Ice Shock

by M. G. Harris

  “Please deliver the second envelope directly into the hands of a British teenager, Josh Garcia, aged fourteen, whom you will meet in the corner café in Plaza Hidalgo, Tlacotalpan, where you and I first met.

  “Josh will be accompanied by a young lady of similar age. They will meet you around midday one day in the month when you start sending the postcards. They will not know you nor be expecting to meet you.

  “Please be kind enough to explain to them how you have followed my instructions and then present Josh with the second envelope. Please be sure to see that he DOES NOT open the envelope in your house but instead folds it and places it in his front pants pocket.”

  Susannah puts the letter down on her lap and looks from me to Ixchel.

  “So, youngsters. Does this mean anything to you?”

  Ixchel shrugs, eyes wide with wonder. I watch her closely—she seems genuinely to have no idea. Susannah notices that I don’t look quite as baffled.

  “Josh, what do you say about all this? I’m getting the feeling that you’re not altogether surprised.”

  “It’s not that … ,” I begin, but Ixchel’s already eyeing me with suspicion. “It’s more that—I have some idea who Arcadio might be.”

  Susannah says, “Like I said—your grandfather?”

  “When did you last see Arcadio?”

  “1967.”

  “Then … I don’t know … maybe. It could be. I don’t know why he’d change his name. He died forty years ago, roughly, but I don’t know exactly what year. It could be him.”

  But I’m thinking of another possibility. Just the idea that I may have found proof for Montoyo’s crazy-sounding theory makes my skin tingle with electricity.

  Arcadio had to be someone who would know about the future and the past. Someone who could write in English. The kind of guy who could easily pass himself off as a historian.

  The more I think of it, the more excited I get. It would explain the mysterious note from “Arcadio” to John Lloyd Stephens in the book we found in that shop. The shopkeeper said that “Arcadio” couldn’t possibly have heard of Tikal in 1843, because the Mayan city hadn’t been discovered.

  But if Arcadio was a time traveler from the future …

  Ixchel points at the other sheet of paper in the drawer. “Is that the next page?”

  Susannah shuts the drawer with a snap. Her eyes register annoyance, but she keeps her voice soft. “The second page, my dears, is of no concern to either of you. It’s a private message from Arcadio to me.”

  “And the second envelope?”

  “The second envelope, of course, I keep in the safe. Now, I’ll ask you both to excuse me while I go upstairs to get it.”

  As Susannah disappears up the marble staircase, I turn to Ixchel. Her hair, swept back in that neat ponytail, gives her an air of smugness that I’m only now noticing.

  “What’s up with you?”

  Ixchel frowns.

  “You’re being weird,” I continue. “Don’t you like her?”

  “It’s not that,” Ixchel says. “But this is all so … bizarre. Being here. Her. The way she seems to think she knows your family. Is this what you expected?”

  I have to admit honestly that it isn’t.

  Susannah returns with a long white envelope. On the front, in capital letters, is written:

  FOR JOSH GARCIA—DO NOT OPEN UNTIL YOU LEAVE TOWN.

  She hands it to me with just a hint of hesitation.

  “This is yours, I believe.” I take it from her hands, watching as her eyes glaze over with sadness, glistening with tears. She sniffs, pulls out a Kleenex from a pocket in her dress, and presses the tissue to her eyes. “Mercy, I didn’t expect this.” She tries to smile, which seems quite an effort. “Kids, I’m sorry. Guess it’s been a long wait. It’s just a little sad to let go of this famous message, this message I’ve waited most of my life to deliver.”

  My fingers play with the envelope, resisting the urge to tear it open.

  “Now fold it,” Susannah says with a nod, blowing her nose. “And put it into your front pocket. That’s it.”

  There’s a knock at the door. Susannah looks surprised.

  “Seems a little early for the bridge club.” She walks toward the door.

  Ixchel and I stare at each other. Ixchel whispers, “How did ‘Arcadio’ know you would even exist? How can he predict the future? Is he some sort of prophet?”

  It’s tough not to be able to talk about what Montoyo and I discussed about the Ix Codex. I feel like it’s getting to be too much to ask of Ixchel, to keep her so much in the dark. But how can I even suggest time travel without talking about the Ix Codex?

  From the entrance hall, we hear Susannah talking softly in Spanish. She keeps saying “Yes, Father,” and “Well, of course, Father, I’d be delighted to help.” And in between, there’s a man speaking Spanish in a low, rapid voice. I put a finger to my lips, signaling to Ixchel to be quiet. I grab her hand and sidle cautiously toward the opposite end of the room, where french doors open onto a tiny walled garden, walls of deep blue lined with pink bougainvillea. The garden is no more than two yards across. Opposite is a carved oak door.

  “What is it?” Ixchel whispers.

  “I’m not sure,” I say. “Something feels wrong.”

  I try the handle of the french door. It’s open, sliding smoothly on oiled runners.

  Susannah and the man at the door are coming into the main part of the house. At first glance, I’m relieved—it’s only the Dominican priest we saw in the central plaza. But the second he yanks his sunglasses off, I stop being distracted by the white-and-black habit.

  Facing me, with a hard gaze of triumph, is Simon Madison.

  35

  I don’t stop to return Madison’s stare, or to answer Susannah’s astonished cry of “Hey! What’s going on?!” I don’t think for a millisecond about fighting him. Grabbing Ixchel, I’m through the open door, across the patio, and through the oak door in the garden wall.

  Susannah tries to stop him, but Madison grabs her arm and flings her aside. But she delays him for a few, crucial seconds. We spill out into the street, another cobbled alleyway just as empty as the last. Running, I hunt desperately for anywhere we could hide. There’s nothing in this street, so I make a sharp turn into a crossing alleyway. Ahead I see a handwritten sign outside one of the houses: MINI-ZOOLOGICO DE TLACOTALPAN.

  And more importantly, an open door. We dive in. There’s no way Madison could have seen us yet—he hasn’t made it to the intersection in Susannah’s street.

  Ixchel and I bolt into the house. We dash through corridors lined with faded photos, handicrafts, rifles, old military uniforms; the tiny museum all passes in a blur.

  And then we’re in a huge patio crammed with low palm trees. Creeping plants cut out the sunlight, casting a forest gloom. On the right-hand side is a collection of cages, like you’d find at a zoo. From somewhere in the dense foliage of the trees, parrots squawk. An enormous golden eagle peers down at us from a perch on the roof, where it looms, wings tightly folded. A stork wanders right up to me, looks me up and down. For a second I think it’s about to peck at my hands.

  Ixchel and I cast glances around. Looking for another way out.

  A white-haired old man comes ambling in. He’s dressed in a loose white guayabera shirt and wears a tatty straw hat. He stops next to the stork, staring at the two of us as he puffs on a cigar.

  “Enjoying the mini-zoo?” he asks, in lilting Spanish.

  “We just got here,” I tell him. I’m still a little out of breath.

  The old gent shakes his head regretfully. “Doesn’t seem like a good idea to me. There’s a young fella in the house, just got here. A priest. Looks innocent enough, oh yes. But he’s no priest—he’s a bad ’un; I can tell. I can sniff ’em out, see. Trapping animals gives you a nose for the wrong ’uns. I’d sooner tackle one of my crocodiles than one like him. And crocodiles can be mighty tricky.”

  My hand unconsciously goe
s to my jeans, where I’ve stashed the Adapter. The old man’s beady eyes don’t miss a thing. He glances down at my hand and says, “You’ve got what he’s come for? Or is it you he’s after?”

  Then he leans forward and whispers, “The back door is open.” He nods his head. Barely visible behind a tangle of vines is a white door. “It leads to the riverbank. A few houses to the right, there’s a boat. Now go!”

  We bolt toward the door. But it’s too late.

  “Okay, far enough,” comes Madison’s voice. In cold horror, I gaze over the old man’s shoulder to see Madison emerging from the house.

  Pointing a gun.

  “Move aside, Pops. You don’t want to take a bullet for this loser, I guarantee it.”

  The old man doesn’t budge. Instead he whispers, “He’s right behind me, yes?” I nod. Then, without warning, the old man gives a loud cry like a bird’s caw.

  “Justiiiiiicio!”

  Madison is too astounded to react when the monstrous golden eagle swoops down on him. Wings beating wildly, it pecks at his face. Madison has no time to shoot, not when he needs both arms to protect his eyes.

  We’re through the door within seconds and onto the deck outside. And we’re running along decks between the houses and the river, leaping fences and gates, eyes scouring the backs of the houses for the only thing that can save us—the boat.

  A few houses ahead, I spot an elegant mansion—modern, all glass and gray brick, with a magnificent green lawn. Bobbing on the river next to it is a small speedboat. To even get to the house, we’ll have to jump across a channel of water between the mansion and the neighboring house.

  And then I hear him. Madison smashes through the white picket fence near the mini-zoo. He’s yelling with rage. If running in a flowing habit slows him down, it’s hard to tell. As we get closer to the gap between the houses, I shout to Ixchel, “Jump!” I leap into the air, sail across the gap. Ixchel follows. She lands squarely on the lawn.

  “Start up the boat!” I yell, panting.

  She moves swiftly. I limber up as Madison hurtles toward me, preparing his jump. I’m getting ready to spill him into the water the second he lands on my side. Then he makes a movement that roots me to the spot.

  Still running, he reaches under his cloak and pulls a pistol from a shoulder holster.

  I throw a glance over my shoulder at Ixchel—she’s sitting in the speedboat, but I don’t hear a peep from the engine.

  Madison trundles to a stop on the opposite bank. He’s grinning, shaking his head and waving the gun.

  “Jeez, man, you should learn when to quit. Now throw the Adapter over here.”

  It strikes me for a second that Madison doesn’t know that the Adapter is safely wrapped in plastic.

  Yet he shows no sign of being afraid of touching the Adapter or breathing in the gas.

  “You can touch it,” I blurt.

  “Way to go, dumbass.”

  “You have the Bakab gene?”

  Madison gives a slow nod. “You got it, kid. Not so special now, huh?”

  I’m completely thrown. “But … back in the jungle … you wouldn’t touch the codex …”

  “First-time nerves.”

  “It was the same for me—but I did it.”

  Madison pulls himself up straight. His eyes grow cold. “You calling me a coward?”

  “Me? I’m the one with a gun pointed at me.”

  Livid with rage, he spits his words. “Throw. Me. The. Adapter.”

  “Or what?”

  Madison cocks the gun, slips off the safety. Lightly, he says, “Or this.”

  “They want me alive, though, don’t they? Your bosses—I heard them say so.”

  This confuses him, for just a second. Behind me, I hear the engine explode into action. I give the pistol one more glance, and then spin on my heel, make a dash down the jetty for the boat. Shots ring out from Madison’s gun; bullets whiz past my ankles.

  Then one of them hits me in the left thigh.

  The pain is surprising. It doesn’t feel anything like I’ve imagined. At first, it’s like a good, solid kick, like you might get in a soccer game from someone wearing cleats. I keep going until I reach the boat, and I jump in. Ixchel grabs the rudder and revs up the engine. The boat springs away from the moorings, cuts a deep swath into the murky water.

  I collapse onto the boat’s deck, groaning loudly in agony. Within seconds the pain is deeper and fiercer than anything I’ve ever known. It feels like my thigh muscle has been sliced open and a hot poker stuffed inside. Desperately I clutch at the wound. My hands come away covered in hot, sticky blood.

  When I see that, I practically faint.

  “Don’t look at it!” warns Ixchel. I close my eyes, leaning my head on the deck, on the verge of tears.

  Ixchel’s voice is firm, calm. “Take deep breaths. Into your nose, out through your mouth. As slowly as you can.”

  I grit my teeth. My whole body begins to shake violently.

  “Hold on, Josh. You’ll be okay.”

  Eyes screwed shut, I concentrate on breathing for a few minutes, on the high-pitched roar of the boat’s motor, on the rush of water streaming past us. A few seconds later, I’m a tiny bit calmer. I open my eyes to look at Ixchel. She’s gazing over the river, toward the town’s main dock.

  “Don’t get up to look,” she says in an even voice, “but he’s hitching a ride with one of the tourist boats. It’s going in to pick him up right now. They can’t catch up with us. But when we get to the dock, you need to be able to walk. At least to a taxi.”

  I give a loud groan. “I can’t walk!”

  “I’m sorry, Josh. You must.”

  I stare into the gathering clouds high above the river. It takes all my self-control not to whimper in pain. If I were alone I’d be a blubbering wreck by now. In front of Ixchel, there’s no way I can let that happen.

  The boat begins to swerve toward the left bank.

  “Get ready, Josh. You need to get up in ten seconds.”

  I take a few quick, deep breaths, and then pull myself into a sitting position, roaring from the bolt of pure agony that surges through my left leg. Ixchel’s waving at someone on the bank, and she shouts, “Help! Emergency!”

  I can’t turn around without hurting, so I can’t see what’s going on. The engine slows and Ixchel steers the boat into the moorings. As soon as it comes to a standstill, she steps over to me. She offers me a hand, helping me to my unsteady feet.

  On the deck, two young guys hold out their arms, saying, “Come on, grab hold, grab hold!”

  My blood is everywhere. My left jean leg is soaked, dark and rusty. Both my hands, and now Ixchel’s too, are coated with blood. But that doesn’t put the young guys off. They yank us both out of the boat, then the two of them support my weight, practically frog-marching me to a waiting silver VW Beetle.

  They help me into the backseat, where I lie moaning and writhing. The pain gets worse by the second. I stuff my collar into my mouth and bite down, tasting the blood that’s now smeared all over my T-shirt.

  And then I hear a voice I recognize—Susannah St. John.

  “Josh.” Her voice sounds sharp, very clear. I focus on it. “Is that a gunshot wound?”

  I nod, trembling.

  “Thought so. I heard the shooting; think the whole town did. Still, at least it helped me to find you. Now, darling, can you walk?”

  Barely. Again, I nod.

  “That’s good—probably nothing broken, then.”

  “It hurts like hell.”

  Susannah makes a sympathetic clucking noise. “I know, dear. Now, listen, before we can take care of that leg we’re gonna have to drive some. That fella’s on his way to the dock on a boat. Better put some distance between us. That means driving fast. Can you be brave?”

  I grit my teeth and nod.

  “Give him your hand, dear,” Susannah orders Ixchel. “Try to help hold his leg still.”

  Ixchel gives me a look of deep concern. Sl
owly, she takes my hand. The car begins to move. Every pothole we drive over is pure agony, forcing a scream from me. But when we’re finally on the open road, the surface is smooth.

  Susannah slams her foot down on the accelerator. “Seat belts, kids,” she shouts above the high-pitched revs of the engine. “We need to get out of here—and fast.”

  BLOG ENTRY: SOMEWHERE IN MEXICO

  This guy who’s after me, Simon Madison, keeps popping up when I least expect him. How is he following me? It’s as if he knows every step before I do.

  When he turned up at this house yesterday where I was visiting someone named Susannah, it crossed my mind that maybe Susannah had set me up.

  But then she rescued me from him. She even stitched up my wound. Madison sort of shot me in the leg yesterday. Don’t worry! Nothing too serious, as it turns out. Mind you, it was the worst pain I’d ever felt, like my leg was crawling with fire from the inside. Having the wound cleaned and stitched was no picnic either.

  Susannah is a retired nurse. So when she realized I’d been shot, she tossed a top-notch first-aid kit into her car and drove out to find me. We stopped somewhere on the road. In the back of the car, Susannah did a clean-and-repair job on my leg. The bullet had gone straight through—it was “just” a flesh wound. But my jeans were kind of disgusting, so we stopped off somewhere to buy some new ones.

  I tried to phone you again—no reply. I guess I always call when you’re at Mass. I left a voice mail—just want you to know I’m okay. Well, kind of okay.

  If I don’t tell you anything about where I am, Mom, it’s because I’ve even started to worry that this blog has been compromised. What if somehow the Sect has gotten into my school, broken into my locker, found the letter to you, guessed the password, and is now reading this … ?

  So—no town names, okay? But I can’t stop blogging. ’Cause then you’d worry even more.

  All this uncertainty. It’s getting to me. I just want the answers—now!

  In a roadside restaurant today, I had the most amazing eggs— “Hawaiian style” with ham and pineapple. The strips of ham and pineapple were arranged in a pattern to make the dish look like a whole pineapple.