Ignition (4 page)

Astrid paused to collect herself. William reached across the desk to comfort her.

“She was getting sicker every day then, but she calmed me down. ‘You’re not alone, Astrid,’ Grace had said. ‘I will help you for as long as I can. And then there will be my family . . .’

“So I proceeded with my research,” Astrid continued resolutely. “But the more I uncovered, the more I was appalled. I didn’t want to believe it. And after Grace’s death, I even tried to bury the truth inside myself. I didn’t think I could handle it.”

“But you agreed to come to the funeral when I called,” William said. “Why?”

“Well —” Astrid hesitated. “Toward the end of Grace’s sickness, I began to feel that I was being followed. And it seemed to get worse after her death. I would be shopping at the grocery store and look over to see a woman staring at me. Or a man sitting on a bench looking at me funny while I walked my dog in the park. And once I . . .” She trailed off, embarrassed at how paranoid she sounded.

“It’s happening sooner than I expected,” McIntyre murmured.

“What is?” Astrid’s eyes grew wide as she leaned over the desk.

William met Astrid’s gaze, concern — or was it
fear —
written on every feature of his face. “They’re coming for you, Astrid. You’re the only Guardian left. We haven’t seen the kind of activity you’re describing in decades. No. This is a full-out offensive, and they won’t stop at you.”

Astrid felt like she was going to faint, no, vomit. She was going to throw up. Right there in Grace’s office, on the day of her funeral. This couldn’t be happening.

“So what am I supposed to do?” Astrid snapped. “I didn’t sign up for this. I don’t know the first thing about fighting this, this” — Astrid searched for the words — “this evil.”

There was a long pause as she caught her breath. “I’m sorry,” Astrid apologized. “This is a lot to take in.”

“I know, Professor Rosenbloom.
I’m
sorry to have been so abrupt,” William responded. Astrid began rubbing her temples. She took another deep breath.

“Please tell me,” she asked in a measured voice, “that the people I saw today are
not
the other ‘family’ members Grace thought would help me after she was gone.”

William was silent.

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” she exclaimed. “All I see is a family consumed by greed and jealousy. Why on earth would Grace institute a competition, of all things, at a time like this?” Astrid was out of breath and feeling more hopeless with every passing moment.

“We must trust Madame Cahill,” William began carefully, “to have made the best decision for all of us. I know it’s hard to believe in her choices, but Madame Cahill was one of the cleverest people I have ever known. She had strong faith in her family. Though splintered, I think she hoped the clue hunt would produce a new leader of the Cahills. One to unite them all against the Vespers.”

“That’s an extraordinary risk!” Astrid interrupted.

“Yes, it’s true. There is no way of knowing if her plan will succeed, but I learned over the many years I spent working with that great woman, that if she had a plan, then I should follow it.”

A spark of hope instantly entered Astrid’s thoughts. “William, you said you had a ’legacy’ for me, right? What was it? I always assumed Grace would leave me all her files on the Vespers. That will at least give me
something
to start with!”

“Yes. Yes, she did,” William confirmed, then reached down to unlock a desk drawer. He brought out a thin, unmarked file and handed it to Astrid. “This,” he explained, “is all the information Madame Cahill and I compiled on the Vespers before her death.”

Astrid leafed through it. There wasn’t much: a list of names, a few photographs. No step-by-step instructions on how to fight a band of ancient evil adversaries. No “How to Save the World Guide.” Astrid’s shoulders felt very, very heavy all of a sudden.

“It is grossly incomplete,” William continued, “and I apologize. But hopefully it is enough for you to start with.”

Astrid looked up at him and almost laughed. There was no place to start. She felt like someone had just pushed her off a very high and rocky ledge. Astrid gripped her chair as she searched for thoughts to piece together — something, anything that might help this all make sense.

Just then, a moan sounded from within the wall opposite Grace’s desk.

They hurried over and put their ears against the wood. A voice on the other side whispered a muffled, “Help!” William stood up and rushed out of the room into the hallway. Astrid followed close behind.

“There’s a broom closet next to the office,” William explained as he wrenched open a door in the hallway. Inside, a woman lay bound and gagged, shoved up against a mop and a pile of rags.

“Ingrid!” William exclaimed. The lawyer untied the handkerchief that was used to gag her and began working on the bindings at her hands and ankles. When Ingrid’s face was bare, Astrid recognized her at once. But her medallion was missing.

“You were at the will reading, weren’t you? What happened?” Astrid questioned. The woman coughed as she tried to speak. Her first few words were muffled.

“Never made it,” Ingrid said. “. . . was trying to use the bathroom . . .
cough
. . . before the presentation, but couldn’t find it. I was searching . . .
ack cough!
. . . this hallway when I ran into myself. I mean — a version of myself. She was . . .
cough
. . . waiting for me.”

“Do you mean someone was disguised as you, Ingrid?” William asked. Ingrid nodded, then fell into another fit of coughing.

“She ripped off my necklace and said, ‘Tell them the Vespers are watching.’ ”

“My God!” Astrid gasped. She turned to William. “It can’t be!” They stared at each other with wide eyes, knowing instantly how devastating the breach was. An enemy agent had infiltrated not only Grace’s funeral, but the will reading and launch of the Clue hunt. The Vespers knew everything.

They each grabbed an arm to lift Ingrid out of the closet when a pungent smell wafted down the hallway.

Was that . . .
smoke
?

Hamilton Holt watched in horror as the flames crept up Grace’s dining room drapes and thought,
What have I done?

Just an hour ago, the Holts had received their Clue:

After leaving the Great Hall, the Holt family had regrouped in the atrium garden, a greenhouse-like room at the center of the mansion. The roof was one big skylight, and the room was three stories high, with balconies from the other floors looking out over the garden below. The Holts were debriefing near a small reflecting pool as a stone statue of a nymph looked on.

“Sir, I suggest we start in Grace’s library,” said Hamilton. “Grace had a lot of old books, and I don’t think we’ll find a better set of resources!”

Eisenhower, who was not a great reader, gave his son a blank stare. Hamilton tried again. “Er, ‘Richard S.’ could be the author of something with ‘fine print,’ sir. You know, like, a book? The old ones —”

Reagan cut in. “Dad, permission to report!”

“Permission granted,” Eisenhower responded, turning to his daughter.

“Well, during our visit last winter, Grace gave me a tour of the portrait hall, to show me our ancestors. There were definitely lots of plaques with tiny writing on them underneath the pictures. Maybe one of them was this Richard S. guy — one of our relatives! I think we should check there first.”

“Excellent reconnaissance, Reagan,” Eisenhower approved. “Hamilton, try to be more inventive next time. Okay, troops, FALL IN!”

Reagan shot a smirk at Hamilton. The Holts jumped quickly into formation. “
Arrf!
” Arnold barked and scrambled over behind Mary-Todd. Together they jogged up to the portrait hall in the west wing.

The room was long, connecting the north and south corners of the western-facing side of the house. The hallway was flooded with the dark, shifting light of the storm. A long row of tall windows faced out onto the lake. Opposite the windows was a wall stretching the length of the hall, and it was covered with family portraits.

As the Holts read over each and every plaque, Arnold barked at the family dogs that had been painted alongside their famous owners. Cahills from over five centuries stared out at the Holts from their gold-framed portraits. There was Luke Cahill, Gustave Eiffel, Thomas Edison, Marie Curie, Neil Armstrong, Sacagawea, even LeBron James. But no Richard S. And just when Hamilton was going to suggest looking in the library again, Madison piped up.

“Dad! I mean, sir! We should try the china room. There are all those fancy dishes with the fine print on them! That’s definitely where we’ll find Richard S., I just know it!” Madison exclaimed.

Eisenhower nodded. “Fall in line, troops!” he called again, and set their marching beat. “One, two, three, four . . .”

In Grace’s china room, every wall was covered in porcelain. Some were commemorative pieces, while others seemed to have been handed down through the generations. There were curio cabinets made of glass filled with ancient porcelain teacups and silver spoons. The Holts read almost every line of fine print on every piece of china, and found nothing.

Hamilton shook his head in frustration. “Dad, I feel very strongly that we should —” But Hamilton was interrupted by the tinny ring of a plate bouncing along the carpet. The Holts spun around just in time to see the plate crash into the wall.

“Arnold!” Mary-Todd yelled. “Bad dog. Very bad dog!”

The pit bull whimpered a little and wrapped his tail between his legs. As Hamilton’s mother continued to yell at him, Arnold backed into a curio case, sending it toppling over. All the china came crashing out, splintering into a thousand little pieces. The noise was earth-shattering. And it spurred Arnold into a frenzy, barking like mad and racing around the room, knocking over case after case.

Madison and Reagan screamed at every new broken plate. Then Mary-Todd started screaming at the girls to quiet down. A wave of thunder cracked outside.

“Stop screaming!” Eisenhower belted out. “Fall in, troops! Show some composure!” But it was several minutes before the noisy waterfall of barks, screams, and splintering china ceased.

“This is ridiculous!” Eisenhower said to his family of troops, almost breathless now. “There are no clues here, and I’ll be spittooned if I waste my time in this house for much longer. Move ’em out!”

Hamilton jogged along behind his father as they entered the formal dining hall on their way out of the manor. Halfway across the room, Eisenhower stopped and everyone behind him screeched to a halt. Even Arnold ran into the back of Reagan’s leg, and let out a surprised yelp.

“Ham!” Eisenhower called behind him. “Step forward!”

“Yessir,” Hamilton answered, and walked up beside his father.

“Hamilton, I don’t want to leave any traces behind, nothing our competition can use. Take this lighter and set those drapes on fire. We’ll flush our enemies out empty-handed,” Eisenhower commanded.

“But, Dad —” Hamilton protested.

“No buts!” Eisenhower cut him off. “This is a direct order, son. Now, take the lighter. . . .”

“But, Dad, you just said yourself that there weren’t any clues left in this house! Why do we have to burn it down? It doesn’t —”

“A direct order! Just do it,” Eisenhower yelled. Hamilton took one last look into his father’s eyes, which were cold and resolute. Hamilton turned away, knelt down to the floor, and picked up the foot of the drape. Then he flicked the lighter open, applied pressure to the flint, and touched the small flame to the soft, velvet drapery.