by M. G. Harris
Josh – you’ve done the right thing. You’re only thirteen. How can you look after your mum when she’s like this? She’ll be all right in a bit. You wait and see.
Reply
I know you’re just being nice. But I’m the one who feels guilty here. I have to come up with something quickly, something that will get Mum’s hopes up again. If only I can get some bit of proof that this affair is a lie. Or come up with another reason why someone might have killed Dad.
Comment (3) from TopShopPrincess
Well – yeah. You could try. But how?
How am I going to prove that Dad wasn’t having an affair with that woman? It’s pretty tough to prove a negative.
I think about those four missing days. The way I see things, the police have accounted for just two of them: Dad’s plane landing late at night in the town of Chetumal, Mexico on 12 June. And the plane crash on 16 June – the night of the murder.
What about all the days in between? Did the mystery woman hide Dad away somewhere? Where had his plane been? But the police aren’t asking those questions. They don’t believe a word the woman says. They reckon she’ll say anything to keep her husband out of jail. Meanwhile the husband pleads his innocence. “But he would say that,” insist the police. They have their man, and that’s that.
I figure that something like this doesn’t come from nowhere. People meet, they communicate. Emails, phone calls. Maybe even old-fashioned letters.
Until I make some headway, school is off the agenda. At my school they don’t chase truants right away. I figure I have at least one day to get something done.
I’ve been eating supper next door at Jackie’s while Mum’s in the hospital. Afterwards, I go through Dad’s emails on the home computer. There are no suspicious emails from any Mexican-sounding ladies. So either he’s innocent or else he’s smart enough to set up a secret email account.
I check the history of his Web browser. No record of any other email accounts. So either he’s innocent or else he’s smart enough to delete his history files.
I go back to the emails and read through the last few he’s sent or received. That’s when I find something interesting about Dad’s plans for those missing days in June.
And it has nothing to do with an affair.
The day before he left Oxford, Dad emailed a Dr Marius Martineau of the Peabody Museum of Archaeology and Ethnology in the US. It was the last email he sent.
Dear Dr Martineau,
A manuscript that has come into my possession leads me to believe that there may be some truth in rumours of the existence of a fifth codex of the Maya. The manuscript appears to be a part of a letter from a Mayan citizen of Cancuen to the Ruler of Calakmul. This “Calakmul letter” is dated 653 AD. It speaks quite clearly of a book named the Ix Codex, a book it describes as a kind of Mayan Book of Revelations – about the end of the world in 2012.
I gather you have a rather formidable collection of rare inscriptions taken from stelae in the Rio Bec region. Have you come across any inscriptions from the city of Calakmul that might shed light on such a story?
Perhaps we could meet between 12–20 June? I plan to be in Mexico for several days following a trip to the ruins at Cancuen.
Regards,
Andres Garcia
The reply from Martineau came in the same day.
Dear Professor Garcia,
A “fifth” codex, prophecies about the “end of the world” on 22 December 2012. . .? If I listened to every crackpot idea I heard in this field, I’d be too busy joining a cult to get any work done.
You say the document is dated 653 AD? That sounds suspicious. All surviving codices date from the fifteenth century.
I think you’ve got a fake on your hands. They can be quite convincing – I’ve seen the Prague Codex and it might well have fooled me.
I’m pretty busy at the minute. I’m sorry, but I don’t really have the time for something that looks this controversial. Maybe someone else can help out with authenticating it?
Sincerely,
Marius Martineau
My pulse races as I read the dates in Dad’s email: 12–20 June. So he left Cancuen exactly as planned. Did he fly somewhere to meet with Martineau after all? Martineau’s email seems pretty indifferent – which suggests that they didn’t meet. I move on and read the second-to-last email Dad sent – two days before he left Oxford.
Dear Dr Montoyo,
I wonder if you remember meeting me at Palenque Round Table last year? I have recently come across a fragment of a Mayan manuscript. It appears to be part of a letter written to the ruler of Calakmul. This “Calakmul letter” speaks of a Mayan book named the Ix Codex. The letter also mentions two Mayan cities – Chechan Naab and Ek Naab. I’ve never heard of these cities, nor been able to find any references to them in the literature. That in itself is pretty strange, don’t you agree?
I remember that you told me you’d recently been leading a project to translate new inscriptions from Calakmul. Have you come across cities named Chechan Naab or Ek Naab? Or ever heard of the Ix Codex? If you can offer any help, I’d be more than happy to work together on this project. I’ll be in Mexico later this month, 12–20 June. Perhaps we can meet?
Regards,
Andres Garcia
When I look through the reply, my heart begins to pound. This is it. There is more to this Ix Codex than meets the eye.
Dr Garcia,
Indeed, I do remember our meeting. I feel I must warn you that you are headed on a dangerous path. The existence of the I* Code* is a rumour that has persisted in some disreputable circles for many years. I speak of various dubious practioners of the occult. I never thought to hear about the codex from a renowned archaeologist such as you. Those who have sought it have so far disappeared without a trace.
Please take note that I do not even include the name in this email. If you value your safety, you will not search for that term on the Web or include it in an email again. Web searches and emails are routinely monitored by organizations whose interest in the I* Code* might surprise you.
I cannot say more except in person. I will find you during your visit to Mexico. It is best if we don’t make a firm appointment.
Regards,
Carlos Montoyo
Without even thinking, I hit the reply button and type a quick message to Montoyo:
Dear Dr Montoyo,
I am the son of Andres Garcia. Maybe you heard the news that my father died in an airplane crash in June. I read your email to him. Did you and my father actually meet? I have some questions about his research. It would be great if you could help.
Yours,
Josh Garcia
My eyes flick back to the top of Montoyo’s email; when had it been sent? The reply came through the very morning Dad left. And it had been read. Dad went on his trip knowing that this wasn’t just an exciting hunt for a valuable piece of Mayan history. He’d stumbled across something else, something that could attract the wrong kind of attention.
But was it the kind of attention that could get you killed? And would the killers take the trouble to frame someone else for the murder?
All I am sure of is this: I’ve found another possible motive for Dad’s murder. Not a jealous husband but a search for a historical treasure. A search that led my father on a one-way trip – deep into the Mayan heart of darkness.
BLOG ENTRY: RAIDERS OF THE LOST CODEX!
I am NOT even joking. Seriously, my dad was involved in some major stuff. I just found evidence (not going to give details) that he found some Mayan inscription that might lead to one of the rarest finds in Mayan archaeology. A long-lost book, or codex, with a Mayan prophecy about the end of the world – in 2012!
Looks like I might have to learn how to decipher Mayan writing.
Comment (1) from TopShopPrincess
OK, now you’ve got me thinking you’re making this up. Are you a big fat liar, Josh?
Reply
What’s it going to take to con
vince you? Want to come down the library with me to do some research?
Comment (2) from TopShopPrincess
Very funny, LOL. I’m sixteen. A bit old for you, Josh, if that’s what you’re thinking.
Reply
Huhhh? Who said anything about that?
I get right on to it the very next day. There are clues in Dad’s emails. I’m no expert on Mayan history, but Dad’s study in our house is chock-full of books. So I swot up on the ancient Mayan civilization.
When I was a little kid, we’d spend long summers in Mexico, usually around the site of one of Dad’s excavations. The names have all faded into a blur now. Truth is, I didn’t pay much attention to where we were. It was all pretty much the same; ruined temples, jungles, tents and trying to find enough flat land for a game of football with the local village kids.
I didn’t pay attention to the archaeology. Which now, I kind of regret.
I’ve never heard of any of the Mayan cities mentioned in Dad’s emails – Cancuen, Calakmul, Ek Naab, Chechan Naab. So, I look them up in Dad’s books. Cancuen is in Guatemala – a Central American country next to Mexico. Calakmul is in southern Mexico – Campeche state.
Close to where Dad’s plane crashed.
Cancuen and Calakmul were important cities of the Mayan kingdom. Calakmul had this powerful ruler once, a guy called Yuknoom Ch’een. He was on the throne for ages.
But I find nothing about Ek Naab, nor Chechan Naab.
I find an online Mayan dictionary. It’s cool – even has a little button you can press to hear the Mayan words spoken. Ek Naab translates as dark water. Chechan Naab translates as knotted snake water.
I’m playing around on that website when the doorbell goes. It’s been quiet lately – for obvious reasons I haven’t felt very sociable. Outside the door is Tyler Marks, a guy I recognize from capoeira – my Brazilian martial arts class.
“We thought you was dead,” he says with a big grin.
“Not me,” I say, deadpan. “My dad.”
That rips away his smile. “God, Josh, I’m really sorry. I didn’t know. You didn’t show up. We wondered if you’d lost interest.”
“Sort of, yeah. I’ve got other stuff to do.”
“Like what?”
“Just . . . stuff.”
“You and me both,” Tyler says. “But you should still practise.”
“Hmmm.”
We share an uncomfortable silence.
“What did your dad die of?”
“Of murder.”
“You’re kidding!”
“No.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah.”
We stare at each other, saying nothing. But he doesn’t leave.
“Thing is, Josh, there’s a talent scout coming in from London. Picking guys for a British team to go to Brazil. Mestre Ricardo says they’re looking to pick one person from Oxford.”
“Fine,” I reply. “It can be you.”
Tyler looks disappointed. “They have to see me in action. Against someone of similar standard.”
I get it – he wants me to make him look good. “What do you want?”
Tyler’s brown face cracks into a gleaming white smile. “Just come to class a couple of times over the next few weeks. Then when this scout comes in September, I can put on a show.”
I scratch my head. “I’m out of shape.”
“Come on. Do you good.”
“You’ll owe me.”
“Hey, mate, name your price.”
I sigh. “OK, you win.” I grab my skateboard. “But sooner or later, it’s payback time.”
So, down at the gym, we spar. Capoeira has all these pretty special rituals, so I wear the white abada clothes, I join in with the songs, but inside I’m strangely detached. We sing in Portuguese, the old songs of slaves striving to keep body and soul together. We flex our muscles against each other, aiming for graceful mock combat.
Thousands of miles away, a deteriorating corpse awaits a burial. Nearby, an innocent man languishes in prison for a murder he didn’t commit. These thoughts don’t leave me for a minute, even as I retaliate against Tyler’s cartwheel attacks. I’m drawn to those steamy jungle towns with their mysterious-sounding names. Chechan Naab and Ek Naab.
Why are there no references to them in any books? Or on the Web?
Are they lost cities, like the ones in the movies where Indiana Jones found the Ark of the Covenant and the Holy Grail? Was my dad looking for some incredible, ancient relic with the power to change the world?
Well, now even I begin to think I’m cooking up some daft fantasy. But I can’t help it. Dad was involved in something heavy. I’m sure enough of that.
After the capoeira, we hang out together at Tyler’s playing XBox. Tyler talks non-stop about girls he reckons fancy him. I don’t say much, just listen. I don’t have those kinds of stories to tell; worse luck.
It’s still warm and sunny as I’m walking home. I’m through the gate when I notice something odd.
The curtains are drawn – every last one.
I know I didn’t draw them. I guess that it must have been Jackie. I’m about to go over and ask why she’s been in our house, when I hear the sound of an upstairs door closing.
The noise comes from inside my house.
I take my key and open the front door. I’m still only slightly puzzled. I step inside and call out, “Hey, Jackie, I’m back.”
There’s no answer. I stand absolutely still, listening.
And that’s the first time it strikes me that something is really wrong.
There’s someone upstairs and it isn’t Jackie.
I’m looking around for a weapon when a guy in a balaclava comes hurtling down the stairs like a hurricane. He vaults over the banister and lands right next to me, swings out with a punch. My reflexes are better than I’d guessed because without even thinking, I duck. He narrowly misses my head. With all that momentum, he overbalances and stumbles. I’m in a ginga stance right away and aim a pontiera – a high front kick at his chest. It lands squarely – he’s knocked back. I follow it up with a chapa baixa, landing a hard kick to his knee. He staggers into the back room. He tries to slam the door closed but I jam my foot in the door. Big mistake. He crushes the door hard against my trapped foot until I scream and pull the foot free. Again he slams the door – this time it snaps shut. I try to shoulder-barge it but it’s no use – he’s got something up against the handle.
He’s only got one way out now – the French windows.
I can feel the adrenaline pumping through me as I rush out of the front door. I’m round the back just in time to see him dashing across the back lawn, loaded with a black rucksack. I throw myself at him in a flying rugby tackle and get him to the ground.
It’s the wrong move. I should have stuck to the capoeira. This time he’s prepared for me. On the ground, I’m useless. He lands two punches to my face; I taste blood in my mouth and see stars. While I’m still reeling in a daze, he pushes me off him, starts to get to his feet. I lunge out, grab hold of his balaclava and yank. It pulls off just as he’s moving away. In that second I catch a glimpse of him. He’s tall, eyes clear green and almond-shaped, high cheekbones, square jaw. There’s a faintly astringent smell – aftershave or hair gel.
I could swear, before he heads off, he actually grins at me.
I’m still dabbing at my bloody nose and cheek with Kleenex when Jackie and the police turn up.
They all look at me with an expression that’s kind of embarrassed for me. One bad thing happening to you, that’s bad luck. More than once and it’s almost like it’s your own fault.
Inside the house, everywhere I look, objects are strewn; every drawer, every shelf, cupboard has been emptied and the contents tossed around. Jackie takes one look at me. She goes straight to the freezer, takes out a bag of frozen peas and makes me press them to my face.
“Horrible bruising you’ll get from that, see if you don’t,” she says.
One policem
an asks me to go to my room, see what is missing. I trudge upstairs in a daze. My room is every bit as bad as the rest of the house. The guy’s taken my laptop computer. I’m trying to process what’s happened as I slope back downstairs and tell the police.
Mum’s laptop is gone too, and the box for Dad’s computer, and a fancy digital camera. “They go for stuff they can get rid of quickly at the pub,” the policeman tells me. “It’ll be kids looking for money to buy drugs.”
“It wasn’t ‘kids’,” I say, annoyed. “I gave you his description. He was in his late twenties at least. He knew what he was doing.”
The copper gives me a disapproving look. “You shouldn’t tackle burglars, son. Not ever. I don’t care if you’re a black belt. You should consider pressing charges when we catch the perpetrator.”
If they catch him, is what goes through my mind.
Then he leans in close, says, “Your neighbour seems to think this will be too upsetting for your mother to hear about. In her current condition.”
He leaves out “in the psychiatric hospital”.
I ask, “You think there’s a connection?”
“With what?”
“Between my dad’s murder and this burglary?”
He looks at me blankly. “I don’t see how . . . but if you’re worried, I’ll ask DI Barratt to take a look at the case.”
I nod. “Please.”
“It’s not a good idea for you to sleep here alone,” says the copper. “Not after this. Sometimes they come back for what they might have missed. Or for what they think you’ll replace. Best stay away. Just for a bit.”
