“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.”