by Phil Lollar
“Okay, Connie!” Donna ran out of the office. The noises in the building got louder and more frenzied. What was the stupid computer doing? And why was it doing this to her? She yelled, “Heeeeelllllp!”
Suddenly Eugene was at the computer-room door. “Miss Kendall! What’s going on here? The entire facility is—”
She grabbed his arm and pulled him into the room. “Eugene! Am I glad to see you. You have to stop this thing. Please. I’ll never touch it again, I promise. But please make it stop.”
His eyes scanned the big screen. “What did you do?” His jaw dropped. He looked horrified. “Applesauce. You loaded Applesauce!”
She was near tears now. “It was an accident. I didn’t mean to. Just stop it.”
He brushed her aside and said in a commanding voice, “Mabel. Do you hear me? Please respond, Mabel!”
Beepboopboopbeep. Beepboopboopbeep. “Systems check nearing completion.”
“But, Mabel—”
Beepwhirwhirboopbeep. “Systems check finalizing.”
“Mabel, discontinue—”
Beepbeepboopboop. “Systems check complete.”
Almost instantly, all noises wound down. Mabel’s beeping, booping, whirring, and blinking decreased. After a few seconds, Whit’s End seemed to return to normal. All Connie could hear was her heart pounding in her ears, and her and Eugene’s heavy breaths. She touched him on the arm. “It stopped. You made it stop.”
He looked at the big screen warily. “I’m not sure I did anything.”
She exhaled sharply. “I don’t care. It stopped. Oh, Whit’s going to kill me!”
Eugene still faced the screen but spoke to Connie very carefully. “Well, dare I say it? If we close up this room and go about our business, Mr. Whittaker need never know.”
She was touched. “Eugene . . . would you do that for me?”
He shook his head. “Not just for you; for both of us. Now let’s get out of—”
Beep, whir, beep. “Applesauce proceeding to level two.”
Eugene gulped. “Level . . . two?”
Connie’s heart started pounding again. “What does that mean, level two?”
“I don’t know.”
Whir. “Please enter password.”
His shoulders drooped. “She wants a password.”
Whir. “Please enter password.”
Eugene held up his hands. “I don’t know the password.”
Connie whacked him on the shoulder. “Make something up.”
Whir, beep. “You have ten seconds to enter password.”
A different beeping started, deeper and evenly paced. It grew steadily louder with each beep, and as it did, the noises around Whit’s End wound up again and increased.
Connie was getting frantic. “Everything’s going nuts again! What’s it doing?”
Eugene shook his head. “I don’t know, but I need a password!”
Beep. “Ten.”
“Uh . . . applesauce,” Eugene guessed.
Beep. “Nine.”
“Whit’s End! John Avery!”
Connie grabbed Eugene’s shirt. “What will it do?”
Beep. “Eight.”
“Tom Riley! Whittaker!”
Beep. “Seven.”
“Eugene, what’s it—”
“Quiet, Miss Kendall! Bible!”
Beep. “Six.”
Eugene shouted. “His wife’s name?”
Beep. “Five.”
“What was it?” he squeaked.
Beep. “Four.”
Connie drew a complete blank. “Uh . . .”
Beep. “Three.”
Eugene’s face was red. “Connie?”
Beep. “Two.”
“I don’t remember!”
Beep. “One. You have failed to provide a password. System will now shut down functions until further information is supplied.”
In the soda shop and events rooms, the displays and machines ran at a fever pace, the noises combining into a cacophony. Mabel’s beeps, boops, and whirs increased rapidly, and her lights blinked so fast, they began to strobe. Connie covered her ears. Eugene grimaced. Mabel’s voice slowed down. “Have . . . a . . . nice . . . daaaaay.”
The activity peaked. There were electrical surges, the room lights flickered, there was a loud snap, and then everything suddenly turned off. It wasn’t just the rooms and Mabel but the overhead lights, air-conditioning, outside lights, and everything that made the place run. It all flashed, ground to a halt, and went silent and dark. The whole building was completely quiet, completely dead.
Eugene’s breathing was very shallow. He whispered, “Oh no.”
Connie pulled on his T-shirt sleeve. Her voice quavered. “Eugene? What happened? What have we done?”
He looked extremely pale. “I think . . . we killed Whit’s End.”
A few moments later, many miles away, a soft ding announced the arrival of a notice on a computer screen. The notice read, simply, “Applesauce engaged. Level one successful. Level-two security measures successful. Total shutdown achieved.”
The owner of the screen leaned back in his chair, smiled, and growled softly, “Excellent.” He pressed an autodial button on his phone and then pushed the speaker button.
After three rings, the phone clicked, and a filtered voice on the other end said, “Glossman.”
“Hello, Philip. Have you found him yet?”
“Yes. He’s working as an orderly at the retirement home. You can pretty much guess what he’s doing there.”
“Mmm. Petty but useful. Pick him up and bring him to me.”
“To you? In Chicago?”
“Was I unclear?”
“N-no, sir, but I-I thought you wanted me to put him to work disrupting things here in Odyssey—”
“Events have accelerated, Philip. I take it you talked to Whittaker’s employees as I asked you to?”
“Yes, sir, one of them anyway. The girl—Connie.”
“Mmm. Well, whatever you said to her has worked out splendidly. So I’ll need Maxwell’s skills sooner than expected. Which is why I must meet with him face-to-face. Bring him. Now.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have you found a building for Webster Development yet?”
“Yes, sir. We’re already putting measures in place to acquire it.”
He smiled. “Excellent.”
Chapter Fourteen
All Connie and Eugene could do was wait. She went out to the front porch where the kids were gathered and sent them home. There was nothing for them there, nothing to do now, nothing they could play with, examine, explore, or experience. She couldn’t even fix them a sundae or other treat.
Once they were gone, she came back inside and sat in a booth at the far corner of the soda fountain. After a bit, Eugene came downstairs, saw where she was, and sat down opposite her. Neither of them spoke.
Later (was it minutes or hours?), the front door opened and the bell above the door tinkled. In the absolute quiet, it sounded like an explosion and a gong, followed by footsteps that boomed like cannons with each step. Every noise echoed with a genuine hollowness. The footsteps rounded the entryway into the soda fountain and stopped.
John Avery Whittaker had returned.
“What’s all this?” he muttered. Then he called out, “Connie? Eugene?”
She didn’t want to let him know where they were, but Eugene coughed softly. “Over here, Mr. Whittaker.”
Whit approached them. “Why is everything so dark? Where are all the kids?”
Connie felt sick, as though she’d throw up if she opened her mouth.
Eugene answered again, shakily. “W-we felt it was best to send the young patrons home.”
Whit frowned. “But why? What happened?”
Connie finally found her voice and blurted out, “It all shut down. Everything!”
“Everything?” He looked back and forth at each of them. “Will you please tell me what happened?”
Connie looked at Eugene;
he looked at her. Neither spoke. Whit let out a frustrated sigh. “Well?”
She tried to smile. “Do you wanna guess?”
“No!”
She went silent again.
Whit scowled. “This is silly. You’re both adults. Now tell me what happened.”
She cleared her throat and took a deep breath. “Eugene didn’t know the password.”
Eugene gave her a startled look. “Now just a moment—”
Whit cut in. “The password?” His face fell. “Not for Applesauce!”
Connie and Eugene exchanged guilty glances, and then both turned back to Whit, eyes down, and nodded.
Whit’s shoulders drooped. He looked genuinely grieved. “Oh no. No.”
He looked so sad, so disappointed. Connie couldn’t bear for him to be upset with her. “It’s not my fault, Whit! Not all of it. See, I had to turn on the train because Eugene turned it off last night, and I accidentally loaded Applesauce, and everything started going crazy, and I panicked and Eugene came and—” She had to stop.
Whit looked at her with a piercing stare.
She deflated. Her voice was tiny. “This . . . doesn’t sound very good, does it?”
“How did you know the computer was there, Connie?”
She looked down. “Well, ah, Eugene?”
Whit shifted his stare to Eugene, who cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I-I should have locked the office door, Mr. Whittaker. I should have been more careful. The train wouldn’t turn off, so I went into the computer room, and Miss Kendall saw me and—” He swallowed hard. “This whole thing sounds rather ridiculous, doesn’t it?” He smiled weakly.
But Whit didn’t smile back. His expression was stern. “No, not at all. In fact, it’s extremely serious.”
Connie looked at him searchingly. “But you can fix everything, right, Whit? You can make everything right again, can’t you?”
“I can try,” he said evenly. “But it won’t be easy. You see, Applesauce has a purpose that goes far beyond just Whit’s End. It was designed for many other things that I can’t tell you about. That’s why I installed a fail-safe system.”
“Fail-safe?”
Eugene piped in. “A system that shuts everything down if an unidentified user tries to break in.”
Whit nodded. “You didn’t know the password, so Mabel figured you didn’t belong there. She was right.”
Eugene lowered his head. “I should have known.”
Connie took another deep breath and braced herself. “Okay, Whit . . . go ahead. We deserve it.”
Whit looked confused. “Deserve what?”
“The lecture. We let you down. Go on. Rip into us. We’re ready.”
His stare pierced her soul. “You don’t seem to understand, Connie. I-I can’t simply lecture you. There is more at stake here than that.” He sank into a chair and sighed deeply. He looked so sad, she thought he might be sick.
She reached out to him. “Whit, what’s wrong?”
“I trusted you. I trusted you both to respect my wishes. You—Eugene—to keep that computer room a secret and stay away from Applesauce. And you—Connie—to curb your curiosity enough to know that if I had something to share with you, I would. I trusted you. That trust has been broken.”
She was near tears. “I’m sorry, Whit. I really, truly am.”
Eugene put his hand to his chest. “As am I, Mr. Whittaker!”
Whit nodded slowly. “I believe you. But this time, sorry isn’t enough. You both breached my trust in a very serious way.”
Connie didn’t like where this was going at all. She put her hands on his arm. “We’ll make it up to you. We’ll do anything!”
Whit looked down, and when he looked up again, his piercing stare was gone, but his eyes were filled with tears. “I’m sorry. This grieves me. But I have no choice.”
Connie looked from Whit to Eugene. All the blood had drained from Eugene’s face. He was so pale, he looked like a ghost. He opened and closed his mouth several times, but no sound came out. Tears were now streaming down Connie’s cheeks. This couldn’t be happening! Whit wouldn’t do it. How could he do it? Couldn’t he see how anguished they were, how truly remorseful? She was certain he could. But incredibly, unbelievably, it wasn’t going to matter.
Whit stood and breathed in deeply. “Eugene. Connie. Because of what you’ve done today, effective immediately you are no longer employees of Whit’s End.” A tear escaped from the corner of his eye and trickled down his face. “You’re both . . . fired.”
No! “Whit,” Connie pleaded softly.
“If you’ll excuse me, I have some cleaning up to do.” He turned, walked away from them, mounted the stairs, and was gone.
Eugene sniffled miserably.
Connie wept bitterly. “Whit.”
Keep reading for a preview of book 2, Pawn’s Play.
Book 2 Preview
Richard Maxwell was sweating.
A lot.
Despite the cool air of his present location—wherever it was—sweat beaded on his forehead and upper lip and trickled down his back, soaking his shirt. He had obviously messed up somewhere. But how? He was certain he had accounted for all the variables. No one could have known. He didn’t make any mistakes.
Or so he thought until a few hours ago. That’s when he realized how wrong he was.
Was it a few hours ago? It could have been longer. It was hard to tell time in the back of a sealed-up van with no windows or lights.
It was like something out of a bad movie: he was walking home from his job at the retirement home, having just pulled off his best haul yet, when a van pulled up beside him, and two beefy guys manhandled him into the back. They slid the door shut, and the van took off so fast, he slid to the rear and banged his head against the back door.
They drove for a long time, and when they finally stopped and opened the door, he was surprised to see they were in a nearly empty warehouse. The only things in it were the van and a small table with two chairs lit by a pool of light from the ceiling. The beefy guys pulled him out of the van and sat him down in one of the chairs. One of them placed the backpack of pilfered items on the table, and then they both turned and left, their footsteps echoing in the darkness.
A man with pasty skin, thinning salt-and-pepper hair, a potbelly, and milky gray eyes sat in the chair opposite him, looking at the contents of a file folder. The angle of the light caused his hooked nose to cast a strange shadow across his mouth and chin.
Without looking up, the man said, “Richard Maxwell: con artist, swindler, manipulator, and now—” He set down the folder and upended the backpack. The day’s haul spilled onto the table. The man smirked at him. “—petty thief. My, my, you’ve led quite a life for someone so young, haven’t you?”
Richard thought there was something familiar about this guy. He’d seen him somewhere. It hit him. “I know you. You’re like a city-government guy from Odyssey, right?”
The man smiled a greasy sort of smile. “Not like. Am. Councilman Philip Glossman. I wish I could say I was pleased to make your acquaintance. But I’m not.”
Richard licked his lips nervously. “Look, I was just holding that stuff for a friend—”
Glossman held up a finger and wagged it, pursing his lips and shaking his head slightly. “Please. Don’t even try.”
This was weird, Richard thought. Since when could city councilmen arrest people? And why all the subterfuge? He fought to stay cool. “So where am I? What is this place?”
“All in good time, Richard. All in good time.” Glossman examined the contents of the backpack. He picked up a gold brooch shaped like a butterfly. Tiny, sparkling diamonds lined its wings. “Pretty,” he smirked. “Though it doesn’t really go with your outfit.”
That was it. Richard slammed his hands on the table and jumped up. “What is this? What’s going on here?”
Glossman continued smirking. “Sit down, Richard,” he said evenly.
Richard leaned across the table
. “I’ve got rights! You can’t arrest me without telling me why.”
Glossman laughed. “Who said you’re arrested?”
Richard leaned back slowly and swallowed hard. “If you’re not arresting me, then . . .” He sank down in the chair, heart pounding. “You’re kidnapping me?”
A bigger laugh. “Hardly! Why kidnap someone nobody would pay a ransom for?”
“Then what’s going on?” His voice was almost pleading. “Why did you bring me here?”
Glossman scooted back his chair, stood, and stepped behind it. “I’ve brought you here to meet someone—someone who very much wants to meet you.” He turned his head and called into the darkness behind him. “Sir!”
Richard heard a door open, though he saw no light. The door closed. One set of footsteps accompanied by the occasional tap-tap of a walking stick echoed in the empty building. They were headed right toward him and grew louder with each step and tap.
Suddenly a man appeared in the pool of light. He was tall and lean with angular features. He wore a black, three-piece suit, tailored to fit him perfectly. The coat fell almost to his knees, the trousers were sharply creased, and his black shoes were polished to a high gloss. He carried a black walking stick with a polished gold knob for a handle. His hair was jet black, save for white streaks that ran from both temples to the back of his head. His mustache and Vandyke beard were also jet black.
Glossman held out the chair for the man, and he glided into it with an easy grace, placing his walking stick on the table atop the pilfered loot. He looked across the table and smiled, teeth gleaming, and his gaze sent chills down Richard’s spine.
“Hello, Richard.” The man’s voice was deep, dark, rich, and cold as ice. “I’m Dr. Regis Blackgaard. You and I need to talk.”