Opening Moves Read online

  “Oh, but there is another bidder,” said Whittaker.

  This couldn’t be happening. The other council members were murmuring. Why were they murmuring? You have to regain control. Say something. “Mr. Whittaker,” Glossman cut in, “is this some kind of joke?”

  “Not at all, Mr. Glossman.” Whittaker opened his briefcase and took out a stack of legal documents. He sidestepped the lectern, walked up to the council bench, and handed each member a copy of the documents. “I represent the Universal Press Foundation of Chicago. Their board of directors has instructed me to purchase the Fillmore Recreation Center and its adjoining land for the sum of 3.5 million dollars. I believe you’ll find that’s five hundred thousand dollars higher than Webster Development offered you. It’s all outlined in the proposal.”

  Tom Riley flipped through the documents. “Does the proposal say what the foundation wants to do with the property, Mr. Whittaker?”

  Whittaker looked at his own copy of the document and began pacing slowly in front of the council bench. “As you may know, the Universal Press Foundation publishes the Universal Encyclopedia, a resource dedicated to the excitement of learning. UPF proposes to rebuild the Fillmore Recreation Center—and I’m quoting now—as ‘a place of adventure and discovery, filled with books and activities, fun and games, arts and crafts, and uplifting conversation.’ But most of all, it will be a place where kids—of all ages—can just be kids.” Whittaker stopped pacing and looked up. “I’d say that beats a video arcade, wouldn’t you, Mr. Glossman?”

  Say something! “W-why, this . . . this is preposterous! The Universal Press Foundation wants that old building when it could obviously build a brand-new one?”

  Whittaker put his hands on the council bench and leaned forward. “There are some people, Mr. Glossman, who like the old things, who don’t want their town to be made of glass and chrome.” He paused, then smiled and added, “Besides, what do you care, so long as the place gets sold? I mean, that is your objective, isn’t it?”

  Chapter Three

  The present . . .

  Glossman looked down at his windowsill. A dead fly lay there on its back, legs in the air. A stark reminder of how short life is, he thought. At least it was for Jenny Whittaker. Glossman felt a sudden pang of sadness, and it surprised him. As he recalled, at the time of Jenny’s death, he felt elated; his last obstacle to getting the Fillmore Recreation Center was gone. But he couldn’t forget the sight of Whittaker holding her there on the council-room floor.

  A sudden stab of anger replaced his pang of sadness. The vote should have been just a formality. It was all supposed to be a formality that night! Only a miracle could have stopped him. And as it turned out, a miracle is just what happened.

  Glossman glowered at the memory. Whittaker had trumped him. He could do nothing but sit there, turning red, with egg all over his face. Riley, of course, immediately called for a vote, and everyone agreed instantly, like the weak-minded bootlickers they were. And in the end, even he himself voted aye, making his humiliation complete. Then again, he had no choice; Whittaker had satisfied all of the council members’ requirements, including Glossman’s. Not voting aye would have made him look even more foolish.

  The thing that really frosted him was finding out later that Whittaker actually owned Universal Press Foundation. Whittaker and Riley had played him like a fine violin. And because of it, he was stuck in Odyssey. His eyes narrowed. One day those two would have to be dealt with. They would have to pay for what they did and were still doing to him. And soon. Maybe that’s what the call, if it ever came, was about.

  It was getting dark outside. The street below was completely empty now; the shops were all closed up, and the streetlights were flickering to life. His belly emitted the loudest rumble yet, and the phone still didn’t ring. And he couldn’t get the image of Whittaker holding his dying wife out of his mind. Glossman crossed to his desk, sat down, opened the bottom drawer, and pulled out an old-fashioned pocket watch—the kind with a cover attached to a chain with a fob. He clicked it open. The watch didn’t work, and the crystal was cracked, but that wasn’t why he kept it. He kept it because of the small picture on the inside of the cover.

  Lizzy.

  She gave him the watch as a combination college-graduation-going-away present. He had graduated, but she went away, back home to England. He studied the picture—her golden-blonde hair, shining blue eyes, and radiant smile. They’d loved each other, but she wanted a simple life, and he wanted to rise in the business world. In the end, love wasn’t enough, so she went to her simple life, and he wound up in Odyssey.

  He sighed. If only he hadn’t been so stubborn. Things could have been different. They could have had a life together. They could have been happy. They could have been like—the Whittakers.

  Ruuuuuuummmble.

  “That’s it,” he said aloud. “I’ve had enough!” He took one more look at Lizzy, clicked shut the cover, and put the watch in his waistcoat pocket, threading the fob through a buttonhole. He didn’t care how good the money was. He wasn’t going to continue being a puppet.

  He stood, crossed to the coatrack, and retrieved his coat. “I’m not waiting around any longer,” he muttered as he put it on. “I’m getting out of here for good. First I’m going to get some food, and then I’m going to quit the city council. Then I’m going to leave this wretched place, go to England, find Lizzy, and beg her to take me back. We’ll get married and have children and live in the country so far away from everything and everybody that no one will ever be able to find us. Especially him!” He put his hand on the doorknob and turned it—

  Riiiing!

  Glossman jumped, startled. It was the call. It was him.

  Riiiing!

  He took his hand off the doorknob and looked at the phone.

  Riiiing!

  Maybe it wasn’t him. Maybe it was someone else—a solicitor or—

  Riiiing!

  They say after four rings, if there’s no answer, the caller usually hangs up—

  Riiing!

  It was no use. Glossman walked slowly back to the desk and lifted the receiver.

  “This is Glossman.”

  “Hello, Philip.” The deep, dark voice fairly oozed out of the receiver. His voice.

  Glossman swallowed. “H-hello, sir.”

  “Is everything all right? You sound tense.”

  “Everything is fine, sir. I’m just a little hungry.”

  “I’m so sorry to have kept you from your supper! Well, this won’t take long.”

  “It’s all right, sir. I figured it must be pretty important for you to, you know, call and everything.” Glossman began to sweat.

  “Oh, it is. Indeed it is. I know I’ve kept you in Odyssey for a long time—in part because of your blunder with the Fillmore Recreation Center, but for other reasons as well.”

  “O-other reasons, sir?”

  “Yes. You’ve been very patient, Philip. And that patience is about to be rewarded. A great many things are headed your way. You’re about to become useful again.”

  Glossman brightened, and he smiled. “Really, sir? Thank you! W-what kinds of things, if I may ask?”

  “First, Webster Development is looking for another property in Odyssey. They’ll require your assistance.”

  “Of course. May I ask what kind of property they’ll be needing?”

  “Something functional. And amusing. With a good line of sight to Whittaker’s place.”

  “Understood.”

  “Next, Philip, I need you to find and make contact with a young man who lives in your town. He has recently come to my attention, and he possesses certain skills that will also be quite useful in the coming days.”

  “What kinds of skills?”

  “Computer programming, good looks, and—how shall I put it?—a certain charm. And most important, an almost complete lack of moral character.”

  “As you said, sir, quite useful. What is this young man’s name?”


  “Maxwell. Richard Maxwell.”

  Glossman wrote down the name. “Well, that shouldn’t be too hard to remember. Once I make contact, what would you like me to do with him?”

  “Put him to work, of course.”

  “Yes, sir. Um, doing what?”

  The deep voice chuckled smoothly. “I have kept you out of things for a while, haven’t I? Disrupting, Philip. You are to put Maxwell to work disrupting things. Especially things having to do with Riley and Whittaker.”

  “Right! Of course!” He scribbled disrupt things next to Maxwell’s name. “Uh, sir, suppose this Maxwell doesn’t want to work for us?”

  “Us, Philip?”

  “Uh, y-you. What if he doesn’t want to disrupt things for you?”

  “It’s your job to persuade him, Philip. Make sure he does want to. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Stay on Whittaker as well. Do some disrupting of your own—perhaps with those precocious employees of his.”

  “I’ll get on it immediately.”

  “Excellent! Oh, and Philip?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  The voice changed. It was cold as death. “That’s a very nice picture of Lizzy in your watch. It’d be a shame if something were to happen to it—or to her.”

  Glossman’s mouth went dry. “H-how did you—”

  “Don’t ever again think of running away from me, Philip. I know where you live, and I know where Lizzy lives. I will always find you. Am I making myself clear?”

  Glossman’s hand began to shake. “Y-yes, sir. Quite clear.”

  The voice was instantly warm and oozing again. “Well, I won’t keep you from your supper any longer. Eat hearty! I’ll be in touch. Ta!”

  The line went dead.

  Glossman dropped the receiver; it clattered to the floor. His knees buckled, and he collapsed into his chair.

  He was no longer hungry. In fact, his appetite had disappeared entirely.

  Chapter Four

  To say that Constance, known as Connie, Kendall was persistent would have been an extreme understatement, especially when it came to finding out things her friends didn’t want her to know.

  Not that she was nosy, exactly—just extremely curious, like most sixteen-year-olds. The place where she worked and the man who owned it only enhanced her curiosity. That place was Whit’s End: a combination soda-shop-discovery-emporium-adventure-center bustling with kids and excitement. The owner behind all the delicious treats, activities, and excitement was one John Avery Whittaker, the Whit of the center’s title—which is also what almost everyone in town called him.

  Whit had turned the rec center into a strange and wonderful conglomeration of things: museum, penny arcade, bookstore, laboratory, workshop, and, of course, soda shop, with just a dash of carnival fun house thrown in for good measure. Some of its attractions included the state’s largest handmade electric train set (with the cars made by the patrons themselves); Inventors’ Corner, where kids made their ideas come to life; an audio production and broadcast studio, from which a program called KYDS Radio emanated; a little theater; a well-stocked library; and the Bible Room, where artifacts, museum pieces, displays, and Whit’s incredible invention, the Imagination Station, helped the Bible and history come alive.

  Things were never dull at Whit’s End, and though Connie’s main duties were behind the counter at the soda fountain, she was involved with almost everything that went on at the place. It was, she thought, the best job ever.

  The job did have two minor frustrations, though. One was her fellow employee, Eugene Meltsner. He was a student at Campbell County Community College and was quite brilliant, she had to admit, but almost completely lacking in social skills. Not that he needed them to do what he did. Whit had hired Eugene to care for and maintain the emporium’s multiple inventions and gizmos, and he was excellent at it, keeping them all in tip-top condition—a fact he was only too happy to remind her of whenever she made the occasional mistake.

  Eugene enjoyed lording his gigantic intellect over others, especially her, even though he pretended to be above such mundane concerns. Despite this, she actually liked him, and between the two of them, they kept the place humming along nicely, freeing Whit to do all the things he did so well.

  Not that Whit always told them what he was doing—or at least he didn’t tell her. And that was her other minor frustration. Her boss was so open about some things and so secretive about others. For instance, she knew Whit served in the navy in World War II. She knew he’d been a middle school teacher, owned a publishing company, and bought the building that became Whit’s End to honor his wife, Jenny, who died while fighting to save it from being torn down. Connie also knew he had a double bachelor of arts degree in philosophy and literature from the University of Southern California, and that he had three grown children: Jerry, a soldier who died for his country; Jana, who was divorced and had two kids; and Jason, who was as secretive about what he did as his father sometimes was.

  The past week was one of Whit’s secretive times, and Connie’s curiosity about what was going on with him nearly made her crawl out of her petite, five-foot-four-inch frame. The fact that Eugene didn’t seem to care at all only made it worse. They were both behind the counter at Whit’s End, or more precisely, Eugene was under it replacing a burned-out coil in the flat-top freezer while she handled the usual Friday-afternoon minirush.

  “Oh, come on, Eugene, you have to at least admit it’s a little unusual!” She tucked a loose strand of her brown hair back into its customary ponytail and pushed the sleeves of her green sweater back up on her arms. She rang up an ice-cream-cone purchase and handed the customer his change. “And fifty cents makes a dollar. Thanks.”

  Eugene’s muffled voice floated up from behind the freezer. “Define unusual, Miss Kendall.”

  “Unusual, Eugene, as in not usual.” Connie turned to see her customer waving his hand to get her attention. “Yes, sir?”

  “Napkins, miss?”

  “No, thanks, I have some,” Connie replied, turning back toward the counter.

  “I’m well aware of the definition of unusual, Miss Kendall,” said Eugene. “I simply fail to see how it applies here.”

  “Um, miss?” The man waved frantically toward Connie again.

  “Fail to see? Are you serious, Eugene?” The movement caught her eye. “Yes, sir?”

  “I meant napkins for me,” the man said.

  “Oh! Sorry! Over there . . . end of the counter.” She watched the customer walk out of earshot, and then she turned back to peer at Eugene through her almond-shaped, light-brown eyes. “This whole thing has me so distracted, I can’t even wait on the customers right!”

  Eugene slithered out from behind the freezer and stood. He was tall and thin and favored jeans, short-sleeved T-shirts, and vests. His thick, reddish-brown hair was so long in front, it almost covered his eyes—which was ironic, since he also wore large, round glasses. “Actually, I fail to see any variation from your normal level of customer-care proficiency,” he said with a smirk.

  “Oh, hardy, har, har,” said Connie, wrinkling her nose at him.

  Eugene rolled the freezer back in place and plugged it in. It responded with a faint electric hum. “Good as new, to employ the colloquialism,” he said, obviously pleased with himself. “But please do not restock it until the internal thermometer reaches ten degrees Celsius. That is the optimal temperature for ice cream to remain firm enough to scoop and yet still smooth.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Thank you, Professor Ice Cream. I already know that. I’m not a complete dolt. And don’t say, ‘How much of a dolt are you?’” She paused and took a deep breath. “Now, what about Whit?”

  Eugene began packing up his tools. “What about him, Miss Kendall?”

  “There’s something going on with him! He’s been staying here long after the shop has closed. And when I walked past late at night several times this week, all the lights were on!”

  Eugene clo
sed his toolbox and wiped his hands on a rag. “Obviously he’s working on a new invention.”

  “In the whole shop? There’s something else going on, Eugene. I’m dying to know what it is!”

  “Then while you were on one of your late-night scouting jaunts, why didn’t you simply go in and ask him?”

  “I tried. He bolted all of the doors from the inside.”

  Eugene chuckled. “Then it’s obviously none of our business, Miss Kendall. I’m sure if it’s important, Mr. Whittaker will tell us when he decides to.”

  She sighed, exasperated. “Just the kind of attitude I’d expect from you. Aren’t you even a little bit curious?”

  “No.” He stuffed the rag in his back pocket. “My curiosity is reserved for intellectual and academic mysteries, not personal ones.”

  “I should have figured.”

  “And I must say, Miss Kendall, your insatiable inquisitiveness seems rather incompatible with your newfound Christian faith. I recall hearing Mr. Riley quote a New Testament verse admonishing the faithful to make it their ambition to live a quiet life and mind their own business. Sound advice.”

  She started to answer but heard a familiar voice call her from across the room.

  “Connie!”

  She turned to see Whit walking toward them. His usual slight limp was a bit more pronounced today, and though he was smiling, his brow was furrowed. She instantly felt guilty for spying on him during the past week. So she acted as innocent as possible, which made her feel even more guilty. As a result, her voice was a high-pitched squeak. “Ah yes, Whit?”

  “Could you manage the counter by yourself for a little while? I need to see Eugene in my office.”

  “Oh! Uh, sure, Whit.”

  Whit smiled again. “Thanks, Connie. Eugene?”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Whittaker! Coming right away.”

  Connie watched the two move across the room and climb the stairs until they were out of sight. It didn’t seem fair, she thought as she wiped down the counter. Why did Eugene get to know what was going on, but not her? She felt another pang of guilt. Whit had been very good to her, and Eugene was right about curiosity and her newfound faith.