by Marcia Wells
A dip in the pavement. A patch of sand. I swerve and skid and hit the curb hard with my tire. The bike flips up, up . . .
And over.
Chapter 9
Paco El Gato
DAY 9
Let me start by saying I’m on pain medication and my brain is a little fuzzy. Plus I smell chocolate . . . Yum. And doughnuts . . . Yum.
“You’re making really weird noises,” Jonah says, squinting at me beside the pool. We’re sitting in some lounge chairs under the shade of a palm tree, mulling over the latest developments in our case. I look down at my scribbled notes:
—Who is the new leader of Las Plumas?
—Is the Aztec gold exhibit at museum important?
—Is Ghostman planning to rob museum?
It’s hard to focus. Mostly I just stare blankly off into space and eat french fries covered in powdered sugar (the medicine’s giving me a crazy sweet tooth).
Yesterday my mom and I spent an hour in the emergency room with Julia acting as translator. My left wrist has a small hairline fracture and my knees are pretty scraped up, but it could have been a lot worse. It could have been my right hand, my drawing hand. I told Mom it didn’t hurt. And I certainly didn’t mention the chase scene with Las Plumas. She’d never have let me leave the hotel unchaperoned again.
Jonah rustles the pages of his notebook, his head bent in concentration. He’s drawn maps showing the location of all the “employees only” rooms, along with color-coded charts of current and former employees, their street addresses, and police records. Two days ago, he finally hacked into the computer system and discovered that a kitchen worker was brought in for questioning twenty years ago for suspicious Plumas activity. Apparently that street gang has been around forever.
“What’s the connection?” Jonah mutters at his notes. He shifts in his chair and rubs Mr. Q absentmindedly with his thumb. The statue is now wearing a red mini-sombrero purchased from a street vendor. After the mariachi show yesterday, Jonah and my dad went to a karaoke club to sing cheesy eighties songs. They couldn’t hear their cell phones when we tried to reach them from the clinic—too busy “perfecting their dance moves” to loud music. No comment.
“Are you sure the museum guard was the guy from the lobby?” he asks. “I mean, did you get a good look at his face? Because—”
“It was him.” I may be foggy, but I know what I saw.
Jonah sighs. “Well, he’s definitely our number one suspect. He was dressed as a tourist the day before the mask was stolen, and now he’s dressed as a museum guard when there’s an exhibit of Aztec gold coming to town. Very fishy. But I don’t get why he looks like a dead bank robber from thirty years ago, or how he’s linked to Las Plumas.” He scratches his head. “The pieces are all here. We’re just not seeing the big picture.”
I nod. What can I say? I have nothing to add. I’m almost out of french fries and I really want some chocolate cake. Or maybe some of those Mexican wedding cookies that Papi made the other day. I’d even try some jiggly flan. But Jonah will freak out if I mention food again, so I stare at the sparkling blue pool in front of us and pretend to contemplate the Ghostman mystery.
I can’t swim today because the waterproof cast on my arm has to set for twenty-four hours. The outer layer of the cast is bright orange, the only color that was available, so now I look like I have a traffic cone glued to my hand. Not exactly good camouflage for detective work.
“No, I don’t have any food!” Jonah swats away a cat that’s wandered over to beg. Ever since the storm came and went, the pool complex has been overrun by cats of all kinds. Small and big, fluffy and scrawny. All annoying, all pure evil.
Back home we have a cat named Sadie who is the devil herself cloaked in fur. She and I have been enemies since day one. You may think I’m a terrible person for disliking cats, but let me ask you this: Would you like cats if your cat ate your beloved hamster and then left the eyeballs on your pillow? Or if she peed on your backpack but you didn’t know it until someone in math class said, “Hey, what smells like cat pee?”
No, you would not.
“Shoo!” I say to a brown cat that’s trying to jump up on the end of my chair. I wave my hand at it, forgetting that my wrist is in a cast, and wince at the sudden pain. From out of nowhere, a beat-up old gray cat leaps onto the end of my lounge chair and hisses at the others. They scramble away with their tails tucked between their legs. I smile. Finally a cat I can get on board with.
He—I think it’s a he—jumps down and stands at attention at the end of the chair, as if he’s guarding me. His tail is crooked and gnarled, one of his eyes is stuck shut, and a huge scar runs over the left side of his face. He could totally pull off a black eye patch. Clearly this cat has seen a lot of action. I open my art pad and start to sketch him.
“I’m not hallucinating this, am I?” I say to Jonah, gesturing to the pirate cat. “There’s a one-eyed cat sitting there, right?”
Jonah stares at me as if I’ve lost all brain cells.
“How you doing, muchacho?” Papi’s deep voice booms across the pool deck. He’s weaving his way through the chairs, dressed in street clothes. I guess he’s done with work for the day.
“I’m okay.” I smile and show him my sketching hand, not a scratch on it. “I can still draw, don’t worry.” I’ve finished three of the five pictures he wants me to do. I think he’ll like them.
“Muy bien.” He winks at me, then looks down at the cat by my feet. “Hey, Paco,” he says. The cat hisses in response and Papi chuckles. “Always so maleducado. So rude. He likes you, though, gringo.” His deep laugh follows him off the patio.
An orange cat slinks under my chair, no doubt smelling the last of my fries, which are resting by my flip-flops. With a sudden flurry of claws, Paco bats at him, sending the would-be thief fleeing across the deck. Paco pauses to sniff my food but then resumes his post at the end of my chair. I grab the greasy paper container and dump the scraps on the ground. “Here you go,” I call to him. He eyeballs me with his good eye, then trots over to chow down. I swear he salutes me with his tail.
“—listening to me?” Jonah snaps.
“What?”
He frowns at me, then at Paco. Then his face lights up like the Fourth of July as Julia strolls onto the pool deck. She’s quite official-looking in her cargo shorts and white collared shirt with the hotel emblem on the pocket. She waves at us and taps her watch. Huh?
Jonah stands up and starts shoving his books into his bag. “We’re going,” he announces. “Your parents are taking us to the island. It’s perfect. We need to check out the Plumas crime scene at the top of the pyramid. We don’t know why the Plumas went after Julia yesterday, and we have to figure out how it’s all connected.” He throws my T-shirt at my head. “Get dressed. This case isn’t solved and Julia needs us.”
“All right.” I fumble with my shirt and end up with my head through an armhole. In my defense, I’m a bit uncoordinated from the meds plus things are tricky with this cast on my arm.
After watching me struggle a moment, Jonah tugs my shirt around to help me find the right hole. Then he shakes his head and flips on his aviator shades. “Just say no to drugs, Edmund. Just say no.”
Chapter 10
El Capitán
FORTY-THREE MINUTES LATER
“The Mayans built pyramids in what is now Mexico, Honduras, Belize, and Guatemala,” Julia says in a tour-guide voice. “The pyramids have steep staircases on two or four sides and were used for sacrificial rituals.”
I nod as I sketch, attempting to draw the enormous pyramid that we’re standing on.
“Actually,” Dad says, “they built two types of pyramids. One with stairs and one without. The ones without a staircase were completely sacred and off-limits to the people.” His mustache twitches the way it does when he’s getting excited about history.
“I’ve been researching Chichén Itzá for my novel,” he continues. “Did you know there’s a sports field ther
e? The Mayans played a game with a soccer-sized ball in front of huge crowds of spectators. Of course,” he chuckles, “sometimes the losers were beheaded.”
Julia nods politely. “Yes, I have heard that.” I can’t tell if she’s irritated by his interruption. I wish he and my mom would leave so we could check out the Plumas crime scene, but they keep hanging around, taking pictures of the ocean.
I admit the view from up here is incredible. We can see for miles in all directions. In front of us, long white beaches extend along the mainland, framed by palm trees and towering hotels. And behind us the turquoise ocean stretches on forever. Jonah’s in heaven, interrupting Julia to talk about war tactics and the Spanish Armada and how cool it would be to do battle from up here. He’s been obsessed with military stuff practically since birth.
Julia’s not impressed. “You will notice,” she continues in a stern tone after telling Jonah that this temple was not used for war purposes, “that the top of this pyramid is flat. This is how the Mayans constructed all of their pyramids. It is because they always built a temple on the top. The temple was used not only for religious ceremonies, but also to observe the stars. The Mayans were very advanced in astronomy.”
“I bet they used it for war, too,” Jonah says, hopping back and forth excitedly. “You can really see your enemies coming from up here. Do you think they shot arrows at the Spaniards when they arrived in boats? I bet they did.”
Jonah has a secret plan for getting rid of my parents, and he ordered me not to interfere. No interrupting, no speaking of any kind. I’m the dumb bystander who’s been assigned a few random tasks, such as storing his water in my backpack and drawing pictures of the pyramid. Because I’m on pain meds, I have been deemed “a liability.”
“The Mayan civilization was already disappearing by the time the Spanish arrived here!” Julia says in exasperation.
Mom sighs beside me. If anyone can drive her away from a beautiful view, it’s Jonah. As Jonah and Julia continue to bicker and Dad interjects a random factoid when he can, I sketch the crumbling temple in front of us. Any minute now, my mother will grab my dad and head down the steep stairs. Any minute now . . .
“All I’m saying is that it’s possible that the Mayans and Spaniards met up,” Jonah says in a loud voice. “And therefore it’s possible that the Mayans saw the Spanish ships coming from up here. And therefore it’s possible they used this for military defense.”
Julia throws her hands up in the air and lets loose a bunch of Spanish, the words popping like firecrackers. I catch an estúpido and maybe a bobo.
Mom sighs again and slides her camera into her purse. “Dad and I want to check out the gift shop,” she tells me. “We’ll see you kids down there.” She takes Dad’s hand and practically drags him down the stairs. I can tell he doesn’t want to go. I think he was actually getting into the Mayan military debate.
“Sure thing, Mrs. L,” Jonah calls after her. He keeps a fake smile on his face a few heartbeats more. Then his mouth folds into a frown. “I thought they’d never leave. All right, troops, fan out and canvas the area. No detail is too small.” He salutes us, his eyes a bit manic. You don’t want to get in Jonah’s way when he’s in Serious Soldier Mode.
We walk carefully and slowly around the temple. I take it all in, snapping pictures in my mind of every detail. I’m much more alert now. During the boat ride over, I stuck my head far over the railing so I wouldn’t get seasick. It worked, the cool ocean spray refreshing me, bringing me out of my pain-medication fog. I am back in the game.
Two questions are on my mind as I examine every inch of the stone: Is this Plumas crime scene related to the stolen mask? And how does Ghostman tie in?
It’s actually not much of a crime scene, not anymore. The blood is gone, washed away by all of Chaac’s rain. I walk along the worn rock, skirting the perimeter. The first two walls are mostly rubble, the third standing tall with the word muerte written in blue spray paint.
“Muerte means ‘death,’ right?” Jonah says to Julia.
She scowls at the graffiti. “Yes. It’s some kind of political message. They hate the government, hate the police, hate anyone with power.”
“Looks like they hate somebody named A,” I say, pointing to wall number four, where the letter A is sprayed in blue. Julia shrugs and moves on, frowning down at the ground. The temple floor is smashed in places, as if somebody took a sledgehammer to the rock. Is it recent destruction by Las Plumas, or just the product of centuries of sun and wind?
“Why would they do this?” Julia says, pointing to the broken stones. “This was a beautiful floor marked with hieroglyphics. Now it is destroyed.”
Jonah squats down and shifts the stones to reveal packed-down dirt. “Is there anything under here?” he asks.
Julia nods. “A tomb. My great-grandfather was the archaeologist who discovered a hidden chamber inside. It made him famous.” There’s pride in her voice. “The treasure was removed,” she adds, no doubt seeing Jonah’s excited treasure-hunter expression. “The tomb was sealed off. It is empty.” She shakes her head, kicking at the rubble. “Las Plumas have gone too far this time.”
Jonah continues to poke at the dirt, humming the theme song from Indiana Jones. I circle the temple once more, then perch on a stone step to sketch what I’ve seen. A fat gray iguana suns itself on a nearby rock.
After a few minutes, Jonah sits down beside me and pulls a wad of key chains out of his pocket. Chaac, aka Mr. Q, is clipped to a bunch of other junk: a miniature ninja sword, a New York Yankees medallion, and a flat green square that reads I SURVIVED THE ALIEN INVASION. How Jonah fits it all in his pocket is beyond me.
“Chaac needs some air,” he explains as he separates the small stone statue from the tangle of metal. “He needs to get back to his Mayan roots.” He strokes him lovingly on the stomach. Then he pulls out another tiny statue, Chaac’s new buddy, Ah Puch (pronounced “Ah Pwash”). He’s the Mayan god of death and is beyond creepy with his saggy skin and bulging eyeballs. He’s also known as The Flatulent One, which is why Jonah bought him. (Flatulent means “gassy,” in case you didn’t know.) Jonah claims that not only will Ah Puch be a fierce and loyal friend to Mr. Q, but he’ll also make him laugh with his farts, and laughter is the key to a good friendship.
I try to stay on task. “What do you think of the A?” I say, gesturing to the wall beside us.
He shrugs. “Maybe they were going to paint another word but had to leave in a hurry?”
“Yeah, I was thinking that too,” I say. “Death to someone. Wishing death on someone whose name starts with an A? Some kind of political message?”
Jonah shrugs again. He rubs his cheek and stares at the ocean. “Why would the Plumas smash the temple floor?” he says. “Were they trying to get into the tomb?”
I’ve been wondering that same thing. I’m about to answer when I see a group of men marching up the pyramid steps. I stand up in surprise. Captain Ruiz is leading the charge. What’s he doing here? Is he spying on my family? I wonder if Dad bumped into him down at the bottom.
Jonah moves like a skittish animal, shoving the statues in his pocket and scrambling over to Julia just as Ruiz makes it to the top. Even in the ocean breeze, Ruiz’s hair is slicked back and tidy. He sees me and his mouth opens in angry shock. It’s not illegal to be up here, is it?
Julia steps into view from behind the temple wall, her arms folded. “Capitán,” she greets him coolly. I can tell it’s taking a lot of her self-control to remain calm, considering what he’s done to her cousin.
He shifts his piercing glare from me to her and starts to rattle on in Spanish with bossy hand gestures. I have no idea what he’s saying, but he points to the temple walls and then to a pair of men who are lugging some kind of tube-shaped machine up the stairs.
He glances at me again and his tone changes, lower and scolding. “No debes estar con ellos,” he says to her. I swear he’s just slowed down his Spanish so that I can understand him. “Su padre
está en la lista de sospechosos.”
Wait a minute. Padre means “father,” and lista means “list,” and I suspect sospechosos means “suspects.” Is he saying that Julia shouldn’t be hanging out with us because my father’s on the list of suspects? But that can’t be right, can it? I must have heard him wrong. Maybe the medication’s still messing with my mind.
Julia tosses me a nervous glance. And I know that I understood their conversation just fine.
My father is still a suspect.
After one last burst of rapid-fire Spanish, Ruiz saunters off, yapping at his men.
“We have to go,” Julia tells me. “They are going to clean up the mess and erase the graffiti. I don’t understand why Ruiz is here. This is a job for the temple curator, not the police.” She frowns, as if surprised she actually voiced her worries out loud. “Don’t worry about your father,” she adds quickly. “I’m sure he will be cleared soon.”
Yeah, right.
The three of us trudge down the steep steps. We didn’t really learn anything new here. Nothing to tie the crime to Ghostman or to connect Las Plumas with the Mayan mask.
Captain Ruiz jogs past us, bumping me out of the way—on my bad cast arm, no less—as if he owns the stairs. My blood boils just looking at him. He’s arrogant, cruel, and ready to arrest the wrong man to promote his own career. I have to stop him.
“We need to up our game,” I say to Jonah.
Chapter 11
Operation Cousin Juan
