Invisible City (10 page)

“Don't remind me.”

And then Ollie hits me with her own bombshell.

“I'm coming with you,” she announces, with not a hint of a request. “Sounds to me like you could use the moral support.”

“What a pal you are.” I'm surprised, but thrilled, and I don't try to hide it. “You're serious? I mean—you hardly know me.”

“It's true. It doesn't feel like that, though, does it?”

I'm relieved to hear her say that. It's exactly what I think—but I didn't dare believe that Ollie thought so too.

“You'll need to ask your parents, though, won't you?”

Ollie waves a hand. “That's nothing. They're always bugging me to travel. They traveled all the time when they were young. We can get them to buy the tickets for us over the Web, in fact.”

I'm secretly relieved that I won't have to use my mom's credit card.

“Really? They sound so cool!”

“Yeah, they're okay,” Ollie says, and she looks away, almost uninterested. Her eyes come to rest on Tyler. “Mind you, it could be dangerous.”

“No way to know what's gonna go down,” I agree. “What about bringing Tyler along too? Capoeira moves can be wicked deadly, you know.”

Ollie raises an eyebrow. “‘Wicked deadly'? Maybe we
should
invite Tyler along.”

“Let's do it.”

And with Ollie's power of persuasion, the summer horizon opens up. The three of us are off to Mexico, to crack open the mystery of my father's murder, the identity of his Chetumal Lady, and maybe even to find the Ix Codex. With my two friends with me, I feel like anything is possible now.

Well, I should have dragged Mom along. It's too great here, definitely beats summer in England. Sunny, bright blue skies, and HOT! I almost feel like relaxing, just hitting the pool. But … there's work to be done.

Hotel Delfin (Dolphin Hotel) in Chetumal is a little white hotel in a
small seaside town. The beach here is made from dredged-up sand. It's nothing to write home about, but works fine as a home base: a starting point for anyone who wants to explore beyond the mega-famous Mayan ruins at Chichén Itzá.

We flew into Chetumal after a connecting flight from Mexico City. It's only the second time in my life I've flown without my parents. The first time I was ten, and had to be accompanied by a flight attendant the whole time, along with the other little kids. This time, because Ollie is sixteen, they let us travel with her.

I'm still the expert of the team, though. For one thing, I'm the only one of us who speaks Spanish. I really enjoyed showing Ollie and Tyler around the Mexico City airport, where I've been almost every year since I can remember. I made sure to pick up Cinnabons before we boarded the domestic flight to Chetumal.

Ollie and Tyler admitted that the warm, juicy, cream-cheese-frosted Cinnabons were the best pastries they've eaten, ever.

The hotel is on a main road, roughly a hundred yards from the beach. The lobby is small, marble-floored, and barely has room for the reception counter and a small set of upholstered rattan furniture where people can wait. A ceiling fan moves the warm air around uselessly.

When we arrived, the place was deserted—we had to ring the bell for attention. A cramped little room off the lobby serves as the “Internet Café”—it's where I am right now. In an alcove next to the reception area there's an ice machine and a drink machine selling Fresca and Welch's. Grape soda—yum!

When I checked in, the receptionist (name badge said “Paco”) lingered over my passport. “Are you related to Dr. Andres Garcia, also from Oxford?”

It's not a big town, few enough places to choose from. Turns out that I'd chosen the same hotel as my father. Paco was amused by the coincidence, but it didn't strike me as so unusual.

You don't find many Mexicans at the Hotel Delfin. It's mostly ecotourists who want to hug trees in the rainforest, or tourists on the “Maya Route.” There's something of an effort to provide a slightly “hipster” atmosphere—piped jazz music in the central courtyard around the pool and scattered gardenia petals floating on its clear blue water.

I can see why my dad chose it.

The hipster feel of Hotel Delfin isn't lost on Ollie. She smiles, amused, as we stand in the courtyard, taking a good look around.

“Stan Getz,” she says approvingly. “Nice.”

Back in our room, Tyler and I change into our trunks. I sit down to phone Detective Rojas, the Mexican police officer in charge of the murder investigation. Before we left Oxford, I managed to get through to the police station in Chetumal, trying to get hold of a name and address for Chetumal Lady. They weren't willing to give out that information over the phone. “But phone Detective Rojas the minute you arrive in Chetumal. He will come to your hotel and take you to meet her. This is safest for you, for her.”

I've got my UK cell phone, but the local Mexican call will cost me a small fortune if I use it. So I head for the lobby, to call from a pay phone, when Tyler stops me.

He scowls. “Wait a while, okay? We need to cool off. Let's hang out first.”

I hesitate. He has a point. It's late; Rojas has probably gone home. The call can wait until tomorrow.

So we head for the pool, to enjoy the late-afternoon sun. Ollie emerges minutes later from her room. She's changed into a pink sarong with matching bikini. She stands close to Tyler, dropping chunks of ice into tall glasses of fizzy grapefruit Fresca.

I leap into the pool and Tyler follows, landing on top of me. We begin to wrestle, glad to release some of the tension of the past couple of days. Ollie lowers herself gracefully into the water, where she watches us with a lazy gaze.

“Why don't you two practice your capoeira?”

We stop grappling for a minute. Tyler eyes me expectantly. “How about it? I'm up for it if you are.”

“Or …,” I say, “or we could order cheeseburgers with fries, and chocolate fudge sundaes, and eat them by the pool.”

Tyler groans with delight. “You're so right. What are you waiting for? Call a waiter!”

“Cheeseburgers, yuck,” Ollie says, wrinkling her nose. Then she perks up. “I'll just have a piña colada.”

Everyone's happy when I take their orders to the bar. Tyler's standing with his back to me when I stroll back, and I can't resist shoving him into the pool. He topples and lands with a spectacular splash. Ollie's soaked but she's laughing too much to care. For a second I wish we were just here to hang out by the beach and take in the sights. Why didn't I ever think of
bringing friends to Mexico before? It would have made things so much more fun.

We're interrupted by a hassled-looking hotel porter who leans out of the lobby. He shouts in Spanish, “Someone's looking for an English boy named Josh Garcia.”

I pull myself out of the water. I'm thinking that, somehow, it has to be Detective Rojas. But when a young woman strolls into the courtyard, I just sense it: this is Chetumal Lady.

She's dressed in tight, white, low-rise Gap jeans with a jeweled belt and a skimpy lime green top that shows off a thin, deeply tanned, toned body. She walks effortlessly on high-heeled gold sandals. Her deep chestnut hair is long and sleek. She reminds me of a movie star.

She stops in front of me, pushes back her wide, tinted sunglasses.

“Joshua Garcia, right? I'm Camila,” she says in Spanish. “Man, but I can read you like a book! The same hotel as Andres? C'mon up here and give me a kiss.”

For a minute I just stand motionless, dripping, exchanging shocked looks with Tyler and Ollie.

I reply in Spanish with the line I've been thinking about for weeks.

“So you're the woman who ruined my parents' lives.”

The reaction isn't what I expected.

“Don't tell me you're buying the same garbage the police
are saying,” she snorts. “Thought a guy like you would have more sense. Don't you know Dad?”

“Dad …?”

“That's right, hotshot. He's my father, too. So what if he hadn't got around to telling you and your mother about it. He was only a teenager. It doesn't make him the world's worst villain.”

“He's your dad too?” I echo. “You're my sister?”

She grins. “Now you're getting it. That's right, baby brother. So how about that kiss?”

She takes another step toward me and plants a kiss on my cheek. “Oops,” she says. “You got some lipstick there.” I'm frozen, too surprised to react as she carefully wipes my cheek with her thumb.

Then she looks at me, and for a few seconds we just stare into each other's faces. That's when I know she's telling the truth. No doubt about it—my dad's eyes are gazing out at me.

I have a half sister.

Nothing has prepared me for this. It is something I hadn't suspected, even in the tiniest corner of my mind. I just stare at her in dumb shock.

“You feel it too?” she asks with a rueful smile. “It's like some weird kind of mirror, isn't it? A mirror of feeling, of sensation. That sense of being split in two. The very same thing happened to me when I first met Andres.”

I'm on the edge of understanding what she means. In her
face, I see tiny aspects of myself, of my father. When she touches me I catch a scent of something familiar.

“Look at you,” she murmurs. “What a cutie!” She stretches her hand across her face, just touching the tip of her nose. “From here down to your chin, you're Andres.”

“You've got his eyes,” I admit.

“Yep, I did okay there,” she says with a grin.

“Mom knew he was pretty handsome,” I tell her. “It's why she was so sure the stories about Dad having a girlfriend here were true.”

She wrinkles her nose. “She did? Unbelievable. You can see why the people around here went for it—they love a juicy scandal. And since I'd never told anyone who Dad was, of course they gobbled it up. Kind of thought you'd know better.”

Of course
I
had. But her words feel like an accusation. I don't like to hear my mom criticized.

“What did you expect? If you go around keeping a secret, having mysterious meetings with an older, married guy …?”

“Hey, the secrecy was all his idea,” she says, with just a flash of anger. “He kept insisting he'd tell you both when the time was right.”

I scowl. She notices and touches my arm. “Come on now. Our father, he was all about the archaeology. Well, that, and you and Eleanor.”

“Really?”

“Sure. He talked a blue streak about the two of you. And
the plans he made! How he was going to tell you about me, how I'd go to Oxford to meet you all, how you and I would become best buddies. How you'd always wanted a big sister.”

I tell her, “I used to want a big brother.”

“Well, bad luck, kiddo. Better learn to make do with me.”

By now Ollie and Tyler are out of the pool. They look faintly dazed. My sister suddenly seems to become aware of their presence.

“You gonna introduce me to your buddies?” she says, switching into a heavily accented English.

“Maybe you should introduce yourself to us first,” says Ollie. “After all—Josh doesn't exactly know who you are, does he?”

“They don't speak Spanish,” I tell my sister. “I'll tell them later what you just said.”

“My name is Camila Pastor,” she says to Ollie, “and I'm the daughter of Andres Garcia.”

“Which makes her my half sister,” I tell the others.

“And that's your story, is it?” continues Ollie. Now there's no mistaking her hostility. Camila gives a tiny shrug, turns her full attention on Ollie, looking her up and down. Ollie's taller, prettier, but Camila's attitude is out of Ollie's league.

“That's right, sweetie.”

Ollie says, “And you believe her, do you, Josh?”

I'm stuck for words. It hasn't even occurred to me to doubt
it. I can't explain that kind of chemistry—the sisterly-cousinly-motherly thing you feel when you touch a female family member. Camila reeks of it. I can't believe it isn't obvious.

Camila beams Ollie a kind smile. “Sweetie, it's nice to see you're so keen on protecting my baby brother. I know he believes me. We recognize each other, see? I don't expect you to understand. As it happens, though, I have proof.”

Tyler asks, “What proof?”

“The Mayan manuscript—the Calakmul letter. You've got half of it. I'm right, aren't I? You've got the first half. I've got the second.”

Ollie stares at Camila, and a smile suddenly appears on her lips. She looks surprised and delighted. Slowly, Ollie says, “You've got the other half of the Calakmul letter?”