by M. G. Harris
“And what about Chechan Naab?”
“Now that’s the other problem,” he says. “There’s no such place.”
The bookshop owner is convinced. Turns out he’s looked into the whole thing. My guess is that he’d secretly hoped it was signed by Stephens. It would have made the book worth a big chunk of money. But he’s happy to sell it for “only” £200.
“Two hundred pounds?” I say, shocked. “You didn’t put that on the Web site!”
“I’ll take your best offer in the vicinity,” he says.
My “vicinity” isn’t even close. I give Tyler a nod and we step outside onto the sidewalk.
“I can’t get two hundred pounds,” I tell him in a low voice. “Not unless … unless I take my mom’s ATM card.”
“Do you know the PIN?”
“I sort of … do.”
Tyler shrugs. “It’s for your mom, isn’t it?” he says. “Hardly Grand Theft Auto.”
As we’re standing there, a studenty guy in a hoodie pushes past us on his way into the shop. I’m about to say something but Tyler distracts me. He’s right—it’s only a loan. Mom would want the book.
I’m looking over Tyler’s shoulder when I notice the hoodie guy getting all chatty with the owner. Soon enough they’re standing at the cash desk; then a book and money are changing hands.
The owner keeps looking over at me. With a funny look in his eyes, sort of embarrassed.
The hoodie guy didn’t have much time to find a book. A horrible thought strikes me. I take a harder look at the student, realize that there’s something familiar about him. I didn’t see his eyes, only his mouth and jaw.
It’s when he comes out of the shop, walks toward us, that I catch a good long look. He’s trying to avoid my gaze. I look at the paper bag in his hand.
And that’s when I remember where I’ve seen him before. Those green eyes—unmistakable.
“Get him!” I shout to Tyler, as the guy breaks into a sprint behind us.
“Wha …?”
I’m already turning and charging after the guy. “He’s the burglar,” I yell. “And he’s just bought the book!”
I get a flying start but Tyler catches up with me in a few seconds.
The burglar is fast. He’s up the street and past the movie theater by the time we’re even really moving. Before the corner store he turns left. We’re there two seconds later and make the same turn, heading through a gateway and under a brick archway into St. Sepulchre’s Cemetery. The burglar dashes past the yew trees, vaults a couple of broken gravestones, and we do the same.
The whole cemetery is surrounded by a massive construction site. There is Sheetrock all the way around. He runs the whole length, trying to find a way through.
We’re almost on him when he finds a gap and dives through.
Tyler squeezes through first, then me. On the other side, we’re just in time to see the burglar scooting up the road into the backstreets of Jericho.
We chase him, chests all puffed out, follow him into a little square where there’s a bridge over the canal. He’s on the bridge, giving us one final look as he crosses.
We’re on the bridge less than two seconds later. But he’s already nowhere to be seen.
On the opposite bank is another stream of the canal. It’s parked with houseboats, bumper to bumper. There are a couple of guys fishing. They ignore us.
I stop, bend down, trying to catch my breath. Between gasps, I manage to ask, “Did you see a guy in a hoodie? Carrying a paper bag?”
The fishermen look at me in silence. One of them shakes his head.
“Nah.”
“You must have!”
“Didn’t see nothin’.”
Tyler and I exchange a grimace. Our stares fall on the long row of brightly painted houseboats. The guy who robbed my house and swiped that first edition of John Lloyd Stephens is in one of them. I know it. But which?
I grab a handful of long grass in my fist, tear it off, and scatter the shreds in frustration. Tyler watches in sympathy. The one thing I tried to do to help, and I couldn’t even pull that off.
How can there be any doubt now? That burglar was looking for clues about the Ix Codex.
Whoever these codex hunters are, they have long arms. I might be thousands of miles away from Mexico, but suddenly I don’t feel safe.
BLOG ENTRY: LEAF STORM
Well, the police are no help. I told them all about the burglar being in one of the Jericho houseboats. They just told me they’ll “add it to their list of potential locations.” I don’t get it. Okay, burglary isn’t a big deal when they’ve taken nothing really valuable—but burglary after a murder? But no. No connection, that’s what they believe.
Jackie’s a nice lady. She takes good care of me. But she hasn’t got broadband Internet access. It was one thing to find a secondhand book, but for the full-on Mayan investigation, I really need that. So I’ve ended up at the library after all. (Ha ha, TopShopPrincess. You can come by if you like. Or not. Whatever.)
Mom asked me to come and spend the night in her hospital room, which has a little extra bed. I was a bit nervous but it seems pretty cool. The doctors don’t wear white coats. You can’t tell who’s sick and who isn’t.
I didn’t tell her about the burglary, of course. I didn’t tell her that I tried—and failed—to replace one of the few possessions she might really care about.
There was a full moon. Its light filled the room with a soft glow. I woke up to find Mom awake, standing by the window.
I said, “Please, Mom, please get better. What am I supposed to do if you fall apart?”
She only shook her head. “You don’t know how this feels, Josh. I hope you never do. It’s all gone for me—vanished, like mist.”
“They’re wrong about Dad,” I told her. I wanted to tell her about the e-mails I’d found, but I couldn’t—not until there’s more to go on. “I’m going to prove it. You wait and see.”
I didn’t know what else to say, so I turned onto my stomach and slept. I’ve noticed that my dreams are more vivid when I sleep on my front. But last night’s dream was really weird—one of those where you could actually believe you’re there.
In the dream, I’m dizzy, floundering, caught in the middle of a leaf storm. The leaves surround and enclose me. I close my eyes. In the heart of that storm, I’m suddenly calm. When I open my eyes again, the leaves are gone. I’m standing in a small room with a thatched roof. There are candles everywhere, and the smell of autumn smoke mixed with something acrid, like linseed oil. My eyes sting a little and I blink hard. The room is filled with smoke. There’s a man lying on the straw-covered floor. I don’t recognize him—in fact, I have no clue who he could be. He’s oldish—late forties, maybe, gray hair. And he’s coughing, choking, shaking. His eyes almost pop out of his head. He turns purple. This guy is in bad shape, no doubt about it. I don’t move, though; I don’t help. I just look on and I feel nothing, not a shred of pity. It feels like the incense is making me dizzy. Looks like the guy on the floor is breathing his last. In fact—I’m sure of it. I don’t take a closer look, but I light a candle I’m holding. I hear myself mumble a string of strange words. I could swear he’s done for. But then, without warning, his eyes snap open. And he looks me dead in the eye and says something that sounds like “Summon the Bakabix.”
The rest of the dream was just flashes: a small statue of a Buddha-like figure, water lapping around a decrepit old boat, a pier with two matching straw huts, a mist hanging low over water.
Ideas, anyone?
Comment (1) from TopShopPrincess
Well, I could try out some of my honors psychology.
Maybe the dying man symbolizes a father figure. He’s choking—didn’t you say your dad was murdered? Maybe he was strangled? Could you be imagining your dad’s death? What about the “Eastern” references—incense, a Buddha-like statue, the straw huts on water?
Reply
I hadn’t thought that those symbols could b
e “Eastern.” I’ve never been to the Far East. As for the rest of it, I don’t know. Guess you could be right.
Comment (2) from TopShopPrincess
If a person who’s actually died appears in one of your dreams, it can be a way of telling you to move on with your life. I think your mom really needs you now, Josh. Concentrate on supporting her. Time to stop thinking about your dad. Hasn’t he already hurt you both enough?
Chapter 7
When I see TopShopPrincess’s comment the next day, I’m so mad that I type a quick, angry reply. I call her all the names under the sun. Who is she to judge my dad? If I don’t know what to believe, then how dare she assume?
But in the end, what’s the point? She’s just some stranger. What do I know about her, really? She’s taking an honors psychology course, she lives in Oxford, and as far as UFOs go, she’s a believer. She could be a wacko, for all I know. Far as I’m concerned, you give friends a second chance, but someone who’d write a thoughtless comment like that?
It’s up to me how I deal with the death of my dad and the problems with my mom. I don’t like TopShopPrincess’s tone. Typical, patronizing older girl. What’s she doing reading my blog anyway?
But there’s another, much scarier idea that’s occurred to me—a reason why I need to close down that blog.
Since the burglary, I’ve been worried about the fact that whoever took the computers may have read the e-mails between my dad and Montoyo and that other guy, whose name I can’t remember, from the Peabody Museum.
Of course, that’s not all they could have read. If they tracked back in my browser history, they might see the Web address of my blog. And then they’ll know … way too much!
So I move the blog to another server and put a password on it. Now it will be for My Eyes Only. And I delete the old blog.
Adios, TopShopPrincess. You can keep your comments to yourself.
But at least she was someone to talk to about this. I don’t want to carry it all alone, and no way am I telling anyone at school.
So I decide to tell Mom about the e-mails.
It won’t be easy to get through to Mom while she’s all fuzzy from those pills, but I have to try. I take the bus to the hospital. As I pass the trees on Headington Hill, I’m jolted by the ferocious lime green quality of their color—practically fluorescent.
Come on, Mom, get better fast. You’re missing the best part of summer.
In Mom’s room, I take her hand in mine.
“I found something out,” I begin.
Mom groans, rubs her forehead. “It’s always something with you. Can’t you just comfort me? God knows I tried it with you.”
“Dad wasn’t killed by a jealous husband,” I tell her. I watch for her reaction. There’s definitely interest. “He was looking for a valuable Mayan codex. Something to do with the Mayan prophecy about the end of the world in 2012. This Carlos Montoyo guy sent him a warning by e-mail. He told Dad not to even mention the name of the codex in an e-mail! But Dad did e-mail at least one other guy. And we don’t know who else he talked to. I think he’s been killed for that codex. I think that ‘jealous husband’ has been framed.”
I’m not sure how much Mom hears after my first sentence. She’s quiet for a few seconds, mulling it over.
“I’m sorry, Josh. What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that he was in some kind of danger.”
Mom looks confused. “What’s this got to do with … anything?”
“Well, maybe he wasn’t killed by that woman’s husband.”
“Not killed by the husband?” she echoes.
I sigh. I’m not really getting through.
“Look, Mom—don’t you think it’s all a bit convenient that this has been wrapped up so quickly?”
“Another one of your conspiracy theories?” she says with a thin smile.
“Dad’s been murdered,” I continue, “so now they need a suspect. And quick, or else … I dunno, maybe the British police are going to come over and look into things as well. So they listen to some rumors, some local gossip, and throw together a case against a local guy. Slam him into jail, charge him. Open and shut, everybody’s happy.”
“Not happy.”
“Well, no.”
“Perhaps you’re right, Josh,” is all she says. It isn’t clear that she understands what I’m getting at.
“Thing is, Mom, there’s something we can do. We can find out. Who this woman is. We can go and meet her.”
“You’re talking about going to Mexico?” she says in a dull voice. “I’m not well enough.”
I squeeze her hand. “Maybe not now. But you could be. In a week or two? The summer vacation begins next week. We’ll talk to this woman in Chetumal. Then we’ll see. How about it, Mom?”
Mom hesitates. “Will we ask the doctor?”
I allow myself a little grin. This is progress.
“Yeah, why not? Something to look forward to. We’ll see what’s going on with this woman. And if we have to, we’ll let her have it.”
“I suppose … I suppose we could. And the funeral,” she says hopefully. “We could have a funeral for your father.”
So we begin to plan it. It’s just a matter of time before I’ll be showing the Mexican police why they have arrested the wrong guy.
I feel a massive surge of excitement. This is it—I’ve figured it out. We’ll get to Mexico, meet this woman, find out that she’s just some friend of Dad’s, or someone who’s helping him with some Mayan archaeology thing. I’ll show Detective Barratt the printouts of Dad’s e-mails and he’ll convince the Mexican police that they’ve arrested the wrong guy.
It’s amazing what you can do with a little snooping around on a computer. When all this is over, Mom will get back to slowly getting over Dad’s death.
And she’ll do it, too. I’ll help her. We’ll get through this.
But in the back of my mind, I can’t stop thinking about the burglary. They’ve got our computers. They know everything I know, up until now.
Who are “they”? If they killed Dad for whatever he found, why are they still snooping around here?
BLOG ENTRY: A FIFTH CODEX OF THE MAYA
So—the first entry of my Really Secret Blog to track my detective work around finding who really killed my dad and why.
I’m blogging from a computer in the Summertown Library. When I’m finished, I’ll delete the blog address from the browser history. And anyway, you need a password to access the blog now.
Why would a lost ancient Mayan book cause such a rumpus? I couldn’t really imagine why until I realized how rare they are.
Rare archaeological artifacts are Big Money. According to the stories I found on the Internet, all sorts of shady characters are involved in the trade. Rich South American drug lords can’t get enough of the stuff. And their favorite flavor in antiquities is Mayan.
But an as-yet-undiscovered Mayan codex? It doesn’t get any better.
The Maya made their books—codices—out of folded bark paper, painted hieroglyphics with bright colors. They should have been an incredible record of an ancient civilization.
Problem was, only four books survived.
Once there were hundreds of Mayan books. Most of them were about astronomy and mathematics. In 1652, after the Spanish had conquered Mexico, a Spanish bishop named Diego de Landa had all Mayan books rounded up and burned in a Mexican town called Mani. De Landa was apparently shocked by their “blasphemous” content. The Mayas who watched it happen were devastated.
Well, the Church called de Landa back to Spain and punished him for what he did. But it was too late for the Mayas.
And yet … four codices did survive. They’d been stolen from Mayan cities by Spanish soldiers, the conquistadors. Three codices turned up hundreds of years later, in the houses of these soldiers’ descendents. A fourth was found hidden in a cave somewhere in Mexico.
There are only four, all owned by museums. No private collector owns one. A fifth codex wou
ld be the major archaeological find in the Mayan field—and prestigious treasure for one of these collectors.
Could my dad have had some rich, powerful South American gangster after him for the codex? Did they kill Dad only to find that the secret of its location died along with him?
Chapter 8
I stop writing my new blog and start to think.
In movies, these drug lords always have the local police forces pretty much under their thumb. These are the kind of guys who can kill a man and frame some local guy, probably someone who’d gotten on the wrong side of them once too often.
But then again, Carlos Montoyo wrote to Dad, Web searches and e-mails are routinely monitored by organizations whose interest in the I* Code* might surprise you.
He didn’t even dare write out the phrase “Ix Codex,” for fear it would be picked up by snooping programs on the Internet.
Dad couldn’t have been too surprised to hear that drug lords were interested in a Mayan relic. It was part of his ordinary life—he’d often told me that he’d been offered bribes to pass Mayan artifacts on to these people.
Also—how the heck are cocaine barons going to have the kind of technology to snoop on e-mails? That kind of thing has to be done by the government, and the military, right?
Is that the kind of organization that Carlos Montoyo means?
I rack my brain trying to remember the exact contents of those e-mails of Dad’s. Apart from the Ix Codex, the main thing I remember is that Dad mentioned a Mayan manuscript he had, which he called the “Calakmul letter.”
He never mentioned it to us, so far as I know. It must have been a big, big deal to him. He usually talks about this sort of thing to Mom, sometimes even to me.
I’d never heard so much as a whisper about it in our house. Why not?
That night, I can’t sleep. I’m still puzzled about the burglary. Okay, so by now I have to assume they’ve read my old blog, and all the e-mails. They searched the house. Unless they were much luckier than I was, they’ll be out of ideas around about now. Where would they go next?
