Invisible City (11 page)

Tyler interrupts, “That doesn't prove she's his sister. She could have stolen it from his dad.”

“Sure, buddy. But I got the other letter too, the one that says, ‘Destroy this manuscript.' Addressed to me.”

“You've got the second half of the Calakmul letter?” I echo. “And we've got the first half! That means we can decode the entire inscription. That means we can find the Ix Codex.”

Maybe I sound a little bemused. But that would be a major understatement.

I'm absolutely, entirely floored. We've been in Chetumal for less than two hours, and we've already solved two of our three mysteries. I feel a rush of triumph. This trip is turning into a
huge success. With Camila's help, we might be only a few steps from finding the Ix Codex—or solving the mystery of who really killed my dad.

Here's what happened when I met Chetumal Lady.

She turned out to be my long-lost half sister. No fooling. Ever since Dad found out that his real father wasn't the guy he'd grown up calling “Papa,” his guilty conscience prickled him. Because in his case the sins of the father had been passed on—and Dad had his own dark secret from a misspent youth.

The girl's name was Araceli; she was the maid's daughter in the house where Dad grew up. They'd known each other since they were kids, and early teenage fumbles in the laundry room eventually led to much more. When they were fifteen, Araceli became pregnant. My dad was sent away to a Franciscan seminary. She was sent away too, back to her village. There was no discussion and no argument. Any feelings they might have had were less than irrelevant. And naturally, abortion was out of the question. So Araceli's family raised baby Camila. But when it came to schooling, Dad's family gave in. They couldn't take the scandal of their perfect little family having an illegitimate child in its midst—especially given the fact that it seemed that history was repeating itself. Then again, they couldn't condemn one of their own
to a life of poverty and no education. So, they sent money. Every month, without fail: school fees and enough to cover clothes and piano lessons.

The money paid for her to go to a girls' convent school. Tough for Camila, though, being the only one from a poor family. It wasn't the best of situations, but she didn't let it get her down too much. She beat all the rich girls to a college scholarship in the U.S., studied tourism, and headed for Cancún, where she ended up selling real estate until she met Saul—the guy who is now locked up in Chetumal jail on suspicion of murdering our dad.

Camila insists that we drive out with her to her house. “No way can I be seen with you,” she tells us as we drive along the beach road. “Detective Rojas won't want you to speak to me until he's had his chance to set up his twisted little piece of theater.”

It all feels a bit paranoid, even to me. Yet Camila is adamant, practically drags us out of the hotel. “It's not just that I'm known in this town,” she explained earlier. “But you've chosen the same hotel your dad always stayed in. I had to wait until the reception desk was empty to walk in—you can't trust the police not to leak information. Anyone who really wants to find you, Josh, will know just where to look. So we need to get out of here, like, now.”

It's a pretty nice place, her hacienda, very tastefully furnished. Over iced tea and grilled cheese sandwiches, Camila tells us the whole story of her childhood. We sit in her garden under shady banana palms, among the hibiscus and allamanda flowers, overlooking the sea.

“I didn't know Dad stayed at Hotel Delfin,” I say. “I just thought it looked okay from the Web site.”

“The owner has a jazz bar in Cancún,” Camila says. “The Dolphin Bar. Andres was crazy for it. You didn't know that?”

I listen, say nothing. It's not every day you meet a long-lost relative. I don't really know how to react. As the afternoon wears on and Camila tells us the whole story about her and my dad, I begin to feel something new: jealousy.

Because the way it looks to me, Dad liked Camila a whole lot more than he ever liked me.

The sun sets in the hills behind us while Camila gives us her version of Dad's disappearance and the murder investigation. Ollie, Tyler, and I screw up our faces, trying to work out what was really going on. Did Camila's husband know that she was Andres's daughter? That would certainly throw out Saul's motive for killing Dad—why would he kill his father-in-law? If the police didn't believe it, why didn't she prove it to them? Why would they want to hold Saul for something he didn't do? Why wouldn't they want to find the real killer?

Camila sighs. She sounds a little irritated. I guess she's been over this. “It's not so complicated. You have to understand that many of the police here are corrupt. If some local narco wants a favor, then they deliver. But I have a friend who works at the police station. And she feeds me information.”

Her theory is that Saul is being framed as revenge for not joining in with the drug cartel. The local drug guys thought that
Saul's avocado farm had a few too many fields of avocados, and not enough of marijuana. Saul turned down what he called their “interesting business proposition.” He expected trouble, and he was right.

As for telling Saul that she was Andres's daughter, of course Saul knew. So did the police. Camila and Saul protested as much when they arrested Saul as a jealous husband.

“But as Ollie so cleverly pointed out,” Camila says, “I couldn't prove it. Andres only wrote me that one letter.”

She passes it to me.

My dearest daughter
,

This letter, should you ever read it, will doubtless come as too little, too late. How can I hope to make up for the years I've missed? Since I tracked you down, I've experienced a rush of tenderness that's entirely new to me. The lifelong love of a father for his daughter has seemed to be compressed into such a short period of time. Then there are regrets over lost time, guilt over continuing to keep you secret from Eleanor and Josh. I'll admit that it's been almost more than I can bear
.

If words could ever say it, I would tell you how much I've been with you your whole life. Even if you never knew me, I never forgot you. In my heart I was with you every day
.

But enough of that. I'm starting on something, you might call it old family business. A search for a lost Mayan codex—the sacred Book of
Ix. It is possible that it could be dangerous. As I write this, truthfully I don't believe it is, but then, some strange things have happened recently. And there have been warnings. So I'm taking heed
.

Which is why I'm entrusting you with something that is at once dangerous and priceless. My real father—a man whose death I've seen in my dreams since I was a boy—left my mother something else as well as me. The Mayan inscription I call the “Calakmul letter” has brought me to the point at which I'm ready to throw caution to the wind and venture into the depths of Mayan history in search of something I barely dare to believe can exist
.

If I don't return, the search must end here. This is why I tell you nothing of my journey, of my research. This search has already destroyed more than one life. If I fail, I won't risk anyone else in my family
.

So I'm asking you, my darling Camila, to destroy the Calakmul letter. Don't be tempted to decipher it—you can't. I've left the other half with someone else, someone I trust, also with the same instructions
.

Destroy it. Burn it. Tell NO ONE about it. Take the secret to your grave. Do this for the father who loves you and wishes with all his heart that he'd known you as a baby
.

Your adoring father
,

Andres

Camila, she gets pages and pages. Us? We just got a few words.

My dearest daughter. Your adoring father.

I've crossed an ocean in search of the truth. But now I'm not so sure I want to hear it.

Camila stares at me, her eyes wild with excitement. “You didn't destroy your half, did you?”

“Nope,” I say, trying to keep it together. It's tough not to sound bitter. “So much for Dad's trust. Why didn't he just destroy the Calakmul letter himself?”

Camila says, “I think he planned on coming back with a huge, important discovery. This would have been a pretty major piece of evidence. An ancient document—it's not the kind of thing you destroy just in case things go wrong.”

“Yeah, but what about all the danger?”

“Guess that's why he said to destroy it. To save us from any danger.” She turns to me with a grin. “He didn't know his own children, though. Both just as curious as their father.”

“Well, yeah.”

“You see now why I couldn't show this letter to the police?” Camila says. “At least until I've had a chance to find out what Dad was searching for. And that's what they want. That's what this is all about.”

“Whoever killed Dad did it to get their hands on his secret.”

“I hate secrets,” Camila says. “Don't you?”

Ollie leans over the wrought-iron garden table, pours herself and Tyler more iced tea.

“Have you deciphered your half of the manuscript?” she asks.

“Sure,” replies Camila. In Spanish she asks, “You trust your buddies, do you?”

“Of course! They helped me to crack my half of the inscription.”

Camila looks thoughtful for a second, then gives a little shrug and disappears into the house. She returns a moment later holding a small lacquered box. She opens it, removes a piece of bark paper.

There's a tear along the left-hand side of the manuscript. I reach into my back pocket and take out my half. I spread it out on the table next to Camila's half. No question about it—they match.

Camila gives me a look that's somewhere between sisterly love and pride. “Here it is,” she says. “The Calakmul letter. My father talked about how he was studying this letter written to a king of Calakmul. But in my half there's no reference to Calakmul at all.”

“It's to Yuknoom Ch'een, the ruler of Calakmul,” Ollie tells her.

“From his servant,” adds Tyler.

I want to fume quietly at this extra evidence of how much Dad preferred Camila—he'd even discussed his work with her. But even more than that—I want to look smart.

“A letter,” I say, “telling how the Bakab was defeated. How the Bakab came from a place called Chechan Naab. And it mentions the Book of Ix.”

Camila nods. “That's it. The sacred Book of Ix. That makes sense. Well, look, let's read it.”

So we do. First we read out our translation, then Camila reads out hers.

K'inich K'ane Ajk of Cancuén writes to Lord Yuknoom Ch'een of Calakmul

I am your servant

From Chechan Naab he emerged, from the Great Temple of the Cross

The Bakab was defeated

This sacred Book of Ix speaks of the end of days

13.0.0.0.0 it is written in the Sacred Books of Itzamna

The Black Road will open the Heart of Sky

It will be destroyed

Healer of Worlds will be born

In the Moon it walks

In their Holy City of Ek Naab they wait

They are still. They wait

In wonder I stare at the inscription. There it is—the final clue from Dad's e-mails to Montoyo and the Peabody Museum guy.

And the other city name, the city that no one seems to have heard of, the one that doesn't exist.

Ek Naab
.

“The ‘Holy City of Ek Naab,'” I say, pointing to a glyph. “Dad e-mailed some Maya scholars, asked about that place. No one's heard of it.”

“
Utom
,” murmurs Ollie. “So that sentence at the tear says
The Black Road will open the Heart of Sky
.”

Camila's section of the Calakmul letter is more baffling than ours.

“It's all Mayan mythology,” she tells us. “And although it sounds pretty strange, I know, I think maybe it has a real meaning for us too. I've spent days studying what it means. You wanna know?”

We nod.

“The Black Road—
Xibalba be
—is kind of the Mayan concept of the Road to Hell. But,” explains Camila, “there's another interpretation.”

She watches us closely, to make sure she has our full attention. “From astronomy. The Maya were really crazy for
astronomy,” she continues, almost conspiratorially, “and no one really understands why they paid so much attention, or knew so much about what goes on in the sky. The Maya believed that you could see
Xibalba be
in the sky. Astronomers know it as the ‘Great Dark Rift' in our galaxy: the Milky Way.”