Ice Shock(92)

I smile to myself. I guess our flyby of the dreaming spires of Oxford really impressed him.

Ixchel continues. “Maybe so you can investigate the Sect?”

“Maybe,” I agree. But I can’t help wondering, would Montoyo do that? Actually let me do something risky?

“But Montoyo and Benicio—they don’t know you have the Bracelet.” Ixchel gives me a wary look. “Do they?”

I stare back. “No.”

There’s a long pause before her next words. Like she’s really not sure whether to speak up or not. “Have you thought about what your father said … about burned out?”

Actually, I have. But I don’t respond, instead watching Ixchel closely. “I’ve had a lot of things on my mind … ,” I say evasively. “But obviously you have.”

Ixchel’s eyes gaze almost imploringly into mine. “Burned out! Not the whole Bracelet … but some part of it, maybe?”

“Some part of the Bracelet,” I say slowly. “Like what?”

“Like a crystal. A control circuit, perhaps?”

“Why a crystal?”

Ixchel cocks her head to one side. “Come on now, Josh. This is me.”

Tight-lipped, I stare back into that challenging gaze. Eventually I say, “There’s a little hole in the Bracelet. It’s empty. I wondered … what with all that talk of a Crystal Key … if maybe it needed some kind of crystal.”

Ixchel smiles, and then through closed lips, she laughs. Quietly she says, “You got it.”

Truth is, I was just guessing. It couldn’t be the same crystal, could it? But the fact that Ixchel’s had the same thought makes my pulse race.

“Josh, let me help fix the Bracelet. I don’t want you just blinking out of existence. Like Arcadio.”

“You think that’s what happened to him?”

“That’s what Susannah says. Isn’t it? One day, he just didn’t turn up. Poor Susannah; I think she’s been waiting for him ever since.”

“That’s pretty rough.”

Ixchel murmurs, “It sure is.”

“So, what about you? What will you do?”

Ixchel sighs and licks pink frosting off her thumb. “Back to Ek Naab, I guess. So much for my freedom! To the Tech, to study ancient languages.”

“Start with Sumerian,” I suggest.

“That was my plan … ,” she says with a slow grin. “So you’ll let me help?”

“Could I stop you?”

Ixchel grins and nudges my elbow with her knuckle. “Nope.”

I go up to the food counter, get a plate of spaghetti in a sticky tomato sauce and a can of Sunkist. Ixchel watches me eat. I try to avoid thinking about tomorrow. Montoyo is driving us all back to the outskirts of the surface part of Ek Naab. We’ll be going in through the orange groves, to the cemetery on the hill.

And we’ll bury my father. I don’t know how Montoyo persuaded my mother, but she’s agreed to it. It’s vital that we cover up the whole thing about how my dad didn’t really die in that plane crash. We have to keep his actual death and burial a secret. Anything to stop word getting out that Professor Andres Garcia finally turned up somewhere on Planet Earth.

Maybe Mom finally understands just what the NRO—and the Sect—are prepared to do to get their hands on the secrets of Ek Naab.





46


Mom and I waited six months to say good-bye to my father. When we finally did, it was for the third time. There’d been the first funeral in Chetumal, alongside the one for Camila. Goodness knows whose ashes we sent off that time. The second time was the memorial service at his Oxford college. I sat through the whole thing in a daze.

And now here we are again. This time with a coffin, on a cool December morning, two days before Christmas. By a pristine white church surrounded by orange trees.

All members of the ruling Executive of Ek Naab are there with their families, except one—Blanco Vigores. Everyone lines up in the church to give the pesame—condolences—to Mom and me. I look along the line but can’t see Vigores. It doesn’t seem like a polite question to ask right now, but still I wonder, and not for the first time:

Where is Blanco Vigores? Where does a blind old man disappear to on all these important occasions?

In case anyone is spying on us via satellite, everyone dresses like regular Mexicans. As far as the outside world is concerned, this is supposed to be a private chapel on the huge ranch of some rich Mexican family. The men wear black suits; the women dress in smart black skirts and dresses, their heads covered with black lace mantillas. I’m always amazed at how many people can get their hands on a nice-looking black suit at the shortest notice.