The Eighth Guardian

CHAPTER 25

I spend the entire bus ride with my head leaned against the window. When I get out of this—if I get out of this—I’m going to get my mom help. I won’t take no for an answer this time. I need her. I need normalcy. I’m going to haul her to the doctor, then the pharmacy; and I will shove those pills down her throat every damn day if I have to. I won’t let her stop taking them after two weeks—not this time.

I will be enough for her, goddammit. She will get better for me. I’m only a year away from eighteen. One year before I’m officially an adult. She owes me one last year of a normal childhood.

Normal.

I laugh. My father was a time-traveling assassin, and I’m a minor employed by a secret wing of the United States government. That’s as far from normal as you can get.

The bus drops me off at Market Square, which is somewhere in Lynn. I don’t know. I’ve passed the stops for Lynn on the highway before, but I’ve never been here. I find someone manning the ticket counter. He’s short and squat and wears a greasy blue shirt and an expression that shows he’s none too pleased about working on Christmas Eve.

“Pardon me,” I say. “I need to get to 1100 Western Avenue. Could you point me in the right direction?”

The man squints behind his glasses. “What did you say the address was?”

“1100 Western Avenue.”

The man’s brow furrows. “The GE plant?”

“The . . . the what?”

“GE,” the man says. “General Electric.”

I’m not sure why, but a funny feeling tickles the middle of my stomach. “Oh, right, yes.” I say it as if all along I was headed to a huge power plant.

The man points. “That crossroad there is Western. Hang a left and start walking. It’ll be on your left in a mile or so. Can’t miss it.”

I’m walking toward the water. An inlet of the bay. The wind is kicking up, and a light snow falls from the sky. I hunch my shoulders and keep walking. What I wouldn’t give for a coat right now. Or even a jacket. Anything to block out the cold that’s blowing right through the arms of my dress and piercing my skin. I can see my breath.

The streets are nearly empty as the sun sets on the horizon. Church bells ring in the distance, which reminds me that it’s Christmas Eve. I have no idea what day it is in the present. Definitely past Christmas, I would imagine.

There’s not a soul near the GE plant. I walk up to the front doors of the main building and peer inside the glass. It’s dark. Then I look up to the corner of the doorway. No camera. I have no idea when cameras became standard fare, but I was sort of expecting one here. You know, this being a power plant and all.

I unravel the black dress Yellow bought me in 1894. It’s so wrinkled that the few shakes in the air I give it do absolutely nothing. I glance down the street once more to make sure it’s safe. Deserted. I slip out of my 1963 dress and into my 1890s one, then stash the sixties dress behind a trash can. I’ll be back soon enough to pick it up.

I turn the dials on the Annum watch back to June 2, 1890. And then I laugh. I’m standing in front of a massively huge power plant, and I’m about to go back in time to try to track someone I don’t know and have never seen a picture of as she does something (I have no idea what) somewhere inside this building.

Easy.

I snap the lid of the watch face shut and am immediately ripped back through time. I land on the sidewalk in the early-morning light and gasp for breath. I close my eyes to block the vision of Epsilon’s broken body mangled before me during orientation, but it comes anyway.

That won’t be me. It won’t. As soon as we stop Alpha, I’m never projecting again. Ever.

Time check. 5:30 in the morning. I shake my head and turn around, then I gasp. I should be used to this by now, but I’m not. The plant that stands before me is probably half the size of the plant I left behind. Well, that should make finding Eta marginally less difficult. A sign outside the door welcomes me, not to General Electric but to Thomson-Houston Electric.

Just as I suspected, the plant is pretty empty at this time. I wander around the perimeter to get my bearings and try to come up with a plan. There’s an entrance marked WORKMEN ONLY around the side of the building, and I figure that’s going to be my best bet. I’ll pretend to be an employee.

But when workers start showing up a few hours later, I realize the fatal flaw in my plan.

They weren’t kidding when they said workmen. They’re all men. Men dressed in pants and shirts and work boots. And I am very obviously a female wearing a wrinkled black dress.

I put my head down and duck behind a group of men anyway. They’re carrying silver-colored lunch pails and talking about the census. It dawns on me that I don’t even know what day of the week it is. A workday, obviously, but Friday? Monday? Who knows?

Vulnerability creeps into my skin. I feel so unprepared. I hate this feeling more than anything.

I duck my head even lower as I follow the workers through the doorway. My eyes are trained on my feet, and I’m not really watching where I’m going.

Which explains why I run right smack into a tall man with enough girth to put a sumo wrestler to shame.

“What are you doing in my plant?” the man growls.

I meet his gaze. One eyebrow is cocked to the sky, and he’s peering down at me from a very red face.

“I work here.” I straighten myself. It’s something they taught us at Peel. Standing up straight asserts authority even when you have none. Which is what I have in this situation. None. Less than none.

The man’s eyebrow raises even more. “Since when?”

“Today.” My voice is loud.

“You one of Bessie’s girls?” he asks.

“Yes.” I have no idea who Bessie is. Hell, she could be running a prostitution ring for all I know. But if telling him I’m a part of it means I can stay in the plant, then I’ll pretend to be a hooker. Emphasis on the word pretend, of course.

The man’s left eyebrow lowers to meet his right. “Bessie’s girls don’t enter through this door. They go in through the front. Turn around and go back to the main door.”

My mind races. What if I go back to the main door and they won’t let me through? That will make two entrances that are blocked for me. There can’t be that many more doors in and out of this place.

“I’m already late.” I give a sheepish smile. “Is there a way through from here?” And then I blink my eyes a few times because it strikes me as something Yellow would do, and Yellow seems to have no problem getting what she wants.

The man grunts but jerks his head toward a hallway to my left. “That’s the main hallway. It’ll take you to the entrance. You know where to find Bessie from there.”

I fly down the hallway and pick up the hem of my dress to prevent from tripping. The hallway ends in a lobby of some sort. There are a number of men standing around, so I slow myself and wait. I close my eyes and try to listen to their voices.

Male voices run together in my mind. Deep. Some of them have the distinctive North Shore accent, and some of them don’t. I squeeze my eyes and concentrate.

One voice floats above the crowd. It’s lighter than the others. Not as masculine. The voice stops speaking, then starts again. I peer into the lobby and look at everyone. There are a lot of conversations going on, but I zero right in on the one I’m listening for.

The speaker is a short, thin man wearing a three-piece suit. His wildly curly hair peeks out from under a top hat, and . . . hang on a second. I stare at the man’s hands. They’re small. Delicate. I look at his feet. Same thing. That’s not a man at all.

That’s Eta. Pretending to be a man.

I squint. Eta is white. Violet is not. I guess I never really stopped to think about this before. Just then, a man with white hair and a white beard strolls into the lobby and extends his hand to Eta. She takes it, shakes it firmly, and then she follows him down another hallway.

I need to see where they’re going.

I take a deep breath and step out into the lobby, then walk across it like I own the place. Confidence can get you anywhere.

Except when it can’t.

A big arm reaches out to stop me halfway, and a man in a gray, three-piece suit with a gold pocket watch chain pinned to his vest stops me. I have no idea who he is, but from the way he’s looking at me, I think it might be a good guess that he does actually own this place.

“Who are you, and where are you going?”

I bow my head at him. “I’m one of Bessie’s girls, sir.”

“Are you now?” He draws himself up tall.

I do the same. Two can play at that game. “I am.”

“Then you wouldn’t mind if I escorted you to Bessie right now so she can confirm your employment.”

Shit.

“Actually, I’m supposed to be with them.” I nod my head down the hallway as Eta and the group of men get farther and farther away from me. But then they stop at what looks like the last door before the hallway curves to the right. They all file into a room.

“That,” the man says, causing my head to snap back to him, “is a financial meeting that I’m certain doesn’t concern you.”

“I’m . . .” I’m what? Think! I say the first thing that pops into my head. “I’m to make sure your guests are well accommodated, Mr. Thomson.” The name is a complete guess. I’m at the Thomson-Houston Electric Company, so I just threw it out there. But from the way the man’s lips press together and his chin tilts down, I instantly know I’ve guessed wrong.

“My name is Bauer,” he says with a telling look. “Now, since you’ve clearly been here before and are in my employ, I’d like for you to lead the way to Bessie.”

And I’m done for.

But then a girl right about my age strolls into the lobby. A floor-length black dress hangs off her skeletal frame, and she’s wearing a long apron and a lacy cap that looks like something I wore with a Halloween costume when I was five. She meets my eye, and I instantly read her. She has meek, little mouse written all over her, from her timid expression to her hunched shoulders; and I pounce like the lion I need to be.

“She knows me!” I cry, pointing to my mouse. “She can confirm I work here.”

Bauer turns to the girl, and his face dawns with recognition. “Annie, know this young lady?” His arm flies in my direction.

I stare at Annie and raise my eyebrows at her, hoping I’m being both persuading and intimidating.

“I do, sir,” Annie says. “She’s new.”

Bauer brings his hand to his chin and takes a long breath. I can see he’s mulling over the whole thing—deciding whether he wants to be a hard-ass and press me on this or just let it go—and I bow my head to him like Annie did. Sometimes winning means knowing when to submit.

Then Bauer pulls out his pocket watch and takes a quick glance before tucking it away. “Very well then.” He turns and starts down the hallway after Eta and the other man.

I wait until he’s out of range before turning to Annie. “Hey look, I really appreciate what you—”

And then I stop. Because I have completely neglected to realize how the parable of the lion and the mouse ends. But it’s clear Annie hasn’t. My meek, little mouse has fire in her eyes.

“That’s going to cost you,” she says. “I don’t know who you are or what you want, but unless you want the coppers hunting you down, I suggest you pay up.”

“I don’t have any money,” I say. It’s partly the truth. I don’t have any 1890s money.

Annie clicks her tongue and takes a step back, eyeing me from head to toe. And then she zeroes in on my wrist. On my bracelet.

“No,” I say. No. She can’t have it. It’s the only thing I have left connecting me to Abe, to my past.

“My brother’s a cop,” she says. Brother sounds like bruddah. “In Boston. He’ll hunt you down.”

He won’t, actually. I’ll be long gone by the time he gets word. But that doesn’t change the fact that Eta is right down the hallway and I’m wasting time.

My hands are tied. I slip the bracelet off my wrist and squeeze it tight in my palm before I hand it over. Annie smirks, and I want to punch her. But I don’t. I take off down the hallway.

Annie follows me. I hear the triumphant pat pat pat of her buckled shoes on the wooden floor behind me.

There’s a rolling cart with a sterling pot, several teacups, and a platter of pastries and rolls outside a door. Male voices echo into the hall.

Jackpot.

I pull the car closer and place my hand on the doorknob, but Annie steps in front of me and grabs the cart handle. My charm bracelet slides down her wrist, and I tense my shoulders.

“I’m supposed to service the meeting,” Annie says.

“Yeah, well, now you’re not. So let go of the handle or I’ll break your wrist.” I’d like to say it’s an idle threat, but I’m not so sure.

“My bruddah—”

“Is a cop. Yeah, I know. Screw your brother.” I’m sure she’s probably never heard my modern-day insult before, but her narrowed eyes tell me she’s caught the gist. “Now step aside.”

She stares at me for a few seconds before raising her wrist and flicking it back and forth to make my bracelet jingle. Then she gives me a smirk and backs up to let me pass.

I take a breath. Focus on what’s important, I remind myself. I swing open the door and take hold of the cart. “I suggest you make yourself scarce,” I hiss to Annie.

I duck my head as I roll in the cart. I don’t think Eta will know who I am, but you never know. Alpha sure knew everything about me from childhood. Maybe Eta will, too. I keep my head down and peer up out of the tops of my eyes. Bauer sits at the head of the table, and a number of men line each side. Eta sits in the middle, on the right side, in front of the window. I can feel Bauer glare at me as I push the cart past.

“I suppose my main question,” Bauer says, “is why you’re interested in investing in the company now. Why not seven years ago when we first started?”

I settle into the corner of the room and turn my back to everyone as I pour tea into the cups. That’s a really good question. I want to hear Eta’s answer.

Eta smiles politely. “I’m sorry, I was under the impression I was to meet with the president of the company.”

Bauer’s lips press together. “Mr. Coffin is unavailable today. I assure you I am well prepared to hear your proposal. Now why are you just offering it today?”

Eta pauses for several seconds, then her shoulders relax and she leans forward and rests her forearms on the table. “My company has not been around for seven years,” she says. “We only started last year, making investments in those companies we feel have real potential but could use a greater financial backing. Thomson-Houston Electric is such a company.”

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 Cs. 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.