Invisible City (5 page)

He's got only one way out now—the French doors.

I can feel the adrenaline pumping through me as I rush out the front door. I'm around the back just in time to see him
dashing across the backyard, loaded down with a black backpack. I throw myself at him in a flying rugby tackle and get him to the ground.

It's the wrong move. I should have stuck to the capoeira. This time he's prepared for me. On the ground, I'm useless. He lands two punches to my face; I taste blood in my mouth and see stars. While I'm still reeling in a daze, he pushes me off him, starts to get to his feet. I lunge out, grab hold of his balaclava, and yank. It pulls off just as he's moving away. In that second I catch a glimpse of him. He's tall, eyes clear green and almond-shaped, high cheekbones, square jaw. There's a faintly astringent smell—aftershave or hair gel.

I could swear, before he heads off, he actually grins at me.

I'm still dabbing at my bloody nose and cheek with Kleenex when Jackie and the police turn up.

They all look at me with an expression that's kind of embarrassed for me. One bad thing happening to you, that's bad luck. More than once and it's almost like it's your own fault.

Inside the house, everywhere I look, objects are strewn; every drawer, every shelf, every cupboard has been emptied and the contents tossed around. Jackie takes one look at me. She goes straight to the freezer, takes out a bag of frozen peas, and makes me press them to my face.

“Horrible bruising you'll get from that, see if you don't,” she says.

One policeman asks me to go to my room, see what is
missing. I trudge upstairs in a daze. My room is every bit as bad as the rest of the house. The guy's taken my laptop. I'm trying to process what's happened as I trudge back downstairs and tell the police.

Mom's laptop is gone too, and the box for Dad's computer, and a fancy digital camera. “They go for stuff they can get rid of quickly at the pub,” the policeman tells me. “It'll be kids looking for money to buy drugs.”

“It wasn't ‘kids,'” I say, annoyed. “I gave you his description. He was in his late twenties at least. He knew what he was doing.”

The cop gives me a disapproving look. “You shouldn't tackle burglars, son. Not ever. I don't care if you're a black belt. You should consider pressing charges when we catch the perpetrator.”

If
they catch him, is what goes through my mind.

Then he leans in close, says, “Your neighbor seems to think this will be too upsetting for your mother to hear about. In her current condition.”

He leaves out “in the psychiatric hospital.”

I ask, “You think there's a connection?”

“With what?”

“Between my dad's murder and this burglary?”

He looks at me blankly. “I don't see how … but if you're worried, I'll ask Detective Barratt to take a look at the case.”

I nod. “Please.”

“It's not a good idea for you to be in here alone,” says the cop. “Not after this. Sometimes they come back for what they might have missed. Or for what they think you'll replace. Best stay away. Just for a bit.”

He makes it sound sensible, but there's no hiding the fact that within one month I seem to have lost my dad, my mom, and my home. I feel pretty terrible. When it came down to it, I wasn't up to defending what was mine.

“We'll clean it all up, Josh,” says Jackie, laying a friendly hand on my shoulder. I just nod wordlessly. My eyes sting from tears I badly need to hold back.

I don't believe for a second that it's “kids.” I think back to Montoyo's warning to Dad about the Ix Codex.
Those who have sought it have so far disappeared without a trace
.

Yet my dad was murdered, with evidence and everything. Whoever these people are, they're getting sloppy. They're beginning to make mistakes.

Probably because I'm dazed from the punches and my ice-cold bruise, it isn't until much later, as I'm about to leave for Jackie's, that I think to check Dad's study. Is there anything missing other than the computers? I notice a couple of books on the floor, swept off the shelves. By accident? I kneel down to take a look.

The books are some standard textbooks of Mayan archaeology. I pick them up, replace them on the shelf. There's a gap. I scan the titles of the remaining books.

One is missing.

Even before I really think about it, I know which one it will be. Because only one book really matters.

One of the John Lloyd Stephens books—Volume II of the two-book set
Incidents of Travel in Central America, Chiapas, and Yucatan
.

There's a whole story behind those books, one I've never heard all the way through. But the story is magical to us—the books that brought Mom and Dad together, the books that
Dad read as a young boy fascinated with travel, discovery, and adventure. The books that first gave him the archaeology bug—the dream of discovering a lost city of the Maya, just like his hero, the American traveler John Lloyd Stephens, the first “white man” to see some of the Mayan ruins as they lay undisturbed for centuries, gobbled up by the jungle.

Well, Volume II
is
gone. I take a thorough look just in case, but I know, with a sinking feeling in my gut, that the burglar has stolen it. Why? It feels like spite, but I know it can't really be that. Maybe Dad left a note in there? I slump down into his chair, trying to think.

I can't face telling Mom that her book is gone—not on top of everything else. It isn't just a valuable first edition of
Incidents of Travel in Central America, Chiapas, and Yucatan
—it was her first present from my dad, inscribed with the very first romantic note he'd ever written her.

All I can think of is how I can find some way to replace it. Somehow it has to be possible.

Jackie isn't all that surprised when the first thing I do at her apartment is go straight onto the Internet. I go onto some secondhand book Web sites and hunt around for any bookshop that has a copy of that book. There are four or five in Oxfordshire, as it turns out. And one even has a first edition.

I almost laugh when I see the address. It's right here in Oxford—a shop in Jericho.

The next day, after school, I take the bus straight there.
Tyler calls me on my cell phone as I'm riding over Magdalen Bridge.

“I got your text about last night. What happened?”

“I didn't arrange the burglary myself, you know.”

Why does everyone act like it's somehow my fault?

“Yeah, dude, I'm only messing with you. It's just … what's going on with your life?”

“Well … there's some stuff I haven't told you about,” I tell him.

“Like?”

“Stuff about why my dad was murdered. Stuff to do with his work.”

“He's a university professor, isn't he? Who'd kill a teacher?”

“He's an archaeologist,” I say, sighing. “And it's … oh … complicated.”

“What are you doing now?”

“I'm going to Jericho, actually. Looking for a book. Not far from where you live.”

“Can I come with you?”

I meet up with Tyler outside the Phoenix Cinema. The bookshop is close by. I go straight to the owner, tell him I'm the one who sent the message through his Web site. He's put the book aside and fetches it from behind the counter.

It's in good condition, but not mint—not as good as Mom's copy. There's a chance that Mom wouldn't notice if the book
was just spine-out on the shelf. I take it to the corner of the shop and inspect it. Tyler peers over my shoulder.

“Any good?”

I tuck a finger into the flyleaf, check the inside. That's when I see this inscription:

My dearest Arcadio,

Meeting you has been an inspiration. I trust you'll recognize yourself in this book. Many thanks for fascinating times at Chechan Naab and Tikal. JLS, 1843.

JLS?

It couldn't be … John Lloyd Stephens himself? And mentioning Chechan Naab—a place that I can't find any mention of in books about Mayan cities? The date sounds right to be Stephens, but I can't tell anything apart from that.

I show the bookshop owner. Did he know about the inscription?

Smugly he replies, “Yes, it's a hoax, obviously.”

“Why?”

“Well, John Lloyd Stephens didn't know about Tikal. In fact, he describes its location without realizing what he's written. He describes it in this book as a legendary city of the Maya where the Maya are still living—‘a living city.'”

“A place where the Maya were still living? In the nineteenth century?” I ask, puzzled.

“So rumor had it. Of course, Tikal was discovered a few
years later. Abandoned, like every other Mayan city. Stephens was propagating a local myth, nothing more.”

“So …?”

“Well,” the owner says, a bit condescendingly, “he'd hardly write an inscription about Tikal, a city he didn't even know existed, now would he?”

“And what about Chechan Naab?”

“Now that's the other problem,” he says. “There's no such place.”

The bookshop owner is convinced. Turns out he's looked into the whole thing. My guess is that he'd secretly hoped it was signed by Stephens. It would have made the book worth a big chunk of money. But he's happy to sell it for “only” £200.

“Two hundred pounds?” I say, shocked. “You didn't put that on the Web site!”

“I'll take your best offer in the vicinity,” he says.

My “vicinity” isn't even close. I give Tyler a nod and we step outside onto the sidewalk.

“I can't get two hundred pounds,” I tell him in a low voice. “Not unless … unless I take my mom's ATM card.”

“Do you know the PIN?”

“I sort of … do.”

Tyler shrugs. “It's for your mom, isn't it?” he says. “Hardly Grand Theft Auto.”

As we're standing there, a studenty guy in a hoodie pushes past us on his way into the shop. I'm about to say something
but Tyler distracts me. He's right—it's only a loan. Mom would want the book.

I'm looking over Tyler's shoulder when I notice the hoodie guy getting all chatty with the owner. Soon enough they're standing at the cash desk; then a book and money are changing hands.

The owner keeps looking over at me. With a funny look in his eyes, sort of embarrassed.

The hoodie guy didn't have much time to find a book. A horrible thought strikes me. I take a harder look at the student, realize that there's something familiar about him. I didn't see his eyes, only his mouth and jaw.

It's when he comes out of the shop, walks toward us, that I catch a good long look. He's trying to avoid my gaze. I look at the paper bag in his hand.

And that's when I remember where I've seen him before. Those green eyes—unmistakable.

“Get him!” I shout to Tyler, as the guy breaks into a sprint behind us.

“Wha …?”

I'm already turning and charging after the guy. “He's the burglar,” I yell. “And he's just bought the book!”

I get a flying start but Tyler catches up with me in a few seconds.

The burglar is fast. He's up the street and past the movie theater by the time we're even really moving. Before the corner
store he turns left. We're there two seconds later and make the same turn, heading through a gateway and under a brick archway into St. Sepulchre's Cemetery. The burglar dashes past the yew trees, vaults a couple of broken gravestones, and we do the same.

The whole cemetery is surrounded by a massive construction site. There is Sheetrock all the way around. He runs the whole length, trying to find a way through.

We're almost on him when he finds a gap and dives through.

Tyler squeezes through first, then me. On the other side, we're just in time to see the burglar scooting up the road into the backstreets of Jericho.

We chase him, chests all puffed out, follow him into a little square where there's a bridge over the canal. He's on the bridge, giving us one final look as he crosses.

We're on the bridge less than two seconds later. But he's already nowhere to be seen.

On the opposite bank is another stream of the canal. It's parked with houseboats, bumper to bumper. There are a couple of guys fishing. They ignore us.

I stop, bend down, trying to catch my breath. Between gasps, I manage to ask, “Did you see a guy in a hoodie? Carrying a paper bag?”

The fishermen look at me in silence. One of them shakes his head.

“Nah.”

“You must have!”

“Didn't see nothin'.”

Tyler and I exchange a grimace. Our stares fall on the long row of brightly painted houseboats. The guy who robbed my house and swiped that first edition of John Lloyd Stephens is in one of them. I know it. But which?

I grab a handful of long grass in my fist, tear it off, and scatter the shreds in frustration. Tyler watches in sympathy. The one thing I tried to do to help, and I couldn't even pull that off.

How can there be any doubt now? That burglar was looking for clues about the Ix Codex.

Whoever these codex hunters are, they have long arms. I might be thousands of miles away from Mexico, but suddenly I don't feel safe.