by Mark Frost
“The Crag was the residence of both headmasters at one time or another. This archive includes many of their private papers.”
“I thought they lived at Stone House,” said Will.
“You must also be wondering if I was a student here myself,” said Elliot, ignoring his question. “If only I’d been so fortunate. The number of extraordinary men who’ve passed through these halls is remarkable. For instance …” Elliot turned around the folder he was holding and showed a picture of—who else?—the thirty-third vice president of the United States, Henry Wallace, one that Will hadn’t seen before.
“One of our country’s most unusual public figures,” said Elliot. “Do you know much about him?”
“I’m afraid I don’t.”
“You’d do well to study Henry Wallace. You’d learn quite a lot of useful things. Are you interested—may I call you Will?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you may call me Mr. Elliot. Are you as interested in history as I am, Will?”
“I don’t know, I mean, I wasn’t that much, at least before I got here. Maybe it was the way they were teaching it.”
“No doubt. The educational methods employed in most American schools turn good minds to stone. The past has many things to teach us, and we ignore them at our peril. If you don’t know where you’ve been, how can you know where you are?”
Will wasn’t sure if Elliot wanted him to answer. “And if you don’t know where you are,” he said, “how do you know where you’re going?”
Elliot beamed at him again. “I couldn’t have put it better myself. Mr. Haxley expects you’ll do very well here. By that I mean he expects you to do a good deal more than simply arrange the boxes. The material inside the boxes needs to be organized as well.”
“I see. Mr. Clegg didn’t mention that—”
“Mr. Clegg doesn’t speak for Mr. Haxley,” he said with a slight edge. “The material needs to be organized chronologically. In all the boxes.”
“That’s good to know.” Will was secretly thrilled to hear that he’d have more time with this stuff but tried not to show it. “Mr. Elliot, this is such a big assignment I’m thinking about asking Mr. Haxley if I could bring a friend along next time to give me a hand.”
“Oh?”
RULE #80: GO EASY ON THE HARD SELL. PERSUASION IS THE ART OF MAKING OTHERS BELIEVE IT WAS THEIR IDEA.
“I want to do a really good job,” said Will, trying not to sound too enthusiastic, “and I think two heads might be better than one.”
“I assume this friend is a student here?”
“One of my roommates,” said Will. “And he’s really good at this sort of thing. Think I should ask Mr. Haxley about it?”
“He’s out of town for a while,” said Elliot, pausing to study Will, who tried not to flinch under the pressure of his pale eyes. “But I believe I can speak for him on a matter like this. Let me think about it.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Elliot kept staring at him, a straight poker face. If he had an opinion about the idea, Will couldn’t tell which way he was leaning.
“Why don’t you put that back in the box you already started going through,” said Elliot as he handed over the folder. “Then come with me for a moment. Speaking of history, I’d like to show you something outside. Won’t take long.”
Elliot started walking, not toward the spiral staircase but away from it toward the rear of the room. Will stuck the folder back into the 1937 box, but not before sneaking a glance inside; the canceled check written by Thomas Greenwood to Henry Wallace was gone.
Elliot preceded Will through a door that Will hadn’t noticed before, seamlessly set in the middle of the dark wooden back wall. Not exactly a secret door—it did have a tiny visible knob—but it was the closest thing to it. They entered a small, windowless vestibule that led to what Will decided was the oldest elevator he’d ever seen.
There were no doors. Elliot slid open a small collapsible steel grating and gestured for Will to enter ahead of him. The inside was paneled with dark wood and banded with cast iron. Elliot followed him in and closed the gate.
“I’m afraid that old staircase is a bit of an ordeal for me these days,” said Elliot.
There were no buttons to push. Elliot turned a metallic crank on a rotating disc—silver and shiny with age, the kind Will had only seen in really old movies—that operated the motor. The elevator, after a fitful start, began to slowly descend. Will could see the rough stone walls of the tower through the grating as they moved down.
“As you learn more about the house,” said Elliot, looking up at the ceiling, “you might discover this elevator is one of the oldest still in continuous use in North America.”
“That’s reassuring,” said Will.
The entire car trembled and stuttered every few feet, which Will found quite a bit more disconcerting.
“Don’t worry,” said Elliot. “It’s regularly serviced and in excellent working order. The original owner brought in the sons of Mr. Elisha Graves Otis himself—the inventor of the vertical transportation device—to design and install this one a few years after the estate was built in 1870.”
They finally passed a small window, about thirty feet above ground level, and Will caught a glimpse of the island and lake.
Elliot expertly operated the crank as they neared the bottom and feathered the elevator to a slightly bouncy stop at ground level.
“You see, Will, many old things work perfectly well as long as they’re properly maintained,” said Elliot with a wink as he opened the gate.
They stepped out into a slightly larger stone foyer, and then Elliot opened a door that led directly outside to a terrace on the western side of the castle. Colorful flowerbeds lined the edges of the patio, all of them as meticulously maintained as the rest of the grounds.
“Follow me,” said Elliot.
Elliot took a collapsible round white hat from his pocket and carefully placed it on his head. His skin looked almost transparent in the afternoon sun. As he moved away, Will noticed a strange pattern of striated skin—alternating pink and white stripes, almost like peppermint—just behind the man’s ears.
It’s not a Ride Along scar, but what the hell is that?
Swaying slightly as he walked, Elliot led him along a paved pathway up a slight rise off the terrace. At the crest of the rise, it continued along a flat ridgeline to a grove of maple and box elders, swaying in a slight breeze that moderated the midday heat.
The path ended in a grassy meadow surrounded by the grove of trees, and Will realized they were entering a small graveyard, the one Ajay had spotted from the opposite shore. About a dozen ancient headstones, worn with age and some covered with lichen, scattered over an area about twenty square yards. The carved stones were difficult to read, but Will noticed the name Cornish on a number of them.
“The castle’s builder, Ian Cornish, chose this area for his family plot,” said Elliot. “The island stayed in the hands of the Cornish family for only two generations, before Thomas Greenwood bought it for the Center just prior to the Great War. That would be World War One to your generation.”
Will noticed another more recent stone monument just past the graveyard, set apart by a small black fence. A single large and thick cross on a pedestal, simple and unadorned, with twelve names engraved on its base, and the date May 1938.
“What is this?” asked Will.
“A memorial.”
“For what?”
“As I understand it, for the worst tragedy in school history,” said Elliot, walking right past it. “A plane crash that took the lives of eleven seniors and one of our teachers.”
Twelve victims. In 1938? Will thought about it, his mind racing back to the photograph of the Knights dinner. That was October of 1937. Seven months earlier. Twelve seniors. The twelve Knights?
&nb
sp; “Members of the class of ’38,” said Elliot, who didn’t seem very interested for somebody who said he was the Center’s historian.
In order to keep up with him, Will didn’t have time to stop and read the names on the memorial, but now that he knew where it was he vowed to come back, as planned.
Elliot pointed at something ahead and led Will toward two much taller monuments at the far western edge of the graveyard. They stood at the edge of the ridge before it fell off and ran gently down to the water’s edge about a hundred yards away. Quarried from the same stone used to build the castle and turned to the west toward the setting sun were intricately sculpted figures from the school’s crest.
A winged angel stood atop an eight-foot-high column, eyes lifted skyward, holding a book in its left hand and a raised sword in its right. Below it, carved as if stepping right out of the body of the column was a knight, or what Will now realized was more likely a variation of the school’s Paladin mascot. The figure struck a defense pose, raising its shield and pointing its sword down at some unseen earthbound foe.
The school’s motto was carved into a stone scroll that unfurled at the Paladin’s feet: Knowledge is the Path. Wisdom is the Purpose.
At first glance the two statues appeared to be mirror images of each other, but the one on the right was a slightly lighter shade of stone that appeared newer, less weather-beaten.
“The resting place of our founder,” said Elliot. “And his only son. The school’s only two headmasters.”
Our founder. But Elliot just said he was never a student here.
There were two names engraved in the base of each statue. The ones on the left read:
THOMAS WILLIAM GREENWOOD 1883–1958
MARY FRANCIS GREENWOOD 1890–1962
On the base of the right one:
FRANKLIN WILLIAM GREENWOOD 1920–1995
ELIZABETH HOWARD GREENWOOD 1921–1993
Below both sets of names, a pair of clasped hands had been carved along with the Latin phrase Requiescat in pace.
Rest in peace.
Will was looking at the graves of his grandparents and great-grandparents. All those stories his parents had told him about their own parents and how they’d died before he was born. More lies. Lies on top of lies.
He’d never even known his grandmother’s real name before. And Franklin’s middle name was William.
So William is a family name.
His eyes watered and his whole body felt flushed, and not just from the searing heat. He turned away slightly and had to work hard not to let any emotion show on his face.
Mr. Elliot was watching him closely.
“But Mr. Rourke’s the headmaster now,” said Will.
“Of course he is,” said Elliot.
“You said they were the only two headmasters.”
Elliot smiled spookily. “That makes three, then, doesn’t it?”
TWO IF BY SEA
Ajay marched into the pod from his bedroom, holding up his notebook in triumph. “It took some elbow grease, because they deploy encryption worthy of the Pentagon, but I’ve cracked into the Haxley Industries database!”
“Tell us,” said Will.
“To paraphrase Gilbert and Sullivan,” said Ajay, walking to the table as he read from the screen, “Stan Haxley is what one might call the very model of a modern major millionaire.”
“Who’s Gilbert O’Sullivan?” asked Nick.
“Gather around, children,” said Ajay, waving them to the table. “I’ve put together a humble presentation.”
It was half past six. The other roommates, each laying out equipment they were packing into their backpacks, migrated to the table in the great room. Ajay expanded the screen of his notebook to the size of a wall screen without touching it; then Ajay’s syn-app activated a brisk montage of articles and photos about their local magnate.
“According to their confidential files, Haxley runs two enterprises. One, a traditional private equity fund that makes beaucoup bucks by following a well-trod path of rapacious greed and opportunism, using other people’s money to buy other people’s companies, stripping off the meat and selling the bones.”
Photos of Stan Haxley in corny “action” poses like you’d see in a corporate brochure appeared onscreen—Haxley wearing a hard hat, consulting with minions over blueprints, pointing up at a skyscraper under construction.
“I feel a nap coming on,” said Nick, yawning.
“Don’t mind him. He loses interest if he can’t color the pictures,” said Elise.
“Haxley also founded a second company in 1989, in Chicago,” said Ajay, narrating as more visuals appeared. “Much more narrowly focused. Over the next few years it acquired a number of small, often struggling companies around the country—one hundred fifty-seven of them to be exact—all of them involved in areas of scientific research. Specifically genetic research.”
That made everyone sit up and take notice. “Now you’re talking,” said Will.
“This company is privately held, so its true nature remains shrouded in secrecy,” said Ajay, “but one can’t escape feeling that they’re pursuing this strategy toward some unified but unidentified goal.”
“What do you think it is?” asked Brooke.
“And why should we give a rat’s rear end about another crooked Wall Street bankster?” asked Nick.
“Because of two significant details, my ignorant friend,” said Ajay with a secret smile. “Haxley’s second in command at this company was Ronnie Murso’s father …”
“What?” they all asked.
“Wait for it … and the name of this covert organization is the Paladin Group.”
“No way,” said Elise.
Will took some deep breaths to center himself. He looked over at Brooke; every once in a while he had to remind himself that she was more from Stan Haxley’s world than theirs. She was listening closely but didn’t say anything, her emotions impossible to read.
“And if anyone here thinks that’s a coincidence,” said Ajay, closing his notebook, “I own a bridge in Brooklyn I would like to sell you.”
“How much is Haxley worth?” asked Will, getting up and pacing around.
“As near as I can estimate,” said Ajay, checking his screen, “in the neighborhood of seventeen billion dollars.”
“Whoa, where do I grab the bus to that neighborhood?” asked Nick.
“He’s one of the wealthiest men in the country,” said Ajay.
“Who’d run over his own mother if she was standing on a quarter,” said Elise. “So for his tax bracket, buying a castle is practically a requirement.”
“Okay, so the dude’s a Richie Rich dirtbag, but does this mean he’s behind the Prophecy?” asked Nick.
“It’s a pertinent question, Nick,” said Will, then turned to Elise. “Think about what happened last year when Ronnie made that video of Lyle and Hobbes. Elise, you thought that maybe Ronnie showed it to his dad at some point. What happened next?”
“They both vanished,” said Elise.
“You’re saying Haxley had something to do with that?” asked Brooke.
“It’s possible,” said Will, his tone urging caution. “What if Haxley and Murso were part of the Knights when they were in school? They were both class of ’76. And thirteen years later they start this company, the Paladin Group.”
“Keep going,” said Ajay.
“Let’s give Ronnie’s dad the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he didn’t know everything about the Prophecy program. Maybe when his son brings him that tape he’s so disturbed he decides to confront Haxley. Haxley decides it’d be a lot cleaner if Ronnie and his dad disappeared.”
The idea of murder with an understandable motive injected a chill into the room.
“I would place a Haxley-sized wager that you’ve hit it on the head,” said Ajay.<
br />
“Let’s hope finding Nepsted’s key leads to nailing it down,” said Will, fastening his backpack. “Ajay, did you come across anything about an associate of Haxley’s named Mr. Elliot?”
Ajay looked up and to the right. A gesture Will knew meant he was accessing his gargantuan, photographic recall “hard drive.”
“No,” said Ajay. “Why?”
“I met him with Haxley at the castle. They’re partnered up in some way but were both pretty vague about it. There’s something spooky about this guy Elliot that I can’t pin down.”
“Did he say something specific that tipped you off?” asked Brooke.
“No, it was something he did. When I was looking through this file for information about that Knights’ dinner in 1937, I came across a canceled check written by Thomas Greenwood, the school’s founder.”
“What’s the significance of that?” asked Ajay.
“Don’t know yet. The check was written to Henry Wallace, their guest of honor that night, for his travel expenses. So it looks like Thomas Greenwood invited Wallace to be here for the event with the Knights.”
“Why would the school’s headmaster do that?” asked Brooke.
“I have no idea, but we need to find out,” said Will.
“So what was the point you were going to make about the check, Will?” asked Brooke.
“Something strange happened later,” said Will. “I found this weird artifact in a room in the basement, an antique astrolabe, in a wooden box. The whole time I had a strange feeling I was being watched. When I came back to the tower after lunch, Mr. Elliot had that same file I’d been looking at in his hand. And the check that Greenwood wrote to Wallace was missing.”
“So you think Mr. Elliot doesn’t want you to know about Greenwood inviting Wallace to the Center,” said Elise.
“Maybe so,” said Will. “I also found the room in the photo where that dinner took place. It’s in the castle, too. And there’s a memorial on the island for twelve seniors who died in a plane crash in May of 1938. Anyone want to bet the names on it are the same as the ones who were at that dinner?”
