by Marcia Wells
Jonah doesn’t look upset in the slightest. As he stares at the hand-on-arm contact, his cheeks turn the same color as his hair. He giggles. Julia giggles in response and doesn’t take her hand away. Somebody shoot me now.
Papi says something to Julia in Spanish. She nods and follows him over to yet another huge refrigerator, where they continue talking at a thousand words per second while loading up two plates with pastries. Hanging out with Papi in the kitchen clearly has some major advantages.
On the counter to the left of us is a metal pan with a huge side of raw beef surrounded by blood. Jonah dips Mr. Q in the tray when the chef isn’t looking.
“Gross!” I hiss at him. “You won’t drink milk because of germs, but you’ll splash around in cow’s blood?”
“I’m not licking the blood, am I?” He shakes off the excess liquid, leaving Mr. Q stained a brownish red. “Nothing’s working. Things are just going from bad to worse. Maybe he’s lonely. I saw a bunch of Mayan gods in the gift shop. Maybe I’ll get Acan, the god of wine. He’d be a fun buddy to have. Or maybe Mr. Q needs a girlfriend . . . There’s Awilix, the goddess of the night. I’ve been studying the Mayan books your dad brought. There are a lot of cool Mayan gods out there.”
He’s going to buy another statue? I’m not sure how I feel about this.
He holds up Mr. Q. “Do you know anything about this Aztec god?” he says to Julia, who’s just walked over with a truckload of chocolate croissants. “I keep giving him sacrifices for good luck since he’s the god of intelligence, and things keep getting worse.”
“I don’t know.” Julia makes a face. “He smells strange. Is that blood?”
Papi waddles over and plucks Mr. Q from Jonah’s sticky grip. “This is Chaac,” he says, as if that explains everything.
“No, it’s Ket-sal-co-at-el,” Jonah says, very proud of his careful pronunciation. “He’s holding a snake, see?” He points to the small snake in Mr. Q’s stone grip.
“No, señor,” Papi says. “Lo tengo en casa. I have it at home. He is Chaac, rain god of the Mayans. My ancestors. He is holding a . . . what do you call it . . . hacha.” He looks at Julia to translate.
“An ax,” she says.
“Sí, an ax.” Papi nods in a whole-body jiggle. “The Mayans say Chaac hits the clouds with his ax, makes rain and . . . relámpagos.” Again he looks at Julia.
“Lightning,” she says.
Rain and lightning. Rain and lightning. All this terrible weather, this terrible luck, is JONAH’S FAULT?
“Oh,” Jonah says quietly. Papi hands him the statue and returns to his work, chuckling to himself about “gringos locos.”
“A rain god?” I spit out. “You’ve been making sacrifices to a rain god?” I glare at Jonah, who at least has the decency to look sheepish. He opens his mouth and closes it, speechless for the first time in his life.
With jerking movements, I grab my notebook and pencil from the counter, say a quick goodbye to Julia and Papi, and head for the door without a glance in Jonah’s direction.
Stomp, stomp, stomp. I blast my way through the lobby. Of all the ridiculous, idiotic, stupid . . .
“Edmund, wait, don’t be mad.” Jonah catches up to me by the elevators. “I didn’t mean to jinx us. I didn’t know!”
I ignore him and step into the elevator. He follows. The door closes behind us. Before he can speak again, I whirl around and put my finger in his face. “I’m going to tell your mother that you messed with the Aztec gods!”
“Mayans,” he corrects me in a calm tone.
When I don’t respond, he shoves his hands in his pockets and kicks at the floor. “It’s just a stupid statue,” he mutters.
A loud rumble of thunder shakes the building. The elevator jerks and sways, then shudders to a halt. The lights flicker out.
Silence.
Chapter 7
Be On Guard
DAY 8
Yesterday it took them sixty-three minutes and twenty seconds to get the electricity back on. That’s sixty-three minutes and twenty seconds stuck in an elevator with a hyperactive kid who just ate a pound of sugar cookies. Not the greatest moment of our friendship, but we made up two hours later. I can’t really blame him for the bad weather, after all.
The past few days have been pretty dismal, but today is a new day, a great day. The word on the street—or at least, in the hallways of the hotel—is that they’ve arrested someone for the mask robbery. Someone local. Which means they shouldn’t be investigating Dad anymore. It’s a miracle!
And the sun is shining, not a cloud in sight. This morning we went snorkeling and saw some sea turtles. Totally cool. Then we went into town and had the best chicken tacos I’ve ever eaten. We may even swim with dolphins later at a nearby water park, although it costs two hundred bucks a person, so maybe not.
“Just one more store,” Mom says, pulling me by the arm through the crowded marketplace. Vendors are shouting at us to buy everything from T-shirts to candy skeletons to red, white, and green Mexican flags.
Mom has the weekend off from the conference, and I have to say, it’s nice having her around. We split off from Jonah and Dad after lunch, claiming that we needed to do some early Christmas shopping. I thought she just wanted an excuse to have some mother-son bonding time, but she was actually serious and has dragged me to twenty-eight stores and vendor carts.
As for certain Mayan rain gods, Chaac, aka the Statue Formerly Known as Mr. Q, has been washed off, dried, and wrapped in a soft tissue. I wanted to throw him away, but Jonah said that would just make Chaac angry and he’d send a tornado. So we’re “pampering” him, trying to lull his rain powers to sleep. It seems to be working.
I follow my mom through the plaza, but a crowd has gathered around a mariachi band, making it hard to move. Sweaty tourist bodies press on me from all sides.
“Let’s get out of here!” Mom shouts over the loud trumpet and guitar music. She hates crowds almost as much as I do. She starts to head for a taxi stand, then stops and grins as she stares at the musicians. I follow her line of sight.
Oh . . . no . . .
My father is dancing right in front of the band, as if he’s part of the act. His broad chest is draped in a bright red poncho, and there’s a huge tan sombrero on his head. He’s shaking maracas and his rather ample butt at the same time while the mariachi guys pick up the tempo. And Jonah . . . Jonah’s wearing a fake mustache—I am not kidding—and is circling my father to the beat, doing spazzy scissor kicks while flapping his arms up and down like an insane bird. The crowd is cheering.
I suck in a mortified breath. Dad and Jonah link arms in time to the music. Dad flips him over his back, and Jonah lands on his feet and bows. Then they break into a Michael Jackson moonwalk, their moves perfectly synchronized, as if they’ve been practicing for years.
“Let’s go, Mom!” I yank on her arm but she drags her feet, looking over her shoulder at the Mariachi Horror Show.
“But he’s so cute,” she says.
I know she is not referring to Jonah. And for the next year, I’m going to be tortured by her calling my father her handsome dancing señor or something equally gross, and I’ll be forced to run away to Canada.
Pushing our way through the crowd, we pop out the other side of the plaza, right in front of El Museo Nacional de Arte Moderno, that art museum we visited last weekend.
“Oof!” I say as I collide with a dark-haired man, my shoulder making contact with his spine. He shrugs me off without a glance, his attention focused on the museum in front of him. After jogging up the stone staircase, he pauses at the top to scowl over his shoulder at the person who just stumbled into him. Which would be me.
My heart freezes in my rib cage.
It’s him.
Ghostman, the pushy tourist from the hotel. The tourist who looks like the dead bank robber. Black hair and tanned skin. Click. A thin mustache, gray eyes. Click. He’s dressed in a maroon uniform, just like the other museum guards. He pulls a handker
chief out of his pocket to mop his brow while speaking to another guard posted by the entrance. I push my glasses up on my nose and squint to get a better view. They seem serious, their heads bent in concentration. Then Ghostman nods and heads through the large glass doors.
Who is this guy? Is he really a guard? Or is he just dressed like one? I stop and pretend to tie my sneakers while attempting to get a grip on my brain. Think, Edmund, think!
I turn to Mom and break out my best acting skills. “Can we go into the museum?” I gesture to the huge stone building in front of us. “I really want to see those Diego Rivera paintings again. We studied his use of flowers last year in art class, and I know Mrs. Lower will give me extra credit if I do a report on him.” When in doubt, bring Improvement of School Grades into the discussion.
She raises an eyebrow. “I thought you were dying to get out of here.”
“I am. Just for a few minutes.” I grab her hand and tug her up the stairs. I need to find this guy. How I’ll do that with my mom attached to my side, I have no idea.
She lets me lead the way, but partway up, she stops walking. “It’s closed.” She points to a small sign ahead that reads CERRADO.
“But it’s a Saturday,” I say, racking my brain for a good excuse as to why we should press forward. “They must have forgotten to take the sign down this morning. Let’s just ask. I really need to see those paintings. Please?” I eyeball the guard posted by the doors. Is he working with Ghostman?
“We’ll try,” Mom says. Of course she believes me. Partly because I’m flashing her my best I love you smile, and partly because she knows I’m an über-nerd who loves to study art for hours at a time.
We climb a few more stairs and the guard steps forward, holding up his hand. “El museo está cerrado,” he says in a gruff voice.
“Hi!” Mom says brightly while flashing him a smile that would bring most mortals to their knees. “We were hoping we could take a quick look at the Diego Rivera paintings.”
The guard stares at my mom as if he’s been hit with a dummy stick. He’s tall and thin, his face set in a stern expression. Well, it was a stern expression. Now he’s blinking a lot and a soft smile curls the corners of his mouth. This is the effect my mother has on people. She thinks it’s because she’s nice, and maybe that’s part of it, but I’ve seen men and women alike practically throw themselves at her feet because of her striking beauty. High cheekbones, creamy coffee skin, huge brown eyes.
The guard snaps out of it. “It—it is impossible,” he stammers in accented English. “There is a new exhibit opening Thursday. We are closed until then. I wish I could let you in, señora. I am so sorry.” His voice borders on desperate, as if her disappointment is crushing his world.
“Okay,” Mom says kindly. “Thank you for your help.” She turns to go.
And I know that’s the end of that.
Defeated, I tromp down the steps. She pats my back. “We’ll come back next week for the new exhibit,” she says. “Are you okay, honey? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Chapter 8
Big Break
ONE HOUR LATER
I learned how to ride a bike two years ago at Camp Little Hiawatha. Jonah and I spent a week in the Catskills, where we hiked and examined fox scat (a fancy word for poop) and were eaten alive by mosquitoes. Our counselor, Jerry—a nice guy who made his own granola that tasted like honey, gravel, and twigs—took it upon himself to teach us city kids how to ride, and I haven’t practiced since. We ride scooters in Central Park since there’s zero space in our apartments to store bikes.
I’m thinking about Jerry and his break-your-teeth granola as I push a rental bike up the steep hill into town with Julia, wondering how badly I’m going to embarrass myself.
“My cousin is innocent,” Julia says. She walks beside me, shoving her bike forward with an angry push. When Mom and I returned to the hotel, we bumped into a very upset Julia. It turns out that the local guy the police arrested is her cousin Miguel, a sixteen-year-old waiter who works at the hotel. We met him last week and he seemed perfectly normal.
“Why did they arrest him?” I ask. “He’s just a kid. I thought they were looking for a man with a mustache.” I puff out the words through choppy breaths. Am I really this out of shape? I blame the heat. You could fry an egg on the sidewalk.
“It’s all Capitán Ruiz,” she says bitterly. “The police received an anonymous tip about Las Plumas. Someone called to say that the gang has a new leader, a leader who is planning something big. So Ruiz blames Las Plumas for the robbery. And Miguel . . . Miguel used to be a Pluma.”
What? That’s crazy. But when I examine the picture of Miguel in my mind, I can see it clearly: a black feather tattoo on his wrist, partially hidden beneath a leather bracelet. I should have caught that detail when I first met him. I’m losing my edge.
And Las Plumas have a new leader? Could it be Ghostman? I keep my question to myself, instead saying, “Miguel used to be a Pluma? He’s not anymore?”
She nods, her eyes focused on the road ahead. “He joined when he was thirteen but left after a year. He’s a good boy. He’d never steal our family’s mask.” Her voice rises. “My father needs to come home. He needs to fix this. But the roads and bridges are so damaged from the storm. He’s stuck!”
“I can help you,” I say as my brain officially disconnects from my mouth. “I’m a professional. I’ve done this kind of thing before.”
She looks at me, blinking her huge, pretty eyes. Am I really going to tell her about being Eddie Red and break the NYPD contract I signed? She seems trustworthy.
“What do you mean?” she demands.
So I tell her. I tell her how I have a photographic memory and I witnessed a crime back in New York and drew an awesome picture of the bad guy. How I got hired by the NYPD as Eddie Red and how Jonah and I foiled the plans of a criminal mastermind. I talk and talk and talk, watching her face go from surprised to disbelieving to impressed. Then back to disbelieving.
“Look,” I say, practically tripping over my feet as I push the bike along. “I wish I had a badge to flash you or some kind of proof, but I don’t. And you can’t tell anyone about this. But I promise, just because my dad’s off the hook doesn’t mean I’m off the case. We’ll figure this out.”
She examines me, her gaze like a laser. Finally she nods. “Okay.” She comes to a sudden stop. We’ve arrived at the top of the hill.
Throwing her leg over her bike, she says, “Let’s pedal through the marketplace. Then we’ll ride by the museum a few times.”
Back at the hotel, I had told her about my Ghostman sighting, and we agreed that returning to the museum immediately was the best plan. Mom thinks we’re doing a “cultural bike tour.”
I’m not sure what we’ll do if we actually catch Ghostman, but I’m running with the plan. Or biking with it, as is the case right now. Time to put my Little Hiawatha skills to the test.
Clipping on my helmet, I scan the road, looking for potential hazards. I wish Jonah were here. I keep calling his cell, but it goes straight to voicemail. I wonder if the American Dancing Duo is still hanging out with their mariachi buddies. The plaza is pretty empty at the moment. It’s siesta time, when everyone takes a huge nap in the heat of the day.
Julia takes off, an obvious biking pro. She zips down the narrow street, past a few tourists and rusty cars, weaving her way through the market vendors with grace. After a shaky push-off, I get my bike going and almost crash into a fruit cart. I start up again, wobbling around a man selling woven blankets. I have to pedal hard to catch up to her, and right when I start to get the hang of it, we stop by the museum steps. No sign of Ghostman anywhere.
“There’s an exhibit of Aztec gold coming,” Julia says, pointing to a big banner that reads ORO AZTECA. Why did I not see that before? The blazing sun must really be affecting my observation skills.
“Let’s check out the alley behind the plaza,” she says. “There’s a back entrance to the museum
there.”
My pulse speeds up. The last time I was in an alley, I was held at gunpoint and duct-taped to a drainpipe. I hate alleys.
While I hesitate, she takes off, zooming past the museum to hook a left down the alley. Suddenly she skids to a halt in a spray of pebbles and spins the bike around in a cool maneuver that I have no hope of imitating. My mouth drops open in surprise as she pedals back toward me like a madwoman.
“¡Chica!” a group of teen punks yells at her. They’ve just come running out of the alley at a full sprint. Do they recognize Julia? They seem to. “¡Chica!” they call again.
There are three of them: a tattooed kid leads the charge, with two beefier guys right on his heels. Click goes the camera in my mind. Tan skin—click—gold-capped teeth—click—black bracelets—click—swirling tattoos. They’re heading this way. Fast.
Julia reaches me first. “¡Rápido, Edmund! Hurry!” She flies past me, not pausing to explain. “Las Plumas!” she yells over her shoulder. “Las Pluummaaas!”
Never have I been so terrified to hear the word feather in my life.
I yank my bike around and slam my feet down on the pedals with a scramble of panicked limbs. You can do this. Eyes forward, don’t look down, pump your legs.
“¡Chico!” they yell behind me. Oh, no. Chico means “boy.” They saw that I’m with Julia and now they’re going to grab me and cover me with cow’s blood or spray paint or whatever they do to kids they catch.
Faster, Edmund! Faster!
I sway at first but then really get going, adrenaline streaming through my muscles and granting me a Moment of Athletic Ability. I zigzag around vending carts, dodge tourists with ease. More speed. I dare to peek over my shoulder. The boys have stopped running, unable to keep up. Ha! Eat my dust, Feathers Gang!
I turn back in time to realize that I am going really, really, really fast, heading straight down the ginormous hill that I huffed up just ten minutes ago. I try to hit the brakes by slamming my feet on the pedals. The pedals spin backwards wildly. Not that kind of bike! I scream at my stupid brain. I squeeze the hand brake, but it’s too late.
