by Phil Lollar
The move involved fruit—apples, to be precise.
Tom Riley’s apples, to be even more precise.
It began when kids started getting sick at Whit’s End. It was nothing serious, just stomachaches and nausea, but Doctor Garrison suspected it might be something chemical, like an insecticide or bug spray. Connie insisted, and Whit confirmed, that no insecticides were kept anywhere near the food, neither in the kitchen nor at the counter. After a bit of deduction, Whit and Connie determined that the three sick kids all had eaten something that contained apples. Apples from the Riley farm.
Back at the farm, Tom’s horse, Rachel, was also ill. And then young Curt Stevens appeared in the barn, informing Tom that the fish in his creek were not well—in fact, they looked dead. The same creek Tom used to irrigate his orchard, and the same creek Rachel drank from when she got out of the stable a few days ago.
Tom immediately recalled all of his apples and contacted the local environmental agency. But he also determined that wasn’t good enough. “This is my responsibility,” he’d insisted. “It’s my land and my apples, and I don’t want to hand it off to somebody else. I’m gonna find out who’s messing up my creek—and I’m gonna find out now!”
And so, about an hour and a hot, sweaty trek through the woods later, Tom and Curt found a barrel, lying on its side, open and empty, rusting in the creek bed. With a bit of effort, they managed to turn it over to reveal a name painted on its other side.
The name was “Edgebiter.”
Back at his workshop at Whit’s End, Whit had just finished running tests on water samples he had collected from Tom’s farm when Tom called to tell him about the barrel and the company name. Tom added that he and Curt were in the lobby of the Edgebiter Chemical corporate office at this very moment, waiting to file a complaint with a customer service representative.
When Whit heard the company name, he stayed outwardly calm, but his heart beat a little faster and his mind began to race. After Tom hung up, Whit went back to his office, secured the door, and pulled from his desk drawer a slip of paper on which he had scribbled “. . . ebit . .” He sank into his chair and quickly filled in the blank spaces around those letters:
“E-d-g-e-b-i-t-e-r.”
A piece in the chess match had definitely just moved.
Edgebiter Chemical had supplied Blackgaard with equipment, materials, and possibly even chemicals for his secret lab in the basement of Blackgaard’s Castle—a lab that opened to a tunnel that led directly under Whit’s End.
The frightening thought he had at Blackgaard’s Castle and after talking with Jason struck him again, and this time he could not suppress it. Is it possible that Blackgaard . . . actually . . . knows? Whit shook his head and muttered, “But how could he? It’s not possible.” It was a deeply held secret that no one knew but him and Jack, and Jack would never tell . . . would he? “No!” he said aloud, more forcefully. Despite their falling out, Jack would not do such a thing.
Still, there was no denying Blackgaard’s longstanding interest in Whit’s End—and now there was a clear indication that he was also interested in what was under the old building as well. Whit leaned back in his chair and stroked his chin.
Finding out what chemicals—if any—Edgebiter had supplied Blackgaard would go a long way toward confirming what Blackgaard knew. But it was unlikely that Edgebiter would just hand over that information to Whit, especially after he and Tom filed a formal complaint against the company with the government’s environmental agency about its chemical spill on Tom’s farm. If he were to go after Blackgaard’s purchases from Edgebiter, he’d have to do it in court, but doing so would mean actually revealing to the public his deeply held secret—the very information he was currently only suspicious Blackgaard knew.
No. Going to court would be playing into Blackgaard’s hands. He wouldn’t do that, and he was certain Jack hadn’t done it, either. But if Blackgaard does have the information, and he didn’t get it from Jack, then how did he get it?
Whit looked at the bookshelf, behind which was hidden his computer room. Richard Maxwell had assured him that Blackgaard also hadn’t gotten Applesauce. Despite all the bad things Maxwell had done, Whit believed him. Then a new thought occurred.
Just because Blackgaard hadn’t gotten the program didn’t mean someone else couldn’t have downloaded it.
After the Blackgaard’s Castle debacle, Lucy confessed to Whit that she had heard him give the password verbally to Mabel, the computer’s interface. He didn’t suspect Lucy, of course, but anyone else who might have been listening in at that moment would have definitely heard it as well. And he had a good idea of who that might be.
The agency.
Whit scanned his office for their listening device; it could be hidden anywhere. Aside from Blackgaard, they were the only ones with the needed resources, abilities, and interest in the Applesauce program to surreptitiously download it from Mabel. Just as with Edgebiter, though, he had no proof of their involvement, and they would simply deny it if he asked them. He needed more information—rock-solid evidence. He sighed. Of course, even if he were able to get it, he wasn’t sure exactly what he could do about any of this.
He pondered that for a long moment and then dismissed the thought. “I’ll cross that bridge when—and if—I come to it,” he muttered aloud. Meanwhile, there was one thing he could do. He leaned forward in his chair, unlocked and opened another desk drawer, and pulled out the tunnel map. He placed it on his desk and studied it carefully. He was fairly certain that the tunnels themselves were historically valuable—especially the one under Whit’s End, so he couldn’t collapse it completely. But he could definitely block access to the tunnel from Blackgaard’s Castle.
He found the point on the map he was looking for, started to rise from his chair, but then stopped. He sat back down, folded his hands together, bowed his head, and prayed softly.
“Lord God, You know all things. Guide me. Help me make the best decisions. Give me strength to face what lies ahead and do what needs to be done. Protect us all, I pray. In Your Son’s holy name, amen.”
No sooner had he unfolded his hands and looked up than a word popped clearly into his mind:
Missions.
His brow furrowed. Strange, he thought. After a moment, he shrugged his shoulders and pushed back his chair. Again, the word popped into his mind, more forcefully:
Missions!
He swallowed hard, shook his head to clear his thoughts, took a cleansing breath, and started to get up.
And the word came once more, this time from an audible voice, so strong and rich and pure it slammed him back down into his chair:
“MISSIONS!!”
Wide-eyed, breathing hard, pulse racing, he was aware that the room took on a sepia hue and appeared tilted, though his chair and everything on his desk stayed in place. Almost without realizing it, he reached for the phone and dialed a number. When the receiver on the other end clicked to life, he heard himself talk as calmly as if he were having tea and conversation with Tom on the porch downstairs on a lazy summer afternoon.
“Bill? John Whittaker . . . Fine, thanks. Listen, I’ve been thinking about Universal Press getting involved in missions work, long-term missions . . . I know, but I think it’s something we should be doing. It’s important . . . South America and the Middle East, for starters . . . Yes, I know we’re beginning from scratch.
“I need you to set up some meetings where we can lay the foundations on this . . . I realize it will take some time; that’s why I want to get started now . . . Who will be going? Well . . . me . . . I know, I never thought I’d leave Odyssey long-term, either, but this is something I think I need to do. Now I’m not ready to go just yet, but I do want things in place when the time is right . . . Good, Bill. Let me know when the first meeting is set. Thanks.”
He placed the receiver in its cradle and instantly relaxed, his breaths coming more evenly now. He looked around the room. Everything was normal. He adjusted his gl
asses, inhaled and exhaled sharply, puffing out his cheeks, and then glanced upward. “Missions, eh?” he said lightly, his voice cracking. He nodded slowly. “Okay, Lord. Thy will be done.”
He picked up the tunnel map, rose cautiously from his chair, and walked a bit unsteadily out of his office, closing the door behind him.
Chapter Six
CHICAGO, ILLINOIS
“There you are.”
Richard Maxwell scrunched down in a booth in the back of a small diner across from the Excelsior Hotel in Chicago. He was as discreet as he could be for someone looking through a small pair of binoculars. The diner was nearly empty, so he didn’t need the anonymity of the dark baseball cap, sunglasses, and black jacket with the turned-up collar he was wearing. But when he caught his reflection in the diner window, he decided he liked the look and the image, so he kept his attire in place. And now his discretion and patience had been rewarded; the object of his semi-clandestine surveillance had finally appeared: one Gregory Kelly.
He would have recognized Kelly anywhere—same short, stocky build; same long, greasy blond hair combed back and chopped off at the neck; same pimply complexion. “Hello, you slime ball,” Maxwell hissed quietly.
Through his binoculars, he watched Kelly pace back and forth between the hotel’s main entrance and the entrance to its parking garage. Kelly carried a large black sports bag emblazoned with the symbol of some tennis shoe company. “Sloppy, Greg,” Maxwell muttered. “Someone could recognize the bag. And could you look more nervous? Good grief!”
Kelly finally stopped at the parking garage. He waited for a couple of cars to go inside and then looked back at the main entrance. Making sure it’s clear, Maxwell thought. Kelly then slunk into the garage entrance and disappeared from sight.
Maxwell relaxed back into the booth seat and sipped his soda, still keeping an eye out the window. He had been released early from the Campbell County Detention Center three days ago, after serving two years of his sentence. The warden’s parting words still rang in his ears: “You’ve been given a great gift, Maxwell. Take advantage of it. Do good. Learn. Grow. Make something of yourself.”
For a moment, he’d thought he was listening to Whittaker and wondered if the old man had actually told the warden what to say. But he nodded solemnly to the warden and said, “Yes, sir. Thank you. I will.” And he meant it; he had every intention of taking advantage of his situation—just not in the way the warden meant.
He had gotten out early for good behavior, and no one was more surprised about that than he was, for a couple of reasons. First, he’d never in his life gotten anything for being good. And second, he was surprised because of who ended up in the detention center with him: one Myron Horowitz. Myron liked to be known as “Jellyfish,” and he was Maxwell’s old fence for merchandise that he pinched from the folks at the Odyssey Retirement Home. Thanks to Myron and his crew, Maxwell had thought he might end up with months, or even years, added to his sentence.
Myron had managed to get himself nabbed by the authorities for some silly thing and wound up arriving at CCDC shortly after Maxwell. At first, he was so scared he stuck to Maxwell like glue. But before long, Myron started making friends—and not the good kind. Maxwell didn’t want anything to do with them, and he tried to keep to himself, which was a mistake in detention. On the inside, you needed allies; there was nothing worse than being a loner—which meant that Maxwell not only got picked on and roughed up on a regular basis, but he also got blamed whenever anything bad happened, usually caused by Myron and his friends.
Fortunately, Jellyfish had a short stay in detention; as soon as he was gone, his little gang dispersed, and things improved dramatically for Maxwell. Even so, he vowed not to forget what Myron “Jellyfish” Horowitz had done to him and to repay the favor one day. But first things first. Though Myron had made his life in detention quite difficult, Maxwell had learned a bit of useful information from him: Greg Kelly was working for Blackgaard in Chicago.
Maxwell first met Greg when they both had jobs in the Chicago sewer system. Greg showed him the ins and outs of the system, and Maxwell realized that it could help him with his other unlawful activities around the city. One of his cardinal rules was to always have a good escape route nearby, and in most cases, there was none better than a sewer system—it was easily accessible, and it went everywhere.
He was surprised to learn that Kelly worked for Blackgaard and had worked for him back in the old days before Maxwell had even met the nefarious doctor. Maxwell wondered if Kelly were responsible for bringing him to Blackgaard’s attention. If so, he’d need to “thank” Greg one day in the same way he planned to “thank” Myron.
But right now, he needed Kelly to lead him to the bigger prize: Blackgaard himself. Since Kelly was working for him, it was a safe assumption that Blackgaard either was in Chicago or would be, eventually. But even so, Maxwell had no idea where Blackgaard’s warehouse was located. Sure, he’d been there once before, but that was a while ago, and he had gotten there in the back of a windowless van. But Kelly must know where the warehouse was, Maxwell reasoned. He had to take the goods he was pilfering somewhere.
As if on cue, Kelly emerged from the garage, sports bag slung over one shoulder, looking significantly heavier than it did when he went into the garage. He headed up the street. Maxwell tossed a few dollars on the table, bolted from the booth, and ran from the diner, hoping against hope that Kelly didn’t have a car.
He didn’t. Instead, Kelly went to the nearest L train stop. Maxwell followed, keeping a discreet distance. He was amazed at Kelly’s brazenness—he was moving stolen goods in broad daylight on public transportation. On the other hand, why not? So long as he kept to himself, no one would notice him or question what he had in the bag.
The train pulled into the station, and both Kelly and Maxwell hopped aboard. After about a twenty-minute ride—during which Maxwell pretended to be asleep behind his sunglasses but was actually watching Kelly’s every move—Kelly got off at the Fulton River District stop. Maxwell waited until Kelly had disembarked and headed for the stairs before he jumped up and skidded out of the train car himself, barely making it through the doors before they slid shut. He scanned the crowd for his mark, saw Kelly just about to descend the stairs, and raced after him, dodging workers, commuters, and tourists as deftly as he could.
As he tailed Kelly down the street, Maxwell took in his surroundings. They were definitely in the city’s warehouse district, on the northwest side near the Chicago River. It was a mix of old and new buildings, and it looked as if some of the older warehouses were being converted into condos. Kelly walked several blocks and finally turned down an alley between two older buildings.
Maxwell sidled up to the alley entrance and peered around the corner. Kelly strode up to a door on the northernmost building, knocked in a strange pattern, stepped back, and held out his arms. After a few seconds, the door opened, a large man peered out, and Maxwell’s heart nearly skipped a beat. He recognized the man as one of the goons who had muscled him into the windowless van that brought him here the first time.
This was it. Blackgaard’s warehouse.
Kelly went inside and the thug shut the door. Maxwell slid back around the corner, his heart pounding in his chest. He took a deep breath. Now what?
He decided he would do the only thing he could do: scope out the building for all its entrances and exits, find a nice, high, cozy spot from which to surveil the place, take note of everyone who comes and goes there, and then wait for an opportunity to present itself.
“And when it does,” he muttered, “sweet revenge, Blackgaard.” He smiled. “Sweet revenge.”
Chapter Seven
LONDON, ENGLAND
“Are you certain you want to do this, my friend?”
Dr. Blackgaard smiled and took a sip of hot tea, his thin finger snaked through the delicate handle of the dainty cup. “Quite certain, Hakim,” he replied once he had swallowed the steaming liquid and replaced the cup i
n its saucer. “But you seem unsure now.”
Hakim returned the smile and nibbled on a biscuit, which is what the British call a cookie. “Not at all. It’s just that, once you make this decision, there is no going back.” Another nibble. “Red Scorpion does not tolerate dissent.”
“Since I have no intention of dissenting, there is nothing to worry about, is there?” Blackgaard gulped the remaining tea in his cup and then set it and the saucer on the small table in front of them.
Hakim took another nibble of his biscuit and studied Blackgaard intently for a few moments. He then placed the remainder of the biscuit back on its plate. “Very well. I will make the necessary calls and tell Mustafa of your interest. Do not expect an immediate response, however.”
Blackgaard nodded. “Understood. Though I would . . . emphasize . . . to him the importance and urgency of the situation. Respectfully, of course.”
“Of course.”
The two men rose from their chairs and embraced. When they broke, Blackgaard grasped Hakim’s hand. “I’m looking forward to doing great things together, my friend. Very great things, indeed.” Hakim smiled politely once more. Blackgaard dropped his hand, and with a slight bow, Hakim turned and left the café.
Blackgaard watched him go, tapped on his ascot, and then retrieved his walking stick. He laid some coins on the table, adjusted his frock coat, and strolled outside, taking in the cloudy morning sky for a few moments. He then strolled up the street to the end of the block. There he turned and continued his trek for another half a block, until he came to an alley. He paused and, when he was certain no one was watching, moved quickly into the passageway and stepped lightly toward a large white delivery truck parked there.
He knocked thrice on the back door of the truck, and a few seconds later, the door slid open. He climbed inside, and the door slid shut in one smooth motion.