Invisible City

by M. G. Harris

  Chapter 45

  “Have you been drinking, son?” asks the first agent, the one who calls himself Jack.

  It’s the first time I truly appreciate that evil doesn’t have to dress in black, wear gothic clothes, have fangs, horns, or red eyes, doesn’t have to burn incense. Evil wears a suit and tie, a friendly smile, smells of aftershave. Makes deadly decisions. Kills people who get in the way of its plans as if they were ants. And then calls you “son.”

  With bleary eyes, I look up at this cold-blooded murderer. And try to hide my hatred.

  “I’m just tired,” I admit. “Been awake for almost two days. Least, it feels like that.”

  “It’s just that … this story … it’s kind of incredible.”

  “You’ve heard stuff like this before,” I say. “You must have.”

  “I’m not saying it’s unprecedented,” he acknowledges. “But this thing about the aliens having a base under the volcano …”

  “They have more than one,” I say. “There are bases under other volcanoes.”

  “You went to other bases?”

  “I did. We flew in through one and came out through another.”

  “Son … most of the volcanoes around here are still active.”

  I just shrug.

  “What did the aliens look like?”

  “I already told you. Standard Grays.”

  “Like in The X-Files?” he asks, making no attempt to hide his skepticism.

  I nod. “Like the Grays in X-Files.”

  “Why were you in Catemaco?”

  “I don’t remember why. They gave me mind-control drugs. Everything that happened there is hazy.”

  “How did our agents die?”

  “I have no idea. Maybe a poisonous gas?”

  “And then this ship that picked you up … that was them again?”

  “Yes. And then others chased us. Three other ships. I don’t know who they were. Didn’t understand what they were saying.”

  “How do they talk?”

  “It’s sort of clicky.”

  “Jack” and his colleague “Steve” say they’re both with the NRO, but the badges they show me are CIA. They keep staring at the polygraph trace, which is as clean as a whistle. They look pretty puzzled. After taking my statement for over two hours, they put their heads together.

  “Let’s talk about this guy, the one you called ‘Blue Nissan.’”

  “That was back then.”

  “What?”

  “That’s what I called him. Back then, when those things were happening to me. Before I was abducted for the first time.”

  “You’re referring to your abduction in the jungle, on the way to Becan?”

  “Yeah. I called him ‘Blue Nissan’ then, but it’s not his name.”

  “His name is Simon Madison?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  They both nod, whisper to each other, then continue. “Can you pick him out? From a few photos?”

  “Sure.”

  They bring up a collection of photographs on their laptop computer. Madison’s face is the fourth one to appear. “That’s him,” I tell them.

  “Now, you say you assumed he was with us?”

  “He’d been tailing Camila for a long time. I heard one of the NRO guys tell the hotel guy at Delfin that he was NRO. We just assumed.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “So he isn’t?”

  They take a long time deciding how to phrase their next statement. Finally they admit, “Simon Madison is wanted by the FBI in connection with several serious charges.”

  “What charges?”

  “Data theft, identity theft, fraud. Unlicensed weapons—the list goes on.”

  “Doesn’t sound so bad.”

  “It’s the combination that’s dangerous. Highly characteristic of a deeply embedded terrorist cell. And from what you’ve told us, he’s violent too.”

  “What’s he up to?”

  “Well, lately he’s interested in stealing ancient Mayan artifacts that have tremendous importance to extraterrestrial visitors, according to you.”

  “He threatened to torture and kill me,” I say. “Even shot at me. That part I remember pretty vividly.”

  “Why do you think the ‘Grays’ want this Mayan codex?”

  “No idea,” I reply.

  “Why did they use you to get to it?”

  “Because of the dream. The one the brujo planted in my head.”

  They look disappointed, consult their interview record. “You already said that.”

  It goes on for another four hours. I stick to the truth as much as possible, but say nothing about Ek Naab. Where I don’t have a good answer prepared, I claim amnesia. I tell the NRO that I’ve been contacted by Grays—alien visitors here to check up on the civilization they’d helped to start back in 3000 BC, and that they had bases on the moon and under several extinct volcanoes. I spin a story so rich in detail, so complex, that it takes six hours to complete. I could have done it in two, but they insist on hearing it over and over.

  Without the tranquilizer, I’d probably have broken. It would have been impossible to hide my fury with the NRO about what happened to my dad.

  Which one of you bastards killed him? The drug gives me little option other than to be calm, polite, and genial throughout. And just a little spacey.

  In the end, they’re the ones who sweat with exasperation. Couldn’t have dreamed up a better result.

  “How about this identity theft?” I say. “If he isn’t Simon Madison, then what’s his real name?”

  “There’s a long trail of identities,” Jack tells me. He sounds drained. “The earliest one we can find is Simon Martineau.”

  Martineau. I know that name. From where?

  They release me after that. Waiting outside the police station with Tyler and Ollie is Camila’s husband, Saul. After over a month in jail, he’s lean and gaunt. He says nothing, but when he sees me, he gives me a hug and his eyes fill with tears.

  I can hardly bear to look at Saul. He reminds me of my part in Camila’s death. I keep thinking that if only Camila hadn’t gotten involved, she’d still be alive. She died because she wanted to help. Without Camila, I’d never have made the connection with Ek Naab.

  But something tells me that the Mayas would have come for me anyway. Eventually.

  BLOG ENTRY: IN THE SHADOW OF TOMORROW

  Tomorrow, Mom will arrive and we’ll have the funeral mass. We’ll bury Dad’s ashes and Camila. I’ll be able to visit them both at the same time: very efficient.

  I’m dreading it. I’ve never been to a funeral. Pretty worried that I might cry.

  Tonight, Camila’s husband, Saul, took me, Tyler, and Ollie out for dinner. We were kind of subdued. Part of me is still amazed at what I’ve achieved. Yet I can’t talk about it to anyone. It’s a nightmare to think I’m going to have to lie to my friends. Even if they did wimp out and try to make me turn myself in.

  Ollie mentioned that I seemed different. Older, she said. Tyler said it was understandable. On account of my seeing my sister drown.

  They think that I “went over the edge,” that Camila’s death, then Madison chasing me and almost drowning me, pushed me over some sort of cliff. That’s not quite the whole picture, of course. I think deep down, they know it.

  Tyler and Ollie must be curious about what happened to me. But they don’t ask—not anymore. In the silence of their unasked questions, I sense a distance between us that wasn’t there before. I can’t tell if I caused it, or they did.

  Near the restaurant, a group of young musicians congregated—a jazz combo. A tall, dark, very thin girl wearing a sarong with a sleeveless top stepped up to the microphone.

  My eyes met Ollie’s over our drinks. There was something new about the way she looked at me—a really searching look. Like she knew I was hiding something. And was curious.

  But I’ll never tell her. After what happened to Camila, I’m not telling anyone.

  Th
e band struck up their first number. I felt a stab at my heart the minute I heard the first line.

  “A cigarette that bears a lipstick’s traces.”

  I thought I felt my UK cell phone vibrating. I checked—for a second I imagined I’d seen the words “Camila, Call Me” flash onto the screen. But that’s all it was: my imagination. I kept pushing buttons until Camila’s number came up on the display. And for seconds, I stared at it.

  In the distance I heard the flutter of windblown leaves, a tiny whirlwind. My mind went back to my dream, the leaf storm. I felt a sudden chill. Camila was like one of those leaves. Connected one day, gone the next.

  The singer crooned the lines I was waiting to hear.

  “A telephone that rings, but who’s to answer?

  Oh, how the ghost of you clings …”

  My finger hovered above the call button. After everything I’ve seen, I couldn’t help wondering: is it possible that there’s somewhere in the universe where Camila’s number will ring, somewhere it might be heard?

  Josh’s Guide to Pronunciation

  In my everyday life I have to speak three different languages—English, Spanish, and even a little Portuguese (for my Brazilian martial arts class). Added to that, I sometimes have to use words from the homegrown Mexican languages like Maya and Aztec. So here’s a guide to how to say some of these words. Out loud, I mean. In case you ever need to.

  A Guide to the Guide

  1) There is no oh sound in Spanish. No tac-oh, no Catemac-oh. It’s a shorter o, like in hot or cot.

  2) In Spanish, the emphasis is usually on the second-to-last syllable (e.g., Benicio is Ben-EES-yo) unless otherwise noted with an accent mark.

  3) In Spanish, words starting with v have a sort of soft b sound. Not a hard popping b like you’d have in bicycle; try for something between a b and a v (e.g., Vigores is Bee-GOR-rez).

  4) The x sound in Mexican words is often (but not always) soft, like sh. In Spanish, the j sounds like h, the e is pronounced ay, and i sounds more like ee.

  5) I’m going to bundle all the Mexican-origin words, like Maya or Aztec words, and call them all “Mexican.” So there.

  Acknowledgments

  To all the authors who’ve ever inspired me; to James, Lucy, and Celia Catchpole for encouragement and reading early drafts; to my husband, David, for taking care of everything when I broke my leg and expressing such passion for my writing; to my daughter, Josie, for making an exception to her rule of not reading adventure stories and giving me so much great feedback; to my gifted editor, Elv Moody, at Scholastic for her enthusiasm and razor-sharp ability to improve the manuscript; to Georgia, Alyx, Jessica, and Elaine at Scholastic for their excitement and support for Joshua; to my inspirational and brilliant agent, Peter Cox, without whom, quite simply, this book would never have happened; to all of you, eternally, THANK YOU!

  BLOG ENTRY: Have you got what it takes?

  Enter at www.themgharris.com to

  • Play the alternate reality game The Descendant

  • Watch book trailers

  • Join Josh’s official worldwide fan site

  • Find a playlist of music featured in Invisible City

  Copyright © 2008 by M. G. Harris

  All rights reserved. You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce, or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, printing, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  Originally published in Great Britain in 2008

  by Scholastic Children’s Books, an imprint of Scholastic Ltd.

  First published in the United States of America in August 2010

  by Walker Publishing Company, Inc., a division of Bloomsbury Publishing, Inc.

  Electronic edition published in September 2012

  www.bloomsburyteens.com

  For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to

  Permissions, Walker BFYR, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10010

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Harris, M. G. (Maria G.)

  The Joshua files: invisible city / by M.G. Harris. —1st U.S. ed.

  p. cm.

  Summary: When his father is reported murdered in Mexico, supposedly by the

  husband of his lover, thirteen-year-old Josh refuses to believe it and sets out to

  get the true story, which he believes involves UFOs and alien abduction.

  [1. Missing persons—Fiction. 2. Alien abduction—Fiction. 3. Unidentified flying

  objects—Fiction. 4. Mayas—Antiquities—Fiction. 5. Indians of Central America—

  Antiquities—Fiction. 6. Mexico—Fiction. 7. Science fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.H242245Jos 2010 [Fic]—dc22 2009030172

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents, and dialogues are

  products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual

  people (living or dead), events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN 978-0-80272-263-8 (e-book)