Invisible City (14 page)

Maybe she senses that our cheerful mood is in danger of slipping, because she adds smartly, “But you know what? Next time you miss his voice on the phone, you call me. Deal?”

I gulp slightly, nod.

“Good. Got your cell phone?”

I dig my cell phone out of my pocket. She dictates her number and I punch it in.

“Put me in as ‘Camila, Call Me!' Or ‘Call Me! Camila!' Either way it's with a
C
.”

And eventually she asks, with delicacy, “How is your mother?”

“Not great.”

“I'm sorry.”

“She's getting better,” I say. “In fact, when we get five minutes I'll call her again. The news about you will be a big help.”

“Should have called earlier. It's getting kind of late in England.”

I look at my watch and realize she's right. It's eight thirty local time—the middle of the night in England. I feel a pang of guilt. I really should have phoned my mom, put her mind at rest about Camila. Somehow the whole afternoon has passed in a blur.

And it isn't over. The last traces of dim light remain in the sky, but the road ahead is gloomy.

Then, in a very different tone, Camila asks me this: “Tell me, Joshua, did Andres ever tell you about his dream?”

“The one about his father? The one where he watches him die in some smoky straw hut?
Summon the Bakab Ix?
”

“That's the one,” she says. “Did he tell you?”

“Nope.”

“I thought not.”

“But he told
you
.”

“Once. He told me he dreamed the words ‘Summon the Bakab Ix.' And that it was about our grandfather. The rest of it, well, I dreamed it myself.”

I stare at her, stunned. But Camila doesn't take her eyes off the road. Very simply she says, “You've had it too, haven't you?”

It's a few seconds before I can reply. “How'd you know?”

“Since Dad disappeared, am I right?”

“Yes.”

She nods thoughtfully, as though considering the matter from many angles. “Figures.”

“You know what it means?”

“I think so. It's like a telepathic message. Someone saw our grandfather die, all those years ago. And they're sending out a message to the next of kin. Now that's us.”

I give a loud chuckle. “You're kidding, right?”

Her eyes grow huge. “No way. That stuff goes on here in Mexico. Lucid dreaming—entering people's dreams. There are Olmec Indians who can do those things. Really.”

I'm still laughing as I say, “So you think our grandfather died in front of an Olmec Indian?”

“Could be.”

“You tell Dad that?” I smirk.

“Well, hotshot, what's your theory?”

I shrug. “Simple. Dad told us about his dream. You remember him telling you. I don't, but I must have forgotten. And our subconsciouses took all those elements and turned them into a crazy dream.”

Camila doesn't smile. “Laugh it up, fella,” she says. “But
the way I see things, it all connects—the Bakab in the Calakmul letter. Then there's the dream of ‘Summon the Bakab.' And finally—Dad's final trip to Becan.”

“I really can't see how.”

“Me neither,” she admits. “But I sense it. And I have a great nose for these things.”

As lights appear behind us, Camila checks her mirror a couple of times.

“That car's been behind us for a little while now,” she notes.

“When did it get on the road?”

“I didn't see,” she says. “I think it just caught up. Now it won't pass us.”

Camila keeps checking her mirror. She hasn't said anything for five minutes and I don't think it's because she's wrapped up in the Harry Connick Jr. track that's playing on her iPod.

“You think we're being followed,” I venture.

Now that she's worried and deadly serious, Camila's eyes look like my dad's more than ever.

“I've slowed down quite a bit. And they just match my speed.” She turns to me briefly. “Sorry, bro. I think they're on to us.”

“What's the plan?”

“Well,” she says, “We're gonna be in Becan pretty soon. There isn't much choice in hotels. If they want to follow us right to our door, they easily can.”

“Why don't we go somewhere else? Lose them farther away, then double back?”

“Not a bad idea, kiddo. Okay. Let's keep going.”

So we drive. Watching.

Then the car behind begins to gain on us. Until now, it's maintained a nice distance, far enough back to make it impossible to identify the car. As it gets closer, I hear Camila's voice fill with dread as she says, “Oh no.”

Her knuckles are white as she grips the wheel. I look behind, get a good view of the car.

“It's the blue Nissan,” she says. There's genuine fear in her voice now. “This guy's been hanging around me for weeks.”

“You're sure it's the same guy?”

Camila explodes, yells at me, “Of course I'm sure! What, you think I'm making this up?”

“Who is he?”

“I don't know!” she screams. “How should I know?”

I figure I should stop asking stupid questions. If the NRO guys have been in position since Dad died, then they've probably had a tail on her all along.

The blue Nissan finally starts to pass us. I twist around, try to catch a look at the driver. I see only shadows of his face lit by the dashboard. Then, with a sudden swerve, Blue Nissan rams our car. We veer horribly for a second as Camila leans hard on the pedal and pulls us out of the start of a spin.

Within seconds we're up to eighty miles an hour. Blue
Nissan's speed increases too, and he's about to catch up. Camila takes us up to a hundred. Blue Nissan speeds up again. But Camila's car has the edge now. She goes even faster. I even see the beginnings of a triumphant grin on Camila's lips as we start to pull away from Blue Nissan.

And then we hear a shot. Camila almost jumps out of her skin, and for a second I think she's about to lose control of the car.

“Slow down!”

“Are you crazy? They're shooting at us!”

Another shot rings out. This one hits the car, somewhere in the trunk. We both yell, then duck. More shots follow. I'm flooded with electric panic. Camila's foot pounds even harder on the accelerator. But it can't be fast enough for me—the instinct to run, to get out of there, is overwhelming.

There's a part of me that knows that it's practically suicide to drive that fast in the dark. But as bullets start to hit the road around us, it's hard to take any notice.

“They're going for our tires,” Camila shouts.

And a second later, we're hit again.

There's a hideous explosion on the lower-right-hand side of the car as a tire blows out. We spin violently to the right, and within a second we're off the road. Our car crashes through yard-high grass; then for a split second, we're flying. I'm screaming, watching the rush of looming black water.

My last thought before we hit the water is a desperate prayer that this is a small mangrove swamp, not a lagoon.

The car plunges down with terrifying speed. The air bags inflate on impact. I struggle to comprehend the fact that we aren't stopping. The car submerges completely, and water begins to churn in through my half-open window. The air bag pins me into my seat, and only when the car comes to a violent stop against the bottom of the lagoon am I able to move.

Adrenaline takes over and I fumble for my seat belt. The water's already up to my thighs. I find the buckles and release my belt, then Camila's. But when I look up at her, I freeze. Her eyes are closed; she's not moving. There's a small wound on her head. As I wipe the blood away, I'm still trying to work out where she could have hit her head. And then I stop. I remember.

There'd been a second explosion, coming almost on top of the first. The rear windshield has shattered. A bullet's come straight through the car. I've no idea if she's dead or alive—and there's no time to check. In less than a minute the car has filled with water. My head is about to go under. I take a huge lungful from the last remaining bubble of air, and I try to yank Camila out of her seat.

But it's no good. She's all tangled up in the air bag. Without her help, there's no way I can get her out. My chest is stinging to release some carbon dioxide and I blow a few bubbles out. I probably have only seconds left. I drag uselessly at Camila for
a few more seconds. But in my own mind, I've already made the dreadful calculation.

And then, some cold, mechanistic part of my brain takes over. I'm like an appalled bystander, watching myself grab the backpack, wriggle out of the open window, and use my last ounce of air to swim as far away from the car as possible. My lungs are ready to explode when I surface. I'm already thinking about Blue Nissan, who's sure to be looking out for us. The water is warm, deep. I keep my head underwater as much as possible, surfacing only occasionally and with as little noise as I can manage. I've no idea where I'm going, and I'm amazed at how long this lagoon goes on. Finally I reach the edge. I stop, turn around, bury myself deep among the reeds, and gaze backward.

One of the lights of our sunken car still beams out along the bottom of the lagoon. It casts an eerie, hollow light on a sickening scene. My breath comes in short, desperate gasps. I can just make out the dark shadow of a man shining a flashlight down into the depths. Then he shines the flashlight upward, in the water surrounding the submerged car. The flashlight moves farther away, tracing a path along the edges of the lagoon. It's almost upon me when I take a deep breath and duck down. I stay down for almost two minutes, my eyes open, looking up through the water.

By the time I'm desperate for air, the flashlight beam has gone. The water finally seeps into enough of the car's systems to blow
the headlight fuse, and under the water the light blinks out. It's as though Camila's life force has just been extinguished. For now, I can only register this as another bizarre fact: a guy in a Blue Nissan has shot us off the road; lungs need a few practice breaths to stretch before you can take a really long-lasting breath; my unconscious sister just drowned.

It doesn't hit me even then. I manage to remain calm for quite a bit longer, treading water. Slimy creatures that I badly don't want to see brush against my arms and legs. The shock hits me later when I climb, exhausted, out of the lagoon. I drop, soaked, muddy, bedraggled, onto the shore. Clutching Camila's backpack close to my chest, I begin to shake violently.

I try telling myself to relax. But my shocked limbs don't want to move; it feels as though there's a whole apple stuck in my throat. I can't seem to make a sound. I retch and throw up. Briefly, I feel a little better.

Then I hear another car brake and stop on the highway nearby. Voices carry over to me. The flashlight shines around again, still searching for survivors. I force myself to my feet. And heading for the darkness of the forest, I run.

I do pretty well for the first half hour—if “doing well” means managing to keep running forward through a dark forest. Staying on my feet, that's job number one. It isn't easy. Running in a straight line is impossible. The hardest job of all is trying not to remember that I've just seen my sister die.

I keep thinking about what I've seen on TV survival shows. You're supposed to sit down, stay calm, make plans. Well, that's great, but what about when you're on the run from secret agents?

I must have given myself away. No sooner do I stop, double over to catch my breath, than the shooting starts again. So I run, deep into the woods. Planning and “don't panic” are not options.

When I finally stop, it's only because I can't take another step. I sink to the ground and beg God to make it be over quickly. I lie there for hours, fall asleep from exhaustion, waiting for them to find me and finish me off.

When I wake up, for a few seconds I can hardly breathe. I've never known a burning darkness like this—it's as though I'm blind. The night sky of Oxford always has a slight glow. Even in the villages around the city, the sky never gets really velvety black. I'm stunned to realize that I can't see my hand in front of my face. Night has completely fallen. After a few minutes my eyes adjust, and I can make out some outlines. I stare into the sky, but the stars are invisible.

I'm still drenched from the swamp. The air is heavy, wet, thick. My clothes haven't dried out and I doubt they will. I hear the distant rumble of thunder.

The sound of the jungle is deafening. Birds, insects, reptiles, and monkeys all chime in with clicks and chatters and whines. I think I can hear snakes sliding over rustling leaves, lizards crunching on beetles.

Lying there, I remember everything my dad taught me about the Yucatán jungle. Jaguars. Pumas. The brown recluse spider, whose harmless-looking bite turns into rotting flesh within days. The “ten-step snake,” whose bite can kill you before you take ten steps.

I fumble in my back jeans pocket for my cell phone. I'm not surprised that it isn't working. I drop it back into my pocket—I've heard that you can dry out a soaked phone.

Thanks to Camila's foresight, I should have everything I need in her backpack—or so I'm hoping. Until I notice that I didn't fasten the top properly when I last opened it. The backpack
looks empty. Furious with myself, I throw the bag to the ground and start swearing, until some part of me remembers that someone might still be following me. I force myself to calm down by slowly counting to ten in English, then Spanish. Then I rummage through the backpack again.

There are just two things left—the plastic envelope of money and the flashlight. The water or Swiss Army knife would have been much more useful, but I'm grateful for what I have.

I'm about to switch on the flashlight when I think of all the creatures the light might attract. And never mind the creatures—the guys who are after me too. I half-expect to hear the clatter of helicopter blades. Alone out here, I'll be an easy target. I've seen TV shows where they chase bad guys in the dark using infrared goggles. The more I think about it, the weirder it seems that I haven't been found.