The Eighth Guardian (35 page)

She’s lying. But why? Thomson-Houston Electric doesn’t even stay Thomson-Houston Electric. At one point it becomes General Electric, and . . . oh. There it is. It all comes back to money, doesn’t it? Invest now and reap a huge reward when GE really starts booming.

I set down the teapot and steady myself. Corruption wafts through the air and threatens to choke me. I feel dirty right now, and no amount of scrubbing will wash away the truth.

Someone clears a throat. “Tea?” Bauer asks his guests in a tone that makes it clear I need to serve it already.

My head snaps up, but I don’t turn to look at him. I nod with my back to him and lift two teacups. My hands are shaking as I carry the saucers and set them on the table before Bauer and the man to his right.

Bauer drums his fingers on the table and cocks an eyebrow. “And what sort of investment are you proposing?”

I grab two more cups and set them on the table, then start back for the last two.

Eta clears her throat and folds her hands on the table. She’s trying to act confident, but from here I can see her foot tapping rapidly under the table. “It’s all outlined in our proposal,” she says. “We provide you with one hundred thousand dollars in capital, and in return we get a minority-ownership interest.”

Which she can then sell for a ton of money someday in the future, no doubt.

I set a teacup in front of Eta, and she doesn’t even glance in my direction. And so I stand over her and stare. Some crack operative she is. Disgust creeps up in my throat like bile. She took an oath. To her country. Did it mean nothing?

Did it mean nothing to my dad?

I want to kick over the cart and run from this room, but so far I haven’t learned anything that will help me identify CE. And I’ll be damned if I gave away my bracelet for nothing.

Bauer clears his throat again. “Does anyone take their tea with milk and sugar?” He’s staring right at me with a pointed look.

I snap out of it and scoot around the edge of my cart to get back to my tray.

“I’m terribly sorry,” Bauer says to his guests. “She’s new. It’s as if she’s never served tea a day in her life.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Eta’s head snap up and over to me. I turn my back to her and pretend to busy myself with the milk and sugar. I can feel Eta’s eyes boring holes into my back. Does she suspect anything?

“Well,” Bauer continues, “I am a man in a rather enviable position. My initial investors were good to the company, so good that I don’t have to say yes to your proposal by any stretch of the imagination. So tell me”—I hear him flip over a stack of papers—“what other investments has Eagle Industries made recently? Why should I trust you?”

Eagle Industries.
Who is running Eagle Industries? Come on, Eta, tell me.

“Well—” Eta begins.

“Milk and sugar,” Bauer says.

I grab the creamer and the sugar dish and set it on the table in front of Bauer, then I return for the plate of pastries. I use the silver tongs to place one on the edge of everyone’s saucer.

Eta clears her throat. “I am uncomfortable naming the other business deals in which we’ve recently taken part. You would grant my company some level of privacy, would you not?”

Bauer waves his hand in the air. “And I’ve seen nothing in your proposal that details exactly who makes up . . . what was it?” He flips the paper again. “Eagle Industries?”

I hold my breath.

“Nor will I tell you,” Eta says, sending my hopes crashing down to the ground. “For it is unimportant. What is important here today is that I have a great sum of money that I wish to invest in your company. If you tell me no, as is perfectly within your right, then I can certainly take my money elsewhere. Perhaps to Edison.”

Bauer juts his chin in the air and stands. He extends his hand across the table to Eta, who rises to take it. “I will take your proposal under advisement and get back to you within the week.”

Eta nods. “Thank you, sir. It was a pleasure meeting you.”

“Likewise.”

And with that Bauer spins and marches out of the room. The rest of the men follow, save for Eta. So much for tea service. I bend my knees and pretend to fiddle with a stack of plates on the bottom shelf. Disappointment washes over me. I don’t know anything about the men who make up Eagle Industries. Nothing. I pray Yellow finds out more, because Paris just isn’t an option unless we steal some money, which is way too risky. Not to mention illegal.

I hear Eta’s footsteps at the door. She hesitates for a second, and I wonder if she’s looking at me. Hoping I’ll raise my head. I pick up the six plates on top of the pile and move them to the bottom, then I stand and brush a few crumbs off the top shelf into my hand. She’s still standing there. She has to be looking at me.

And so I turn, though I keep my head bowed. “Is there anything I can get for you, m—sir?”

My stomach lurches. I almost called her ma’am.

Eta looks at me, and I keep my eyes trained on the floor like a timid baby bunny. But I do glance toward the table. Bauer took those papers with him. Of course he did.

“No,” she finally says. She tips her hat at me. “Have a good day.”

I nod to her and turn back around. I don’t take a breath until the door has shut firmly behind her. I don’t bother clearing the table. Instead I wait. I want to give Eta enough time to get out of the building. I could follow her, but I don’t see the point. It’s not like she’s going to head back to Annum Hall while mumbling under her breath the names of all the people who make up Eagle Industries.

But then I hear voices. Two of them, both female, getting louder. I freeze.

“She threatened me, ma’am!” an hysterical voice wails. “I think she means to harm Mr. Bauer!”

Annie.

Bitch.

I whip out my watch, set it to Christmas Day 1963, and disappear. I land in the same empty meeting room, but it’s changed. A lot. Gone is the massive wooden conference table and velvet-backed armchairs. In their place are a shiny white table with metal legs and beige leather chairs. The wood floor has been covered with a pea-green carpet.

For a second I wonder whether Annie is still alive. Whether she still has my bracelet. Then I shake my head.
Let it go.
I have more important things to do.

There weren’t cameras outside, but I’m not going to gamble that there aren’t any in the hallway. I hurl a chair through the window, drop a twenty on the table to cover some of the damage, then think better of it and pocket the cash. I feel bad, but I don’t want to hitchhike back to Boston.

Yellow is already there, pacing back and forth in front of the reflecting pool. A few people amble around, but for the most part the plaza is empty. It’s Christmas morning, after all.

“It’s about time,” Yellow says. Her hair is stringy and greasy. There are big black bags hanging underneath her eyes. And she smells like a public bathroom. I raise an eyebrow at her.

“What?” she says. “It took me two days to get to DC and back. Have you ever tried sleeping on a bus?” She cracks her neck left and right. “But that’s not important. What did you find out?”

I sigh. “Not much. You first.”

“I didn’t do any better.” Yellow hesitates for a moment. “It was your dad,” she finally says, confirming what I already knew deep down. “He went to a secret congressional meeting about the Manhattan Project.”

“The development of the atomic bomb?”

“Yep. Early stages. Your dad said he was from some company and wanted to invest in the development.”

Every hair on my arm stands on end. “Eagle Industries,” I whisper.

Yellow opens her eyes wide.

“Same thing with my mission. It was Eta, like you thought, wanting Eagle Industries to invest in a power plant that eventually gets bought out by General Electric.”

“Did Eta say anything about who was behind Eagle Industries?”

“Nope.” I blow out my breath. “Did . . . my dad?”

She shakes her head. But then a thought hits me.

“CE,” I say. “What if the
E
stands for
eagle
?”

A lightbulb goes off on Yellow’s face. “And the
C
stands for
Cresty
,” she practically shouts. “Cresty Eagle! Do you think that’s someone’s name?”

“It’s a really awful thing for a parent to do to a child if it is a name,” I say. “Maybe it’s a kind of eagle?”

“Only one way to find out.” She trots away from the reflecting pool and looks over her shoulder. “Come on, the library is only a few blocks from here.”

“And it’s Christmas Day,” I say.

Yellow skids to a stop. “Crap. We have to project.”

I tense my shoulders, then release. Pain still lingers in all my joints and muscles. I would kill for a hot bath and two ibuprofens. But she’s right. We have to follow this lead, and there’s no following it here.

“Let’s go forward,” I tell her. “I’m done with 1963.”

We go forward two weeks, to January 8, 1964. It feels at least twenty degrees colder. A bitter wind whips off the bay and through the city, and my teeth chatter as we run down Huntington Avenue toward Copley Square. The streets are crowded this morning with men and women bundled in wool coats and scarves and hats, staring in disbelief at two teenage girls running down the street without any protection from the cold.

Yellow makes a left onto Dartmouth Street, and I follow. We race up the steps to the library, zipping past the statutes representing Art and Science, and run through the open metal gates. My shoulders are pressed up into my ears, but I release them as the heat of the building crawls under my skin and starts to warm me.

I look up, and time stands still. Apart from the woman next to me wearing a swing coat and cat’s-eye glasses, this building looks exactly as it did the last time I was here. It never ceases to take my breath away. Yellow and I are silent as we climb the great marble steps that lead to Bates Hall. Two massive marble lions leer at us on the landing, and Yellow and I exchange a glance.

And then we’re in Bates Hall. A barrel-vaulted ceiling runs the length of the room, which is at least two hundred feet long, and the ceiling itself has to be fifty feet high. Long tables with wooden spindled chairs fill the center of the room, and green banker’s lamps set on each of the tables wash the room in a rich, elegant glow.

Yellow is unfazed. She leaves me standing there, gaping at the ceiling, and walks up to a man sitting behind a desk. I watch out of the corner of my eye as he stands and leads her to a shelf. He points at it, then returns to his desk. I look over at her, and she jerks her head toward the shelf.

The man has led her to a section all about birds. She’s scanning the titles at the top, so I kneel on the marble floor and scan the titles at the bottom. My eyes stop on two red books on the second-lowest shelf.

I pull volume one of
Eagles, Hawks and Falcons of the World
off the shelf and hold it up. Yellow nods and sits in the end chair at the nearest table. I take the seat next to her and hold my breath. She really does smell of something rank. At least her arm wound appears to be healing all right.

The book has eagles in the front, and it’s alphabetical. I flip past a number of pictures and statistics on my way to the
C
s. Both Yellow and I draw in our breath on page thirty-seven. Because there’s an entry for the crested eagle.

My eyes fly to the picture, and my breath catches in my throat. The bird that stares back at me is small, and a mop of what looks like tangled curls sits atop its head. Like a hawk with a bad perm.

My mind flashes back to Testing Day. To graduation. To the pin that Headmaster Vaughn wore on his lapel. It’s the same bird.

“Wait,” Yellow whispers. “Your former headmaster is behind Eagle Industries?”

“He’s definitely involved somehow. Whether or not he’s behind it I really don’t know.”

“How old is he?”

“Huh?” I say it louder than I’m intending. A man looks up at us from the next table and glares.

“Your dad,” Yellow whispers. “He called him ‘Old Cresty.’ How old is old?”

“Oh,” I whisper back. “I don’t know how old he is. Pretty old. Grandfather old? In his seventies?” That’s a total guess. “He was a CIA operative for a really long time, then a division chief before he came to Peel. And he’s been headmaster for a while. At least two generations.”

“Two generations to gain influence in all the government organizations. CIA, FBI, NSA . . .”

“And all the other ones we don’t know about.”

“Annum Guard,” Yellow whispers.

“Annum Guard,” I repeat.

Neither of us says anything for a while. Yellow stares down at the picture of the crested eagle, and I look out the window as the snow falls on Copley Square. I know Yellow is trying to figure out what to do now, and I should probably do the same. But all I can think about is my dad. Maybe this really wasn’t his fault. Maybe Headmaster Vaughn corrupted him early on. And maybe—just maybe—if we go back and stop the headmaster before he has a chance to worm his way into Annum Guard, we can prevent my dad’s death.

“We have to go to Peel,” I whisper.

Yellow shuts the book then looks up at me with a blank stare.