Mystery in Mayan Mexico

by Marcia Wells

DAY 11

  “Your dad was pretty mad,” I say to Julia the next morning as we wind our way through the busy marketplace. We took a cab into town—no more bikes for us—and are going to scour every inch of this place until we find Ghostman.

  She shrugs. “I’ve seen worse. And he is grateful for your drawing, so that helps.”

  After her father’s initial freak-out (being yelled at in a foreign language is über-scary), Julia managed to calm him down long enough to show him the picture I drew of Ghostman. He was impressed, really impressed, and promised to get to the bottom of this whole mess. He also ordered us to halt our investigation and leave the police work to the police.

  So naturally we’re staking out the museum.

  “And you told him about the Germany connection?” I press her. “That we think Ghostman might be German?”

  She smiles and nods. Last night after dinner, we confessed the whole Victor Muellenthorpe thing to her. She thought it was great, a cool spy maneuver. There’s a lot more to this nice girl than meets the eye.

  The gray stone steps of the museum loom ahead. My pulse quickens. It’s time to catch a bad guy.

  “We’ve got to get in there,” Jonah says, eyeballing the CERRADO sign and the guard standing out front by the glass doors.

  “Let’s go through the alley,” Julia suggests. “There’s a service door back there for museum deliveries. Maybe it’s open.”

  Jonah nods and starts to follow her toward the alley entrance. Once again, I hesitate, not quite able to make myself step into an alley. I still have nightmares about being taped to that stupid alley drainpipe, watching helplessly as my carefully planned detective work crumbled around me. Images flood my mind. The cracks in the brick wall, the gun pointed at my face. Sometimes I wish I could turn off my photographic memory.

  Jonah looks back at me with concern. He opens his mouth to say something but is cut off by a screeching crackle coming from Julia’s backpack. She stops and unzips her bag, pulling out what looks like a black walkie-talkie.

  “It’s a police scanner,” she says, no doubt seeing our confused expressions. “I . . . borrowed it. From my father.”

  Jonah grins.

  Holding the scanner to her ear, Julia listens intently. Excitement brightens her face. “It’s another Plumas crime scene, in La Plaza Mayor.” She gestures to a spot beyond the marketplace.

  “Maybe it’s the copy cat,” Jonah says. “Maybe Ghostman left another clue!”

  We turn to sprint for the plaza but are immediately forced to walk. Even though it’s early morning, there are plenty of tourists out. Vendors block our path every few feet, trying to sell us everything from fresh figs to shell necklaces to fried dough. All the jostling on my cast is irritating, but I guess anything’s better than going down an alley.

  The police are already at the plaza, draping yellow caution tape around a statue of a man on a horse. The entire monument is dripping with blood. It’s hard to see over the crowd that has gathered. I can just make out the spray-painted word Muerte and a sprinkling of white feathers in the sticky red mess. The air smells disgusting, like rotten hamburger.

  “I see an N!” Jonah has a vise grip on my good wrist. “It’s an N! A blue N! The initials are MNAM! I knew it! He’s going to strike the museum!”

  Before I can respond, I spot one of the Plumas about ten feet away. The dark tattoos on his neck are hard to miss.

  He sees me.

  “¡Oye, muchacho!” he yells. I know that means “Hey, boy!” and I know that means me.

  “Run!” I hiss to Jonah, glad he’s attached to my arm so I can yank him through the crowd. I turn back to see that the Pluma with long hair has joined the first one, and they’re headed right for us.

  In a flash Julia’s beside me, panic on her face. “This way,” she gasps, grabbing my cast with iron fingers. She pulls us both into an alley, running at a full sprint.

  Don’t think, just run. I keep my eyes on the sunshine peeking in at the other end of the alleyway. Almost there, almost there . . .

  The third Pluma, the bald one who wasn’t in the plaza, steps into the light, blocking our way. Julia stops and we crash into her. The other two thugs come up behind us.

  We’re trapped.

  I want to scream, WHY DID WE GO DOWN AN ALLEY? BAD THINGS HAPPEN IN ALLEYS! Instead I breathe hard and cling to Jonah’s hand like a petrified two-year-old.

  The three Plumas look exactly like the pictures I drew of them two days ago: muscular, tattooed, and angry.

  With a few grunted words, they fan out to take a post in front of each one of us. The kid with the weird chin hair and the gold-capped tooth steps in front of me. Jonah gets the one with the shaved head, who’s still wearing a backwards baseball cap, and Julia squares off with Mr. Tattoos, who appears to be the leader.

  Julia hasn’t stopped talking. She’s actually yelling at them, her Spanish fast and furious with a lot of hand gestures and rolling Rs. The leader yells back at her, equally heated. I understand about every tenth word:

  Julia: Habada cha ca prrrrra ca pa. Miguel ca pa chrrraba.

  Head Thug: Chepo do pocoto chabada.

  Julia: ¡Sí!

  Head Thug: ¡No!

  Me (to self): We are going to die.

  Jonah: Uh . . .

  Julia: ¡Prraca da sí, que no!

  Head Thug: ¡No y cha pe cena de Plumas!

  This goes on and on. Our two guards, Beefy and Beefier, are a fortress of muscle. They stare at us with narrowed eyes, occasionally slapping their fists against their palms as if they’re imagining crushing our bones. They make the bullies at my school look like field mice.

  While I’m concocting a lame plan that involves throwing a brick and making a run for it, Jonah suddenly dips his hand into his pocket. With shaky fingers, he pulls out a tangle of key chains. Does he have Mace? Or a pocketknife? What the heck is he doing?

  The kid guarding him gets all tense, as if Jonah’s just pulled out a gun. He yells something at Jonah, who cringes and holds up Mr. Q as if to ward off evil spirits.

  Seriously? This is his defense plan? After all his talk about army tactics and ninja skills, this is what he comes up with? Now the Plumas are ticked off and shouting angry Spanish while closing in on us until our backs are pressed against the rough brick wall of the alley. I bend my knees, readying myself to try the leg-sweep maneuver that Detective Bovano showed me back in New York.

  The bald kid tilts his head, examining Jonah’s trembling hand. “¿Te gustan los Yanquís?” he says. He points to the Yankees key chain Jonah bought last year at a Yankees-Mets game.

  Jonah doesn’t speak, just blinks and blinks at him, but I understand what he’s saying, so I jump in. “Sí,” I reply in a high-pitched voice. “We love the Yankees! We’re from . . . er . . . Somos de New York. Nueva York.”

  Bald Thug twists his ball cap around. It’s a Yankees hat. It’s a miracle.

  Jonah finally clues into what’s going on. “You can have it,” he says, pulling the Yankees trinket off the wad of chains. He hands it to the thug, who grins.

  Behold the power of baseball: uniting enemies as friends. Or at least, as hopeful acquaintances.

  It’s strangely silent in the alley, and I realize Julia has ended her screaming match with Head Thug. She’s actually smiling. “It’s all settled,” she announces to us. “The police received false information. There is no new leader of Las Plumas. They didn’t hurt the temple or steal the mask. And they know that someone is trying to frame them. They want to help with our investigation.”

  Uh . . . WHAT?!

  Head Thug shifts his attention to me and Jonah. He has piercings in his nose, ears, and eyebrows. Tattooed flames curl up his neck and down his bare arms. It’s hard not to stare.

  “Yo soy Nacho,” he says. He points to himself, speaking slowly so we understand him. Then he gestures to the goatee guy. “Él es Chepe.” Then he points to the bald kid with the Yankees hat. “Él es Moco.”

  From d
eep inside the folds of my terrified brain, I have a vague recollection that the word moco means “booger.” A nervous giggle twitters in my throat. I cover it with a cough.

  Jonah steps forward to introduce us. “El Frijol,” he says, motioning to himself. “And El Rojito.” He points to me. I do not want to be called Little Red, but now’s hardly the time to protest.

  The Plumas all nod, then Nacho shakes hands with Jonah. He spins Jonah’s fingers in a fancy twist, followed by a slap of palms and a fist bump. Then he does the same thing to me, and before you know it all of us are slapping hands and doing fist bumps and smiling tentatively at each other.

  They gesture for us to follow them out of the alley, jabbering on and on to Julia in Spanish. I catch the words Miguel and Coca-Cola, and it appears we’re going to go have a chat about Julia’s cousin while sipping a refreshing beverage.

  More handshakes, some slaps on the back, and it dawns on me . . .

  We just became honorary members of a Mexican street gang.

  Chapter 14

  Nest

  DAY 12

  “Ready?” Jonah whispers.

  Absolutely not. “Yeah,” I croak through dry lips.

  I can’t believe this is happening. We’re standing outside J. Gúzman’s apartment, waiting for the signal from Julia. Turns out Ghostman’s last name is Gúzman. Ghostman . . . Gúzman. Creepy coincidence, right?

  I’ll spare you the painful conversation we had with the Plumas yesterday. Julia had to do a ton of translating, and it took about four hours to hammer out a plan, but the important part is this: When Julia showed them a picture of Ghostman, the guy we think is framing them, they FREAKED OUT. They know who he is, see him come and go from his apartment all the time because Moco lives nearby. When they saw the picture, they wanted to go bust down his door and pound a confession out of him, but Julia suggested a subtler tactic.

  So now we’re here. Waiting for the signal. And then we’ll break into Mr. J. Gúzman’s apartment. Twenty-eight hours as Plumas and already we’re turning to a life of crime.

  The front door of the apartment building is wide open, no lock, no doorman. Ghostman lives on the first floor, which is perfect for a quick getaway. I look up the hallway, down the hallway. It’s empty. Everyone’s either at work or eating lunch.

  We’re in disguise, of course, wearing red and gold Lucha Libre masks like the Mexican pro wrestlers use. The masks cover our heads completely, with small holes for our eyes, nose, and mouth. It’s hard to see, hard to breathe, especially under these stressful circumstances. The Mexican kids can totally pull off this look, but for some reason Jonah and I come off as scrawny, wannabe superheroes. El Frijol y El Rojito.

  The walkie-talkie in Jonah’s hand lets out a static squawk. “Nest to Frijol. Come in, Frijol,” Julia says, her voice crackling over the receiver. She’s stationed in front of the museum, monitoring all movement. The Plumas are in the museum alley, ready to cause a distraction if necessary.

  “Frijol here, over,” Jonah replies. Yesterday he magically produced a set of police-grade walkie-talkies from his suitcase. He refuses to tell me where he got them, and to be honest, I really don’t want to know.

  “Ghostman has entered the museum,” Julia says. “You are clear.”

  We’ve been waiting all morning for Ghostman to leave his apartment. He finally did about twenty minutes ago, dressed once again as a museum guard. Who knows how long we have until he comes back.

  “Over and out,” Jonah replies. He clips the receiver onto his belt and pulls out a wad of surgical gloves from his pocket. I shudder to think where he got those. He snaps on a pair and hands me just one—I can’t fit the latex over my cast hand. Then he whips out a pocketknife. “Cover me,” he says.

  Oh, wow, we’re really doing it. I scan the quiet hallway while Jonah starts to rattle a knife in the keyhole. Do this for Dad, you have to save Dad. I wonder how you say breaking and entering in Spanish.

  Rattle, rattle, rattle. Jonah began his lock-picking career at age seven in his parents’ dental office, where he unlocked every bolted door plus their safe. He’s never looked back. Last spring I caught him researching how to hot-wire a car.

  Sweat pools around my eyes, but I can’t wipe it away because the mask is pulled tight against my glasses. And my cast is itching like crazy. Jonah shifts position and continues jiggling the knife in the keyhole. Someone’s going to hear this. Any second now, Ghostman will come running.

  Rattle, rattle, pop! The door swings open.

  We freeze. No breathing, no movement. No sirens going off or police descending with machine guns. Just a dark hallway that leads into Ghostman’s lair.

  Jonah picks up the walkie-talkie and presses the on button. “We’re in,” he says. Then he clips it to his belt, shoulders his backpack, and takes a step into the darkness beyond.

  I swallow hard and send up a quick prayer to both Chaac and Quetzalcoatl, promising that if we survive this, I will never, ever break the law again. Of course, two months ago I also promised I’d never lie to my parents or get involved in another police investigation.

  Some promises are hard to keep.

  Breathe . . . keep breathing. I inch forward as Jonah searches the dim hall with a flashlight. He flicks on a light switch. I close the door behind me. So far, so good.

  We don’t speak, just creep around, examining everything in our path. It’s the smallest apartment I’ve ever seen. There’s just one main room, big enough to fit a TV, a tiny couch, and a coffee table. There’s a pile of blankets on the couch—I guess he sleeps there?—and an open duffel bag. Cautiously I peek inside and find four . . . no, five passports. Happy to be wearing a glove, I pick up each one, snapping photos in my mind: Joseph Brown from the United States. Click. Hans Bäcker from Germany. Click. Juan Gúzman from Mexico. Click, click, click. Five passports with five different names and nationalities. There’s no time to process what it all means.

  In the meantime Jonah is gently sifting through a stack of papers on the coffee table. Silently he motions me over. It would appear that Mr. Gúzman has been busy. Very busy. A set of museum blueprints are stretched out on the table, next to thick stacks of hundred-dollar bills and a plane ticket to Florida for two days from now.

  Jonah’s bright blue stare bores into me. I know what he’s thinking: Ghostman is going to rob the museum and flee the country in the next two days.

  A small white cardboard box lies empty and mangled beneath the table. Carefully I pick it up. The writing is in German and I have no idea what it says, but there’s a picture of a fingerprint on the outside label. Some kind of fingerprint kit? Alarm bells clang in my head. This is somehow linked to Dad’s fingerprints! I snap mental photos of the words so I can translate them later, then lower the box to its original spot.

  Jonah steps toward a closed door, and I follow. It opens into an über-small kitchen. A kitchen that smells awful. Something is rotting, giving off a putrid, sharp stench that burns my eyes. My new panicked thought: Maybe Ghostman isn’t just a thief. Maybe he’s a serial killer who keeps body parts as souvenirs.

  My pulse hammers in my ears, and my breath is hot and suffocating in the stupid mask. I flick a nervous glance over my shoulder, expecting to see Ghostman standing there with a hatchet, ready to hack us apart.

  Jonah slinks forward. The smell seems to be coming from under the sink. He opens the cupboard slowly, slowly. Oh, no, it’s a severed head. We’re dead. Ghostman is a serial killer, and he’s—

  “He’s Jewish,” Jonah breathes.

  Huh?

  Jonah pulls out an empty glass jar from the trash. The inside is speckled with a horrid-smelling white film. “I’d know this smell anywhere,” he says, forgetting the number one ninja rule, Do not speak. “It’s gefilte fish. My grandpa chows this stuff. It’s a Jewish snack.” He studies the jar, then drops it back into the trash.

  “What—?” I begin.

  He holds up a hand and makes an irritated zipping motion across hi
s mouth, as if I’m the only one breaking the No Speaking rule. I raise an eyebrow at him, though unfortunately he can’t see it since it’s hidden behind the mask, and back out of the fish-infested kitchen.

  One more closed door to investigate and we’re outta here. Thank goodness. I’m guessing the door leads to a bathroom, and I really don’t want to search through Ghostman’s toiletries, but I take a deep breath, turn the doorknob, and push.

  I stop in my tracks. Up on a shelf above the sink sits the stolen mask.

  The . . . stolen . . . mask.

  It stares back at me, its face still cut in an angry grimace. What is it doing in here? Does Ghostman talk to it while he shaves in the morning or something? This is not okay on so many levels.

  “Holy bleep!” Jonah whispers. He moves around me to get a better view. He reaches forward to gently lift the mask off the shelf. A warning chill shoots up my spine. Something’s not right here.

  “Wait!” I hiss, grabbing at his arm. “What if it’s a booby—”

  He pulls the mask down. It’s connected to some kind of wire. A click echoes in the bathroom.

  “—trap,” I finish.

  We wait in silence. Have we triggered an alarm or a camera or some kind of countdown to our ultimate doom?

  Jonah’s holding the mask like it’s a bomb about to go off. Minutes tick by. Finally he releases a sigh of relief. “That was a close call,” he whispers.

  The walkie-talkie crackles to life. “Nest to Frijol, Nest to Frijol.” Julia’s voice is panicked, her words a jumble of shouts and garbled English and Spanish. “Haba-cha-rrrápido-crackle-beep-Ghostma—Corre!”

  I grab the walkie-talkie from Jonah’s belt while he stands frozen in place, a stunned look on his face. “Nest, you’re breaking up,” I say. “Repeat.”

  “Prrrrrrcha-beeeep-crackle-crackle––hear me?” The walkie-talkie squawks and shrieks. It’s impossible to understand. And then out of the whole mess of static and Spanish, one word comes through loud and clear: