by Phil Lollar
Whit nodded at him. “Thanks. I’ll need your handcuffs, Agent Phillips.”
“Why?”
“Another safeguard. I’m cuffing the computer to my wrist. It won’t go anywhere without me.”
Phillips sighed again, pulled out his cuffs, and handed them to Whit. “Here. What about the key?”
Whit attached one cuff to the computer case handle and the other to his wrist. “Just so you know I’m on the up-and-up, you keep it.”
Phillips grunted. “Anything else?”
“Yes, I’d like a moment alone.”
“For what?”
“To pray.”
“Pray?”
“That’s right.” Whit grasped the handle of the computer case with both hands. “It’s the best safeguard I know.”
Connie watched the second hand of the clock on the wall in Blackgaard’s office tick past the number twelve. The minute hand moved to the eleven, and the hour hand inched closer to the six. Five fifty-five p.m. “Dr. Blackgaard . . .”
“Yes, Miss Kendall?”
“It’s almost six o’clock. Shouldn’t we be going?”
“Where to?”
“The big clock.”
Blackgaard brushed lint from his frock coat casually. “And have government agents crawling all over us? You must be joking.”
“But Whit is going to be there. Waiting. Just like you said.”
“So I did. Well, perhaps plans have changed since you two spoke on the phone.”
“Changed? But I thought—”
He wagged his finger at her. “No, no, Miss Kendall, don’t try to think. Leave that to me.” He smiled. “Dr. Blackgaard will take care of everything.”
Whit stood in the middle of the plaza at North University’s South Park Campus, clutching the computer case handcuffed to his wrist. Arts and crafts booths dotted the landscape, offering wares ranging from amateur to professional, and from the conventional to the esoteric. A wandering brass band regaled the large crowd with classics and was currently engaged in a spirited rendition of “Listen to the Mocking Bird.”
Agent Phillips and Woody watched it all from their perch atop the science building. “Everyone in place, Woody?”
“Yes, sir. They’ve all checked in and are hooked up to your remote mic.”
“Good. Your binoculars.”
Woody handed them over, and Phillips adjusted the focus until Whit was clearly in view. “Mm . . . Whittaker is under the clock. Okay, boys, let’s pay close attention. There’re too many people around. Whoever’s behind this little trick knows what he’s doing. It’s easier to hide in a crowd. Check the homing device again.”
Woody flicked a switch on a portable receiver and was rewarded with a steady beeping. “Working, sir.”
“Wait.” Phillips suddenly tensed and gripped the binoculars more tightly. “Some clown is approaching Whittaker.”
“Who is it, sir?”
“Like I said, some clown. With balloons . . . Looks like he wants to sell Whittaker one. Whittaker’s shaking his head no . . .” Phillips relaxed. “The clown’s moving off. False alarm. Whittaker just nodded at me. I can’t figure if he’s an agent for one of the other divisions or not. I don’t trust him, though. He’s starting to pace, trying to look casual.”
The large campus clock began to strike. Gong! It reverberated across the plaza. Woody checked his watch. “Six o’clock, sir. Whatever’s gonna happen will happen now.”
Phillips kept the binoculars laser focused on Whit. Gong! “Whittaker’s stopped pacing and is standing still.” He tensed again. “Wait. Something’s happening. A crowd—a parade of some sort . . . It’s moving past. I’m having a hard time seeing him.” Gong! He refocused the glasses. “Woody?”
Woody peered through a second set of binoculars. “I see him. He’s still there. Stations get ready.” Gong!
Phillips adjusted his position, still looking through the binoculars. “I don’t like this . . . Whittaker, I’m going to hold you personally—Wait! I’ve lost him!” Gong! “Hang on, there he is.”
Woody spoke into his headset. “Be alert, boys. There are a lot—” Gong! At the very moment the clock struck six, and the beeping stopped, Woody flicked the switch on the receiver frantically. “Sir, the homing device just clicked off!”
Phillips’s head jerked around. “What?!” He glared at Woody and the equipment for a second and then jumped up and went back to the binoculars. “That’s not him!” he yelled into his headset. “Move in! Move in! Hurry! Blast it! Whittaker’s disappeared!”
Chapter Fifteen
Blackgaard slammed his hands on the metal desk in his warehouse office. “What do you mean Whittaker’s disappeared?! Pinky, you bungled it!”
Connie’s eyes widened. “Whit’s gone?”
“Be still, Miss Kendall!”
Pinky held up a hand. “Id wadn’t my fauld!” he said nasally. “He didappeared!”
“Take off that ridiculous clown nose!”
Pinky removed the nose, which honked when he squeezed it, and rubbed the sides of his nostrils. “I followed your orders to da letter. I vent up to him with da balloons and said to meet me behind da clock vhen it struck six. But he never showed! From da way da cops were running around, dey didn’t know vhere he vent, either.”
Blackgaard sank into his desk chair. “Curious.” His gaze fell on Connie. “Well, Miss Kendall, it looks as if our Mr. Whittaker doesn’t care for you as much as we thought.”
Connie swallowed hard. “I—I don’t believe it!”
“Perhaps he received a better offer for the contents of the computer.”
She shook her head. “Not Whit. He doesn’t think that way—like you.”
Blackgaard smirked. “How naïve you are. Everyone thinks like I do, just not as intelligently.”
“You’re wrong.”
“Yes,” he growled, “for your sake, let’s hope I am.” He bolted up out of the chair, and Connie jumped. “Pinky, start packing. We have to get out of here. Time to come up with a new plan.”
Pinky opened the door and scooted away, big shoes flap-flap-flapping. Blackgaard yelled after him, “And take off that ridiculous clown costume!”
“Oooo . . .”
Whit opened his eyes and immediately regretted it. A dull, throbbing pain was wedged in the back of his head and ran to just behind his eyes. He took a breath and, with an effort, sat up—and regretted that even more. He slowly touched the back of his head, where he felt a goose-egg-sized bump. “Oh . . . my head feels like someone shoved a bowling ball in my ear.” He tried to look around, and a dull light pierced his brain. “Aaah . . . where am I?” A silhouette blocked the light. “Who . . . ?” His brow furrowed, and then his eyes widened as the silhouette came into focus. “No, it can’t be!”
“Hiya, Mr. Whittaker!” The former silhouette smiled smarmily.
“Richard Maxwell!”
“The one and only.”
Whit shook his head slightly and again regretted it. “I must be dreaming. You’re in the detention center.”
Maxwell shrugged. “Sorry to disappoint you. I’ve been let off for good behavior. Don’t you just love our penal system?”
Whit winced. “Ow . . . What happened?”
“First, you fell.” Maxwell pointed up. “That is, I dropped the sewer grating out from under your feet, and then you fell. Pretty smart thinking on my part, if I say so myself. Now you see him, now you don’t.”
Whit touched the goose egg gingerly. “What about my headache?”
Maxwell looked sheepish. “Well, after you fell, I sort of had to . . . conk you to make sure you came along, uh, quietly. Really, I’m sorry. I only had a second to click off the homing device and pull you through the service door.”
Whit looked around, a little less painfully this time, and saw the door. “A door off the sewer?”
Maxwell nodded and smiled again. “It’s a beauty. You can’t see it from above. And there’s only a handful of maintenance people
who know about it. That’s one of the jobs I had before I went to Odyssey. We’re actually still under the Campus Clock Tower. The cops are up there going crazy trying to figure out what happened to you, while we’re safe here below.” He waggled his eyebrows proudly.
“Clever. I suppose this means that Blackgaard is nearby? You two are working together to get this computer, right?” Whit looked down at it and was rewarded with a stab of pain. He winced again. “Ow.”
Maxwell nodded. “Correct on the first.” He shook his head. “Wrong on the second.”
Whit’s eyes narrowed. “Really?”
Maxwell squatted next to him. “Blackgaard’s around, but I’m not working for him. Just the opposite. I’ve been trying to figure out a way to get back at him for all he did to me two years ago. And lo and behold, you drop in, so to speak.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that I have a little scheme that’ll get us all what we want. But I need your help.”
Whit scoffed. “My help? Why in the world would I want to help you? You caused a lot of trouble in Odyssey for everyone.”
Richard’s gaze dropped. “I know. But you saved my life, and I’d like to do you a favor in return—like helping Connie.”
“If you’re not working for Blackgaard, then how do you know about Connie—or any of this?”
Maxwell grinned. “Maybe I’ve been playing ‘fly on the wall’ for the last few weeks. And maybe Greg Kelly is a former acquaintance of mine who led me to Blackgaard. And maybe I’ve been following him. And maybe I saw Blackgaard nab Connie. And maybe I know where he took her. So maybe I can help.”
“Those are a lot of maybes.”
“Six, to be exact. But they all happen to be true.” Maxwell stood up. “So, are you in?”
Whit tried to look up at him, but the move resulted in another stab of pain. “Why should I trust you?”
“You probably shouldn’t, but then again, I’m the only one who knows where Connie is. If you and the feds wanna stumble around trying to find her, be my guest.”
There was a long pause. Maxwell extended a hand to Whit, who looked at it for a moment and then heaved a frustrated sigh and clasped it. “I guess I don’t have much of a choice.”
Maxwell smirked and pulled him to his feet. “Now, now, don’t be like that. Do it my way and we’ll all be happy. You’ll get Connie, I’ll get Blackgaard, and the government might even get their computer back.”
Whit looked him straight in the eyes. “What’s your scheme?”
Phillips and Woody sat in the back of an agency van in an alley just off campus. That is, Woody sat. Phillips paced back and forth in the small space. “This isn’t possible! He was there one second and gone the next. Turn on the homing device again.”
Woody checked it. “It’s on, sir. No signal. It must not be working.”
“Or Whittaker turned it off. Blast! I knew I shouldn’t trust him! Either he’s on some kind of mission that the agency won’t tell us about—” Phillips halted. A new idea struck him. “Or he’s working on his own.”
“Sir?”
“For all we know, he could be selling the secrets in the computer for himself, a double cross!”
Woody looked skeptical. “I’ll be very surprised if that proves to be true, sir.”
“Look, Whittaker wouldn’t take a chance with the girl’s life unless he was in cahoots with—”
The beep of the homing receiver interrupted Phillips’s theories. Woody checked the device. “Sir! The signal’s back on!”
Phillips plopped into a chair next to him. “Quick! Turn on the map!” Woody flicked a switch, and an overlay of the city appeared on the device. Phillips studied it intensely. “Where is he?”
Woody punched a few buttons. “Checking coordinates.”
“Hurry!”
“He’s in the warehouse district!”
Phillips barked at the driver. “Get moving!”
Chapter Sixteen
Blackgaard packed up the remaining papers from the warehouse office file and put Sasha in her carrying case. The cat hissed and growled. “Sorry, little one,” Blackgaard cooed and then zipped up the case. The cat lapsed into silence. Blackgaard picked up the carrier, moved to the office door, and called out, “Pinky? Is everything set?”
The hulking brute appeared, wearing a suit rather than his clown costume, though he still had smudges of white grease paint on his neck, Connie noticed. “Yeah, boss,” he intoned.
Blackgaard handed him Sasha’s carrier. “Bring the car around.”
Pinky nodded. “On my way.” He disappeared into the warehouse.
Connie licked her lips nervously. “What are you gonna do?”
“Mr. Whittaker’s disappearance makes me uneasy. Distance will provide peace of mind. Shall we go?”
She crossed her arms. “What if I say no?”
Blackgaard scowled. “Don’t be such a child. Come along.”
Connie sat. “You make me get in that car and you will be guilty of kidnapping. No loophole in the world can change that.”
He turned diplomatic. “You misunderstand me, Connie. I only want to drop you off at your hotel.”
“I’ll walk, thank you.”
“This is a very rough neighborhood. I insist on dropping you off.” His voice became stern. “Get in the car.”
“No.”
“Miss Kendall—”
Connie held up a hand. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
Blackgaard grabbed it and yanked her up from the chair. She gasped. “Listen to me, young lady!” he snapped. “I’ve wasted enough time toying with you! Now get in the car!”
A familiar voice echoed through the warehouse. “What’s your hurry, Dr. Blackgaard?”
Blackgaard and Connie whipped around and saw Whit step into the warehouse doorway. Connie bolted toward him, relieved. “Whit—hey!”
Blackgaard grabbed her by the arm and pulled her close to him. “Not so fast, princess,” he growled, positioning her as a shield between him and Whit. His thin fingers squeezed her bicep.
Connie winced. “Ow! You’re hurting my arm!”
Whit lunged forward. “Blackgaard—!”
“Stop!” Blackgaard bellowed. Whit did. Blackgaard smiled. “Well, well, well, John Avery Whittaker. Live and in person. Just stay by the door where I can see you.” He looked beyond Whit out the door and called, “Pinky!”
Whit glanced at the door behind him and then turned back to Blackgaard. “Pinky? You mean, Pinky the clown?”
“Yes,” Blackgaard sneered. He called again. “Pinky! Where is that dolt?”
Whit jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Waiting for you in the car, actually. He’d like to answer you, but . . . he’s tied up at the moment.”
Blackgaard chortled. “O-ho! You are the resourceful one, aren’t you? Shall I assume you followed him here and that any moment the building will be swarming with police?”
“Assume what you like. I came for Connie.”
“And you brought the computer.”
Whit held it up. “Isn’t it what you wanted?”
“Still want, Whittaker. Shall we call it an even trade? Perhaps we can finish the deal I had intended from the beginning. Before you disappeared.”
Whit lowered the computer case and smiled. “Things have changed since then. We have another partner in this little arrangement.”
“And who might that be?”
A voice from behind Blackgaard said, “Me, Your Excellency.”
Blackgaard and Connie whipped around again as Richard Maxwell stepped into the light.
Blackgaard maneuvered Connie so that he could see both Whit and Maxwell. His eyes darted between them. “My, my!” he said with a chuckle. “This is turning into ‘old home week.’ Do you see who it is, Connie?”
“I see,” she said, scowling. “Who else is gonna show up—Digger Digwillow?”
Blackgaard tightened his grip on her. “Dear, dear Richard. Did you escape from the det
ention center, or do they have you attached to a long leash?”
Maxwell shrugged. “I’m out for good behavior. Go figure.” He inched closer to them.
Connie glanced at Whit nervously. “Uh, Whit? What’s going on?”
Whit ignored her question. “You may as well give up, Blackgaard.” He also inched closer toward them.
Blackgaard smirked. “Give up? Oh, please. Because the two of you have me surrounded? What are you going to do, frighten me with rude expressions?”
“Funny,” Maxwell said, moving closer. “You’re a very funny man. But I can do better than that . . .” He reached behind his back and retrieved a revolver, which he leveled at them. “Like with this.”
Whit froze. “Richard!”
Blackgaard pulled Connie closer and shook his head. “Oh, Richard. Is this what they taught you in jail?”
“Nah. I came up with this on my own.”
Connie’s eyes widened. “Um, Whit? H-he has a gun.”
“Richard,” Whit said sternly, “this was never part of our plan.”
Maxwell glanced at him. “It wasn’t a part of your plan. But it’s been part of mine for two years. Two very long years of thinking about revenge.”
Blackgaard scoffed. “It took you two years to come up with this idea?”
Maxwell stepped closer. “Go ahead, Doctor, be glib. But the gun is still pointed at you.”
Blackgaard’s expression hardened. “You’ll have to shoot the girl first.”
Maxwell shrugged nonchalantly again. “’Kay.” He raised the gun higher.
“Richard!” Whit barked and stepped forward.
Connie held up her hands. They were shaking. “N-no, really, I don’t want to get in anyone’s way.”
Blackgaard’s eyes narrowed. “It seems prison has hardened you, Richard.”
“Not prison—you. Remember? You were the one who taught me not to let anyone get in the way of what I want.”
Connie’s knees and voice now shook as well. “Uh, g-guys? Can we talk this out?” A tear trickled down her cheek.
Maxwell inched closer, eyes locked on Blackgaard’s. “With or without her, you and I have a score to settle.”