Ice Shock(26)

I hesitate. “Where on the river?”

“Don’t worry. When we get close enough, we can locate the phone. Just make sure it’s on you—and turned on!”

“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.”





BLOG ENTRY: PLAN A




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 …





13


“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.