Addison Cooke and the Treasure of the Incas

by Jonathan W. Stokes

  Thunder exploded, and the clouds emptied their pockets. Torrents of rain hammered the street. The team anxiously eyed the flashing lightning.

  “Chin up, everyone!” Addison shouted over the deafening deluge. “I’m sure when we get to Olvidados, it will be a glittering tropical paradise. The perfect vacation after a long week of school.”

  • • •

  Four hours later, Addison stepped off the bus in Olvidados and directly into a puddle of mud. Squabbling chickens and bleating goats exited the bus after him, followed by a very morose-looking Molly, Eddie, and Raj. Addison brushed a few chicken feathers off his blazer and offered his brightest smile. “Well, at least the rain has cleared.”

  Molly, Eddie, and Raj had the look of people who’ve been holding their breath for four hours.

  “We’ve been holding our breath for four hours,” said Molly.

  “It reeked in there,” Eddie agreed.

  “I found the ride rather pleasant.” Addison stretched his aching neck.

  “I heard Colombia is dangerous,” said Molly warily.

  Addison scanned his surroundings. The alleyway seethed with beggars, pickpockets, soothsayers, and knife fighters. Gypsies in brightly colored turbans sold fortunes for copper coins. Fire-eaters belched orange tongues of flame into the air. “It looks like the Bronx.” Addison shrugged.

  “But what if we get kidnapped?”

  “We can’t get kidnapped,” Addison said confidently.

  “Why not?”

  “Stick to me like a tick, Mo. What do kidnappers want?”

  “Ransom.”

  “And where do they get it?”

  “From parents,” said Molly.

  “But we don’t have parents,” said Addison. “And our aunt and uncle are already kidnapped, so we’re covered.”

  Molly nodded her head, seeing his logic.

  Addison pulled out his compass, gathering his bearings. “The clue said, ‘By the Río Olvidado, lie the bones of the underworld that guard the key to silver and gold.’ So our first order of business is finding this Olvidado River.”

  Addison led the group through the maze of Olvidados, following the local map from Fiddleton’s Atlas. They wandered past a blind man with a snake coiled around his neck who sang tunes in a tribal tongue and shook his tin cup for change. They edged past local women with gold hoops in their noses who drank corn wine from gourds and gossiped in the ancient Quechuan languages of the Incan Empire.

  Like streams feeding a river, the alleys opened to streets that led to the bustling market square. There, dark-skinned women sold tapioca cakes and voodoo dolls. Road peddlers sold strings of glass beads and hawked water snake skins with medicinal qualities. But then Addison saw something truly remarkable: a girl with long black hair and bracelets all the way up her wrists. She was older than Addison, maybe fifteen. In her hand, she held a switchblade, and in her eyes, she held mischief.

  Addison found his feet leading him directly to her. “Addison Cooke,” he said, extending a hand. “You probably can’t understand English. But I had to introduce myself. I’m new to town and could use someone to show me the sights.”

  The girl ignored Addison’s offered hand. With her switchblade, she snapped the bottle cap off a soda and smacked it down on a cardboard box. She produced three conch shells and began shuffling them around on the cardboard.

  “My name’s Guadalupe,” she said in perfect English. “Follow the bottle cap. It’s under one of the shells.”

  Addison watched Guadalupe slide the shells back and forth with dizzying speed.

  “If you think you know where the shell is, amigo, put your money on the table.”

  Addison could not resist games of chance. His uncle Jasper loved everything from horse racing to roulette, and Addison had inherited the vice. He placed a few pesos on the cardboard box. “The bottle cap is hidden in your right hand. The one you’re holding behind your back.”

  Uncle Jasper had also taught Addison about confidence games.

  Guadalupe frowned. “I see you’ve played this game before.”

  “We’re from New York,” Molly explained, taking her place next to Addison, who gathered up his money.

  Guadalupe nodded. “We don’t get many tourists. The only famous things to see in Olvidados are the cathedral, the llama farm, and the giant pile of rubber tires.”

  “Your English is really good,” said Molly.

  “It should be,” said Guadalupe. “I’m from Cleveland.”

  Molly processed this. She glanced around at the derelict shop fronts and seething, trash-strewn alleys. “How did you end up here?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  Addison nodded appreciatively at Guadalupe, liking her more and more. Here was a person with a few decent stories to tell.

  “We’re interested in looking for the bones of the underworld,” Eddie said. “Can you help us?”

  “Bones of the underworld?” asked Guadalupe. “What kind of tourists are you?”

  “It’s complicated,” returned Molly.

  “Bones of the underworld aren’t my specialty, chica, but I can show you the sights,” said Guadalupe. “For a price.”

  “Why should we hire you?” asked Eddie. “You just tried to cheat us.”

  “You said you’re looking for the underworld. I know every basement, alley, and gutter in this town.”

  Addison admired street smarts and pluck. He beamed at Guadalupe. “I am an astute judge of character, and I think you will make an excellent guide.”

  “I’m an astute judge of money. Show me yours, so I know I’m not wasting my time.”

  Addison pulled out his uncle’s wallet and opened it wide.

  Guadalupe eyed the contents and made a quick mental calculation. “My price is four hundred thousand pesos.”

  Addison considered himself a shrewd negotiator. Four hundred thousand pesos seemed just a bit steep. “Can I get a student discount?”

  “Sure,” said Guadalupe. “Even better, how about a five-finger discount?”

  “What’s a five-finger discount?”

  “This is!” And with her five fingers, Guadalupe snatched the wallet from his hand.

  Before Addison could blink in surprise, Guadalupe was already hightailing it across the crowded market.

  “John Wilkes Booth!” cried Addison.

  “Who?” asked Eddie.

  “That’s what Addison says instead of swearwords,” Molly explained. “So he doesn’t get in trouble.”

  Addison darted after Guadalupe. Within seconds, she vanished among the throng of con artists, vagabonds, and thieves.

  • • •

  Fuming, Addison led his crew along narrow alleys, waded through a flock of passing sheep, and crossed a junkyard where a forlorn mule chomped at crabgrass.

  “It’s getting dark,” said Molly, blowing the stray wisp of hair from her eyes. “We have no money and nowhere to stay.”

  “Molly,” Addison said, impatiently raising one hand in the air, “you’re very quick to take a glass-half-empty view of things. I prefer to say we have nothing tying us down.” He consulted his map. “We’ll find the location to the next key. It’s near the river. We’ve come this far. It must be close.”

  “We don’t even have money now. How are we supposed to get out of here?” Eddie was a champion worrier, and once his thoughts began spiraling, they often flew into a tailspin. “We could be stuck in Colombia for years. And we’re supposed to be back in school on Monday! I need to get good grades so I can get into a decent college.”

  “Take a good look around, Eddie.” Raj gestured to the festering warren of alleyways, teeming with cutpurses and desperados. He breathed deeply. “You’re in life’s classroom.”

  Following his compass, Addison led the band through the shantytown in the gathering
darkness. Sinewy women with cracked mahogany skin ground cassava in mortar bowls and boiled malanga leaves. The evening air smelled sweet with the fragrance of gardenias.

  “Here we are,” Addison announced at last, looking up from his map. He reached the end of a trash-cluttered lane, turned the corner, and spread his arms dramatically. “The Forgotten River!”

  To his amazement, the river was just a trickle of muddy ooze.

  “No wonder they forgot about it,” Molly said.

  Addison struggled to hide his disappointment. “To be fair, the clue was written five hundred years ago. I’m sure back in the day it was a fantastic river. The Frank’s Pizza of rivers.”

  Bells tolled from the cathedral. The team trudged up to the front steps of the church and flopped down in a tired heap.

  “We found the Forgotten River,” said Eddie. “Now what?”

  “I’m not sure,” Addison admitted, rubbing his tired legs. “The Cooke brain runs more smoothly after a moment’s rest.”

  “I’m hungry,” said Eddie. “I miss Restaurant Anatolia. Best Turkish restaurant in the city.”

  “Eddie, when we find that treasure, you can afford all the Turkish food you want. You can buy Restaurant Anatolia and sleep on a bed of kebabs.”

  “I could settle for that.”

  “We shouldn’t be thinking about ourselves,” said Molly. “Aunt Delia and Uncle Nigel have been kidnapped for nearly twenty-four hours.”

  “Molly, I haven’t even begun to think about not thinking about thinking about our aunt and uncle.” Addison took off his wingtips and felt the cool cobblestones through his dress socks.

  Eddie plopped down beside him. “I don’t mean to sound defeatist, Addison, but this is completely impossible. If this Incan treasure’s been around for centuries, how come no one’s found it yet?”

  “Because no one had my uncle’s key. Any treasure hunters who came before us were just fumbling around in the dark. They didn’t know where to begin.”

  “We have the key, and we don’t know where to begin.” Molly shrugged.

  Eddie bobbed his head in agreement. “What if Ragar beats us to the punch? He has a head start. Plus he has your aunt and uncle—and they’re Incan experts.”

  The sunset cast long shadows across the cobbled courtyard of the cathedral. Darkness was falling fast. Addison could tell his team felt just as frazzled as he did. He shook his head. “My aunt and uncle won’t help Ragar. They’ll provide clever clues that sound right, but are deliberately wrong.”

  Molly sighed. “They can’t fool him forever.”

  “Probably not. But they can slow him down. And that gives us a chance.”

  Raj could never sit still for long. He explored the looming walls of the ancient cathedral, peppered with Gothic spires, snarling gargoyles, and vaulted archways. “Eddie, can you read that plaque by the door?”

  Eddie glanced up. “Probably. It’s in English.”

  “Oh,” said Raj, embarrassed. “For tourists, I guess.” Raj crossed to the sign and read it aloud. “This church is the Cathedral of Lost Souls. It was built in the time of Francisco Pizarro.”

  “What’s that about Frank’s Pizza?” Eddie asked.

  “Built just after Pizarro’s conquistadors defeated the Incas,” Raj continued, reading the chiseled calligraphy on the plaque.

  Addison turned to examine the cathedral with sudden interest. “So this old heap is five hundred years old.” His eye zeroed in on a carved stone crest that crowned the portico over the massive double doors. And the Addison Cooke brain finally flicked into gear. “Benedict Arnold!” he exclaimed, leaping to his feet. “I’ve seen that crest before. Raj, you’re a genius!”

  “I am?”

  “Well, one of us is. Because we now have a clue.”

  Addison flipped through the sketches in his pocket notebook until he found the right page. He pointed a finger triumphantly at the coat of arms—a shield supported by two fire-breathing dragons. It matched the crest on the cathedral. “There. The crest of Diego de Almagro II!”

  “Diego who?” asked Eddie.

  “I think maybe Addison has heat stroke,” Molly said.

  “I copied this down from one of my Incan books. Do you guys realize who Diego de Almagro II is?”

  “Diego de Almagro I’s son?”

  “Diego,” Addison announced, pausing for dramatic effect, “is the man who killed Francisco Pizarro!”

  “That is so rock-and-roll,” said Raj.

  Molly, mystified, mulled this over. “Wait, so how is this a clue?”

  “Look,” said Addison, his four-cylinder words struggling to keep pace with his six-cylinder brain, “Diego’s father was Spanish, but his mother was a local tribeswoman—Diego sided with the Incas. He helped them kill their greatest enemy—Pizarro.”

  The light snapped on in Molly’s eyes. “So if Diego built this cathedral . . .”

  “It was a safe place for the Incans to hide their second key.” Addison grinned.

  “That makes sense,” said Eddie, bobbing his head. “Guadalupe said there were only three things worth seeing in Olvidados: the cathedral, the llama farm, and a giant pile of rubber tires. If I had to find a five-hundred-year-old Incan key in this town, I’d start with the five-hundred-year-old cathedral.”

  Addison hastily slipped his shoes back on. “We’ve got to get inside this church.”

  Molly hesitated. “If we want to rescue Aunt Delia and Uncle Nigel, why not just hide here until Professor Ragar arrives? Why go after the key?”

  “We don’t want to risk the treasure falling into the wrong hands,” Addison declared. “We want it to fall into the right hands.”

  “Our hands,” Eddie specified, rubbing his hands together.

  “Well, the Cathedral of Lost Souls is closed for the night,” said Molly, pointing to the sign over the door.

  “Nothing is closed to the open mind,” said Addison.

  Chapter Eight

  The Cathedral of

  Lost Souls

  ADDISON CONFIDENTLY LED THE team up the front steps of the cathedral. He adjusted the peak on his Ivy cap and buttoned his school blazer. “Straighten your ties, and look respectable.”

  “I’m not a hundred percent sure about this one,” said Molly.

  “Molly, when have I ever steered you wrong?”

  “Do you really want me to answer that?”

  “I’ve got this under control,” said Addison. He reached up and clanged the heavy brass door knocker. After a moment, the oak doors creaked open.

  A priest with a short white nose and a long black cassock poked out his head.

  Addison offered a cheerful hello in Latin. “Salve, quid agis. Bonum est vespere!”

  The priest appraised the group suspiciously with his dark beady eyes. He rattled off a curt reply in Spanish.

  “He has no idea what you’re saying, Addison,” Eddie explained.

  “I thought priests spoke Latin.”

  Eddie spoke to the priest in Spanish and blanched at the priest’s tart reply. “He says they speak Latin in the service,” Eddie translated. “But they don’t go around making chitchat in a language that’s been dead for two thousand years.”

  The priest barked a few questions at Eddie.

  Eddie turned to Addison. “Who are we? And what do we want?”

  “Tell him we’re the Vienna Boys Choir,” said Addison with an elaborate bow. “We know his cathedral is closed for the night, but we’ve traveled a long way. We’d love to view his beautiful church and maybe sing a free concert in exchange.”

  The frowning priest listened to Eddie and rolled this new information around in his mind for a moment. At last, he spoke in broken English. “The Vienna Boys Choir. Here. In Olvidados.”

  “Quite.” Addison smiled ingratiatingly. “We just flew in
and have no place to spend the night.”

  The priest peered into the darkness and snapped a few words in his halted English. “There are four of you. Shouldn’t there be a hundred?”

  “We’re actually the Vienna Boys Barbershop Quartet,” Addison offered.

  The priest pointed at Molly. “That one is not a boy.”

  “True, but she sings like one.”

  “I kick like one, too,” Molly growled at Addison.

  The priest crossed his arms and looked sternly from Eddie to Raj and back to Addison. He was having exactly none of it. “You,” the priest said flatly, “are from Vienna. In Austria.”

  “Vienna, South Carolina,” Addison clarified.

  “The New York chapter,” Eddie added.

  “In America,” Molly said, to round things out.

  “I sing tenor,” Raj put in helpfully.

  “Enough,” said the priest, pushing his spectacles up his short, piglike nose. He jabbed a finger in the air and unleashed a blistering tirade of fiery Spanish that left Eddie dabbing a mist of spittle from his forehead. Addison only recognized the words “prisión” and “policía.” The priest slammed the heavy oak doors so that they cracked like thunder.

  Addison stared at the shut door, inches from his face.

  “I don’t think I should translate some of that,” said Eddie.

  “We really could have thought that one through better,” said Molly.

  Addison was stunned. It was the first time he could remember not being able to charm his way into a place. “I guess my infectious good nature only works on people who are fluent in English.” He clasped his hands together, warming them against the cool night air. “Well,” he said brightly, “if at first you don’t succeed, try the back door.”

  • • •

  The team climbed over a crumbling piñon fence into the cemetery behind the cathedral.

  Under the cloak of night, they ducked behind gravestones that slumbered in silence and sneaked to the rear of the vast building.

  “I don’t know if the Olvidados police department will appreciate this,” said Eddie, staring uncertainly at the ominous shadow of the dark cathedral.