Mystery in Mayan Mexico Page 12

  Jonah shifts in the bed and winces at the IV in his arm. “I guess so,” he says. He was rushed here last night when he started throwing up in the jail cell (not my best hour). The doctors discovered that he was severely dehydrated, and he’s been on an IV drip ever since. They said he’ll be fine to leave in a few hours. Turns out he has iodine poisoning, and not the tourist stomach bug. The symptoms are similar, but he brought this on himself. I have no polite comment on the matter.

  A knock sounds on the door behind us. “Hola,” Julia says in a soft voice. Jonah instantly sits up and grins. I stand to give her my chair but she waves me off, instead dragging a chair over from the corner. “You made the front page,” she says as she opens a newspaper up and lays it on the bed. She’s already been by once this morning with a box of cookies from Papi, who forgave us for lying to him. Nicest guy ever.

  “We did?” Jonah sits up even farther.

  She giggles. “Not really. But the police acknowledge they had help from ‘outside sources.’ That’s you.” She points to the words in the article, but I’m more interested in what the headline says: Hans Bäcker Valero, el “niño” misterioso.

  “That’s Ghostman’s name?” I say. “Hans Bäcker Valero?”

  She nods. “He confessed to everything, how he framed Las Plumas and how he moved your father’s fingerprints to the inside of the glass case. My family got the mask back. My cousin Miguel was released from jail. And your father is free to leave the country.”

  We all beam at each other. A moment of contented silence fills the room. Victory.

  “I’m glad,” I say. I figured my dad was free and clear when the police returned his passport an hour ago, but it’s a relief to hear the words. Maybe he’ll stop touching glass cases from now on.

  Speaking of Dad, he and Mom are seated just outside Jonah’s room. I can see through the big glass window that Dad’s staring off into space, his broad face changing expressions every few minutes, from relieved to angry to confused. And . . . impressed? He catches me looking at him and offers me a small smile. The tension in my shoulders loosens a degree. Maybe he won’t kill me when we get back home. Maybe we’ll even celebrate our amazing detective work.

  Mom turns to say something to him, sees me watching, and scowls.

  Maybe not.

  Julia reaches into her bag. “Las Plumas wanted to come visit you, but there are a lot of police here, so they decided to stay away. They made you a present. It’s in the alley where we first met them.” She pulls out her phone to show us a photo of red letters spray-painted on a brick wall. The letters read ¡VIVA EL ROJITO! ¡VIVA EL FRIJOL!

  Jonah grabs her hand, and at first I think he’s getting all romantic—in which case, I will flee the room—but then I realize he’s examining the skin on her palm. Skin that’s streaked with red paint.

  “Did you help them?” he asks, awestruck.

  She presses her lips together, fighting back a smile. “Maybe.”

  Another knock raps against the door. Jonah drops Julia’s hand like it’s made of poison. Her pistol-packing cop father is looming in the doorway. He says something to Julia in Spanish. Then he looks at me and Jonah, tips his hat to us, and leaves. I haven’t seen Captain Ruiz at all, and I’m glad. Maybe he got fired for being mean to nerdy tourists. It feels good imagining it.

  Julia’s eyes are wide and sad. “Time for goodbye,” she says. She hugs me, then leans over to kiss Jonah on the cheek. “I will miss you,” she whispers to him. She stands and clears her throat. “I will visit you in New York next year, yes?”

  Jonah is speechless, rubbing his cheek where she kissed him, so I jump in. “Of course,” I say.

  She smiles once more and waves goodbye.

  Jonah sighs. He folds his arms, unfolds them, folds them again, bumping the IV tube with his movements. I nudge his arm with my elbow. “I’m going to miss her too,” I say.

  He sighs again. “She was the coolest girl ever. I don’t even have a picture of her. My stupid cell phone and camera are somewhere on the bottom of the stupid ocean.”

  “She has your email. She’ll send you a picture.”

  He frowns. “I can’t ask her to do that. Too creepy.” He throws his hands up in the air. “It’s like she never existed. My first girlfriend and I have no proof! No one will believe me back home.”

  Girlfriend? I shake my head. Then I lean over to grab my backpack from the floor. “I was going to wait and get it framed,” I begin, pulling my sketchpad out. “But maybe now’s a good time.” I rip out a picture and hand it to him. A very nice, very pretty picture of Julia.

  He blinks. And blinks. And grins. “It’s über-awesome. I . . . I don’t have a gift for you.”

  I wave him off. “You can make us T-shirts. Yours can say I passed out in Mexico.”

  Still grinning, he places the picture on the table beside him. “And yours can say Quetzalcoatl is my homeboy.”

  I smile and prop my arms on the bed, staring at the television. I can’t understand the words, but people are screaming as a gross bloody skeleton chases them through a jungle. Some kind of treasure-hunter movie. I put my head down and close my eyes. A nap is a much better choice.

  I guess Jonah agrees with me, because he turns off the TV and lowers the bed with the touch of a button. “I think we need a vacation,” he says.

  “Yeah,” I reply. I couldn’t agree more.

  We leave the hospital three hours later and sleep the entire flight home. As I step out of the airplane and onto US soil, the hectic scramble of New York’s JFK airport greets me with its loud noises and rude shouting travelers. I love this city.

  We wait forever in line at customs. Dad bought some pottery bowls that must have questionable smells in them, because a patrol dog just went nuts when he sniffed at my parents’ suitcase. So now Dad is being grilled by a policeman. The poor guy can’t catch a break.

  As I sling my backpack onto the table for a security guard to inspect it, a man up ahead catches my eye. I wouldn’t think anything of him, but he keeps glancing over his shoulder like he’s nervous. He’s got white-blond hair, a goatee, and wire-rimmed glasses. He stops just beyond the gates, staring at me with crazy, maniac blue eyes.

  Fear freezes me. I know him. It’s Lars Heinrich, the art thief who escaped in May. The art thief who isn’t supposed to know I exist.

  He watches me and watches me, his eyes fierce and probing. His shoulders stiffen; his mouth opens slightly in surprise.

  Realization washes over me:

  Lars Heinrich knows exactly who I am.

  And that is a very, VERY big problem.

  THE END?

  Jonah’s Top Five Mayan Gods*

  *Based on skill during a mission and general level of über-awesomeness.

  Soldier Jonah Schwartz here, reporting on the Mayan gods. And let me tell you, there are a lot of them! According to historians, there were more than 250 gods and goddesses worshipped across the Mayan empire. Some were more important than others. After a lot of research, I’ve come up with five who will make the perfect military team:

  1. Chaac (or Chak)

  The god of rain and lightning.

  ASSESSMENT: He has a lightning ax. A lightning ax! How cool is that? His thunderstorm helped us battle the bad guy on top of the pyramid, so I’d say he’s our number one ally.

  2. Ek-Chuah

  The god of war AND chocolate.

  ASSESSMENT: War and chocolate? A PERFECT combination in my book. After a hard day fighting off bad guys, chocolate is all a hero needs.

  3. Ah Puch (pronounced Ah Pwash)

  The god of death.

  ASSESSMENT: Since Death is all-powerful, this is a no-brainer. He’d be a little creepy to hang out with since he’s got loose skin and bulging eyes, but he’s sometimes called The Flatulent One (The God of Farts!), so that makes up for his creepiness.

  4. Ix Chel

  The goddess of the moon, rainbows, earth, fertility, and medicine.

  ASSESSMENT: I�
��m not suggesting we spray our enemies with rainbows, but she seems to control a lot of powerful things, plus we’ll need someone with a solid medical background when we’re out in the field. You never know when one of us will get knocked unconscious or break a wrist.

  5. Itzamná

  The god of creation, the sun, writing, and healing.

  ASSESSMENT: As the god of writing, he’ll be great at sending out special military codes. And maybe he can shoot flaming balls of fire with his sun powers. Sometimes he can be invisible. Need I say more?

  Acknowledgments

  It was such a journey (literally!) to write this second book. A huge thank-you to my agent, Kristin Nelson, and my editor, Ann Rider, who made Eddie and his adventures possible. Thanks to the talented Scott Magoon, Mary Magrisso, Colleen Fellingham, Candace Finn, Rachel Wasdyke, and the many other hard-working people of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt. Marcos Calo, as always, your illustrations are incredible!

  Thanks to my readers: Ben Wells, Beth Charles, Drew Whitney, Rachal Aronson, Emily Miles Terry, Jeanne Williams, and Autumn Williams. You guys rock!

  Thank you to my friends and family for their love and support. Melissa Denecker: thanks for forcing me out of my writer’s cave. To my husband, Ben, and my two wonderful kids: traveling to Mexico with you was the best trip EVER!

  And to all the amazing people I’ve met in the Spanish-speaking world, my students, teachers, and friends . . . Muchas gracias.

  Dead Meat

  “State your name.”

  “Eddie Red.”

  The officer looks up at me and frowns. “State your real name. For the police report.” He jabs a meaty finger at the paperwork in front of him.

  “Edmund Lonnrot,” I reply, making sure to keep my voice steady despite my wobbly insides. Worst Night Ever.

  He sighs. “I suppose you have a middle name?”

  Now, I know for a fact there are at least a dozen secret files in this office with my name on them (middle name included), so either this guy doesn’t have security clearance or he’s strict about official procedure. Judging from the hard glint in his eyes, he’s not going to appreciate any comments I might have on the matter.

  “Oh,” I say lamely. “Xavier.”

  He rubs his temples, clearly counting to ten in his head the way he’s supposed to when it comes to dealing with children.

  “All right, Mr. ‘O Xavier,’ here’s how this works: I’m going to tell you what we know, and then you’re going to tell me what you know. I expect your full cooperation.”

  I nod.

  “We have a detective in the hospital. We’ve got a smashed van, suspects in custody, and a street in chaos. And we’ve got you, a material witness covered in blood. Does that sound about right?”

  I nod again. Misery.

  He sits back in his chair, tapping a pen on the desk. I half expect him to shine one of those bright lights in my eyes like they do in the movies. Instead he just starts chewing on the pen cap, swishing it around in his mouth, reminding me of a cow chomping on its cud.

  “I want to know what happened,” he snaps, his count-to-ten demeanor cracking.

  I gaze at the desk, numb. Where’s the trauma counselor? The psychiatric attention? I’ve been through a lot tonight.

  When I don’t respond, he starts a lecture a mile long about what he can do to me if I don’t answer his questions: hold me there indefinitely, take me to court­—to jail even. Maybe the jail for grownups, and wouldn’t that be a horrible thing to have happen?

  This guy has nothing on my mother. She and my dad are going to skin me alive. And as far as Detective Bovano is concerned, I am dead meat. He’s going to grind me into burger, serve up Edmund patties to his buddies.

  “Why didn’t you tell anyone about the stakeout?” the officer shouts, full on angry now. Policemen usually don’t yell at kids like this, but I’ve broken about two million laws tonight, so I guess I have it coming. The kicker is, I did tell someone. Detective Bovano. A fat lot of good that did him.

  Thinking of the detective snaps me out of my stupor. I put on my extra-polite voice, the one I reserve for church, weddings, and funerals; there may be a dead body by the end of this conversation. “I would like to speak with Bovano. He’s my supervisor.”

  “Yeah, great. Sure. Except he’s in the hospital. Gunshot wound. You know, the bullet that could have killed you?”

  “Is he going to be okay?” My voice cracks. They told me it wasn’t serious, but maybe they lied. If anything’s happened, then it’s all my fault.

  Officer Molino (finally I have read the nameplate on his desk) scratches the short black hair on his head. Come to think of it, he’s sort of a younger version of Detective Bovano: bulky, Italian, and perpetually irritated at the world. Although, unlike Bovano, this guy seems to have a soft spot for kids with crackly voices.

  “He’s fine. The bullet just grazed his chest. You can see him this weekend if you want.” He offers me a small smile.

  I relax my shoulders and start to breathe a little easier. Bovano isn’t dead, Edmund. You stopped the bleeding. You helped him.

  “I still need answers,” Molino pushes, more gently this time.

  “Have you called my parents?”

  He nods. “They know you’re safe, but you can’t speak with them until we’re done here. You signed away your rights when you joined the force—you know that.” He leans forward, eyeballing me. “Just answer the questions, Edmund.”

  I put my head in my hands. I’m not trying to be difficult, but I’m exhausted. And extremely nervous about the impending parental wrath, not to mention feeling guilty about Detective Bovano. “I’m tired,” I say. “It’s nine at night, my parents are going to kill me, and I just want to go home. Can’t we talk about this tomorrow morning?”

  The officer shakes his head. “It’s gotta be tonight. While it’s fresh.”

  I sigh, smelling defeat. “What do you want to know?”

  “Everything.”

  “Where should I start?”

  “How about at the beginning, hmm?” he says, holding his pen ready above the desk.

  “All right, but I’d like to have some water, please. And an orange soda. I need some sugar if I’m going to get through this.”

  He stares at me, mouth open in disbelief, and then he caves. Muttering something under his breath, he turns and signals to someone across the room.

  I smile. Orange soda, a forbidden beverage at my house, is on its way.

  I shouldn’t be here. I should be at home watching a movie, hanging out with my best friend and doing normal things that eleven-year-olds do, like wrestling until a lamp breaks or making things explode in the microwave.

  But instead, I’m Eddie Red. And I am in a lot of trouble.

  Chapter 1

  Frozen

  If you’re a kid, there are three things you need in order to solve a police investigation:

  1. A unique crime-fighting talent

  2. A best friend who’s a genius

  3. A boatload of dumb luck

  The dumb luck began with an ice cream cone on the Upper East Side during a January thaw.

  The term January thaw is a lie, at least in New York City. The forecasters tell you it will be fifty degrees out and everybody gets all excited, and gullible kids like me wear shorts to school. But what they don’t tell you is that the wind chill will be negative ten and the sun will only be out for three hours, so in the end it all balances out to a nice thirty degrees on the street. I’ve had goose bumps the size of icebergs all day. At least my mom made me wear my winter jacket.

  “I’ll have pistachio, please,” I say to the lady behind the counter. The ice cream shop is warm and cheerful, with sunny paintings on the wall of kids playing Frisbee in the park and swimming at the beach.

  The fact that it’s January also means that the ice cream has been sitting there undisturbed since October, so in ice cream years that’s about eighty. The woman goes elbow-deep into the tub of pistachio an
d forces the dregs of the barrel into a cone. Dregs that are covered in freezer burn. My suspicions are confirmed: this ice cream is going to be über-stale.

  “I’ll have the same,” a deep voice echoes behind me. My dad. He smiles down at me, one of his enormous hands coming to rest on my shoulder, the other adjusting the thick glasses that lie across the bridge of his nose.

  “I love pistachio,” he says, speaking to the woman, who is clearly Not Interested.

  “It tastes good,” he continues, “but I’m always more keen on what color it’s going to be. It isn’t naturally green, but because the pistachio nut itself is green, people expect the ice cream to be green like they do with mint. Which isn’t naturally green either.

  “So the companies add green food dye to it. You never know quite what you’re going to get. Ooh!” he exclaims as she hands him the cone. “Today’s is positively neon! I think we could call it plutonium!”

  The woman’s brow crinkles and she gets that startled expression on her face like most people do when they meet my dad. He looks like a three-hundred-pound linebacker who can wrestle a bull with his bare hands, and yet he’s in a sweater vest and bow tie (not on my recommendation, believe me).