Ice Shock (10 page)

“I'm not saying I'll be there. Let me think about it.”

“
Hijo que te pasa
… what's wrong with you? I'm giving you an order! You
will
be there.”

So, Mom. I'm going to take one last shot at sorting things out. I've made a mess of everything, but it's not too late to fix it
.

I'm going to Ollie's. All lovey-dovey. I'll work out a way to distract her, then I'll find the pages they stole from me and destroy them
.

I know it's a risk. Ollie may have spied on me, betrayed me. But would she actually harm me? Somehow, I can't imagine that
.

By the way, two more of those postcards arrived this morning. I picked them up on my way to school. One was addressed to you, one to me
.

The one to you was a photo of some ruins at Ocosingo. The message was, WHEN.FLYING
.

Mine was another photo of Tikal. You got one from Tikal, didn't you? My message was, KINGDOM'S.LOSS
.

Both mailed from Veracruz. Again
.

If I only had time to sit down and really think about those postcards, I bet I could figure it out
.

But there's no time for that. It's just a matter of time before Ollie works out that I'm on to her. I need to strike while the iron is hot …

“Ollie” lives in a street off the Woodstock Road. I've only been there once before, when her father helped us buy the flights to Mexico. I want to catch her off guard, so I don't call first. I change into a fresh pair of black jeans, an ironed charcoal gray shirt with black stripes under a vest, and real shoes—not sneakers. I pack my two cell phones into my front pockets, put twenty pounds in the back jeans pocket. I fix my hair with a bit of gel, even splash on a bit of Dad's aftershave.

When I arrive, however, the house is dark. There's no one home. I check my watch—it's just past six. Maybe they've gone out to eat?

I'm standing there wondering when to come back when it hits me that this is a perfect opportunity. So long as I'm up for some more breaking and entering.

This is the type of neighborhood to have burglar alarms, so there's a good chance I'll set something off. On the other hand, I think of the number of times I've heard alarms going
off with no sign of the police, while people nearby go about their business as usual. No one cares enough to do anything apart from calling the police, who might get here after an hour or so.

I'll have enough time to do what's necessary.

I make sure I'm not being watched, then sneak around to the backyard. Motion-sensitive lights flicker alive, lighting the yard as if for a party. The house backs a golf course, so there aren't even any overlooking neighbors to worry about. I try the downstairs windows—all locked. It's the same with the back door.

Nothing to do but break in.

I find a big, flat stone, wrap my sleeve around my hand, and smash the rock into a window, near the latch. The sound of breaking glass seems deafening, as does the high-pitched whine of the burglar alarm. I try to shut both out of my mind and climb in, making straight for Ollie's room.

It's a largish house, but only two of the four upstairs rooms are made up as bedrooms. There's a double room, which is so spotlessly tidy that it looks totally unused. A second large bedroom, also with a double bed, is obviously Ollie's. She's messy—clothes are spread all over the floor. A pristine school uniform hangs against the wardrobe. The desk is totally devoid of any school books or anything that looks like it belongs to a schoolgirl.

The other two upstairs rooms are offices. One is packed
with high-tech equipment—in a quick sweep, my eyes take in computers, cameras, video machines. There's more, though—electronic equipment I don't recognize. The other room is stacked with books. More books about the Maya than even my father has, but also books about linguistics and ancient writing from all over the world.

And a gray metal filing cabinet.

I open the drawers and start going through the folders. The alarm is blaring—a massive distraction, but I try to ignore it and press on. Somewhere in the second drawer, I find the familiar copied pages of the Ix Codex. I check the rest of the drawers for photocopies, and when I'm sure there aren't any, I stuff the pages into my back pocket. My heart is pounding with a mixture of elation and fear.

Then I start on the computer in the other office. It's in standby mode, and flicks back into action when I touch the space bar. I'm in luck—no password protection on the screen saver.

I run a search for all files created in the last week. Then I look thoroughly through the image files. Four of them are scans, made two days ago—the same day the pages were taken from my house. I bring them up on screen. Bingo.

I delete all four images of the codex pages and leave the room. All I need to do now is destroy the original hand-copied pages, and that's it—mission accomplished. No need to worry that Ollie and Madison's group will be able to use any information from the Ix Codex.

In the kitchen, I turn on the gas stove and set fire to the pages, watching them crumble to ash on the stove top. I can hardly believe I've gotten away with this so easily. I'm all set to leave the same way I entered when I realize what an opportunity I'm missing. Her computer is totally accessible! This is my chance—maybe my only chance—to gather information about the enemy.

I can't pass it up. Even the NRO and Montoyo seem to know almost nothing about Madison.

I go back upstairs, the alarm still shrieking like a banshee—but the world outside is oblivious, as I predicted. Back on the computer, I go to her e-mail.

Immediately, I notice e-mails from “Simon.” I read a couple—they're short, telling Ollie where he is (Cambridge, Connecticut, Beirut), making comments about me—obviously responding to things she's been telling him.

But all I can see is the way they're signed.

Love ya baby, S

I feel my skin burning red, while the pit of my stomach turns to ice.

I push myself to look further. No other e-mails from anyone with familiar-sounding names. I read some of the e-mails to and from Tyler. It's pretty standard, friendly stuff. There's lots of speculation about what happened to me in Mexico, how “messed up” I am.

And that makes me wonder if Ollie had Tyler fooled too.
Girls don't usually send a guy that many “hi there” e-mails. For a brief second, I wonder what he'd make of it. Would he feel as bad as I do? I could spend hours just on their e-mails, but I press on.

I look through her folders. No obviously suspicious names. I search for documents opened in the last week.

I find a Word document in the Temporary folder. It looks as though it was received as an e-mail attachment.

It's a list of place names. Maybe towns in Germany, Italy, or Switzerland—Andermatt, Wengen, Morcote, Ticino. Beside each is a sum in euros. It could be a list of vacation homes and their prices, for all I can tell.

The first page is followed by a long list of names, with nationalities. I punch the “Page Down” button a few times. There are pages and pages, hundreds of names from countries on every continent.

It's the letterhead design that really catches my eye. It's a Mayan symbol, or looks like one. Not a glyph made up of syllables, but a logogram—a whole word. I don't remember seeing it before, but then I'm hardly an expert. It looks something like the eye of a storm. I'm staring at it when I hear the front door being opened. By someone in a hurry.

I freeze momentarily, staring in dumb horror at the staircase, waiting to hear someone walk upstairs. The burglar alarm stops; the downstairs lights go on. I hear someone pace toward the kitchen. Then I hear Ollie's voice: “Who's there?”
In half a second, I'm out of the office and into the unused double bedroom, hiding.

There's going to be no easy way to explain my being in her house, alone, window smashed and lights out. My only hope is to stay out of sight until she assumes I've already left, and then go. I glance around the room, hunting for a hiding place. I climb into a wardrobe, among a rack of suits. I breathe slowly, stay perfectly still.

Inside the wardrobe, I can't hear so well. I don't hear Ollie's movements until the bedroom door opens. She can't be taking more than a quick look around, because she closes the door a second later.

Time passes. I wait. In the calm of this moment, it sinks in; what seemed like a paranoid nightmare has come true.

It really was Ollie. But at least Tyler is in the clear.

The minutes tick by. It occurs to me that I've maybe done a stupid thing. In here, I have no idea where Ollie is. She could be anywhere. I can't leave until I know she's safely tucked away in the bathroom or her bedroom. Slowly, slowly, I open the wardrobe door, praying that it won't squeak.

It doesn't.

I step out, then stumble slightly and lose my balance. I manage to land on the bed with a quiet thud. I stay rigidly still, waiting for the inevitable sound of Ollie at the door. But it doesn't come. I stand, creep over to the door, and listen. I hear the faint sound of Ollie's voice. She's talking on the
phone downstairs, quietly. With each passing second, I'm getting more desperate to get out of this house, but I can't risk going downstairs while she's there.

Another hour goes by, at least. I check my watch—8:30 p.m.

Then the front door opens again. I hear the sound of footsteps in the downstairs hallway and then Ollie's voice:“Hi.” There's no answer from the new person. A door closes and I hear the TV switch on.

I bite my lip, wondering what to do. I could risk leaving now, but they might suddenly leave the room. Or I could stay in this room until they go to bed. But that could be hours away. I still need to go home and pack a bag for Ek Naab.

I decide to risk it. I carefully open the door, then tread down the carpeted staircase, keeping my step on the less creaky edges. I reach the front door, try to turn the handle.

Adrenaline spikes inside me and I gasp. The front door is double-locked. I turn around, expecting to see the living room door open.

It doesn't. Cautiously, I pace across the hallway and into the kitchen, toward the back door. I reach it, almost leaping to the handle.

It's also locked. A wave of absolute dread floods me. And just as I knew it would, the living room door opens. Ollie saunters toward me, her expression somewhere between smug and disappointed.

“You didn't expect us to let you just leave?”

We stand facing each other, me frozen with horror, Ollie seemingly calm.

“Look at you, all dressed up,” she remarks, casting her eye up and down. “What did you think you were coming around for, huh?”

I don't answer; instead I'm looking for a way past her. She's blocking the door, but I could take her down with a capoeira move. From there I'd have to make it to the broken window. I get ready to spring into action, when Madison appears behind Ollie. He pushes his way past her, stares at me for a second, his jaw clenched tightly, then throws a punch straight at my face. I drop out of the way and launch a spinning kick, the
armada
, aiming for his face. I feel my heel connect with his head and hear a yell of anger. But when I land, I stop short.

Ollie is aiming a pistol right at my heart.

My eyes go straight to hers. I can't help but look appalled.

“Ollie … I thought you were my friend …”

For just a second I catch the tiniest flash of regret. But as quick as she shows the emotion, she suppresses it.

“Chill out, Josh. The dance-fighting isn't going to get you out of this.”

From behind, I feel a violent kick land hard against my ribs. The air rushes straight out of my lungs. I collapse to the
floor. My arms sweep a container of silverware to the floor as I crash. Knives and forks scatter. I try to grab one, but Madison stamps on my hand, forcing me to scream. Lying on the floor, I gasp uselessly, winded, trying to get my breathing going again.

This time Madison speaks. “Get up.”

It begins to dawn on me just how bad my predicament is. I stand up slowly, sucking in air. Still holding the gun, Ollie pats my pockets, removes both phones. She passes them to Madison. He switches off my normal cell phone and places it on the stove top, among the ashes of the pages from Thompson's house. He doesn't take his eyes off me until he opens the Ek Naab phone.

“Who else knows about Ek Naab?” he asks, in a matter-of-fact way.

I say nothing. Madison smashes the phone down against the sideboard, snaps it in two, then proceeds to bring his heel down on the two halves, until it's reduced to fragments of metal and plastic, the internal chips exposed.

“This time, Josh, they won't find you,” says Madison, with malice. “Now. Where's the new entrance to the city?”