by Marcia Wells
Last winter, the NYPD secretly hired me because of my photographic memory and my ability to draw near-perfect pictures. They gave me the code name Eddie Red (long story) and used me as a human camera to hunt down a gang of art thieves. Then Jonah and I decided to solve the case ourselves. It was going really well until he got sick and had to stay in bed while I ended up duct-taped to a drainpipe in an alley (an even longer story). Not something I want to repeat any time soon. Plus, if I get in trouble again I’ll be grounded until I’m sixty.
“It wasn’t an adventure,” I say through clenched teeth. “I almost got shot!”
He holds his hands up in surrender. “All I’m saying is, let’s keep our options open. Forget the crime thing. We’ll try a ghost mystery. There are tons of them down here with all the ancient spirits floating around.”
“Fine.” A ridiculous idea, but I’ll humor him. He’ll be distracted soon enough with the water slides and the lazy river. “Can we go to the pools now?”
“Not yet. Just one more thing to take care of.” He pulls out a gift bag with Hotel Cisneros printed on it. Opening the bag, he shakes out a small brown statue with a key chain attached to its head. It looks like a short man with a Buddha tummy and a stick in his hand.
I wrinkle my nose. “What’s that?”
He beams at me. “Meet Mr. Q.” He makes the little statue dance in the air. “See the snake he’s holding? Cool, right? I asked the lady in the gift shop if they had any Quetzalcoatl guys kicking around, and they did. Our luck has already begun!”
“You bought something at the gift shop?” I swear I haven’t left his side since New York.
“You were in the bathroom.” He makes Mr. Q do a swan dive in the air, followed by a whoosh sound like a jet taking off.
“How’d you pay for it?” I demand. “Did your parents give you a credit card?” May Quetzalcoatl help us all if this kid has no spending limit.
He snorts. “As if. I used cash. You know, pesos?” He gives me a Duh, everybody has pesos look. “I exchanged my money in New York before we left.”
Resting the statue on top of the TV, he examines it while popping a piece of gum into his mouth. His face brightens. “Will you draw him?”
“What, now?”
“Yeah. In case I lose him. A security measure.” He shoots me a Pleeeaase look.
“Fine.” I grab my art pad and charcoal pencil. This is nothing new. I’ve been sketching his toys for him since kindergarten, including homemade Lego zombies, a moss-covered pet rock, and a weird ball of lint he named Fuzz Face. “But you have to promise we’ll go swimming in the next ten minutes.” I squint and start to sketch the bizarre Buddha-man.
“Yes, sir.” He salutes me, then gets back to studying Mr. Q. “Now I have to figure out what to feed him. A sacrifice.” He snaps his fingers and digs into the suitcase one last time, conjuring up a huge jar of peanut butter and a plastic knife. “Sharing my peanut butter is a major sacrifice.” He scoops out a glob and smears it on Mr. Q’s stomach. “He’s going to help us on our mission to find a ghost, maybe dig up some buried Aztec treasure.”
I’ve had enough of this. “First of all,” I splutter, “gross. We’re going to get bugs in here. Like, huge man-eating cockroaches. And second, we are not on a mission. We’re on vacation. I’m grounded, remember? You better not cause trouble, Jonah. My mother’s nervous enough as it is. We’re on vacation,” I repeat.
Pop, chomp, chomp, pop. He smacks his bubble gum and offers me a toothy grin.
“Whatever you say.”
Chapter 2
Luck
DAY 2
This morning, we’re rolling onto a ferry with my parents, and I do mean rolling. I just ate my body weight in pancakes at the best breakfast buffet ever—huevos rancheros, breakfast burritos, waffles, chorizo, bacon . . . mmm, bacon—even though I was still full from yesterday’s steak-dinner extravaganza. The last thing I want to do right now is ride on a boat in choppy waves, but this is Mom’s only day with us all week, and we promised her we’d do some sightseeing.
A woman greets us as we board the ship. She’s in a sharp purple suit, wearing a name tag and a pleasant smile. “Welcome, Familia Lonnrot,” she says. “I’m Marita, the hotel’s tour guide.” Her English is perfect, without the slightest accent. She turns to me and Jonah. “My daughter came for today’s island visit when she heard there were kids her own age.” She points through the semi-crowded boat to a girl sitting in the back, then motions for us to continue down the aisle. “Please join her. She’s a much better guide than I am.” She winks.
I catch Jonah’s eye and he shrugs. Hanging out with a girl we don’t know might be painful, but so will listening to my father’s dorky comments about the nutritional makeup of salt water and the science behind why coconuts float.
I turn and head between rows of plastic benches as the boat rumbles to life. It’s the kind of boat that has a roof but no solid sides, just railings that allow the ocean air to whip around us as the waves rock us back and forth. I’ve almost reached the last row when the blob of pancakes in my stomach lurches. I stop to steady myself and Jonah knocks into me from behind with an “Oof!” I stumble forward and almost land in the girl’s lap.
Mortified, I step back as the girl stands up, her big hazel eyes growing wider by the second. No doubt she’s alarmed at the bumbling American circus that’s just arrived. She’s quite pretty, with tanned skin, almond-shaped eyes, and high cheekbones, her features similar to the drawings of the native people in Jonah’s Ancient Civilizations of Mexico book.
“Hello,” she says, pulling her long black braid over her shoulder. “I’m Julia.” She pronounces her name Hoo-lia, with a soft accent on the first part. A nice name.
“I’m Edmund,” I say. I don’t make a move to shake her hand because she might think that’s weird, plus I’m sweating like a beast. It’s only ten in the morning but already ninety-five degrees out, the sun a blazing fireball that promises to melt the flesh off my bones.
She nods and fiddles with her braid, then glances at Jonah. He stares back at her without a sound. No movement, no twitches, nada. I clear my throat and nudge his arm. Still staring.
Uh-oh.
It’s as if he’s brain-dead: glazed blue eyes, mouth hanging open. I give him a sharp yet subtle jab in the ribs with my thumb.
“Hi!” he says in a chipper voice as if nothing Extremely Socially Awkward has just happened. “I’m Jonah.” As he speaks he pushes me into the bench so that I’m by the railing. He steps in next, doing a little hop move like a jolly leprechaun, his curly red hair wild from the humidity. Sitting down, he motions for Julia to join him on the other side. She giggles.
I roll my eyes and move over to make room. At least the breeze is cool on my sweaty skin as we start to pick up speed, the vast ocean stretching out before us.
“I’ll be your tour guide,” Julia says over the hum of the engine. “Today we’re taking a short trip to La Isla del Niño. It’s just up ahead.”
“Boy Island,” Jonah translates for me, as if he and I aren’t in the same Spanish class back home. “Sounds cool.” He thrums his fingers on the seat, then he pats the pocket of his backpack, where Mr. Q is resting, and flashes me a grin as if to say, See? We’ve met a cute local girl who’s going to help us find buried treasure. Our luck’s really taking off.
The boat picks up speed, bouncing on the waves. My stomach does a somersault. Don’t get sick, don’t get sick, I think over and over.
“Are you okay?” Jonah asks. “You’re kinda pale green, which is really saying something.”
I groan and clutch my stomach. “I feel pale green.” A gag rolls in my throat. This is it: I’m going to puke on him and completely ruin his first-ever cute-girl encounter.
Julia leans toward me with a concerned expression. “Look out at the horizon,” she says. “It will help.”
I nod and stare at the island ahead, a cool stone pyramid coming into focus as we get closer. I hope I won’t
be too sick to climb it.
“So tell me about the ghosts on the island,” Jonah says to Julia, his voice loud over the noise of the engine.
“Um . . .” Julia hesitates, as if she’s not understanding his words. I want to reassure her that her English is fine and that Jonah is obsessed with finding an unsolved ancient mystery, but I keep my comments to myself. She shakes her head. “No ghosts. But there’s a very old temple and a museum that sells souvenirs. Also a police”—she waves her hand like she’s searching for a vocab word—“headquarters. With a small marina. To catch the drug traffic on the boats?” Her explanation ends in a question, as if she’s unsure of her language abilities.
“Your English is really good,” I say. It’s terrific, actually, with just a slight rolling accent.
She blushes. “Thank you. We practice at home. My mother is American. She moved here with my grandfather when she was ten. He was an archaeologist, just like his father before him.”
“What about Aztec treasure?” Jonah says. “Any unsolved mysteries?”
She frowns. “We’re in the Mayan Riviera.” She gestures to the coast behind us, to the white beaches and swaying palm trees. “The east. This is where the Mayans lived, thousands of years ago. The Aztecs lived in the west.” Her frown deepens with disapproval. There’s a possibility that she thinks we’re ignorant American tourists. Which I guess we are.
Jonah presses on, unfazed. “Did the Mayans have buried treasure?”
Whatever Julia’s about to say gets cut off by a roar of the engine. The boat jerks and shudders to a stop. We’re here. Through the crowd of excited tourists, I see Dad up front in his yellow sun hat, a glob of white sunscreen on his nose. He gives me a big grin and a wave. I smile weakly.
“Please stay in your seats, everyone.” Marita’s voice is tinny over the loudspeaker. “We’ll let you know when it’s safe to disembark.”
“Edmund, look!” Jonah leans over me and points over the side of the boat.
I look at where he’s pointing. The pyramid looms large above the beach, surrounded by a thick green forest. Its jagged stones are gray and tall, with a set of rock stairs running up the middle. Some sort of ancient temple with crumbing walls sits at the top.
The pyramid is ginormous and impressive, but that’s not what Jonah’s talking about. He’s pointing to the left of the center staircase, where red liquid is oozing down the stones. Paint? Blood? A strange chill sweeps the hairs on my neck.
“Start taking pictures with that brain of yours,” Jonah whispers. “This smells like a mystery in need of our services.”
I stare at the creepy scene, wishing my eyesight were sharper. Are those letters in the middle of all the chaotic red? Some kind of graffiti is on the temple wall, written in blue. It’s hard to tell because we’re at least a hundred feet away. And what looks like white flower petals tumble in the breeze, sticking to the messy puddles. I really hope it’s red paint. Otherwise, something very large and very bloody died up there.
Click. I snap mental pictures. More writing. Click. A pile of crumbled rocks. Click. Once the images are in my mind, I can recall them at any time and analyze the details as if I’m looking at a photo. Although right now the photo is too far away, too fuzzy. We need to get closer.
I turn to ask Julia what’s going on, but she’s gone. I spot her up in the front of the boat talking to her mom.
“I see an aleph,” Jonah says, pointing to a rocky outcrop on the beach, far away from the temple. The boulders are draped in seaweed and shells from the outgoing tide.
“A what?”
“An aleph. It’s a Hebrew letter.”
I squint, but all I see are some green squiggles. “You see Hebrew everywhere,” I say. “Remember the pizza incident?” Jonah’s been taking a ton of extra Hebrew classes for his bar mitzvah next year. Last November he thought he saw a gimel (the Hebrew letter G) made out of red pepper on his pizza. He saved the piece of pizza in his locker, where it grew mold over winter break and turned a hideous shade of green. The school had to fumigate the entire east wing because of the smell.
“I can’t help it if there are divine messages in my food,” he says. Tap-tappity-tap-tap. He thrums his fingers on the seat in front of ours. The balding, sunburned man sitting in front of us turns to glare at him. Jonah stops tapping and sits on his hands. “You’d think you’d want your co-detective to be good with details,” he adds.
I’m about to remind him yet again that I’m fried on the whole Eddie-Red-detective thing when the boat engine churns to life behind us. We’re moving . . . backwards?
“Sorry, folks,” Marita announces over the noise. “They’re calling us back to the hotel. A storm’s coming.”
A storm? But I thought it was supposed to be sunny all week. People start pointing out the other side of the boat. I lean around Jonah and see huge black clouds gathering on the horizon. Where the heck did those come from?
The water is much choppier on the return trip. Don’t throw up, don’t throw up, I chant in my head. A strong wind picks up, slapping large waves against the side of the boat and spraying my face. My glasses get splattered, but I’m too queasy to clean them.
“Why isn’t Mr. Q helping us?” Jonah says. He rubs the little statue, then gives it a shake. “Maybe he’s putting us through a test.”
“Maybe he’s allergic to peanut butter,” I mutter. I close my eyes. Breathe . . . just breathe.
Jonah mumbles something beside me. More shaking and a pop sound. I open my eyes in time to see him dip Mr. Q’s feet in a small container of strawberry jam that he swiped from this morning’s buffet.
When we arrive at the hotel, the beach is oddly deserted. No one’s playing in the surf or kayaking or building sand castles. There’s a red warning flag up, signaling it’s too dangerous to swim. The few people out there are packing up their towels and heading into the hotel. Plink, plink. Fat raindrops splatter on the metal roof of the boat.
My parents get off the boat first and wait for us at the end of the dock. Even on dry land, my legs are wobbly and my stomach sloshes. We trudge up to the hotel in irritated silence while thunder rumbles overhead. More and more darkness sweeps the sky. We’re supposed to go on a snorkeling trip this afternoon. No fair! I want to yell at the clouds.
“I don’t want to be stuck inside all day,” Jonah whines.
Mom flicks a nervous glance at him over her shoulder, no doubt worried about the same thing. Dad yanks open the big glass doors to the lobby, and we step inside.
What the . . . ?
We’ve entered a war zone. Policemen are everywhere, some searching bags by the wall while others attempt to direct people away from the front desk. Still more are winding yellow police tape around the jade mask’s display case in the center of the room. But the glass case is empty, its small door hanging wide open. The hotel staff is running around, barking orders in Spanish too fast to understand, and to top it all off, there are signs up everywhere in Spanish and English, indicating that the pools are closed for the day because of the storm. Things cannot possibly get worse.
“Señor Lonnrot?” A gruff-looking policeman approaches my father, glaring at him with dark, beady eyes. When my father nods, the man holds out his hand and gestures impatiently. “Come with me,” he says in a thick accent. “You are wanted for questioning.”
Things just got worse.
Chapter 3
Lockdown
“I still think we should call someone,” Mom says, pacing the floor of my parents’ hotel room. A difficult task since there are three bodies and a king-sized bed in the way. Jonah and I are parked in the twin chairs by the window, while Dad is sitting on the edge of the bed, rubbing the back of his neck.
“I can’t believe they questioned you without a lawyer present,” she says. Pace, pace, pace. “And they fingerprinted you! Is that even legal? I feel so helpless. Should we call the U.S. embassy? Where is it, Mexico City? Maybe I should call my office. Larry travels a lot. He might know what
to do.” She plops down beside my father.
“It’s fine,” he reassures her. “It was just a formality. They questioned a few other guests as well. Anyone seen touching the display this morning.”
She frowns. “You touched the display?”
He stares down at his fingers, still stained from being fingerprinted. “You know I have an inquisitive mind.”
“But you didn’t touch the mask, did you?” she says.
“Of course not. The case was locked. I, uh . . . checked.”
Mom’s frown deepens to a scowl. “What else did they say?”
He scratches his mustache the way he does when he’s gearing up for a long story. We may be here a while. I open the art pad that I grabbed from my room and start to sketch with a pencil. I am a police sketch artist, after all. Maybe I can provide a few leads for the cops. Anything to get them to leave my father alone.
“Someone stole the jade mask from the lobby,” Dad begins. “A bellboy told me all about it. It was there one second, gone the next. There are no security cameras, and the guy working the reception desk claims he was checking on a delivery when it happened. Quite a coincidence, I’d say.”
As my father talks, I flip through pictures in my mind of the last eighteen hours. Our arrival, the pool, the restaurant, the faces of the different guests . . . anyone suspicious. Three people stand out: the man with the mustache who bumped me yesterday by the mask display, a woman in the lobby who was shifting her hands nervously in and out of her purse, and an older guy at breakfast who had a gold ring on every finger and made a joke in a thick New Jersey accent about having to rob the hotel in order to afford this vacation.
My pencil flies across the page. I loosen my shoulder to make sweeping lines: an oval for the head, small curving place-markers for the eyes, nose, and mouth. Mustache man had a medium-length nose, short brown hair, youngish face, tanned skin. Completely ordinary except for his eyes. Eyes that were an unusual murky gray.
