Rook's Ruse

by Phil Lollar

  Dr. Farber spied the bandage. “How’s the arm?”

  “A little singed.” Whit shrugged. “I’ve had much worse.”

  The doctor smiled. “I understand you’ve been waiting to hear about your friend Lucy?”

  “Yes, we all have.”

  Dr. Farber consulted her chart. “Well, she’s pretty banged up . . . a possible concussion and some nasty bruises. We’re going to have to watch her closely. She’s had quite a shock—literally.”

  “I know the feeling,” Whit replied. “But . . . she’ll be all right?”

  The doctor nodded. “I think it’s safe to say so, yes.”

  Connie heaved a sigh of relief and leaned against Eugene. “Oh, thank the Lord!”

  Eugene pushed her back upright.

  “Can we see her?” asked Whit.

  “Not right now,” Dr. Farber demurred. “Her parents are watching her. I gave her a sedative in Emergency. She needs all the rest she can get, and I’d like to keep it that way for a while.”

  “We understand. Thank you.”

  Dr. Farber took a breath. “That wasn’t the only reason I came to talk with you—I also brought you a visitor.” She turned back and called, “Uh, Sheriff?”

  Eugene gulped. “Sheriff?”

  “If you’ll excuse me, I have other patients to attend to.”

  “Of course. Thanks again, Doctor.”

  Dr. Farber walked away as the sheriff approached. He tipped his hat. “’Lo, Whit.”

  Whit nodded. “Bill.”

  The sheriff sighed. “I don’t know how to say this, Whit, without comin’ right out and sayin’ it. We’re gonna have to conduct an investigation into this incident.”

  “Investigation?!” Connie squawked. “It was an accident!”

  Whit gave her a sideways glance. “Connie . . .” She backed off. He turned back to the sheriff. “I understand, Bill.”

  “Well, you know what that means,” the sheriff said apologetically. “Now, it’ll just be temporary, until the investigation is over.” He pulled a paper from his back pocket. “I got a court order here—”

  Connie and Eugene started at the sight of the order, but Whit continued before they could say anything. “Of course, Bill. I’ll cooperate with you fully. But you won’t need the court order. I was gonna close down Whit’s End myself anyway.”

  This time, he couldn’t stop his employees’ outbursts.

  “What?!”

  “Mr. Whittaker!”

  Whit held up his hand and that stopped them from saying any more, at least temporarily.

  The sheriff nodded. “All right, Whit. We’ll work out the details in the morning.” He tipped his hat again. “G’night, all.” He turned and strolled away.

  “Good night, Bill,” Whit called after him.

  Connie and Eugene were on him almost immediately.

  “Close it down?”

  “But why?”

  Whit frowned. “I’m conducting an investigation of my own. I have to make sure Whit’s End is safe.”

  “But it was an accident, Whit!” Connie implored. “An accident!”

  “I know, I know.” He looked them both in the eyes sincerely and with great affection, and then dropped his gaze to the floor. “Look . . . my place was designed and built to help kids. And now it’s done just the opposite. I have to make sure that doesn’t happen again.” He took a step back and looked up at them again. “I’m sorry, but until further notice, Whit’s End is closed.”

  He turned and walked away.

  They watched him go in stunned silence.

  Chapter Nine

  The following morning found Dr. Regis Blackgaard sitting at the desk in his office, eyes closed, leaning back in his executive leather chair, petting Sasha. They both appeared to be very serene, but their peace was shattered by Richard Maxwell, who came barreling down the hallway toward them.

  “Blackgaard!” he shouted. “Dr. Blackgaard!”

  Blackgaard opened his eyes, leaned forward, and called out, “There’s no need for shouting, Richard. I’m here in the office, as you well know.”

  Maxwell appeared in the doorway, huffing and puffing, his face red and sweaty. He carried a copy of the Odyssey Times newspaper, which he shook at Blackgaard. “I want to talk to you!”

  Blackgaard scratched Sasha behind the ears. She purred contentedly. “You seem distraught, Richard.”

  Maxwell crossed to the desk opposite him. “I’m not distraught—I’m mad! Have you seen today’s newspaper?”

  “No, I don’t believe so.” Blackgaard smiled benignly.

  Maxwell slammed the newspaper on the desk—startling Sasha—and shoved it at Blackgaard. “Here . . . read it!”

  Blackgaard glanced at it casually. “Oh! We’re expecting rain tomorrow.”

  “Very funny!” Maxwell spat. “You know what I’m talking about!” He jabbed his finger at the headline. “That! Read it!”

  Blackgaard remained unflappable and read aloud, “‘One of Odyssey’s Most Successful Businesses Under Investigation . . . Whit’s End Closes After Child Injured in Invention.’” He smiled delightedly. “Well, what do you know! We made the front page! Above the fold, too! Congratulations—it appears we were successful!”

  “Too successful!” Maxwell roared. “That injured child is Lucy! She’s in the hospital!”

  Blackgaard’s face oozed sympathy. “Oh, Richard, I am sorry. That is distressing news. We must send our best wishes and some flowers to her room, as well. Does it say where she’s staying?” He leaned over the paper again, and Maxwell jerked it out from under his face.

  “That’s it?!” he exploded. “That’s all you have to say?”

  “Yes,” Blackgaard replied, gazing at him coolly.

  Maxwell flung the paper across the room, scattering it everywhere. Sasha bolted from Blackgaard’s lap to her spot under the credenza and peered out from it.

  Maxwell began to pace back and forth furiously. “I can’t believe this! We could’ve killed her!”

  Blackgaard cocked his head to one side and scrutinized Maxwell, as though he were analyzing a patient. “Richard, I’m hearing something in your voice I don’t quite believe: You don’t actually care about Lucy, do you?”

  Maxwell jerked to a halt. His hands clenched and unclenched, and he fumbled for words. “I . . . you . . . don’t try to . . . she’s just . . . a nice kid . . . that’s all.”

  “So was little Nicky Adamsworth at the college . . . wasn’t he?”

  Maxwell glared at him for a moment and then looked away. “That was different . . . besides, I didn’t put Nicky in the hospital.”

  “I see,” Blackgaard responded solemnly. He took a breath. “Well, Richard, I am sorry about Lucy, but this is business. You can’t let sentiment get in the way. If you want success, sometimes sacrifices have to be made.”

  Maxwell wheeled on him. “Sacrifices! Don’t talk to me about sacrifices! I’ve lied for you! I’ve manipulated people for you! I’m trying to steal a computer program for you! I even got Tom Riley out of the way for you—”

  “By burning down his barn,” Blackgaard interjected smoothly.

  “That was an accident! And don’t change the subject! When it comes to putting kids in the hospital, that goes too far. Especially Lucy!”

  Blackgaard leaned back in his chair again and laced his fingers together across his chest. “Really?” he said evenly. “And just what do you propose to do about it?”

  Maxwell shook with fury. “I’ll . . . I’ll—”

  “You’ll what? Tell somebody?” Blackgaard chortled derisively. “Oh, really, Richard, sometimes you’re too amusing. Whom will you tell? The police? Considering your less-than-shining track record with them, I hardly think you’ll risk it. Whittaker? I’d love to hear that conversation.”

  He mocked Richard’s voice, “‘Oh, Mr. Whittaker, I’m terribly sorry I put dear little Lucy in the hospital, but I didn’t know she’d be foolish enough to run into the Imagination Station
while I was sabotaging it with a computer program I stole from you.’”

  He chortled again. “You see, Richard? You have no one to tell—no one. Even if you did, I’d simply inform on you. And who do you think the authorities will believe—a respected, multidegreed, middle-aged businessman, or a twenty-year-old punk with a criminal past?”

  Maxwell’s face flushed purple and his jaw clenched. He leaned across the desk and snarled, “Then I’ll find another way!”

  Blackgaard’s coal-black eyes snapped. He rose slowly from his chair and towered over Maxwell, a sneer curling his lips. “Now you listen to me, boy,” he growled. “I haven’t spent the past five years of my life—longer, even—working to get into this town just to let someone like you ruin things.” He poked his finger in Maxwell’s chest.

  Maxwell blinked and his eyes narrowed. “Five years?”

  “That’s right—five years!” He walked around the desk. “I tried to buy Whittaker’s building back then, but he and his wife stopped me . . . I’m settling that score now, but that’s nothing—nothing—compared to the importance of Applesauce.”

  “Applesauce?” Maxwell snorted. “I’ve seen it—it’s not so great.”

  “You’ve seen nothing! Do you think Whittaker simply invented that program overnight? He was developing it long before he ever thought about Whit’s End! Applesauce has power and potential you can’t possibly begin to imagine. The things you saw were insignificant. Hidden inside the program is something of incomparable value. I’ve worked long and hard for it, and now that it’s within my grasp, no one—especially a pip-squeak like you—is going to ruin it for me. Is that clear?”

  Maxwell scowled at him. Blackgaard moved to him swiftly, grabbed him by the shirt, and with surprising strength, nearly lifted him off the ground. “I said, Is that clear?”

  Maxwell breathed heavily but looked Blackgaard straight in the eyes. “Yeah,” he said in a quiet voice, “it’s clear.”

  Blackgaard released him, took a cleansing breath, and smiled curtly. “Good. Now, have you found out anything more about the password?”

  “No,” Maxwell replied sullenly. “I was on my way to do that when I saw the newspaper.”

  Blackgaard gestured at the scattered newsprint. “Well, now that we’ve taken care of that, don’t you think you’d better get back to work?”

  “Yeah.” Maxwell nodded. “But I have some things I have to do around here first.”

  “And I have errands of my own to run, so I suggest we both get to it.” Blackgaard grabbed his walking stick, moved to the office door, and stopped to check his image in a mirror hanging just beside it. “Richard,” he said while gazing at himself admiringly, “you can come along with me, or you can stay behind if that’s your choice. But get in my way . . . and I’ll squash you like the little bug you are.”

  He made a quick adjustment to his ascot and collar, smiled and examined his teeth, and then turned and tapped Maxwell smartly on the shoulder with the tip of his cane. “Just remember that.”

  Blackgaard took a step into the hallway and then leaned back in and added, “Pick up that newspaper. Oh—and clean out Sasha’s litter box. There’s a good lad.” He chuckled and left, his footsteps echoing down the hallway.

  Maxwell stood motionless for a moment, calming himself. He then picked up and refolded the Odyssey Times, but when Sasha meowed at him, he muttered, “Forget it. I am not cleaning your litter box.”

  Instead, Maxwell moved to the mirror and checked his image. His face was returning to its normal color. He smoothed his mussed hair, smiled and examined his teeth. They were perfect as ever. He stared into his own eyes. “We’ll see who squashes whom, Blackgaard,” he said calmly. His gaze moved to the reflection of the computer on the desk. He smirked and gave himself a wink. “We’ll just see . . .”

  Chapter Ten

  Whit sat at the counter in the soda fountain at Whit’s End, sipping a cup of coffee. He needed a little time to clear his mind, and as usual, when he did that, his thoughts took him back to his boyhood days—his early years in Scotland, and later growing up in Provenance, North Carolina.

  He had been around the world several times and had lived in many places in his life, but he was always drawn to small towns. He felt more alive in them, which he attributed to the wonderful experiences he’d had in them as a kid—though when he thought about those experiences now, he marveled that he had survived some of them.

  Both his mother, Janneth, and his stepmother, Fiona, had told him that the Christian life is a grand adventure, to be experienced to the fullest. He very clearly remembered deciding early on to prove them right, and he believed the best places to do that were small towns.

  Yes, he’d done good work and had great experiences during his Pasadena and Chicago years. But he felt he’d lost that sense of adventure in those places—no, not lost . . . forgotten. It had taken his son Jerry’s death in Vietnam to remind him how important it was to live with that sense of adventure. That was a big reason why he’d moved to Odyssey—to remember, and to pass on to his other children, Jana and Jason, and now to the kids around town, just what a grand adventure life, especially the Christian life, really is. It’s why he’d turned to inventing, so he could help them understand. And now one of his inventions—the one meant to help them the most—had hurt someone, maybe seriously, maybe permanently.

  He sighed, took another sip, and contemplated the dust particles dancing on the shafts of sunlight that streamed through the windows at this time of day. He wondered if there was a mathematical formula to predict their movements—Eugene might know. And then he further thought that since, as the Bible says, humans are formed from dust and return to dust, then wasn’t he really watching people dance on shafts of light?

  Eugene’s voice brought him out of his reverie.

  “Mr. Whittaker?”

  “Over here at the counter, Eugene.”

  The young man appeared on the stairs. “Ah!”

  Whit smiled and felt a great surge of affection for him. Eugene clomped down the remaining steps and crossed the room to join him. “May I ask what we are looking at?”

  “Oh, I had just forgotten how the late afternoon sun really lights up this room.”

  Eugene considered the dust in the sunbeams. “Indeed. It reminds me of the pattern an electrical current makes as it flows through a microchip processor . . .”

  Whit stifled a chuckle. Yep, Eugene would know all right. “I’ve never thought of it that way. I decided to take a break—we’ve been going at it all day. Would you care for a refreshment?”

  “A glass of orange juice would be quite satisfactory.”

  “Comin’ right up.” Whit rose, moved behind the counter, and retrieved the juice from the fridge and a tall glass from the shelf.

  “Actually, I just wanted to tell you that I’ve completed my check of the train set. The results are the same as with the other displays—no malfunctions.”

  Whit nodded. “Yeah, I figured as much. Here’s your juice.” He set it on the counter in front of him.

  “Thank you.” Eugene picked it up, took a sip, and gazed at Whit intently.

  Whit smiled. “Is something wrong, Eugene?”

  “Interesting. I was about to ask you the same question, Mr. Whittaker. You seem . . . distracted.”

  Whit slid back onto his stool. “Oh . . . I just feel like I should be at the hospital with Lucy instead of here fiddling with this place.”

  Eugene nodded thoughtfully. “Well, I really don’t believe there is anything you can do there.”

  Whit sighed. “I know.”

  “Besides,” Eugene continued, “Miss Kendall is keeping vigil. I’m sure she’ll contact us the moment Lucy awakens. And since the authorities have allowed us to conduct our own investigation, it seems to me that your immediate concern is right here at Whit’s End.”

  “Yes, you’re right,” Whit said tiredly. He looked around the room and muttered, “Sometimes I wonder if it’s worth it . .
.”

  Eugene’s brow furrowed. “Beg pardon?” He took another drink.

  Whit gestured toward the room. “Keeping this place open—sometimes I wonder if it’s worth it. Maybe I should just close it down for good.”

  Eugene nearly choked on his juice. “B-but why?”

  Whit huffed. “Because it’s caused me a whole lot of trouble ever since I first laid eyes on it! People have been hurt: my wife . . . you and Connie . . . and now Lucy.”

  “But look at all the people who’ve been helped!” Eugene exclaimed. “I’m certain each person you mentioned—and scores more—would heartily agree that Whit’s End has been a bright spot in their lives!” He put his hand on his chest. “I, myself, have benefitted in a number of ways from my time here!”

  Whit shrugged. “Well, it’s nice of you to say so, Eugene, but I just don’t know . . . I tell you what—closing down sure would make my life a lot easier.”

  “Perhaps for a while, but a person of your creativity and intellect would soon become bored and listless.” There was a pause, and Eugene swallowed hard and leaned in. “Mr. Whittaker . . . Whit . . .”

  Whit perked up at that. Eugene disliked nicknames intensely.

  Eugene continued. “You have so much to offer. Don’t throw it all away because of an unfortunate accident.”

  Whit searched the young man’s face. Though Eugene’s hair covered most of his eyes behind his glasses, Whit could still see the sincerity in those eyes. He knew that Eugene had just done something that was very difficult for him—speak directly from the heart. He was touched by the young man’s admission. It was actually remarkable, considering Eugene wasn’t a Christian. Perhaps Whit’s End and the people in it were having an effect on him after all.

  He smiled warmly, and though he knew Eugene also shied away from physical contact, he reached over and patted his forearm. “Thank you, Eugene.” The young man sat up a bit straighter, clearly uncomfortable, but he didn’t move his arm. Whit felt another rush of affection.

  He leaned back, took a deep breath, and said more brightly, “Well, whatever I do, we still have to find out what happened to the Imagination Station.”