“It is. It truly is!”

  Maxwell matched her radiant smile with one of his own. “So these kids . . . they’re all gifted?”

  “Oh yes! Supersmart.”

  “And they’re all over the college?”

  “Everywhere!”

  He leaned in slightly. “Are there any in the computer department?”

  She chortled. “Sure. A lot, in fact.”

  He also chuckled. “Do you have a list of their names handy?”

  She smiled even bigger. “Absolutely!” She reached under the table and pulled out a clipboard. Attached to it were several sheets of paper filled with names, small photos of the kids, and information about each of them. She handed the clipboard to Maxwell, who flipped through the pages carefully.

  “Aren’t they cute?” said the blonde. “I mean, when you see them, how can you not want to help them, right? Now the ones with the red X next to the picture are taken. But as you can see, there are still plenty left.” She sounded as if she were selling him a car.

  She said more, but Maxwell had stopped listening. He’d found it—the picture he was looking for. And there was no red X next to it. Perfect. He looked at her and smiled again. She fairly beamed.

  He turned the clipboard around and showed her the picture. “Tell me about . . . Nicholas Adamsworth.”

  Chapter Five

  Dear Mom,

  What a week! If I ever thought camp would be boring, was I ever wrong!

  So in my last letter, the girls and I were getting ready to go on a nature walk/camping trip. We loaded our gear into our backpacks in short order—or at least I did. The girls took a bit longer. I introduced them to our guide, renowned nature expert Wilma Neidlebark, a tall, stately looking woman who sometimes sounds like a man doing an impression of the queen of England. She does know a lot about nature and camping, though, and she advised the girls to pack light because “we can’t be lugging around excess paraphernalia.” Once she explained that paraphernalia means “miscellaneous articles associated with a particular institution or activity that are regarded as superfluous,” and when I explained to the girls that superfluous means “unnecessary,” the packing went a little faster.

  For about thirty seconds.

  Then Alison had a meltdown over not being able to watch TV; Robyn had a meltdown over how unfair it was that the boys got to do recreational and sports activities when the girls had to go on a nature hike, and why couldn’t they do the same things as the boys did, and I should go talk to the camp director about letting them compete with the boys; and Donna had a meltdown over there being no place in the wilderness to plug in her hair dryer.

  Again, the only girl who didn’t have a meltdown was Lucy. I did see her whispering at the cabin window with Jill Blankenship, the girl from another cabin I told you about in my last letter. That should have set off an alarm in my brain, but since Lucy has never been one to cause trouble, I didn’t give it a second thought. Big mistake.

  Finally everyone was all packed, the tents were rolled up, and we took off into the great outdoors. Mrs. Neidlebark really did know a lot about nature and where the most beautiful hiking trails were. She pointed out plenty of God’s most marvelous creations. I know it doesn’t sound all that interesting, but Mrs. Neidlebark described everything in such detail, it was really mesmerizing. It even got Alison to stop talking about TV for a while.

  As it turned out, Mrs. Neidlebark’s talks were a little too mesmerizing, because it was during the caterpillar talk that I failed to notice Lucy and Jill sneak away from the main group and head off into the forest. I still didn’t notice it even after the talk, because it was getting dark, there was a peal of thunder, and Mrs. Neidlebark hurried us all along to get to the campsite before it started raining. It wasn’t until we had set up the tents and gotten supper started that I noticed the girls were missing.

  I think you would have been proud of me, Mom. I didn’t panic. I calmly informed Mrs. Neidlebark of the situation and then organized some of the other counselors into search parties. Next, I got my other girls fed and squared away in their tent. This involved convincing a panicked Robyn, who hates bugs, that the huge centipede she thought was crawling around on her sleeping bag was just her hair barette. I assured them that Mrs. Neidlebark was in the next tent if they needed anything. This made everyone happy, even Alison, who took comfort in holding on to what I thought was her Bible but turned out to be a copy of last week’s TV Guide. Then I joined the other counselors to go look for Lucy and Jill—right as it started raining. And I didn’t bring a raincoat.

  It was pretty miserable out there. I was soaked to the skin, but fortunately it was a warm shower and not a cold one. We searched everywhere for the girls the whole night but couldn’t find a trace of them.

  Finally the rain stopped, and the sun crept up. We were dragging our way back to the campsite when who should be headed straight for us but Mrs. Neidlebark—with Lucy and Jill in tow! They had gotten back a short time after we had left and decided to play a prank on Lucy’s tentmates by pretending to be the Goat Man, a silly legend in these parts.

  Turns out the girls weren’t lost at all. Jill knew exactly where they were. They had spent the whole time splashing in the stream under the gorgeous waterfall at Trickle Creek and then watching beautiful wild horses run at Roth’s Canyon.

  I don’t suppose I have to tell you how I felt when I first saw those girls, Mom. It was probably the same way you felt when I was little and slipped away from you at that busy shopping center. Remember? When the policeman brought me back, you hugged me and then gave me a spanking. That’s how I felt about Jill and Lucy—especially Lucy.

  They were perfectly fine for the rest of the campout, no trouble at all. So I decided to wait until we got back to our cabin at camp before taking any real action. And when we arrived back here a few hours ago, I took Jill and Lucy aside. Lucy looked pretty contrite, but Jill didn’t seem bothered in the least. She cocked her head at me and said, “So what’re you gonna do, Connie? Throw us out of camp?”

  “I should. But you’re in Pam’s cabin,” I told her, “so it’s up to her to decide what to do with you.”

  She smirked at me and said, “So I can go?”

  “To Pam, yes.”

  The little imp smiled and actually said, “Terrific! See you later, Lucy.” And then she scampered off without a care in the world. Lucy waved good-bye to her and then turned back to me looking very guilty. “Will Jill get sent home?”

  “Probably not,” I said. “Pam is only going to warn her this time.”

  She swallowed and said, “Will I get sent home?”

  “Do you think you should?”

  “I . . . I don’t know.”

  “What happened, Lucy? How could you do something like that?” I was trying to read her expression, but it confused me. She seemed sorry, but there was something else in her eyes—something I had never seen from her before: a bit of defiance.

  “Well,” she replied, “Mrs. Neidlebark’s lectures were so boring and . . . and Jill said she knew all these really neat places to go, and I . . . I wanted to go.”

  “But that’s not like you. I thought you were more responsible than that.”

  She frowned and said, “I am . . . I think. But for once I didn’t feel like being responsible. I wanted to do something different. I wanted to run off and act kinda crazy like Jill always does. She’s so . . . free. Haven’t you ever felt like that, Connie? Haven’t you ever felt reckless and just did what you wanted to do?”

  “Well—” Of course I had! I knew I had. It’s part of the reason I got fired from Whit’s End. But I couldn’t tell her that. Instead, I said, “How I feel has nothing to do with this, Lucy. The rules are the rules. But since Jill’s not going to be sent home for this, I don’t think it’s fair to send you home. So I’m going to give you a warning this time. But don’t let it happen again.”

  She looked down and said very softly, “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And try to stay away from Jill. I’m not sure she’s a good influence on you.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You better go get your gear unpacked.”

  “Okay, Connie. And . . . thanks.”

  She turned and walked back to the cabin.

  I guess I’m not much of a disciplinarian, Mom. It really hurt to have to reprimand Lucy. But letting her off with just a warning was the right thing to do, right? I mean, the Bible tells us we’re supposed to have mercy and forgive . . . so why don’t I feel very good about this? Believe it or not, I actually asked myself what Whit would do. And I think I know.

  Oh, well, hopefully that will be the end of it, and there won’t be any more problems. We have a competition to prepare for, after all!

  I’d better close now, Mom. I need to go unpack too, and do my laundry, and take a shower. I hope everything is okay with you and the town. You really haven’t seen Eugene around at all? Again, if you do, tell him I said hi.

  I miss you!

  Love,

  Connie

  Chapter Six

  “What do you mean you didn’t get the job, Richard?”

  He can even sound intimidating on a speakerphone, thought Maxwell. A chill went down his spine. He was sitting in Glossman’s office on Sunday afternoon. The councilman sat across the desk from him, and Blackgaard’s voice, cold as death, came out of a small black box on the desk between them. “You assured me that it was in the bag.”

  “I thought it was,” said Maxwell evenly.

  “Then what happened?”

  “Someone named Eugene Meltsner happened.”

  “Meltsner?” said Glossman. He suddenly looked very uncomfortable.

  “You know him, Philip?”

  “Yes, sir. He used to work at Whit’s End—one of the employees Whittaker fired because of the Applesauce incident.”

  “I thought that was a girl—Katie or Kelly or—”

  “Connie, sir. Connie Kendall. She was the other one he fired.”

  Maxwell noticed tiny beads of sweat appear on Glossman’s upper lip and forehead. Interesting. Aloud he said, “I applied at the beginning of the week, and the department secretary said no one else had applied.” He looked at Glossman. “But somehow between the time I applied and the end of the week, Meltsner got the idea to apply.”

  Glossman shifted in his chair.

  “Why would the department head choose him over you, Richard?”

  Now it was Maxwell’s turn to squirm. “Well . . . I really don’t know. I mean Burglemeister told me I was the front-runner in my first interview with him. Then when I went back for the final interview, he told me he was hiring Eugene.” Glossman was smiling now. Maxwell added, “I sure wish I knew how he got the idea to apply.”

  Glossman’s smile faded. “Who cares? The point is, he has the job—and you don’t.”

  “That’s right, Richard. I was counting on you, and you let me down. I don’t like to be let down, Richard.”

  Maxwell smirked. “I’m sure you don’t, Chief. And that’s why I haven’t let you down.”

  “Explain.”

  The smirk became a grin. “Just because I didn’t get the head of computer security job doesn’t mean I didn’t get any job.”

  Glossman’s eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about? What other job did you get?”

  The grin was now a smile. “Congratulate me. You’re looking at”—he nodded at the speaker—“and talking to the student counselor and mentor of one Nicholas ‘Nicky’ Adamsworth.”

  “Who in the blazes of earth’s great fiery sun is Nicholas ‘Nicky’ Adamsworth?”

  Maxwell chuckled. “Oh, he’s just a supersmart, eleven-year-old kid who is part of a new state program that places gifted kids in college.”

  A chuckle came from the speaker.

  Glossman blinked blankly. “I don’t get it. So?”

  “Do try to keep up, Philip. I take it little Nicky has been placed in Campbell College’s computer department, Richard?”

  “Oh yeah . . . in the security room.”

  The speaker nearly jumped off the desk when Blackgaard laughed. “Excellent! But can you control him?”

  “Not a problem. I’ve already got him working on a project for me.”

  Glossman held up a hand. “Wait. Just so I’m clear here. You’re saying you’re gonna get this Nicky kid to use the school’s high-tech system to hack into Whittaker’s computer? Isn’t that adding to our security problem?”

  Maxwell leaned back and talked as though he were explaining something to a child. “No, Councilman, Nicky’s not gonna do the hacking. I’m going to use Nicky’s security clearance to get access to the school’s high-tech system so I can hack into Whittaker’s computer.” He smirked at Glossman, who glared back at him.

  “Well done, Richard. Just the kind of resourcefulness I’m looking for.”

  “I know. Thanks.”

  “Please keep us informed of your progress. And now, if you don’t mind, I need to talk to Philip privately.”

  “Oh, uh, sure.” Maxwell rose from his chair. “I’ll be in touch, Doctor. See you around, Councilman.” Maxwell crossed to the office door, opened it, stepped outside, and closed it behind him. He then made sure his footsteps could be heard as he walked down the hallway and the stairs.

  On the landing, he stopped, waited a few seconds, heard Glossman’s door open slightly and then close again, then tiptoed as quietly as he could back up the stairs and down the hallway to Glossman’s office. The truth was, though he was sure he could control Nicky—he’d already gotten the kid to access Ellis’s and Pearce’s grade files—the boy was also being very protective of his security keycard. Maxwell knew he could push the kid only so far. He also knew the councilman had it in for him. He needed an extra advantage, and to get that, he needed information. He crept up to the office door, leaned in close, and heard the somewhat muffled conversation inside.

  “He’s gone, sir.”

  “Good. What is the status on the building?”

  Glossman took a deep breath. “Unchanged, sir.”

  There was a long pause.

  “You did hear me tell Richard how I don’t like to be let down, didn’t you, Philip?”

  “Y-yes, sir, but—”

  “I don’t think I have to remind you how important this is, do I?”

  “No, sir. It’s just that Mansfield Computers has an ironclad three-year lease. He doesn’t care about utility increases or surrogate charges. He’s making too much money.”

  “Excuses, Philip? Are you going to lose me another building in Odyssey?”

  “N-no, sir!”

  “I thought I could trust you to handle this.”

  “You can, sir!”

  “Then handle it, Philip.”

  Maxwell heard all he needed to. He crept back down the hallway and the stairs, and this time he exited the building.

  Mansfield Computers in Gower’s Landing shopping center? What did Blackgaard want with that place? Was he actually thinking of coming to Odyssey? And why did that name—Mansfield—sound so familiar? Maxwell knew he had seen it before, but where? He was sure it wasn’t at school. And the only other place he went to was—

  It hit him. The Odyssey Retirement Home. That was the connection! But how would that help him?

  Unless . . . A plan formed in his brain. He’d need to do a little snooping to make certain there was a connection between Mansfield and the home. But if it was there, the plan might just give him the advantage he needed.

  He smiled.

  Incompetents! I’m surrounded by incompetents.

  Blackgaard hung up the speakerphone and fumed. Patience was never one of his virtues, he knew. Old Professor M had always told him that. You are brilliant, Regis, he would say, perhaps my most brilliant student. But you must learn patience. That has been the downfall of many great men. Learn patience. Then again, look what patience had gotten the old man. He’d been sick, feeble, wheelchair bound, within reach of his goal, only to fail miserably and die.

  “I will not fail,” Blackgaard growled.

  Yet there was something to the old professor’s words. The wheels had been set in motion; he had no choice but to wait and see if Glossman and Maxwell could get them to their destination. “They’d better,” he growled again. “There’s too much at stake.”

  He opened the drawer of his polished oak desk and extracted a leather-bound note folder, his initials embossed in gold across the front. There was so much to do, so much yet to come.

  He opened the folder and scanned his notes. When the time was right, he’d need to talk to Smitty. The proper chemicals were vital. He’d also need to pressure his contacts at the Department of Defense. They’d be reticent, but with the information he had on them, they’d come around. And then there was European security and his “friends” in the Middle East. That would be the most dangerous part of all. But if he could bring it all together, make it all work . . . “It will be more than worth the aggravation,” he muttered, “and the danger.”

  The key was Applesauce. And that meant getting a foothold in Odyssey—which brought him back to Glossman and Maxwell. The dolts. If they only knew what was really going on here. He felt his frustration rise again.

  He rose from his leather executive chair and crossed the lushly carpeted floor to a painting on the wall opposite his desk. The painting depicted a beautiful forest glade through which ran a serene stream. The stream meandered in and out of the woods but was painted in such a way that if you looked closely and traced it carefully, it actually led to a waterfall that became a crystal-clear pool, which, in turn, fed the stream that meandered through the glade—a never-ending cycle. He stared at it for a long moment and felt, if not peace, then a sense of calm. That would do.

  The painting was attached to the wall on a hinge. It opened like a cupboard door. He swung it away from the wall to reveal what it hid: a safe. He dialed the combination deftly, heard the tumblers click, cranked the handle, pulled open the door, and removed the only thing inside.

  It was a fragment of an extremely old piece of paper, encased in a clear plastic bag. This is what was really going on here; this was why he needed the Fillmore Recreation Center, a stronghold in Odyssey, and Applesauce. He had tracked Professor M halfway around the world, enduring deprivation, disease, and hardship, before finally catching up with him in the jungles of South America. All for this fragment—or, more precisely, what was written on it.

 

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