Bones of the Sun God

by Peter Vegas

  It wasn’t a prank.

  Sam was holding his get-out-of-jail-free card.

  Dear Sam,

  Today I am thrilled to confirm your scholarship with us. This is an honor you really should be quite proud of.  As you may be aware, for an opera singer you’re unusually young, but we were impressed by your audition tape, and our teachers see advantages in launching your operatic future as soon as possible. To that end, we would like you to join us in two days’ time in Switzerland.

  May I suggest you pack and prepare for your departure. It is booked for this evening. Your documents are at the airport information desk in your name.

  May I wish you well and say how happy I am to line up this chance for you.

  Yarm Ralmevu

  2

  FOILED

  NOT EVERYONE WAS AS HAPPY about Sam’s operatic success as the music teacher. His rowing coach, Mr. Holk, had already been upset about Sam delaying the van. When he learned that Sam was leaving the country that evening, his mood dropped to the next level.

  Sam sat through a lecture all the way to the river. Did Sam know there was only a week until the interschool rowing championships? Was he aware that the fours were a key event? Did he know how inconvenient it would be to replace him this late in training? Sam knew the answers to all these questions but kept his mouth shut. He didn’t want to anger the man further. The student’s nickname for Mr. Holk was “The Hulk.”

  But they always said it behind his back and well out of earshot.

  The Hulk burned himself out as the minivan pulled up at the school’s rowing facilities on the Charles River. Rowing was a popular sport in Boston, but Sam wondered if the school’s obsession was influenced by the fact that a lot of English schools were into the sport. Uncle Jasper liked to point out that the sport originated in ancient Egypt, but Sam didn’t think those Egyptians would recognize the lightweight fiberglass boats that competitive rowers used now.

  St. Albans’s rowing shed was a barn-sized building that held over thirty racing boats of various sizes and ages. As the boys formed their teams and went to collect their equipment, Mr. Holk called out to Sam.

  “No point in you training with us, is there, Force?”

  Sam’s teammates looked confused, and for good reason. With the coach in his ear all the way to the river, Sam hadn’t had a chance to tell them what was going on.

  “For those of you who don’t know,” Mr. Holk announced loud enough for the group to hear, “Mr. Force has decided rowing no longer interests him. He is leaving the country tonight to spend some time at a singing school.”

  The looks among the group ranged from confusion to amusement, but Sam only cared about the three guys in his crew. They looked hurt. Sam knew it looked like he was letting them down. He wanted to explain what had really happened, but Mr. Holk hadn’t finished.

  “Andrew Fletcher, you’ll take Force’s place in the fours. Okay, everyone, we are already behind schedule. Get to work.”

  The group dispersed quickly, and Mr. Holk headed for the small speedboat tied up to the jetty. “You might as well make yourself useful in the shed,” he called out as he cast off. “The place could do with a fall cleanout.”

  Sam watched the fleet glide up the Charles River, tailed by Mr. Holk yelling instructions through a loudspeaker. As they disappeared around the first bend, Sam went into the shed to look for a broom.

  The team returned two hours later. The day was getting late; the temperature had dropped, and the boys were in a hurry to get their boats up to the shed and cleaned so they could head back to school for warm showers. That was when the coach sprang his parting gift on Sam.

  “Good news, boys,” Mr. Holk announced as he walked up from the jetty. “Mr. Force has offered to clean up all the gear tonight. His way of saying good-bye and good luck with the national champs.”

  The news was greeted with a few cheers and a burst of exaggerated laughter from Andrew Fletcher. None of Sam’s ex-teammates made eye contact with him as they got in the minivan. Mr. Holk was the last to board. “I imagine even opera singers need to stay fit, so I’m sure you’ll be happy to jog back to St. Albans.” He didn’t wait for a reply. The doors shut, and the minivan drove off.

  Sam wasn’t surprised by the coach’s reaction to his deserting the team. The rowing champs were a big deal. They had been important to Sam, too, but not as important as the chance to find his parents. Letting down his teammates was the thing that hurt the most. He wondered if he should leave them a note explaining the real reason he was leaving, but decided against it. He didn’t want to do anything to blow his cover. He remembered the coded e-mail from Mary. He’d just have to hope she had it all worked out.

  There were seven boats on the racks in the shed. Each one had to be squirted with the detergent bottle, scrubbed, and hosed down. It was a big job for one person, but Sam didn’t mind. In a way, Mr. Holk had been right about it being a parting gift from Sam. He hoped the teams did well, especially his. Even if Andrew Fletcher had taken his place.

  Sam worked fast; he had plenty of time before his flight that night, but he wanted to get back to school and say a few good-byes. He had finished the last boat and was about to lock up when he heard bikes skidding on the gravel outside. They clattered against the side of the shed; then the sliding door was pushed back. The rays of the setting sun silhouetted three boys. They stood in the entrance while their eyes adjusted to the darkened interior. Then one of them spoke.

  “You still working, singer boy?”

  They couldn’t see Sam. He was behind one of the ceiling-high racks where he had just slid another boat into its cradle. He stood still, watching the boys. Fletcher’s voice had a nasty edge to it, and Sam ran through the layout of the shed in his mind. The only other way out was a door at the back. To get to that, Sam would have to go around the end of the rack, and he’d be seen.

  Then he remembered it was locked anyway.

  Sam calmed himself with a slow breath and walked into the open.

  “There you are, singer boy,” said Andrew Fletcher.

  “Have you guys come to help?” Sam smiled, trying to lighten the mood. It was the wrong move. He could tell Andrew thought he was being smart.

  A sneer formed on the boy’s face. “Sure,” he said. The last boat was sitting on a washing rack. The boy kicked it and the lightweight fiberglass body flew off the rack and smashed onto the concrete floor.

  “You fool! You’ve wrecked it,” Sam yelled with genuine horror as he gaped at the ruined craft. It was one of the newest boats, and the damage would be impossible to repair in time for the championships. He glared at Andrew. “Why did you do that?”

  “I didn’t,” he said, grinning stupidly at his two friends. “We’re not even here, Force. You must have done it.” He approached one of the boats Sam had already stored away. “Thing is, Force, now that I’m on the team, I plan to stay. And if you can’t even be trusted to clean up, then the Hulk won’t want you back, will he?”

  Fletcher’s friends exchanged nervous glances. “I thought we were only gonna break one,” said one of them.

  Fletcher rounded on the boy. “One isn’t enough! I’m going to make sure little singer boy gets banned for life!”

  Sam knew he had only moments to stop the fool. He bent down and reached for the pieces of shattered fiberglass closest to him.

  “Wouldn’t bother tidying up, Force. The Hulk will know there are boats missing.”

  But Sam wasn’t tidying up. He got back to his feet with the object he’d retrieved from under the broken shell. He aimed the bottle of detergent at Andrew Fletcher and squeezed.

  The soapy liquid hit him in the eyes, and Andrew howled in pain. Before his two friends could react, Sam swung the foamy jet at them. With a few seconds of extra warning, one of them managed to get an arm up, but both boys still received enough to sting them.

  “Don’t worry, it’s biodegradable,” Sam said as he sprinted for the door. He gave Andrew another burst, but
his soapy ammo ran out. He tossed the empty bottle and it bounced off Andrew’s head as Sam raced up the driveway.

  Mr. Holk insisted his rowers were fit. The jog back to St. Albans was a regular part of the program, and Sam was always among the fastest, so he figured his chances of getting away were pretty good.

  But as he reached the end of the driveway, Sam realized he had made a fatal error.

  Andrew and his friends had arrived on bikes.

  Even as he veered off the road and onto the grass, he heard angry shouts and the whir of bicycle wheels. He didn’t need to look back to know his pursuers were gaining on him, and Andrew was providing a commentary.

  “I’m going to get you, Force! You hear me?”

  Apart from his pounding heart, Sam could hear little else.

  The sun had gone down, and the park got dark so fast the grass almost seemed to disappear under Sam’s feet. He headed back down to the road and glanced behind, hoping to see a car. How was it that in a park in central Boston on a weeknight there wasn’t one car to be seen?

  There was no way he’d be able to get back to the dorms. A new plan formed in Sam’s mind. If he made it back to the rowing shed, he could lock the door and wait for Andrew and his gang to lose interest. He jumped the guardrail onto the road and turned back toward the river.

  Behind him, the bikes skidded to a stop. As he flew down the hill, he heard the rhythmic hum of tires on blacktop. The bike gang was back in hot pursuit and would be on him in no time.

  The whole crazy marathon had only lasted a couple of minutes, and Sam was right back where he started. It was his turn to skid to a stop in the gravel and allow himself a backward glance. The three boys were powering down the drive, led by the red-faced and even redder-eyed Andrew. He began mouthing words but was puffing so hard they weren’t coming out. Sam didn’t stop to lip-read. He stepped inside and heaved the sliding door shut. The last few inches slammed on a tire as Andrew Fletcher’s bike collided with the steel door. The boy lost his balance in the crash, and as he fell, the tire slipped out of the gap. Sam seized the chance to slide the door shut and lock it.

  The booming sounds of hands beating on the metal doors filled the shed as Sam ran to the office and grabbed the cordless phone off the desk. When he returned to the doors, Andrew was shouting above the din.

  “Force. Can you hear me? You’re dead!”

  “I’m going to call the Hulk,” Sam said.

  The banging stopped, and Sam heard the gang conferring in hushed tones.

  “You won’t do it,” Andrew said confidently.

  Fletcher had called Sam’s bluff, but he had no choice. He had a plane to catch. So he dialed.

  “I made the call,” Sam shouted as he hung up. “The Hulk is on his way.”

  “Sure you did,” Fletcher shouted sarcastically as he and his gang continued to beat the metal doors.

  Sam returned to the office and searched for a key to the back door, but then he spotted a shape through the frosted class. Fletcher had one of his mates covering the back.

  Sam returned to the front to wait. He’d figured on fifteen to twenty minutes, so the beam of light that washed through the gap under the sliding door five minutes later was a surprise. Fletcher and his mates were caught off guard too. Frantic shouts were followed by the sound of bikes skidding on gravel.

  Sam eased the door open a fraction to check that the coast was clear. The plain brown car coming down the drive wasn’t what he’d expected, but it had worked perfectly. As it pulled up outside, Sam prepared to deliver his story. The car stopped, the driver’s window slid down, and Sam’s plan died. He froze. It was as if his whole body shut down. He opened his mouth to say something, to scream for help, but nothing came out.

  Sam hadn’t seen the bearded man since the night in the desert, when his uncle lay trapped inside the buried ship. But he had thought of him every day. Now he was here in Boston.

  Impossible.

  Sam watched the man from the darkness. Part of him was screaming, Run! He might be able to break down the back door with one good kick. Damaging school property was the least of his worries now. But he didn’t move. The man in the car worked for the people who had tried to get rid of him and his uncle.

  But he was also the only link to Sam’s parents. That kept Sam rooted to the spot.

  The bearded man looked around and then appeared to make a decision. He opened the door and got out. Sam tensed, ready to run, but the man didn’t move. He bent down and grabbed his shin as if he had injured it. When he pulled up the bottom of his right trouser leg, the light from inside the car caught the glint of steel. No, not steel—tinfoil.

  The lower half of the man’s right leg was wrapped in tinfoil.

  “Who are you?” Sam yelled.

  The man looked straight into the gap in the door, but Sam knew he couldn’t be seen.

  “It’s okay, Sam. I don’t mean you any harm. I—”

  “Where are my parents?” Sam yelled. “In Egypt, before he died, the man who worked for you told me my parents were still alive. He said you told him that.”

  “He shouldn’t have,” the man growled.

  “Why?” Sam yelled.

  The man took a few steps forward. Sam tensed, ready to run for the back door, but the man stopped again and adjusted the tinfoil on his leg. Sam watched, more confused than scared. The man kept glancing up at the door as if he was afraid Sam was going to come for him.

  “Are my parents alive?”

  “I . . . I came to tell you . . .”

  Another set of headlights swung into the driveway. The bearded man turned and leapt back into his car.

  “Wait,” Sam cried. “Tell me what?”

  As he turned the vehicle the man looked back to the shed. “If you’re thinking of going to Belize, don’t!” he called out. “Keep away from there. Belize is a dead end, Sam.”

  The car’s wheels spun in the gravel as it sped up the drive. The bearded man had been spooked by Sam’s trick, and he couldn’t hang around either.

  He slipped out, pushed the doors shut, and sprinted around the side of the building before the second car pulled up. Fletcher had been right. Sam hadn’t called Mr. Holk, but he had needed someone to show up and scare the boys off. Someone who wouldn’t ask questions.

  Sam felt bad about ordering the delivery pizza. He had no money to pay, and no time to explain. All he cared about now was getting back to school to pack for a flight. The moment Sam realized Mary was behind the Swiss opera trip, he had known his true destination. And so did the bearded man.

  3

  SLAYERS OF MAYHEM

  Dear Sam,

  Oh dear, that sounds a bit grown-up, doesn’t it? Dear Sam—mind you, this whole letter-writing thing is soooooo old-fashioned.

  Now, to business. I hope you found the message I sent you in the letter from the opera school. Of course you did; you were the one who showed me the idea. But I bet you were surprised when your music teacher told you that you had won a scholarship for your opera singing! I remembered you saying how much you hate singing. Sorry, couldn’t help myself. But, in my defense, it wasn’t just for fun.

  I needed a way to get you out of school for a few weeks—fast and without raising any suspicion. Shonestein Opera Academy is a real place, and they have a scholarship.

  Once I found the opera school, I created a copy of their website and made sure that anyone using your school server to visit Shonestein would be rerouted to my site. That way, no one e-mailed the REAL teachers. Impressed? You should be.

  Now, where was I? Oh, that’s right. So your music teacher bought the story, but your headmaster, Mr. Billington, seemed a little suspicious. He contacted your uncle to confirm your interest in opera. Except he didn’t. I took the precaution of monitoring any contact between St. Albans and Jasper, so I was able to intercept the e-mail and reply on his behalf.

  Anyway, Sam, if you are reading this it means you found my hidden message, got to the airport, and received the p
ackage waiting there for you. Arranging a new passport and fake name was almost as difficult as the opera scholarship, but I’ll save that story because my hand is getting quite sore. Honestly, Sam, I don’t know how people used to write long letters. Typing on a keyboard is so much easier.

  I hope you like your name. I think it’s quite smart. We couldn’t have you wandering into Belize as Sam Force, could we? There should be enough money, and I have booked you into the nicest hotel I could find in Orange Walk. I still can’t get over that name. You must find out the story behind it for me.

  So this is it, Sam. Your chance to pick up the trail of your parents and hopefully learn more about the pyramid network. Thanks to our efforts in Egypt (okay, I’ll admit it was mostly your efforts, but I like to think I helped a little), we know my grandfather smuggled the Ark of the Covenant out of Egypt on submarine 518 in 1942, and that it was sent to Belize to be installed in a pyramid. Now you get to uncover the next part of this mystery. I had no idea there are pyramids all over Belize. Did you know they refer to them as temples in that part of the world? I’m sure you do. I know you’ve done lots of research into Lamanai, the pyramid complex near the spot sub 518 was found. Me too. I’ve enclosed some of my notes for you, and a copy of that newspaper article that triggered your parents’ trip. The more I read about Lamanai the more intrigued I get. The town of Orange Walk is the best place to start your investigation, don’t you think? It‘s not too far from Lamanai, and it’s where the policeman who found the sub came from.

  I so wish I could be there, Sam. You’ve probably been wondering why I haven’t been in contact much in the past few weeks. It’s my father. The incident with the buried ship in the desert and your uncle almost dying scared him. I think he felt guilty because he was the one who hired your uncle to look into the mystery. The secrets behind the pyramid network destroyed my grandfather and have obsessed my father. I think he is worried I will end up the same. A few weeks ago he banned me from having any contact with you. I became concerned he was monitoring my e-mails. That’s why they suddenly got so lame. All those boring stories about my schoolwork were to put him off the scent. Don’t worry, I’m arranging a new number and e-mail address, and they’ll be untraceable.