Invisible City (4 page)

I've been staying next door at Jackie's while Mom's in the hospital. After dinner, I go through Dad's e-mails on the home computer. There are no suspicious e-mails from any Mexican-sounding ladies. So either he's innocent or else he's smart enough to set up a secret e-mail account.

I check the history of his Web browser. No record of any other e-mail accounts. So either he's innocent or else he's smart enough to delete his history files.

I go back to the e-mails and read through the last few he's sent or received. That's when I find something interesting about Dad's plans for those missing days in June.

And it has nothing to do with an affair.

The day before he left Oxford, Dad e-mailed a Dr. Marius Martineau of the Peabody Museum of Archaeology and Ethnology in the U.S. It was the last e-mail he sent.

Dear Dr. Martineau,

A manuscript that has come into my possession leads me to believe that there may be some truth in rumors of the existence of a fifth codex of the Maya. The manuscript appears to be a part of a letter from a Maya citizen of Cancuén to the Ruler of Calakmul. This “Calakmul letter” is
dated 653 AD. It speaks quite clearly of a book named the Ix Codex, a book it describes as a kind of Mayan Book of Revelations—about the end of the world in 2012.

I gather you have a formidable collection of rare inscriptions taken from stelae in the Rio Bec region. Have you come across any inscriptions from the city of Calakmul that might shed light on such a story?

Perhaps we could meet between June 12–20? I plan to be in Mexico for several days following a trip to the ruins at Cancuén.

Regards,

Andres Garcia

The reply from Martineau came in the same day.

Dear Dr. Garcia,

A “fifth” codex, prophecies about the “end of the world” on December 22, 2012 …? If I listened to every crackpot idea I heard in this field, I'd be too busy joining a cult to get any work done.

You say the document is dated 653 AD? That sounds suspicious. All surviving codices date from the fifteenth century.

I think you've got a fake on your hands. They can be
quite convincing—I've seen the Prague Codex and it might well have fooled me.

I'm pretty busy at the minute. I'm sorry, but I don't really have the time for something that looks this controversial. Maybe someone else can help out with authenticating it?

Sincerely,

Marius Martineau

My pulse races as I read the dates in Dad's e-mail: June 12–20. So he left Cancuén exactly as planned. Did he fly somewhere to meet with Martineau after all? Martineau's e-mail seems pretty indifferent—which suggests that they didn't meet. I move on and read the second-to-last e-mail Dad sent—two days before he left Oxford.

Dear Dr. Montoyo,

I wonder if you remember meeting me at Palenque Round Table last year? I have recently come across a fragment of a Mayan manuscript. It appears to be part of a letter written to the ruler of Calakmul. This “Calakmul letter” speaks of a Mayan book named the Ix Codex. The letter also mentions two Mayan cities—Chechan Naab and Ek Naab. I've never heard of these cities, nor have I been able to find any references to them in
the literature. That in itself is pretty strange, don't you agree?

I remember that you told me you'd recently been leading a project to translate new inscriptions from Calakmul. Have you come across cities named Chechan Naab or Ek Naab? Or ever heard of the Ix Codex? If you can offer any help, I'd be more than happy to work together on this project. I'll be in Mexico later this month, June 12–20. Perhaps we can meet?

Regards,

Andres Garcia

When I look through the reply, my heart begins to pound. This is it. There
is
more to this Ix Codex than meets the eye.

Dr. Garcia,

Indeed, I do remember our meeting. I feel I must warn you that you are headed down a dangerous path. The existence of the I* Code* is a rumor that has persisted in some disreputable circles for many years. I speak of various dubious practitioners of the occult. I never thought to hear about the codex from a renowned archaeologist such as you. Those who have sought it have so far disappeared without a trace.

Please take note that I do not even include the name in this e-mail. If you value your safety, you will not search for that term on the Web or include it in an e-mail again. Web searches and e-mails are routinely monitored by organizations whose interest in the I* Code* might surprise you.

I cannot say more except in person. I will find you during your visit to Mexico. It is best if we don't make a firm appointment.

Regards,

Carlos Montoyo

Without even thinking, I hit the reply button and type a quick message to Montoyo:

Dear Dr. Montoyo,

I am the son of Andres Garcia. Maybe you heard the news that my father died in an airplane crash in June. I read your e-mail to him. Did you and my father actually meet? I have some questions about his research. It would be great if you could help.

Yours,

Josh Garcia

My eyes flick back to the top of Montoyo's e-mail; when had it been sent? The reply came through the very morning Dad left. And it
had
been read. Dad went on his trip knowing that this wasn't just an exciting hunt for a valuable piece of Mayan history. He'd stumbled across something else, something that could attract the wrong kind of attention.

But was it the kind of attention that could get him killed? And would the killers take the trouble to frame someone else for the murder?

All I am sure of is this: I've found another possible motive for Dad's murder. Not a jealous husband, but a search for a historical treasure. A search that led my father on a one-way trip—deep into the Mayan heart of darkness.

I am NOT even joking. Seriously, my dad was involved in some major stuff. I just found evidence (not going to give details) that he found some Mayan inscription that might lead to one of the rarest finds in Mayan archaeology. A long-lost book, or codex, with a Mayan prophecy about the end of the world—in 2012!

Looks like I might have to learn how to decipher Mayan writing.

Comment (1) from TopShopPrincess

Okay, now you've got me thinking you're making this up. Are you a big fat liar, Josh?

Reply

What's it going to take to convince you? Want to come down to the library with me to do some research? I live in Oxford, by the way.

Comment (2) from TopShopPrincess

Very funny, LOL. I'm sixteen. A bit old for you, Josh, if that's what you're thinking. But I live in Oxford too. What a strange coincidence!

Reply

Huh? I didn't mean it that way. But it is weird that you live here too.

I get right on it the very next day. There are clues in Dad's e-mails. I'm no expert on Mayan history, but Dad's study in our house is chock-full of books. So I read up on the ancient Mayan civilization.

When I was a little kid, we'd spend long summers in Mexico, usually around the site of one of Dad's excavations. The names have all faded into a blur now. Truth is, I didn't pay much attention to where we were. It was all pretty much the same: ruined temples, jungles, tents, and trying to find enough flat land for a game of soccer with the local village kids.

I didn't pay attention to the archaeology. Which now I kind of regret.

I've never heard of any of the Mayan cities mentioned in Dad's e-mails—Cancuén, Calakmul, Ek Naab, Chechan Naab. So, I look them up in Dad's books. Cancuén is in Guatemala—a Central American country next to Mexico. Calakmul is in southern Mexico—Campeche state.

Close to where Dad's plane crashed.

Cancuén and Calakmul were important cities of the Mayan kingdom. Calakmul had this powerful ruler once, a guy called Yuknoom Ch'een. He was on the throne for ages.

But I find nothing about Ek Naab, nor Chechan Naab.

I find an online Mayan dictionary. It's cool—even has a little button you can press to hear the Mayan words spoken. Ek Naab translates as “dark water.” Chechan Naab translates as “knotted snake water.”

I'm playing around on that Web site when the doorbell rings. It's been quiet lately—for obvious reasons I haven't felt very sociable. Outside the door is Tyler Marks, a guy I recognize from capoeira—my Brazilian martial arts class.

“We thought you were dead,” he says with a big grin.

“Not me,” I say, deadpan. “My dad.”

That rips away his smile. “God, Josh, I'm really sorry. I didn't know. You didn't show up. We wondered if you'd lost interest.”

“Sort of, yeah. I've got other stuff to do.”

“Like what?”

“Just … stuff.”

“You and me both,” Tyler says. “But you should still practice.”

“Hmm.”

We share an uncomfortable silence.

“What did your dad die of?”

“Of murder.”

“You're kidding!”

“No.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah.”

We stare at each other, saying nothing. But he doesn't leave.

“Thing is, Josh, there's a talent scout coming in from London. Picking guys for a British team to go to Brazil. Mestre Ricardo says they're looking to pick one person from Oxford.”

“Fine,” I reply.

“It can be you.”

Tyler looks disappointed. “They have to see me in action. Against someone of similar skill.”

I get it—he wants me to make him look good. “What do you want?”

Tyler's brown face cracks into a gleaming white smile. “Just come to class a couple of times over the next few weeks. Then when this scout comes in September, I can put on a show.”

I scratch my head. “I'm out of shape.”

“Come on. Do you good.”

“You'll owe me.”

“Hey, man, name your price.”

I sigh. “Okay, you win.” I grab my skateboard. “But sooner or later, it'll be payback time.”

So, down at the gym, we spar. Capoeira has all these pretty special rituals, so I wear the white
abada
clothes, I join in with the songs, but inside I'm strangely detached. We sing in
Portuguese, the old songs of slaves striving to keep body and soul together. We flex our muscles against each other, aiming for graceful mock combat.

Thousands of miles away, a deteriorating corpse awaits burial. Nearby, an innocent man languishes in prison for a murder he didn't commit. These thoughts don't leave me for a minute, even as I retaliate against Tyler's cartwheel attacks. I'm drawn to those steamy jungle towns with their mysterious-sounding names. Chechan Naab and Ek Naab.

Why are there no references to them in any books? Or on the Web?

Are they lost cities, like the ones in the movies where Indiana Jones found the Ark of the Covenant and the Holy Grail? Was my dad looking for some incredible, ancient relic with the power to change the world?

Well, now even I begin to think I'm cooking up some crazy fantasy. But I can't help it. Dad was involved in something heavy. I'm sure enough of that.

After the capoeira, we hang out together at Tyler's playing Xbox. Tyler talks nonstop about girls he thinks like him. I don't say much, just listen. I don't have those kinds of stories to tell, unfortunately.

It's still warm and sunny as I'm walking back to Jackie's. I'm through the gate when I notice something odd.

The curtains in our apartment are drawn—every last one.

I know I didn't close them. I guess that it must have been
Jackie. I'm about to go over and ask why she's been in our apartment, when I hear the sound of an upstairs door closing.

The noise comes from inside my apartment.

I take my key and open the front door. I'm still only slightly puzzled. I step inside and call out, “Hey, Jackie, I'm back.”

There's no answer. I stand absolutely still, listening.

And that's the first time it strikes me that something is really wrong.

There's someone upstairs and it isn't Jackie.

I'm looking around for a weapon when a guy in a balaclava comes hurtling down the stairs like a hurricane. He vaults over the banister and lands right next to me, swings out with a punch. My reflexes are better than I'd guessed because without even thinking, I duck. He narrowly misses my head. With all that momentum, he overbalances and stumbles. I'm in a
ginga
stance right away and aim a
pontiera
—a high front kick at his chest. It lands squarely—he's knocked back. I follow it up with a
chapa baixa
, landing a hard kick to his knee. He staggers into the back room. He tries to slam the door closed but I jam my foot in the door. Big mistake. He crushes the door hard against my trapped foot until I scream and pull the foot free. Again he slams the door—this time it snaps shut. I try to shoulder-barge it but it's no use—he's got something up against the knob.