Pawn's Play, page 7
Eugene sat back in his chair, his body numb, trying to comprehend what Nicholas had just said. “You changed the grades . . . but . . . why?”
Nicholas turned away. “Would you believe me if I said Mr. Burglemeister told me to?”
“Should I believe you?”
“No.”
Eugene leaned forward, put a hand on the boy’s shoulder, and said gently, “Why did you change the grades, Nicholas? That was . . . illegal. It was wrong.”
Nicholas bowed his head. “I know it. But I had to. He made me.”
“Who made you?”
At that moment there was a knock at the door. Eugene and Nicholas looked toward the entrance, and Nicholas crossed to it. “That’ll be Richard Maxwell.”
Eugene scowled. “Maxwell? What does he want now?”
Nicholas opened the door, and Maxwell strolled in as casually as he did the first time. “Hey, Eugene. Hiya, Nicky. What’s going on?”
Eugene rose from his chair. There was still something oddly familiar about this person. “We’re terribly busy right now, Richard. Can you talk to Nicholas later?”
Maxwell smirked and looked at Nicholas. “Maybe. How ’bout it, Nicky?”
Nicholas looked up at Maxwell, paler than ever. “He knows.”
Maxwell’s smirk dissolved. “Who knows?”
The boy jerked his head toward Eugene. “Eugene knows about changing the grades.”
Maxwell’s jaw hardened. “You blabbed. I told you to tell him—”
“He wouldn’t have believed it,” interrupted Nicholas. “He would have checked with Mr. Burglemeister.”
Maxwell scowled and then smirked again. “You got a big mouth, kid.”
Eugene felt as though he were walking through a thick fog. He stared at Maxwell, trying to focus. “You’re the one who put Nicholas up to this? You made him change the grades?”
Maxwell patted Nicholas on the head. “That I did, Hubert. That I did.”
“But . . . he’s just a child! Why?”
Maxwell sauntered around the room, pausing briefly at Nicholas’s workstation, and then ambled to the desk and sat in Eugene’s chair. “I told you. I’m a Renaissance man. I dabble in lots of things.” Maxwell put his feet on the desk. “Particularly moneymaking kinds of things. With Nicky in here, and students all over the campus willing to pay to have their grades fixed, how could I pass up the opportunity?”
“But . . . but that’s . . . dishonest!”
Maxwell put his hands on his chest and gasped mockingly. “Really? I didn’t realize! Guess I should stop it, huh?”
Eugene threw up his hands. “Of course you should! Nicholas, how could you do this?”
Nicholas bowed his head again. “I-I couldn’t help it.”
Maxwell chortled. “Look, Huey, don’t start in on the kid. He really didn’t have a choice.”
“Everyone has a choice!”
“Yeah, well, Nicky didn’t.” Maxwell locked his fingers behind his head and smiled.
Nicholas looked up at Eugene, tears welling in his eyes. “He said he’d give the college a bad report about me. He said he’d make them put me back into the system if I didn’t change the grades.”
Eugene was horrified. “He can’t do that! You could’ve just told on him!”
The boy squeezed his eyes shut. Tears trickled down his cheeks. “I . . . I was afraid to.”
Maxwell unlocked his fingers and leaned forward in the chair. “You see, Brain Boy, as his counselor, I decide what happens to him here. And if he told, they’d still send him back. Like I said, he didn’t have a choice.” He sniffed. “And neither do you.”
Eugene scoffed. “I beg your pardon? I think I do.”
Maxwell shook his head. “Nope. You tell on me, and I’ll tell on Nicholas, and he’ll be history at this college.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“I would,” said Maxwell.
“He would,” said Nicholas.
Maxwell stood and crossed to the door. “So that’s your situation, Houston. What’s it gonna be? Tell and ruin Nicholas’s life? Or keep your mouth shut and let us all live happily ever after?”
He turned the knob and opened the door. “Well? What’s it gonna be?”
After Maxwell left, Eugene and Nicholas spent the rest of the afternoon in silence, quietly going about their work. Eugene felt sick. He had agreed not to tell on Nicholas, and his stomach was rebelling at the dishonesty. But try as he might, he didn’t really see what else he could do. He sighed heavily. He was used to scientific problems—problems that were actually solvable using hard science, and solvable to the satisfaction of all parties involved. Moral dilemmas were foreign territory for him. He wished he had paid closer attention to Mr. Whittaker. He would know how to handle this situation.
At six o’clock, Nicholas finally broke the silence. He slid off his stool and walked over to Eugene’s desk. “Eugene?”
“Yes, Nicholas.” He didn’t look at the boy.
“It’s six o’clock. Don’t you think it’s time to leave?”
“No. Not yet. I’m thinking.”
“Oh.” Nicholas inched closer to Eugene’s line of sight. “I . . . I have to get back to my dorm room.”
Eugene swiveled his chair away from Nicholas’s gaze. “Go ahead.”
“But . . . I feel bad,” said Nicholas pleadingly. “I don’t want to leave if you’re going to stay.”
“Don’t worry about me.” Eugene swiveled his chair so he couldn’t see the boy at all.
Nicholas sighed. “All right, if you’re sure. Good night, Eugene.”
“Good night, Nicholas.”
The boy turned, went back to his workstation, and gathered his things. He took a step toward the door and then said, “Thanks for not telling.”
Eugene still didn’t look at him. “I’d rather you didn’t mention that. Ever again. I’d like to pretend it never happened.”
“Yes, sir.” Nicholas crossed slowly to the door and was just about to open it, when Eugene suddenly sat straight up in his chair. “Wait a moment! That’s it!”
Nicholas started. “What? What’s it?”
Eugene swiveled around. “Pretend it never happened!”
The boy’s brow furrowed. “Huh?”
“That’s what we need to do!” Eugene popped up from his chair. “Nicholas, what would stop us from going back and fixing the grades?”
“Going back and—”
“Yes! Computers can do that. We’ll simply undo what you did!” He crossed to the boy. “Do you remember whose grades you changed? There couldn’t have been that many.”
Nicholas shrugged sheepishly. “Well . . . actually . . .”
Eugene blinked, surprised. “Really? Then there’s no time to lose. Sit down.” He took the boy’s book bag and ushered him to the desk. “I want you to write down all the names you can remember and what their original grades were in which classes. Can you do that?”
Nicholas sat. “I-I think so. But what about Richard Maxwell?”
Eugene smiled. “That’s the beauty of it. What can he do if the grades are correct? What proof will he have? And if he tries to get you thrown out of school anyway, I’ll fight it. I can fight for you if there’s no evidence against you, correct? You’ll be making amends. Hurry! The sooner we get this done, the better!”
It was very late when Eugene finally finished correcting the grades. Nicholas had long since fallen asleep at the desk chair, and Eugene, himself weary and bleary eyed, had to almost carry the boy back to his dorm before making his own way home.
As soon as Eugene and Nicholas were out of the building, Maxwell emerged from the shadows in the hallway and sidled up to the security room door. He produced from his pocket a keycard with the name “Nicholas Adamsworth” printed across the front.
Nice to know I can still lift a keycard, he thought, and smiled. And good thing for me they were both so tired, they didn’t notice I took it. Extreme fatigue always leads to carelessness. He snorted, slid the keycard through the slot, and punched in the code he had memorized from observing both Nicholas and Eugene entering it, admiring his own memory prowess. When the door buzzed, he pushed it open and stepped inside.
Maxwell crossed quickly to Nicholas’s workstation and typed in the security code. “Nicky, you really need to be more careful with your security codes,” he chuckled softly. After a second, the computer beeped, and the word Ready appeared in the upper-left corner of the screen, followed by a flashing cursor. He took a deep breath, muttered, “Here we go,” and typed “:\SearchWhitsEndMabelApplesauce”.
The machine whirred.
Maxwell smiled.
Chapter Twelve
The next morning, Eugene awoke to the phone ringing. At first he thought he was late for work, but then he remembered he didn’t have to be there until later that morning. So who would be calling at this hour? He sat up, shook the cobwebs out of his head, and lifted the receiver. “Greetings and salutations. Eugene Meltsner speaking.”
“This is Delores from Mr. Burglemeister’s office calling,” said a nasal voice on the other end. “Mr. Burglemeister would like to see you here immediately.”
“Oh, uh, well I just awoke, and—”
“Immediately.” The line clicked and then went dead.
Eugene took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.
This is not good.
He showered and dressed as fast as he could and then raced to the campus, across the quad to the information technology building, and inside to Mr. Burglemeister’s office. Delores buzzed her boss on the intercom. “Mr. Burglemeister?”
“Yes, Delores?”
“Humont Milner here to see you, sir.”
Eugene grimaced and said, “That’s Eugene. Eugene Melts—”
“Send him right in.”
“Yes, sir.” Delores released the intercom button, looked at Eugene disapprovingly, and nodded toward the office. Eugene rounded her desk and moved toward the door, each step feeling as if he were slogging through mud. At the door, he stopped and knocked softly. He heard a muffled “Enter!” and opened the door.
Mr. Burglemeister sat behind his desk. Gone was the friendly demeanor that greeted him the first time they spoke. This time the old gent was all business. “Come in, Hubert—er, Eugene. Please, sit down.”
Eugene sank into a chair. “Thank you, sir. I came as soon as I got your message.”
“Goot of you.”
Eugene swallowed—or tried to. His mouth had suddenly gone dry. “Uh, how may I help you?”
Burglemeister peered over his spectacles at him, took a deep breath, and frowned. “Zis is difficult for me, Eugene. Actually, I’m in a state of disbelief. But . . . I haf become aware of some very illegal activities going on here at our college.”
“Illegal?”
“Yah. Our campus security has uncovered a racket zat involves changing students’ grades for money.”
“Really?” Eugene’s voice cracked.
Burglemeister nodded. “Ven I found out about it, I did zee only thing I knew to do. I began monitoring zee activities of your department. Yesterday, to be exact.”
Eugene paled. “Y-yesterday?”
“Yesterday. My report shows a very heavy concentration of activity—especially last nacht. You vere zere late last night, veren’t you, Eugene?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Vat vere you doing?”
“Um, work?”
“Vat kind of verk?”
“Just . . . ver—er, work.”
Burglemeister lifted a paper from his desktop and scanned it. “My report shows vat kind of verk you vere doing. You vere changing students’ grades. Am I correct?”
The jig was up. But, oddly, now that it was, Eugene felt very calm. He looked straight at Burglemeister. “Yes, sir.”
Burglemeister dropped the paper and then interlaced his fingers and rested his elbows on his desk. “Unless you haf a plausible explanation for why you vere changing students’ grades mitout authorization, I can only conclude zat you are part of zee plot to change grades for money.”
“That is understandable, sir.”
Burglemeister put his hands on his desk, pushed himself out of his chair, and sighed deeply. “Oh, Eugene, Eugene!” He paced around his desk. “I had such high hopes for you! As it is, you’re going to haf to appear before zee college board of inquiry. Zey vill decide vat to do mit you.” He slumped against his desk.
Eugene lowered his head. “I understand.” Just tell him! “Mr. Burglemeister . . .”
Burglemeister leaned forward. “Yes, Eugene? You vant to say something? Was ist es?”
No! You can’t! If you do, it will hurt Nicholas. He exhaled and said, “Nothing, sir. I have nothing to say.”
Burglemeister nodded slowly and looked very old. “Sehr gut, very well.” He stood, went back to his chair, and sat down heavily. The chair springs groaned. He laced his fingers together again and rested his chin on them, staring down at his desk. Without looking at Eugene, he said. “Zee board of inquiry vill meet zis afternoon at drei uhr—three o’clock—in President’s Hall. Do not be late, bitte—please. Zat vill be all.”
Eugene rose slowly and went to the door.
Then Burglemeister said, “Eins zing more.” Eugene turned back, but the old gent was bent over his desk. Without looking up, he said, “I vill need your keycard.”
Eugene slowly took his keycard from his pocket and placed it on the desk in front of Burglemeister. He then sighed, walked back to the door, opened it, and left the room.
Chapter Thirteen
The rest of the morning and early afternoon dragged by. Eugene stayed to himself. Since he couldn’t go to the computer security room anymore, he holed up in the library. But even books couldn’t comfort him today. He found an isolated cubby and hid from the world.
At last it was time. He made his way across campus to President’s Hall. It looked not unlike a courtroom, austere and solemn. Eugene sat at a small table directly in front of a long table with three conference-room chairs behind it. Delores, Mr. Burglemeister’s secretary, was already there, prepared to take notes. She sat at a side table. After a few moments, a door behind the long table opened, and three gentlemen walked in. Eugene recognized two of them. First was Dr. Thomas Grayson, the tall, graying, sharp-nosed college president, who sat in the center chair. Next came a plump, round-headed man Eugene didn’t know, who sat to the president’s left. Bringing up the rear, to Eugene’s great surprise, was Mr. Whittaker. He sat to the president’s right. Once they were all in their chairs, Dr. Grayson pulled a microphone toward himself and blew into it.
“Testing . . . one . . . two . . . three . . . Is this tape running?” He apparently got the okay from an unseen audio engineer, cleared his throat, and continued. “The Campbell College Board of Inquiry is now in a closed session. I am Dr. Thomas Grayson, president of the college. To my left is Ralph Harris, member of the board of trustees. To my right is John Avery Whittaker, also a member of the board of trustees. Thank you, gentlemen, for coming on such short notice.”
He put on a pair of reading glasses and passed folders from a small stack in front of him to Mr. Harris and Mr. Whittaker. “You’ll find all the pertinent information and computer reports from Mr. Burglemeister in these folders. Sorry about the formality, but they want it to sound good on tape. Mr. Whittaker, I believe you have had some past experience with Mr. Meltsner here?”
Whit nodded. “I have, Dr. Grayson.”
“Then maybe you can give us some insight at this hearing. Eugene?”
“Yes, sir.”
Dr. Grayson took off his glasses. “It’s important you understand that we are not a court of law. Our purpose here is to assess the charges against you and pass on a recommendation to the College Disciplinary Committee. In this case, we will decide whether to expel you from school . . . or to perhaps even have you arrested. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you have anything you wish to say?”
“No, sir.”
Grayson’s brow furrowed. “What you’re being accused of is very serious. Don’t you have anything to say in your defense?”
“No, sir.”
“Nothing at all?”
“No, sir,” Eugene said stoically. “I was in charge of the department. The responsibility is mine.”
Grayson considered Eugene for a moment and then said, “Hold on a minute, please. I need to confer with my fellow board members.” He rolled his chair back away from the microphone and motioned for Harris and Whit to join him. The three of them spoke in hushed voices for several moments, and finally Grayson motioned for them to resume their places. He said, “The board of inquiry will take a short recess for . . . ah, a conference. Sit tight, Eugene.” He turned to Harris and muttered, “Let’s go, Ralph. There’s coffee down the hall. Delores, care to join us?”
The three of them exited through the back door. Whit stood, put the folder on his chair, and rolled it around the board table and over to Eugene’s table, where he placed the folder on the table and sat. “Well. Hello, Eugene. Fancy meeting you here.”
“Greetings, Mr. Whittaker. I didn’t know you were on the board.”
Whit nodded. “Have been for quite some time. If it helps the college, I’ll do it. So, you want to tell me what this is all about?”
“It’s in the report. Mr. Burglemeister caught me red-handed.”
“Uh-huh. And I’m supposed to believe that you’re involved in some scam to make money by changing students’ grades?”
Eugene stared straight ahead. “According to the report, yes.”
Whit leaned in. “Eugene, look at me.” Eugene slowly turned and met Whit’s gaze. “Is it true?”
Eugene took a deep breath. “My department is my responsibility, Mr. Whittaker. If there is one thing I learned from you, it’s to take responsibility. Or did I misunderstand you?”
“No, Eugene, you didn’t. But I’m having a hard time believing you’re really behind this.”
Eugene cocked his head. “Why? You fired me for activity of this nature. Remember? I broke into Applesauce.”
