by Phil Lollar
“You win,” Mansfield said.
“I’m sorry, who is this?” Webster replied.
“You know who it is—Bob Mansfield!”
“Bob!” Webster said cheerily. “How can I help you?”
Mansfield fumed. “You wanna play games? Fine. Upon reflection, I’ve concluded that forcing all these senior citizens out of their home just so I can keep my building would be . . . wrong. So tell your brother-in-law to call it off. You can have the building. I’ll take your deal.”
“Well, that’s fine, Bob!” Webster’s voice gushed from the receiver. “We’ll be happy to take the building. But what do you mean by ‘deal’?”
“You know what I mean! You buy out my lease and pay to move me to a new location!”
“Oh, yes!” Webster responded. “I’m sorry, but that deal is off the table, remember? I’m afraid you’ll have to do all that on your own.”
“Are you insane?” Mansfield hissed into the phone. “Do you know how much money that’ll cost me?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
“If you think I’m going to hand over my building without getting something for it, you’re—”
Just then, he heard Mary scream at his wife once again from down the hall, and a second later, he saw Barbara burst from the room in tears. Webster’s voice grated in his ear from the phone. “Hello, Bob? Are you there?”
Mansfield sighed heavily. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll pay for everything. I’ll be out by the end of the week.”
“Wonderful!” Webster chimed. “Oh, there’s just one more thing.”
“What now?”
Mansfield heard Webster shuffle papers around. “Ah, here it is. When you move, I’m going to need you to leave behind some special computer equipment . . .”
Chapter Three
Mansfield was true to his word. He was completely moved out of the building by the end of the week. Webster Development then quickly finalized the purchase of the whole Gower’s Landing shopping complex. Two days later, a large set of keys were sent, special delivery, from Webster to a seemingly abandoned warehouse in Chicago.
The following evening, a tall, lean, angular-featured man with a jet-black mustache and Vandyke, dressed in a perfectly tailored black three-piece suit, walked up to the front doors of the empty Gower’s Landing. He carried a black walking stick with a polished gold knob for a handle in one hand and cradled a large, fluffy, gray Persian cat in the crook of his other arm. He shifted the walking stick to his other hand, pulled the keys from his coat pocket, selected one from the mass on the ring, unlocked the doors, and slipped inside, locking them after him.
Dr. Regis Blackgaard surveyed the empty, cavernous space in front of him, smiled, and nodded approvingly. Gower’s Landing was finally his.
“It’ll have to be gutted, of course—rebuilt almost from the ground up,” he said with a scowl to the cat. “And we’ll have to do something about that name, Sasha. The new one will have to be something attractive to kids. Something like . . . Palace?”
Sasha meowed.
“No, no, you’re right—too feminine.”
He noticed the building was not quite empty after all. A stack of boxes sat in the middle of the space. He crossed to them, his footsteps echoing off the walls, and examined the labels. Computer equipment left behind by Mansfield. These would make that twerp Maxwell happy.
“Now, now, be generous,” he muttered to himself. Sasha purred. Richard was annoying, but he had proved to be quite useful and would no doubt continue to. Still, he bore careful watching; the lad was smart—too smart for his own good, smart enough to discover the real purpose behind the acquisition of Gower’s Landing.
Blackgaard reached into his breast coat pocket and withdrew two large sheets of paper that had been folded several times. He unfolded them to reveal that the top sheet was the blueprints of the building. He consulted them briefly, folded the papers under his arm, and crossed the room to a door marked “Private.”
He selected another key from the massive ring, unlocked the door, opened it, and found himself at the top of a long staircase. He placed the keys back in his pocket and retrieved from it a small flashlight, which he clicked on and then descended into the darkness.
“Fortress! A fine, strong name, and the place certainly reminds me of one!”
Sasha meowed again.
“Yes, good point—too masculine, and perhaps a bit too on-the-nose for my purposes.”
At the bottom of the stairs, he shone the light ahead of him. It illumined a long hallway. The ceiling was lined with piping. The floor was covered with dust and spare piping. Two small rats glared at him, their beady eyes twinkling in the flashlight beam. Sasha hissed at them, and they scurried off to safety. Apparently neither Mansfield nor the other former business owners at Gower’s Landing came down here much. Good.
Blackgaard made his way slowly down the hall. On his left was a series of doors marked “Electric,” “Janitorial,” and “Storage.” He shone the flashlight beam to the end of the hallway and could barely make out another door marked “Office,” though it looked as if it hadn’t been used for that purpose for quite some time.
None of these interested him. His concern was with the wall on his right. It had no doors—at least, none that were visible.
He inched along, using the knob of his cane to rap on the bare wall as he went . . . tap, tap, tap . . . it had to be here somewhere . . . tap, tap, tap . . . c’mon now . . . tap, tap, tap . . . it should be riiiight—tap, tap, thunk!—here. Thunk! Yes!
He lowered Sasha to the floor, leaned his cane against the janitorial door, stuffed the papers into his side coat pocket, and propped the flashlight next to the cane so it illuminated the wall. Then he retrieved one of the pieces of piping from the musty floor and gave the wall a hard whack right at the thunk! point.
Sasha recoiled. The pipe went through the plaster, crumbling it.
“Sorry, Sasha,” Blackgaard said, but he hit the spot again and again and again, and each blow brought down more of the wall. Soon he had uncovered its treasure: a door.
Winded, he dropped the pipe, picked up the flashlight and cane, selected a very old key from the ring, unlocked the secret door, and pushed it open. Sasha preceded him into the dark space.
Inside, the flashlight revealed a large room built of very old bricks on a stone foundation with a paneled Victorian-era patinated tin ceiling. It was empty and surprisingly clean, though the floor was dusty, and cobwebs strung its corners. Yes, once sterilized and the electricity was turned on, the room would do nicely—the perfect space for a private laboratory.
But there was more to the room than just space. It contained the real reason he wanted—needed—this building. He shone the flashlight around the walls and saw it. Opposite from the door into the room was another door—old, metal, bolted shut in three places. He bounded across the room to it, jimmied the rusted bolts free, and pulled it open.
Behind it, a tunnel stretched into the darkness.
Blackgaard chuckled with delight, retrieved the papers from his pocket, unfolded them, and this time consulted the second one. It was very old, so old that he’d had it encased in plastic. Printed across the top in ornate lettering were the words “Odyssey Passageways.” Below them was a map of what at first glance appeared to be roads around town, but upon closer inspection was actually a network of interwoven tunnels connecting various spots in town with various other spots.
He aimed the beam from his flashlight at one of the spots. It read “Gower’s Landing.” There was a drawing of what appeared to be a barn there, no doubt the property of the original owner before it was torn down to build a shopping center. A passageway—the very one that yawned before him—led away from the barn.
Blackgaard followed the path with the light. It curved through the field, intersected with other tunnels, made several twists and turns, and finally, all the way across town, connected to the middle of what looked like a bigger tunnel, forming a T. Tu
rn left at the T and the tunnel meandered out to some woods. Turn right and the tunnel led almost directly to the drawing of an old Victorian mansion. Below it was printed “Odyssey Church.” He had drawn a line through that and had written under it “Fillmore Recreation Center”; then a line through that, and under it written “Whit’s End.”
How old Professor M. had gotten this map was a mystery, the solution to which he never divulged. It didn’t matter anyhow; he had the map now, and it would be put to great use, not only as a means to Whittaker’s place, but also as a way to move equipment discreetly into his new business.
Assuming, that is, that Glossman would be able to secure the Odyssey town council’s approval of the license to operate this new business. The incompetent weasel had assured him it was in the bag, but he’d done that before. No matter; he, Blackgaard, had leaned on Glossman before and would do it again if necessary.
Blackgaard looked back into the cavernous underground room, and the thought crossed his mind of how perfect a dungeon it would make, just like in the castles of old. “Wait!” he said aloud. “That’s it! That’s what I’ll call this place—the difference between a palace and a fortress: a castle!”
He felt Sasha rub against his leg, and he shone the flashlight down on her. She gazed up at him quizzically.
He frowned again. “You’re right . . . we can’t just call it ‘The Castle.’” It needs a more descriptive name, more definitive. But should he? Dare he? Did he really want to be that visible a presence around town? He looked back into the tunnel. “Well, why not?” he said softly. Now that he’d found this access, the business above would be the perfect cover for his doings down here. He smiled broadly and said aloud the name he was visualizing on his new business license:
“Blackgaard’s Castle.”
He shone the light down on his cat once again. “What do you think, Sasha?”
She purred and rubbed up against his legs affectionately.
Perfect.
Chapter Four
It was happening again.
Dr. Regis Blackgaard surveyed the Odyssey Town Council from behind the lectern facing them at the council chamber. Though outwardly calm, inwardly he was seething. Why did he keep relying on that complete nincompoop Philip Glossman to get things done?
Glossman had failed to get him the Fillmore Recreation building five years ago. He had failed to secure the Gower’s Landing complex last month. And now he was failing to get approval for the business license for Blackgaard’s Castle.
Glossman had been adamant that getting approval for the license would be a mere formality. Yet he had been arguing the point for the past 45 minutes with Tom Riley, the yokel farmer who was also on the council and who apparently had far more sway on it than did Glossman. The two of them hammered away at each other from their executive chairs behind the large conference table at the front of the room. Glossman was sweating even more than usual, and as his voice rose, his face grew redder and redder.
“We’re clouding the issue!” Glossman shouted. “The motion before this council is whether to grant a business license to Dr. Regis Blackgaard.” Glossman gestured toward him. “Why all this discussion about the type of business?”
Riley leaned forward in his chair. “Because we don’t want just any business moving into town, Mr. Glossman,” he said.
“But we know what type of business it is, Councilman Riley—an amusement house for kids.”
“An amusement house.” Riley frowned and turned his gaze to Blackgaard. “No offense, Mr. Blackgaard, but that sounds pretty vague to me. Would you mind explaining just what an ‘amusement house’ is?”
Blackgaard smiled benignly and replied charmingly, “A house that amuses people, of course. In this case, children.”
Riley nodded. “Mmm. Well, just what kinds of amusements are we talking about?”
“Oh, any number of things: electronic devices . . . games . . . displays—”
Glossman jumped in. “Will you serve food?”
Blackgaard fought the impulse to snap at him for the interruption. “Yes. Nothing big, just snacks and things of that nature.”
Riley’s brow furrowed. “What nature?”
Glossman fell back in his chair, exasperated. “Oh, Mr. Riley! Why must you be so specific? Blackgaard’s Castle sounds very similar to Whit’s End to me.”
It was Riley’s turn to smile benignly. “Well, now, that’s another thing that surprises me, Mr. Glossman. As I recollect, you were against this type of place when Mr. Whittaker opened Whit’s End. Why the change of mind?”
Tactical error, Philip, thought Blackgaard. Yet another blunder.
“I didn’t change my mind, Councilman Riley,” Glossman sneered. “I wasn’t against Mr. Whittaker opening his establishment. I merely felt the land could be put to better use. Now that I’ve seen how successful such a place can be, I think we should have more of them. It’ll promote competition, which can only help the local economy.”
“If Blackgaard’s Castle is like Whit’s End, Mr. Glossman,” Riley replied. “That’s what we still have to determine.”
Glossman huffed. “Look, we know as much about Blackgaard’s Castle as we knew about Whit’s End before it opened.”
Riley shook his head. “’Fraid I’m gonna have to differ with you there, Mr. Glossman. We knew quite a bit more about Mr. Whittaker’s plans than we do about Mr. Blackgaard’s.” He gestured to a spot in the gallery behind Blackgaard. “In fact, I’d like to ask Mr. Whittaker if he’d come up and read the goals he had in mind before he started Whit’s End. Mr. Whittaker?”
Blackgaard turned, and for an instant he was genuinely surprised. Apparently he’d been so irritated with Glossman’s poor performance that he’d failed to notice the owner of Whit’s End entering the chamber. As quickly as the surprise struck him, Blackgaard suppressed it. He relinquished the lectern with a polite nod as Whittaker approached.
Whittaker returned the nod and smiled pleasantly as he stepped onto the rostrum and took from his coat pocket a worn piece of paper.
“Thank you, Councilman Riley, but many of these were my wife’s last wishes,” Whittaker began. He carefully unfolded the paper and read the feminine handwriting on it. “Whit’s End is designed to be a place of adventure and discovery, filled with books and activities, arts and crafts, and uplifting conversation. But most of all, it is a place where kids—of all ages—can just be kids.”
He refolded the paper, put it back in his coat pocket, nodded at Riley, and stepped away from the lectern and off the rostrum.
“Thank you, Mr. Whittaker,” Riley said, and then he turned to Blackgaard. “Can you promise this council that your business will be all those things, Mr. Blackgaard?”
Blackgaard stepped back behind the lectern, and for the second time that morning he allowed a genuine feeling to break his facade of calm—not surprise this time, but irritation. The curt words escaped his lips before he could stop them: “Excuse me, Councilman Riley, but my title is Doctor Regis Blackgaard. I worked very hard to attain it, and I’d appreciate it if you’d remember it.”
Riley sat back and blinked. “Oh! I’m sorry, Doctor.”
An unctuous smile curled Glossman’s lips as he said, “That’s something that should’ve been mentioned earlier. Dr. Blackgaard has a PhD, with an emphasis in child psychology. I think that more than qualifies him to open up an amusement house for children, don’t you?”
Riley’s gaze hardened. “Maybe, maybe not,” he said. “It still depends on what kind of place he wants to open up!”
Both men glared at each other for a moment, and then both lurched forward in their chairs.
“Now, look, Riley—!”
“Mr. Glossman, you need to—!”
“Excuse me!” Whittaker shouted. “Excuse me!” He remounted the rostrum and leaned in to the lectern microphone to say, “Uh, excuse me, gentlemen, but if I may, I’d like to make a suggestion.”
Riley ringed out an ear with his index finger.
“What is it, Mr. Whittaker?” he asked.
“This issue has come up very fast, so perhaps Dr. Blackgaard hasn’t had time to outline what he’d like to do with Blackgaard’s Castle. Would it be possible to delay the vote for a week so he can provide more details about his new business? Then the council can decide.”
Glossman looked ready to explode.
This has gone on long enough, thought Blackgaard, and he leaned in to the mic. “I think that’s an excellent suggestion, Mr. Whittaker,” he said.
Glossman immediately sat back in his chair, the color draining from his face.
Riley also eased back and looked at him. “Councilman Glossman?” Riley asked.
Glossman wiped the sweat from his brow, fixed his gaze on Blackgaard, and said curtly, “If everyone agrees, who am I to stand in the way?”
Blackgaard raised an eyebrow, and Glossman quickly looked away.
Riley reached for his gavel. “Good,” he said. “Let the minutes show that the vote to grant a business license to Dr. Regis Blackgaard to open the establishment called Blackgaard’s Castle was postponed until one week from today. This meeting is adjourned.”
He pounded the gavel, and the meeting broke up with the usual buzz and low conversations that accompany such events. Blackgaard turned to the man next to him on the rostrum and said, “Thank you, Mr. Whittaker.”
“Well, you looked like you could use some help, Dr. Blackgaard,” Whittaker responded, smiling. “I know how difficult it can be to appear before a town council—especially this one.”
Blackgaard forced a congenial chuckle. “Mr. Glossman and Mr. Riley certainly don’t see eye to eye. I must say that I didn’t anticipate this much trouble in simply getting a business license, though.”
Whittaker nodded. “The people of Odyssey are good folks, Dr. Blackgaard. They get involved in their community.”
“Yes, I’m beginning to see that.”
Riley and Glossman approached them, still engaged in verbal battle. Whittaker jumped in again. “Hey, you two, don’t make me intervene again!” he said. “The meeting’s over.”