fillmore Center, aren’t there?”
Jenny shifted again and placed her hands on the speaker’s lectern, her hazel eyes glaring at Glossman. “Well, yes.”
“So the center has no real historical value, does it, Mrs. Whittaker?”
“Only to the countless families who have used it over the past five decades, Mr. Glossman.”
“Yes, well, I suppose that sentimental value is worth something. But as a piece of true history, the building is, in fact, quite worthless, correct?”
Jenny gripped the lectern. “Yes, as a piece of true history.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Whittaker. That’s all I have for now, Chairman Riley.”
It was all Glossman could do to keep from smirking. This is in the bag, he thought. She has nothing, and the only other witness is that doltish police cadet. Here he comes now. What’s his name? Hardy? Harvey?
“Officer David Harley, at your service! Although I’m really not an officer yet. I’m just a cadet, but soon I will be an officer—at least I hope. I’m waiting on the results of the written exam. There are more codes on the books in this town than you can shake a stick at. Which is not one of the codes, by the way, unless you’re shaking a stick in a threatening manner, and you definitely don’t want to be doing that. Especially if you’re spitting on the sidewalk. I was just trying the officer label on for size, but technically, I’m Cadet David Harley, and I’m still at your service.”
Glossman saw Jenny Whittaker sigh heavily and her husband stifle a giggle. In the bag, he thought.
Cadet Harley droned on incoherently for the next twenty minutes, and Glossman noticed the rest of the council, even Riley, barely staying awake, and Jenny sinking lower and lower in her seat. Finally the bumbling cadet uttered the words “So, in conclusion . . . ,” and everyone in the room jerked awake.
Harley cleared his throat, then continued. “I think you’ll agree that the biggest single cause of juvenile delinquency in this country today is young people. Now, I realize that may sound like a generalization, but if you were to take a look at a cross-section of all JDs”—he leaned toward the council—“that’s police lingo for juvenile delinquents, by the way”—he leaned back again—“you’d probably find that most of them are between five and nineteen years of age. Coincidence? Maybe. But do we really want to take that chance? I don’t think so.” Cadet Harley nodded officially, then collected and stacked his papers on the lectern.
Tom Riley suppressed a smile. “Well, thank you for that enlightening testimony. Any questions from the council members? Mr. Glossman?”
“Yes. Cadet Harley, if I understand you correctly, you feel the Fillmore Recreation Center should be kept open in an effort to ward off juvenile delinquency?”
Harley nodded again. “Exactly.”
“I didn’t know we had a delinquency problem here in Odyssey.”
Cadet Harley sniffed. “Councilman Glossman, I myself have been a firsthand victim of juvenile delinquency. In fact, it was one of the reasons I decided to go into law enforcement.”
“Really?”
Harley took a small notepad from his shirt pocket and consulted it. “The perpetrator was one Michael, alias Mickey, Terrelli. He robbed me and then tried to run away. So I apprehended him and made a citizen’s arrest.”
“You actually ran after him and stopped him?”
“I had to. It was the only way I could get my pencil box back.”
“Your pencil . . . Cadet Harley, how old were you when this so-called crime took place?”
The cadet’s brow wrinkled. “Um, eight, I think.”
“So what you’re saying is that you personally have had no real problems with the young people in this city since you were eight years old?”
Cadet Harley blinked. Several times. “Well, of course, it all depends on your perspective, but as far as wrong goes, then, well, I’d have to say, yes, you’re right. But . . .”
Riley cut in quickly. “Uh, I think that’ll be all for now, Cadet Harley.”
Harley blinked again. “Oh, okay.” He gathered his papers and returned to his seat.
This is the moment, thought Glossman. Time to take the prize. “Chairman Riley, I’d like to make a motion that we dispense with the rest of these hearings. There is obviously not enough evidence to warrant keeping the old building.”
“Now wait a minute!” Jenny Whittaker stormed up to the lectern. “Not enough evidence? What do you call all these people who just testified before you?”
“Mrs. Whittaker, we can see that you’ve garnered a great deal of support for your cause, but support and evidence are very different things. You yourself told us the building has no significant historical or cultural value, so we really can’t justify making it a landmark. And Cadet Harley has just shown us that Odyssey has no real problems with its young people. So the idea that we should keep the Fillmore Recreation Center in an effort to ward off a sudden wave of juvenile delinquency is really rather absurd, don’t you think?”
Jenny again gripped the lectern. “Has it ever occurred to you that the reason we haven’t had problems in the past with our youth is precisely because of places like the Fillmore Recreation Center? Gentlemen, there is a tremendous amount of pressure on children, even the children of Odyssey, to grow up too fast. They need a place where they can be children. The Fillmore Center has been that place in the past, and with some renovation, it can be that place again.”
“And how do you propose to pay for the renovations?” Glossman asked. “By using tax revenue, a move that will cost this city thousands of dollars? Now, I have before me a letter from the Webster Development Firm making us a very nice offer for the building and the land.”
Jenny scoffed. “Yes, I’ve heard of the Webster Development Firm. They build minimalls.”
“They’re going to build a nice shopping center with facilities for children.”
“Do you know what those so-called facilities will be, Mr. Glossman? A video-game arcade. The rest will be fast-food and party-supply stores. Nothing to help kids think and learn.”
“That’s your opinion, Mrs. Whittaker. But the fact is, the shopping center will provide revenue for the city instead of taking revenue from it.”
Jenny gripped the lectern so tightly, her knuckles turned white. “Gentlemen, please don’t do this! Don’t let our children grow up in an atmosphere . . . that doesn’t care what they do . . . or believe.” Her face suddenly went very pale. She took a deep breath. “Please . . . don’t . . . let this . . . happen.”
She stopped again and hovered over the lectern. Mr. Whittaker stood up slowly. Riley frowned and leaned forward in his creaky chair. “Mrs. Whittaker? Mrs. Whittaker, are you all right?”
Jenny swayed slightly. “I’m . . . not feeling . . . very well.” She moaned softly and, with great effort, turned to find her husband. Their eyes met, and she said weakly, “Whit?” Then her head slumped forward, and she collapsed on the floor.
The other council members gasped. Riley and Cadet Harley jumped from their chairs.
Whittaker was already out of his and rushed to her side. “Jenny? Jenny!” He lifted her gently and cradled her in his arms. “Jenny.” He looked up helplessly. “An ambulance! David! Tom! Somebody call an ambulance!”
Word came later that evening that Jenny Whittaker had died. She had chronic kidney disease brought on by a bout of strep throat. By the time she collapsed, there was nothing the doctors cou
ld do. Whit was devastated. It was a shocking turn of events, but one Glossman fully intended to take advantage of.
A month passed. Out of respect for Jenny, the council delayed any further discussion of the Fillmore Recreation Center, but Glossman knew as he took his seat in the council chamber the evening of the vote that it would be just a formality. His main opposition was out of the way—tragically, yes, but such was life. Only a miracle can stop the sale now, he thought, smiling. That will make him very happy.
Glossman sat patiently through the rest of the dreary business before the council. Finally the issue was at hand. Riley banged his gavel, and the council members quieted.
“On the matter of Mr. Glossman’s motion to sell the Fillmore Recreation Center building, how does the council vote? Mr. Finster?”
“Aye.”
“Mr. Calhoun?”
“Aye.”
“Mr. Glossman?”
“Aye.”
“And the chair votes nay.” Riley sighed. “Mr. Glossman, it looks like your motion is carried.” He banged his gavel again.
“Thank you, Chairman Riley. I’d now like to propose that we follow through on this motion and immediately accept the generous offer the Webster Development Firm has made for the land and the building.”
Finster raised his hand. “Second the motion.”
Riley banged the gavel a third time. “The motion has been made and seconded. And since there are no other bidders on the property, I will suspend debate and call for a vote.”
He was going to win!
“All in favor of the motion—”
The chamber doors burst open—and in strode Whittaker. “Mr. Chairman! May I address the council?”
Riley glanced around and said, “Well, we were just about to take a vote, Mr. Whittaker.”
“If the vote concerns the Fillmore Recreation Center, that’s what I’d like to talk about.”
Alarm! Speak up! “Mr. Chairman, we’ve had enough grandstanding on this issue. My motion was made and seconded. You said there are no other bidders—”