Mystery in Mayan Mexico

by Marcia Wells

  “Run!”

  Chapter 15

  Countdown

  It takes Ghostman twenty-three seconds to get back to his apartment. Twenty-three seconds! The museum is at least a four-minute walk from here. Who is this guy, Superman?

  If we were in a movie, racing against a clock, it would look something like this:

  THREE SECONDS: With strange calm, Jonah places the mask back on the shelf while Edmund has a heart attack behind him.

  TEN SECONDS: The boys sweep through the apartment, turning off lights, closing doors, making sure everything is in its proper place.

  SIXTEEN SECONDS: The apartment door is locked. A quick scramble down the hallway and out onto the front steps.

  EIGHTEEN SECONDS: Jonah pulls a soccer ball out of his bag and throws it to Edmund, who dribbles it between his feet with an Alarming Lack of Skill.

  TWENTY-THREE SECONDS: Mr. Juan Gúzman arrives at his apartment building, where two dumb kids are kicking a soccer ball down the street. He doesn’t pay any attention to them.

  Once we’re around the corner and out of sight, we rip off our masks and sprint to the alley behind the market where we first “met” Las Plumas. I’ve decided alleys aren’t so bad when you’ve got the Feathers Gang on your side.

  Julia and the others are already there, pacing in the narrow space.

  “Ghostman has the mask! He has the mask in his apartment!” Jonah explodes into the alleyway like a hurricane. “And he’s definitely going to rob the museum. We found blueprints!”

  Julia’s eyes grow bigger. Her mouth opens in shock. But Las Plumas are frowning, obviously not understanding Jonah’s English.

  “Uh,” I begin. “The bad guy has . . . el mask-o.” That can’t possibly be right.

  “La máscara,” Julia corrects me. She fires off a quick explanation to Las Plumas. They jolt at the news, and everyone starts speaking at once. Chepe even pulls out a pocketknife, like he’s going to go for Ghostman’s throat right here, right now. I know they’re our allies, but I still edge closer to Jonah. Then Nacho holds up a tattooed hand and the alley falls silent.

  He whips out a cell phone. “La policía,” he says.

  He’s calling the cops? I turn to Julia in panic. “What?”

  “He’ll leave an anonymous tip,” she explains quietly as Nacho starts speaking to someone over the phone. “And I’ll talk to my father.”

  “Oh.” I guess she knows what she’s doing. How she plans on telling her father about all this without revealing our little breaking and entering stunt, I have no idea. “We found a weird fingerprint box in the apartment,” I say. “What if Ghostman is using it to frame my dad somehow?”

  She gives me a reassuring pat on the back. “If the police search Ghostman’s apartment, they’ll find it. They’ll connect the pieces.”

  “¡Qué no!” Nacho’s angry voice echoes in the space around us. He runs a hand through his dark hair, obviously frustrated with whomever he’s talking to at the police station. Maybe the cops don’t believe him because he’s a kid. I know what that’s like.

  He hangs up and curls the phone in his hand like he wants to smash it against the brick wall. Lifting his piercing glare, he mutters something to Julia in Spanish.

  She folds her arms and gives a curt nod in response.

  “What’s happening?” Jonah demands.

  “The police think we are kids playing a joke,” she says. “So now we . . . what’s the expression?” She pauses, frowning as she struggles with vocabulary. “Now we take matters into our own hands.”

  Chapter 16

  Nothing But Net

  SEVEN HOURS LATER

  A single knock sounds on the door. I knock back twice, the signal that we’re in position. One more “all clear” knock, then Operation Balloon Drop commences. A lame name but a solid plan.

  My team is assembled behind me. Julia is here as translator and lookout, Moco is our muscle, and Jonah is the Loud Distraction in case we need to make a quick getaway. We’re in the service alley behind the museum, waiting for Chepe to let us in through the back door. His brother is part of the catering crew that’s hosting the opening tomorrow night, so Chepe jumped in as an extra helper. As for Nacho, he’s posted out on the street in case a certain bad guy tries to flee down the front steps.

  “How do we know Ghostman’s here?” Jonah asks.

  “We don’t,” I say, although I’m convinced he is. “He knows someone broke into his apartment. That changes everything. He’ll need to rush the job, which will make him panicked and sloppy. It’s perfect.”

  Julia nods in agreement with my assessment. All eyes are on me, everyone awaiting our next move. She told the Plumas that my dad’s an FBI agent and I have special training in police tactics. They were impressed and let me take the lead. I’ve tried to think of everything I’ve observed from working with the NYPD. Exits are covered, hand signals established, weapons ready (not really but it sounds cool).

  I turn to Moco. “Tú vas primero,” I say. He nods and moves into position to lead the way when the signal comes. I’m doing it! I’m speaking Spanish in complete sentences! Two more weeks of hanging out with Las Plumas and I’d be fluent for sure.

  We wait and wait. Julia and Jonah start chitchatting behind me. “Why is it Aztec gold?” Jonah asks. He points to the museum poster on the brick wall, its edges curling in the heat. “Shouldn’t the exhibit be Mayan gold? I thought we were on the Mayan Riviera.”

  Julia shrugs. “It’s all a part of Mexico now. And the Mayans valued jade, not gold. That’s what makes my family’s mask so special. The gold in it is very rare.” She touches the picture of the gold coins advertised on the poster. “The Aztecs loved gold. They made beautiful things with it. Until the Spaniards stole it and melted it down.”

  I keep looking over my shoulder, convinced we’re going to get busted. A history lesson during a mission? “We should have silence from now on,” I whisper. “Hand signals only.”

  Julia nods. Jonah salutes me. We get back to standing there, twitching nervously.

  Three knocks on the door. I knock back once. The door swings open with a loud creak. Without a word, Moco leads the way and the four of us jog down a dark hallway. We know where to go: Chepe drew us a map of the place an hour ago.

  We head into the main exhibit room, the space barely lit with two soft floor lights. It feels weird to be in a museum with the lights off, as if we’re the ones about to rob the place. Despite the dim light, the Aztec gold statues and mountains of jewelry gleam in huge display cases by the far wall. Tables and chairs are stacked in the corner. And silver and pink balloons rest in a net overhead.

  As planned, we dive under a long table that Chepe set up, complete with an empty punch bowl and cups on top. Once we’re settled in the cramped space, we peer out, lifting the white tablecloth that just touches the floor. I’m on the edge closest to the wall, Jonah beside me, then Moco and Julia.

  Moco unloads the gear from his backpack. A long fishing net that smells like the ocean, a flashlight for Jonah, and a machete for me—Moco’s dad is a fisherman and had just the supplies we needed. He hands me the machete hilt-first. Jonah’s hand starts twitching like he wants to touch it, so I shift away, closer to where I’ll have to cut the rope. The long blade is heavy in my grip. I’m not going to lie, it’s the coolest thing I’ve ever held, even cooler than the Taser I fired last spring.

  And now we wait. I glance at my watch: 7:42 p.m. We have a nine o’clock curfew. We told my parents we’d be at the town’s Festival of Flowers with Julia. Ghostman better hurry up and get here.

  Ten minutes pass. No one’s around except for the caterers in the other room, their voices a low hum mingling with the occasional clank of dishes. The exhibit rests quietly in the soft light. I count eighteen gold masks. Eighteen! Not to mention the ornate gold statues, big and small. No wonder Ghostman wants to rob this place.

  Twenty minutes. It’s unpleasantly warm under the table here. Moco’s fishing ne
t is starting to smell bad, like rotting fish guts and seaweed. My butt’s asleep, and Jonah’s dripping sweat on my arm. His face is flushed and queasy. I know it’s killing him to stay still with so many people smooshed around him. He takes out Mr. Q and starts rubbing the statue’s stomach with his thumb. I wonder if he’s got the statue of Ah Puch hiding in his pocket. I hope not. There’s something ominous about bringing the god of death on a stakeout.

  Moco whispers something to Julia. She giggles.

  “What?” Jonah says.

  “He wants to know why you’re holding Ek Chuah,” she says. “The Mayan god of war. A troublemaker, not so good for our mission.”

  “Huh? This is Chaac, the rain god.”

  Moco says something else and points to the stick in Mr. Q’s hand. Julia translates. “He says that it’s the god of war because he’s holding a spear.” She shrugs. “I thought it was Ix Chel, the fertility goddess. The stomach looks . . . kind of pregnant.”

  Jonah clutches the key chain to his chest. “Mr. Q is not pregnant!” he hisses. “He’s just chubby.”

  I lean over and shoot them an Are you kidding me? We’re on a mission! glare. They offer me sheepish smiles and get back to monitoring the exhibit.

  It’s almost eight thirty. We have to leave or we’ll be late and my mom will have a coronary. Just when I’m about to call it off, a museum guard strolls in. I sit up, every nerve ending alive with adrenaline.

  The guard comes to a stop in front of the treasure, tracing a finger over the glass by the pile of Aztec coins. He’s in perfect position.

  Jonah’s leg is moving a mile a minute. Julia’s squinting as if she’s not quite sure what she’s seeing. But I’m sure. We can only see his back and a slim part of his profile, but I know that dark hair, the side view of his mustache. It’s Ghostman.

  I hold up a finger.

  Go.

  Slinking out from beneath the table, I lift the machete and swing at the rope tied to the wall as hard as I can. The rope snaps and the balloons drop, a shower of pink and silver. Ghostman looks up, startled. He tries to scramble out of the way, but Moco’s there, flinging the fishing net. It lands perfectly on Ghostman’s head, making him trip and fall down. His body flails and flails, trapped beneath the web of rope. Just like we planned!

  Julia and Jonah scramble out of our hiding spot. Moco is leaning over Ghostman, shouting at him in Spanish. Suddenly Moco rears back, shaking his head frantically at us—the signal to flee. What? Why?

  “Mission aborted!” Jonah grabs me by the arm, yanking me away from my victory.

  But this is our chance to catch Ghostman—why the heck are we leaving? We take off down the hallway toward the alley door, Julia leading the charge. One last panicked glance over my shoulder at the body thrashing under the net. This time I get a clear shot of his face: Dark eyes. Thin cheeks. Hair that’s slicked back off his forehead.

  Captain Ruiz.

  Chapter 17

  Benched

  DAY 13

  Twenty lame hours later and it feels like the balloon disaster never happened. It feels like yesterday never happened.

  After we fled the museum, we watched from a safe distance as Captain Ruiz stuffed Moco into a police car and hauled him away. Moco’s probably rotting in jail right now and it’s all my fault. My first real police operation with a team, and it ended in complete disaster. I can’t believe Ruiz was dressed as a museum guard. Is he working undercover? Or working with Ghostman to rob the place? Julia told us last night that she’d talk to her father and call us right away.

  She hasn’t called.

  It’s five in the afternoon and we’ve called and texted her maybe a billion times today. No response; all calls go straight to voicemail. “We have to do something,” Jonah says, his voice muffled against the pillow. “I think Julia’s in trouble.”

  “You don’t look so good,” I say.

  “I’m fine,” he replies, but he doesn’t pick up his head. He’s wilted and pale on the mattress. No jumping on the bed, no dancing around with Mr. Q. He’s the anti-Jonah, an imposter wearing ghost-white skin that’s turning greener by the second.

  This morning my father dragged us to Chichén Itzá, the Mayan city he’s been researching for his book. Dad was right—it’s an amazing place. It has a pyramid twice the size of Isla del Niño’s, plus statues, buildings, and tall stone columns with cool names like Temple of a Thousand Warriors.

  But my heart wasn’t in the trip. I was worried and distracted the whole time: worried about Moco, worried about the evil Captain Ruiz, worried about my father being sent to prison. All because I’m the lamest undercover cop in the world.

  Plan B is now in effect. At seven o’clock tonight, just two hours from now, we’re supposed to return to the museum for the grand opening. Jonah and I will be with Julia and my parents, playing the role of dumb tourists. Julia will distract my parents with random Mexican culture factoids while Jonah and I canvas the area by the exhibit. Chepe will be a waiter with the catering crew, working the floor. Nacho will be staked out in the back alley, where we’re sure Ghostman will try to escape. Moco was supposed to be covering the front door . . .

  “Julia’s in trouble,” Jonah says, yet again. He fidgets with his new black leather bracelet, courtesy of Las Plumas. “What if her dad threw her in jail?”

  I snort. “I seriously doubt it. They’re probably just working it all out.” We thought about grabbing a taxi to her house, but we were gone all day. Plus her dad might be home, and he’s a really intimidating guy.

  “Maybe Ruiz is working undercover and he’s already arrested Ghostman,” I add. Hey, there’s an upbeat thought. The first of the day. Jonah looks so miserable that I decide to show him the comic strip I’m doodling to pass the time, the one of us in our Lucha Libre masks. “What do you think?” I say.

  His answering smile is small and queasy, but it’s there.

  Voices in the hall snag my attention. My father’s deep baritone, and another man’s nasally voice. A nasally, mean voice.

  Jonah sits up. The alarm on his face mirrors my own.

  What the heck is Captain Ruiz doing here? Did he somehow find out that we were behind the balloon drop? Or that we broke into Ghostman’s apartment? Has he come to take my father away?

  We sprint to the door and yank it open, just in time to see Ruiz leaving my parents’ room with his clomping I hate everyone swagger. He sees us in the doorway and smirks. “Enjoy your evening, chicos.” He slaps a small blue passport against his palm.

  A passport?

  Dad is standing in the hall, staring blankly at the retreating captain. I jog over to him in two quick strides. “What happened?” I say. “Dad?” He blinks at me with glazed eyes.

  “I’m under house arrest,” he replies in a flat tone. He rubs his forehead. “They took my passport. They found my fingerprints inside the mask’s case. How . . . ?” The question dies in the air.

  I knew it. I knew Ghostman framed my father. Last night I used my mom’s computer to translate the German words on the fingerprint box I saw in his apartment, but it was only a stupid ad for some kind of skin lotion. Somehow Ghostman managed to put Dad’s prints on the inside of the glass. A brilliant tactic to mislead the police. I’d almost be impressed if I weren’t so angry.

  Mom comes out of their hotel room, tears streaking her cheeks. My hands ball into fists. Nobody makes my mom cry. I’d like to kick Captain Ruiz. And demand he tell me why he was dressed as a museum guard.

  Jonah nudges my elbow and I startle. He shows me the screen on his phone. It’s a text, but I don’t recognize the sender. Maybe Julia used a different phone?

  EL HOTEL. 5 MIN.

  Meet in five minutes. In the lobby, I guess? I nod to Jonah and clear my throat. “Dad, Julia wants to meet us in the lobby for a minute.”

  He nods. “All right.” He looks at his watch, stroking my mom’s back with his other hand. “Let’s meet for dinner in twenty.” Then he murmurs something to Mom and th
ey head back inside their room.

  We sprint for the elevators.

  In the lobby, Jonah lies down on a long white bench by the front doors while I pace the floor in front of him. One-two-three, turn, one-two-three, turn. It’s like we’ve switched bodies.

  “We’ll fix it,” he says. “Tonight we’ll catch Ghostman in the act.”

  I don’t respond, just pace and pace. How are we going to get my parents to the museum when Mom is a wreck and Dad is a zombie? How are we going to convince them to leave the hotel? Wait—I guess Dad can’t leave the hotel. Is that what house arrest means? Pace, pace, pace. I have to help Dad, and to do that, I have to catch Ghostman.

  I freeze midstep as the lobby doors slide open. In strides Nacho, the fearsome leader of Las Plumas. Even in a generic baseball cap and blue T-shirt, he looks like he might rob the place.

  I run over to him, Jonah right behind me. “¿Dónde está Julia?” I say, for lack of a better opening. This conversation is going to be tricky.

  Nacho shakes his head. “Problemas.” He hands me a white envelope. “Problemas grandes.”

  “What kind of big problems?” Jonah blurts. “Uh . . . I mean . . . Where is she? ¿Dónde está?”

  Nacho frowns, the metal hoop in his mouth pulling at his lower lip. He points to the letter. “Julia.” Then he holds up his phone. “Si necesitas ayuda.”

  Okay, the letter is from Julia. And Nacho wants us to call his cell if we need help. The text must have been from him. But why would we need his help? I thought we had a plan for tonight. An awesome catch-the-bad-guy plan.

  Before I have a chance to ask what’s going on, Nacho turns and leaves without another word. I glance at Jonah, who shrugs and motions impatiently to the letter. I tear the envelope open. It’s a bit tricky with my wrist in a cast, but my teeth and healthy hand get the job done. Julia’s handwriting is sloppy, as if she wrote in a hurry: