Mystery in Mayan Mexico Read online

  In the distance, I see a figure driving a small motorboat, the engine rumbling against the sound of rolling waves. Nacho parks at the hotel dock and gestures to us with an impatient wave. I grin. I did it! I got us a boat without the help of a translator!

  Step one of Mission Bad Idea: Complete.

  We race down the dock and jump into the rusty boat. I slide onto a bench seat beside Nacho, and Jonah smooshes himself against me on the other side. Nacho’s eyes go wide as he takes in our outfits. He shoves two life jackets at us without comment.

  A snap of life jackets being buckled, the shift of a gear stick, and we’re off.

  “¿La isla?” Nacho says, pointing to the island.

  I nod.

  He gestures to the boat. “Mi primo Juan,” he says. He points to his watch, then makes a slicing motion across his neck. “Diez minutos.” I think I get it: his cousin Juan (go figure!) owns the boat and will kill Nacho if he doesn’t bring it back in ten minutes.

  I nod again and we continue without speaking. The only sounds are the water slapping at the boat, the sputtering grumble of the engine, and the occasional rolp coming from Jonah’s direction. I clutch the seat for dear life and focus on the island ahead. Five minutes and we’re there. Five more minutes, five more minutes.

  We hit a pocket of really high waves. The nose of the boat dips down hard, then jerks up, bouncing us in our seats. Jonah’s backpack flies overboard. “Mr. Q!” he screams.

  We lost all of our gear, our cell phones, weapons, rope, and he’s worried about a stupid statue . . . ? How are we going to call the police? Or capture Ghostman?

  “Why didn’t you tie it to something before we left?” I yell. “Like, I don’t know . . . YOUR SHOULDERS?”

  “Why do I have to be in charge of all the gear?” he shouts back. “Why didn’t you bring any ninja stuff? You never—”

  “¡Chicos!” Nacho’s voice seems to boom everywhere around us. I flinch and squirm a little closer to Jonah. Slowly I turn my gaze to the pierced and angry Pluma. Except he’s not angry. He’s running a hand over his face, exasperated, as if dealing with pesky younger brothers. “Estamos aquí,” he mutters, gesturing with his head.

  I look up in time to see the island’s dock coming up on our left. With all my annoyance, I didn’t realize how close we were to shore. Nacho kills the engine and wraps a rope around one of the posts. Then he pulls out a cell phone and flips it open. It’s one of those older ones from a decade ago and is probably stolen goods. Not that I’m judging.

  “Mi número,” he says, pointing to a number on the screen. Then he flips the phone shut and slaps it into my palm.

  Excellent. I slip it into my sock—there are no pockets on the Darth suit—and say “Gracias” with a grateful smile. I wish Nacho could come with us, but it’s for the best he’s leaving. If he’s here when we call the police, they’ll probably arrest him on sight for all the vandalism he and his buddies have committed.

  With hurried fingers, Jonah and I unsnap our life jackets. Nacho stands so we can slide past him to climb out of the boat. Once we’re safely on the dock, Nacho gives us a Go get ’em nod of encouragement. The boat rumbles to life, and he’s gone.

  We did it. We’re on the island, ready to capture Ghostman!

  Step two of Mission Bad Idea: Complete.

  The sky is dark enough now to see the stars. It would be nice to have a flashlight, but I don’t chew Jonah out about losing the backpack. Adrenaline and fear have replaced all annoyance. This is it. We’re really going to do this.

  Jonah gives me a thumbs-up and runs down the dock, heading for the forest that surrounds the pyramid. I follow, and we step into shallow tide pools, the water rushing up to our knees. Instantly the Vader suit suctions to my body. I shove through a small tangle of bushes. It’s mangrove, which grows in clumps in the shallows. It takes a few steps for me to realize that sharp sticks the size of knives are tearing at my body. “Ow!” I whisper-hiss. The more I thrash, the worse it is. Something slimy brushes my hand. It’s just an iguana. Stay calm!

  I stumble out to a clearing, where Jonah’s examining the jagged cuts on his arm. “Sorry,” he whispers. “That must be our punishment for losing Chaac. Our blood sacrifice has fallen on sacred ground. Now he’ll bring us good luck. I’m sure of it.”

  I’d like to point out that Chaac is currently resting at the bottom of the ocean and most likely Extremely Angry. Instead I sigh and rub the throbbing stings along my arms and legs. Time to get my head in the game.

  We creep through the rest of the small patch of forest, over to the stone steps of the pyramid. I strain to hear . . . what? Ghostman digging away at the buried treasure? All I hear is the pounding surf and the hum of nighttime insects. I swear there’s a distant rumble of thunder.

  Jonah holds up his palm and flashes me a series of hand motions: he points forward, then makes a fist, then holds up two fingers, draws a circle in the air, then points again.

  “Huh?” I say. We did not go over this back in the room.

  He moves his mouth closer to my ear. I cringe at the thought of how much throw-up has been exiting his lips. “There are two sets of stairs,” he whispers. “You take the front, I’ll go around back. Time your footsteps with your watch. Take a step every two seconds. Starting at eight ten on the nose.” He holds his digital watch next to mine to make sure they’re still perfectly synced. “We’ll arrive at the top at the same time. You go for his knees, I’ll knock him out with a brick and tie him up with my shirt. Easy.”

  “No,” I hiss. “We don’t have any fighting skills, Jonah. Without our equipment, the tackling plan won’t work.” I bend down to fish a stick out of my sneaker. “We need to—” I look up. He’s already taken off.

  If I don’t go, he’ll be alone up there. I have no choice.

  I jog into position and glance at my watch: 8:07. The warm breeze is turning cooler, rushing faster. Clouds move in above, covering the stars. Yep, Chaac is mad, all right. I wonder if Jonah’s statue of Ah Puch fell in the water as well. Does the god of death get angry if you drop him into the ocean? And what about Ix Chel?

  It’s 8:09. The pyramid is a skyscraper rising above me. You can do this. Think of Dad. You have to help Dad. Maybe Ghostman won’t even be there. Maybe we’ve got this all wrong and the cops will catch him over at the museum.

  It will be 8:10 in three, two, one . . . I take a step. Pause. Step. Pause.

  I climb while looking at my watch, a feat way too tricky for my coordination level. The stairs are über-steep and I’m crouched low, the Vader suit tightening around my legs. It will be a miracle if I don’t wipe out. I wonder how Jonah’s doing.

  Step. Pause. Step. Pause.

  Almost there . . . Four more steps . . . Three . . .

  There’s a shout. And a scream.

  Jonah’s scream.

  Chapter 20

  Crouching Ninjas, Hidden Vomit

  I sprint up the rest of the stairs, dash past the temple, and tear to the other side, where Jonah lies motionless on his back. Ghostman is standing over him with a flashlight, a shocked expression on his mustached face.

  “What did you do to him?” I yell, finding a strong and angry voice I never knew I had.

  Ghostman jumps in surprise and practically drops the flashlight. “Nothing,” he says. “He startled me and I yelled and he lost his footing. Knocked himself out.” He rubs a hand nervously through his hair. “Or maybe he fainted. I don’t know.”

  “Jonah!” I say, kneeling beside him, pushing at his clothing to see where he’s hurt. Please be okay, I think over and over again. Please be okay.

  I run my hands over his chest, assessing his ABCs: airway, breathing, circulation. He’s breathing fine. There’s blood on his hands and all over his arms, but that’s from the stupid bushes. Head injuries from falling? Gently I shift him, feeling the back of his head. No blood. He’s getting a lump where he knocked himself out. He moans but doesn’t wake up.

  My fingers cur
l into the front of his shirt. I don’t know whether to try to shake him awake or strangle him right here and now for leaving me alone with the Evil Mastermind Criminal. I go for option number three, which is to pretend to take his pulse while scouring my brain for some kind of ninja plan. Nothing’s coming.

  “You stupid kids,” Ghostman splutters behind me. “What are you doing up here?” His English has no accent, as if he’s lived in the States his whole life. I thought he was German. Or Mexican. Or both. Who is this guy? He shifts the flashlight around, training the light on me, then on Jonah, then back on me again. “I should report you. You are trespassing on private property. I am the curator of this temple.” He motions to the stone walls behind him, then adds, “Where are your parents? Out on their fancy yacht, I’ll bet.”

  Understanding strikes me like a lightning bolt from Chaac’s ax. He doesn’t know who we are. He doesn’t realize that we’ve come for him.

  I take a deep breath and launch into the skinny wimp act. Not a stretch.

  “We just wanted to play a prank,” I say, my voice cracking like I’m panicked and maybe about to cry. “Please don’t tell my parents. We’ll leave and we can just forget this ever happened.” Sell the act. Get Jonah, drag his body down the steps, and find the police station on the island, the one Julia told you about. The one that’s probably abandoned right now since all cops are on the mainland at the museum. I avert my eyes, pretending not to notice that Ghostman has two large duffel bags and there’s a large hole behind him in the dirt of the temple floor.

  He sighs. “Fine. Get your friend and get out of here. Wouldn’t want you to miss Halloween.” He gestures to my costume.

  Costume mockery is fine with me if it helps with my I’m just a dumb kid act.

  Time to get out of here. I shift my hands beneath Jonah’s armpits, ready to lug him down the steps. This should be interesting with a broken wrist.

  “Wait,” Ghostman says. “Turn around.”

  I freeze. Do I obey? Or make a run for it? I can’t leave Jonah and I can’t carry him down the stairs at a sprint. I turn my head toward the light of the lanterns that are resting on the ground, praying that the dark night on my face is enough to disguise me.

  Ghostman’s eyes narrow. “I know you. You and your friend broke into my apartment!”

  “What?” Now it’s my turn to gasp. “No, we didn’t.”

  He stalks toward me, murder in his eyes. “There’s a noise-triggered camera in my kitchen. I couldn’t see your faces with those lucha masks on. But the voices . . . two American boys, discussing my trash. It was you!” He yanks up the sleeve of my Darth suit. “And your cast!” With an iron grip he drags me over to his work site while I curse both my orange cast and the gefilte fish conversation Jonah and I had in Ghostman’s kitchen.

  This is the part where we were supposed to tackle the bad guy, tie him up, and call the police.

  Step three of Mission Bad Idea: Total Epic Fail.

  He forces me to sit by one of the crumbling temple walls, then paces back and forth, firing questions at me. “Who are you? What are you doing here? Are you working with the police? WHO ARE YOU?” he yells.

  I square my shoulders and straighten my spine. “I’m Eddie Red.”

  He pulls out a knife. My shoulders slump.

  “And what,” he says, moving the blade slowly back and forth in the space between us, “are you doing here, Eddie Red?” He sneers at my name. Gone is the man who was concerned with Jonah’s well-being. This new guy is mean and cold and calculating. I’m pretty sure we’re dealing with some multiple personality issues. One for every passport.

  “You framed my father,” I blurt. I decide to go with honesty and play the father card. “I’m sure you didn’t mean to,” I add quickly. “You lifted his fingerprints to send the police off on a search for the wrong man. But now they’ve taken his passport. Please. I don’t care what you’re doing here, I just want my dad to be free so we can go home.”

  He blinks and stares and blinks some more. The surprise on his face indicates that he’s shocked I figured this all out. Then he shakes his head, muttering, “You don’t know anything.” He kneels by one of the duffel bags. The knife gets put away, thank goodness, and he lifts out a roll of gray duct tape.

  You have got to be kidding me. NOT AGAIN!!

  “Give me your arms,” he demands. I want to tell him that I already know the drill, that I was tied up with duct tape in an alley only two months ago, but my mouth won’t open to form words. I give him my arms.

  Around and around he winds the tape. How am I not prepared for this after what happened in New York? He cuts the tape with a pocketknife. I can still run—I’ll just have to kick Jonah down the stairs as I go. Ghostman pulls out more tape and goes to work wrapping it around my ankles. So much for running. He discovers Nacho’s phone in my sock and tosses it over the side of the pyramid. Terrific.

  Thunder rumbles and a heavy splat, splat of rain starts up on the stones as wind whips around us. I need time to think. I need to distract Ghostman. I need to get him monologuing.

  “What should I call you?” I ask. “Joe Brown? Hans Bäcker? Or is it Juan Gúzman?”

  He ignores me and puts the duct tape away.

  “Your father buried the stolen bank gold here, didn’t he?”

  Still no answer. With his face devoid of emotion, he fishes a gold brick out of the hole and places it gently in one of the duffel bags. I guess that answers that question.

  I try again. “You look a lot like him,” I say. “You could be his twin. Or his ghost.”

  No response.

  “If he’s your father, why don’t you have his last name?” I’m taking a wild guess here. After all my clever spying, I still have no idea what his real name is.

  But it punches the right button. “My father was a great man,” he snaps. “Of course I have his name!”

  He doesn’t look at me as he speaks, just keeps yanking gold bricks out of the hole one by one and placing them in the bags. “The government killed him,” he says. Clink, clink go the bars of gold. “They said it was a heart attack. All lies!”

  His words come in angry bursts as he spills his story. His mother was the daughter of a German diplomat living in Mexico. She fell in love with his father, Pablo Valero, a local street thug. She moved back to Germany and Pablo was supposed to come get her, but he was caught robbing a bank and died. After Ghostman was born, his mother brought him to the States, where she died three years later.

  So many nationalities, so many identities. He truly is a ghost man.

  “I figured out the niño connection,” he says proudly. “Everyone thought he left it for his son. But he didn’t even know I existed. So now I’ve come to take what’s rightfully mine.” He pats the half-filled bag of gold, then turns and gets back to work.

  I wriggle my arms to try to loosen the tape. Pain shoots through my wrist. That’s it . . . my broken wrist! The duct tape is wrapped around my cast. If I can just break the plaster off, I can free my hand, then free the rest of me. I can do this!

  I wait until he turns away to dig for more gold bricks. Smack! I hit the cast against a jagged stone and suck in an agonized breath. There are no words for how painful this is. I press on. Smack! It’s awkward with my arms strapped together, but it’s working. The plaster is cracking and starting to crumble. It’s working!

  Thunder booms; the rain drives in heavy bursts. The yellow light of the lanterns flickers around us. Smack! I squirm and twist my arm. The cast is loosening, and with it, the duct tape. Just two more smacks and I’ll be able to break free. Breathe through the pain, Edmund. Breathe.

  “Oh, no you don’t.” Ghostman stomps over and shoves me away from the temple wall. I shrink into myself, defeated. Apparently even in a thunderstorm, I’m about as stealthy as an elephant in a hardware store.

  “I don’t have time for this,” he mutters. He yanks me to my feet, then leans over and lifts something out of the bag. With the wind and rain i
t’s hard to see until he gets up close. It’s something silver and shiny. The knife again.

  “You’re cutting me free?” I say in a hopeful and squeaky tone.

  He smiles. “No, Eddie Red. You’ve seen too much. Now, who should I kill first? You? Or your little friend?”

  He lifts the knife just as a strong gust of wind sweeps in, knocking us both off balance. Ghostman trips on a bag behind him and stumbles, dropping the knife to catch his fall. The weapon clatters down the side of the pyramid.

  Just when I’m about to launch my body at him as a kind of human torpedo, he straightens up and pulls another knife from his pocket. A larger, sharper knife. Wiping the rain from his face, he steps closer, weapon raised. I scrunch my eyes closed and whimper. What can I do? I can’t throw myself at him, he’s got an eight-inch blade in his hand!

  There’s movement behind me, a stirring against the stone. I whip my head around. A very pale Jonah is stumbling to his feet, his red hair wild in the whipping wind. He wobbles forward one step, then another, until he’s beside me, his face set in determination. Standing up tall, he looks Ghostman right in the eye.

  ROLP!

  Chapter 21

  Adiós

  THE NEXT MORNING

  Beep . . . beep . . .

  The blood pressure machine sounds in Jonah’s hospital room, the cuff automatically squeezing his arm every half hour to record his vitals. I’m in a chair next to his bed, my head resting on the mattress. It’s been hard to sleep through the constant hospital noise, but I still managed to get about three hours.

  “I still wish I hadn’t fainted like that,” Jonah mumbles. “I always miss the good stuff.” He turns on the television with a remote control. His face isn’t green anymore, although he’s still a bit chalky.

  I sit up and rub a hand over my face. “What are you talking about?” I say. “You saved the day. You saved me. You were the good stuff.”

  When Jonah threw up back on the pyramid, his projectile vomit hit Ghostman square in the eyes. Totally gross and awesome. Ghostman stumbled backwards and fell down the steep flight of stairs. Minutes later the police showed up, thanks to an anonymous phone call—aka Nacho worried about us in the storm. Apparently Ghostman broke a bunch of ribs and an arm and got a bad concussion from falling down the stairs. Or so they told me once a translator showed up at the police station.