Ice Shock (25 page)

“What do you mean?”

“Well, look around you. Where do you think the money came from to build such a fine town? This place used to receive all the goods from Europe, from Cadiz via Cuba. And from here they'd be taken down the river, to towns in the south of Mexico. It was a thriving port. But that all ended when the railroad came. By the 1960s—when I met Arcadio—it was much as you see now. Not as pretty—they cleaned the town up around ten years ago. No; back then we didn't even have the daily bus of tourists. It really was little more than a ghost town.

“Anyhow, Arcadio and I became friends. It's because of him that I decided to settle here, much later. Because not long after we met, he did something rather extraordinary.”

She stops talking as we reach the door of her house. It's about five blocks from the town center, painted powder blue with white pillars at the front. The entire street backs the river.

Inside, the house is furnished entirely with heavy oak furniture, carved and varnished in the old colonial style. There are plants everywhere—hanging in baskets from the ceiling, on raised metal stands, in chunky glazed pots.

This is too easy. It doesn't make sense. How can this sweet old lady be the secret informer behind the postcards?

On the wall are paintings of fruit, of deserted cobbled streets baking in the afternoon heat, and of the fishing boats at the edge of the River Papaloapan. When Susannah sees Ixchel looking closely at them, she smiles.

“You like art, my dear?”

Ixchel turns to face her, expressionless. “You painted these?”

“Yes, I did. That's what I do now—I'm a painter.”

“Did you ever paint him?” I say. “Arcadio?”

“I tried. He never would let me. He hated to have his photo taken too. I used to laugh at him, tell him that he was just like those Native Americans who believe that the camera captures your spirit. He'd get all grumpy and say that there was a good deal more at stake than his spirit.”

I touch the cool whitewashed plaster of the walls, thinking.

What if this has nothing to do with my father? What if it's a trap?

Susannah perches on the long sofa in front of a glass coffee table. We do the same. I guess Susannah's about to launch into her tale of this extraordinary thing that Arcadio did, when Ixchel says, abruptly, “So, why did he tell you to send those postcards?” Susannah turns to her in surprise, as if she's a little disappointed.

“Well, my dear, I don't
know
why. I didn't even know who Josh and Eleanor Garcia were until I met you both today.”

“I'm not Eleanor,” Ixchel says. It's the second time I notice a sharp edge to her voice.

Susannah raises an eyebrow. “Well, I didn't want to mention it. But you don't really look like brother and sister.”

“Eleanor is my mother,” I say. “And I've never heard her mention a relative named Arcadio. My grandfather was Aureliano.”

“You already said that, dear,” Susannah says mildly. “But Arcadio's instructions were pretty mysterious from the beginning. To start with, there was just a package. It said
To be opened on April fifth, 1968
. Now, can you imagine? To be given a package like that, in 1965? I thought it a wonderful joke. Until the day arrived, of course.”

Her expression becomes solemn. “The date doesn't mean anything to you?”

We both shrug, which earns a disappointed sigh from Susannah.

“It's the day after Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated, of course. So, imagine my astonishment when I opened the package to discover two more envelopes. And a letter.”

She opens a drawer in the coffee table, takes out a yellowed sheet of paper, and begins to read from it. The letter is covered with scratchy handwriting, barely legible—to me, at least. I can't help but notice that there's another sheet of the same paper still in the drawer, also covered in the same handwriting.

“
Dearest Susannah,

“Yesterday, Dr. Martin Luther King died after being shot on the balcony of the Lorraine Motel in Memphis, Tennessee
.

“I chose this date because it was necessary for me to prove to you that I have a way of knowing about events in the future. I often cannot use this knowledge to prevent events as terrible as this
.

“But there are a very few in which I am able to intervene. It's crucial that you believe me. Because I'm going to ask you to do something that could be important to the whole world
.

“I beg you to follow my instructions precisely. In the envelope labeled ‘Postcards,' you will find eight postcards. Each card is written, addressed, and dated. All you need to do is buy stamps and send the postcards on the dates written on each card
.

“Please deliver the second envelope directly into the hands of a British teenager, Josh Garcia, aged fourteen, whom you will meet in the corner café in Plaza Hidalgo, Tlacotalpan, where you and I first met
.

“Josh will be accompanied by a young lady of similar age. They will meet you around midday one day in the month when you start sending the postcards. They will not know you nor be expecting to meet you
.

“Please be kind enough to explain to them how you have followed my instructions and then present Josh with the second envelope. Please be sure to see that he DOES NOT
open the envelope in your house but instead folds it and places it in his front pants pocket
.”

Susannah puts the letter down on her lap and looks from me to Ixchel.

“So, youngsters. Does this mean anything to you?”

Ixchel shrugs, eyes wide with wonder. I watch her closely—she seems genuinely to have no idea. Susannah notices that I don't look quite as baffled.

“Josh, what do you say about all this? I'm getting the feeling that you're not altogether surprised.”

“It's not that … ,” I begin, but Ixchel's already eyeing me with suspicion. “It's more that—I have some idea who Arcadio might be.”

Susannah says, “Like I said—your grandfather?”

“When did you last see Arcadio?”

“1967.”

“Then … I don't know … maybe. It could be. I don't know why he'd change his name. He died forty years ago, roughly, but I don't know exactly what year. It could be him.”

But I'm thinking of another possibility. Just the idea that I may have found proof for Montoyo's crazy-sounding theory makes my skin tingle with electricity.

Arcadio had to be someone who would know about the future and the past. Someone who could write in English. The kind of guy who could easily pass himself off as a historian.

The more I think of it, the more excited I get. It would explain the mysterious note from “Arcadio” to John Lloyd Stephens in the book we found in that shop. The shopkeeper said that “Arcadio” couldn't possibly have heard of Tikal in 1843, because the Mayan city hadn't been discovered.

But if Arcadio was a time traveler from the future
…

Ixchel points at the other sheet of paper in the drawer. “Is that the next page?”

Susannah shuts the drawer with a snap. Her eyes register annoyance, but she keeps her voice soft. “The second page, my dears, is of no concern to either of you. It's a private message from Arcadio to me.”

“And the second envelope?”

“The second envelope, of course, I keep in the safe. Now, I'll ask you both to excuse me while I go upstairs to get it.”

As Susannah disappears up the marble staircase, I turn to Ixchel. Her hair, swept back in that neat ponytail, gives her an air of smugness that I'm only now noticing.

“What's up with you?”

Ixchel frowns.

“You're being weird,” I continue. “Don't you like her?”

“It's not that,” Ixchel says. “But this is all so … bizarre. Being
here
. Her. The way she seems to think she knows your family. Is this what you expected?”

I have to admit honestly that it isn't.

Susannah returns with a long white envelope. On the front, in capital letters, is written:

FOR JOSH GARCIA—DO NOT OPEN UNTIL YOU LEAVE TOWN.

She hands it to me with just a hint of hesitation.

“This is yours, I believe.” I take it from her hands, watching as her eyes glaze over with sadness, glistening with tears. She sniffs, pulls out a Kleenex from a pocket in her dress, and presses the tissue to her eyes. “Mercy, I didn't expect this.” She tries to smile, which seems quite an effort. “Kids, I'm sorry. Guess it's been a long wait. It's just a little sad to let go of this famous message, this message I've waited most of my life to deliver.”

My fingers play with the envelope, resisting the urge to tear it open.

“Now fold it,” Susannah says with a nod, blowing her nose. “And put it into your front pocket. That's it.”

There's a knock at the door. Susannah looks surprised.

“Seems a little early for the bridge club.” She walks toward the door.

Ixchel and I stare at each other. Ixchel whispers, “How did ‘Arcadio' know you would even exist? How can he predict the future? Is he some sort of prophet?”

It's tough not to be able to talk about what Montoyo and I discussed about the Ix Codex. I feel like it's getting to be too much to ask of Ixchel, to keep her so much in the dark. But
how can I even suggest time travel without talking about the Ix Codex?

From the entrance hall, we hear Susannah talking softly in Spanish. She keeps saying “Yes, Father,” and “Well, of course, Father, I'd be delighted to help.” And in between, there's a man speaking Spanish in a low, rapid voice. I put a finger to my lips, signaling to Ixchel to be quiet. I grab her hand and sidle cautiously toward the opposite end of the room, where french doors open onto a tiny walled garden, walls of deep blue lined with pink bougainvillea. The garden is no more than two yards across. Opposite is a carved oak door.

“What is it?” Ixchel whispers.

“I'm not sure,” I say. “Something feels wrong.”

I try the handle of the french door. It's open, sliding smoothly on oiled runners.

Susannah and the man at the door are coming into the main part of the house. At first glance, I'm relieved—it's only the Dominican priest we saw in the central plaza. But the second he yanks his sunglasses off, I stop being distracted by the white-and-black habit.

Facing me, with a hard gaze of triumph, is Simon Madison.

I don't stop to return Madison's stare, or to answer Susannah's astonished cry of “Hey! What's going on?!” I don't think for a millisecond about fighting him. Grabbing Ixchel, I'm through the open door, across the patio, and through the oak door in the garden wall.

Susannah tries to stop him, but Madison grabs her arm and flings her aside. But she delays him for a few, crucial seconds. We spill out into the street, another cobbled alleyway just as empty as the last. Running, I hunt desperately for anywhere we could hide. There's nothing in this street, so I make a sharp turn into a crossing alleyway. Ahead I see a handwritten sign outside one of the houses: MINI-ZOOLOGICO DE TLACOTALPAN.

And more importantly, an open door. We dive in. There's no way Madison could have seen us yet—he hasn't made it to the intersection in Susannah's street.

Ixchel and I bolt into the house. We dash through corridors
lined with faded photos, handicrafts, rifles, old military uniforms; the tiny museum all passes in a blur.

And then we're in a huge patio crammed with low palm trees. Creeping plants cut out the sunlight, casting a forest gloom. On the right-hand side is a collection of cages, like you'd find at a zoo. From somewhere in the dense foliage of the trees, parrots squawk. An enormous golden eagle peers down at us from a perch on the roof, where it looms, wings tightly folded. A stork wanders right up to me, looks me up and down. For a second I think it's about to peck at my hands.

Ixchel and I cast glances around. Looking for another way out.

A white-haired old man comes ambling in. He's dressed in a loose white guayabera shirt and wears a tatty straw hat. He stops next to the stork, staring at the two of us as he puffs on a cigar.

“Enjoying the mini-zoo?” he asks, in lilting Spanish.

“We just got here,” I tell him. I'm still a little out of breath.

The old gent shakes his head regretfully. “Doesn't seem like a good idea to me. There's a young fella in the house, just got here. A priest. Looks innocent enough, oh yes. But he's no priest—he's a bad 'un; I can tell. I can sniff 'em out, see. Trapping animals gives you a nose for the wrong 'uns. I'd sooner tackle one of my crocodiles than one like him. And crocodiles can be mighty tricky.”

My hand unconsciously goes to my jeans, where I've stashed the Adapter. The old man's beady eyes don't miss a
thing. He glances down at my hand and says, “You've got what he's come for? Or is it you he's after?”

Then he leans forward and whispers, “The back door is open.” He nods his head. Barely visible behind a tangle of vines is a white door. “It leads to the riverbank. A few houses to the right, there's a boat. Now go!”

We bolt toward the door. But it's too late.

“Okay, far enough,” comes Madison's voice. In cold horror, I gaze over the old man's shoulder to see Madison emerging from the house.

Pointing a gun.

“Move aside, Pops. You don't want to take a bullet for this loser, I guarantee it.”

The old man doesn't budge. Instead he whispers, “He's right behind me, yes?” I nod. Then, without warning, the old man gives a loud cry like a bird's caw.

“
Justiiiiiicio!
”

Madison is too astounded to react when the monstrous golden eagle swoops down on him. Wings beating wildly, it pecks at his face. Madison has no time to shoot, not when he needs both arms to protect his eyes.