Rodrigo’s eyes narrowed. “Like what?”
I wanted to tell him, but I didn’t. The words just wouldn’t come. Where would I begin? Show off my phone from Ek Naab? It looks strange enough, not much like a normal cell phone. But I didn’t. I can’t even imagine where that would lead.
Sitting at my desk at three in the morning, I wonder if I should call Montoyo.
“Call anytime you feel you need to talk about what happened,” he told me when I called to say I’d arrived back in Oxford, “or that you’re worried about something … or if you change your mind about coming back to us.”
Truth is, though, I want to get a little further into this. Montoyo and the others in Ek Naab would be really impressed if I brought back something more concrete than a rumor.
How hard could it be to do this myself? I found the Ix Codex, after all. And that was miles away from Ek Naab. Saffron Walden is only a couple of bus rides away.
And I wasn’t fibbing about where Dad and those agents from the National Reconnaissance Office went in Saffron Walden. It’s obvious; they went to that archaeologist’s house—J. Eric Thompson. The same place where my grandfather Aureliano went forty years ago.
I think back to the day Montoyo told me the history of my grandfather, the last Bakab Ix in Ek Naab. He was the one who finally tracked down the missing Ix Codex—one of the four ancient Books of Itzamna. It turned up in an archaeologist’s cottage in an English village. If it hadn’t been for Aureliano’s asthma attack on his way back to Ek Naab, they’d have had their precious Ix Codex back years ago. Me, my dad—we’d never have found out that we were both “Bakabs”—protectors of the Books of Itzamna.
My dad would still be alive.
I pick up my dad’s copy of Thompson’s The Rise and Fall of Maya Civilization, open it to the acknowledgments page. Thompson ends with his address: “Yale,” Ashdon, Saffron Walden.
A house named “Yale” in a tiny little village like Ashdon—shouldn’t be hard to find. I return to bed, already putting together a plan.
The next morning is Saturday. Despite the insomnia, I still wake up at seven thirty, same as any other day. I can hear that Mom is already downstairs, washing dishes as though nothing has happened.
I make myself a stack of toast and jam, a mug of tea, and sit down opposite Mom, watching her bustle.
It’s not a good sign when she bustles this early. Something’s brewing, that’s for sure.
And here it comes …
She turns around, breathes a deep sigh, leans against the sink, and stares at me.
“I can’t take this anymore.”
I try to look clueless.
“You. Me. What’s happened to us. I know you’re hitting your teens now, but honestly …”
“What … ?”
“Is it really necessary to be so uncommunicative? It’s been clear to me since you came back from Mexico that you know something about your father’s death. Something you aren’t sharing with me. Maybe something you’re not even sharing with the police. I’ve gone beyond caring what it does to me. I have to know what you know.”
Whoa. Sounds as if that’s been brewing for a while.
I hang my head for a second, wondering what I can say to get out of it. Nothing. I don’t want to, either. I want to tell her everything.
But slowly. Carefully.
“Sit down.”
She gives me this slightly surprised look and sits.
“When I was questioned by those NRO guys—the agents from the National Reconnaissance Office—I got the impression that they’d seen Dad before he died.”
“Got the impression … ? Josh—just give me facts.”
“They asked me a lot of questions. About Dad, what he was doing, what he was searching for, who he knew. Why ask all that? They didn’t seem interested in the plane crash at all. Why not? Only about things he did in Oxford before leaving and things he’s done in Mexico.”
Mom looks puzzled. “I thought they interrogated you about your abduction.”
“Well, that too.”
“Josh … were you abducted?”
A long pause. “Not exactly. I was in a sort of spaceship thing, but it wasn’t against my will …”
I don’t get any further. Mom just rolls her eyes. “Oh, Josh, you’re not still going on about the spaceships? I don’t believe this.”
So there it is. I could cry with frustration, but instead I feel myself freezing up again. “All right, all right! Maybe it’s best if we don’t talk about that. Just about Dad.”
Mom stops talking, looks at me carefully.
“It wasn’t just me they asked about Dad. They interrogated Tyler and Ollie too.”