Edgewood Series: Books 1 - 3

by Karen McQuestion

  “I’ll wait for Jameson,” he said. All I could think is that he’d be waiting a long, long time. The puking noises I’d heard earlier were the sounds of someone who wasn’t going to want to eat for the rest of the day. And maybe not tomorrow, either.

  “Did you sleep well, Mrs. Whitehouse?” Mallory asked.

  I felt my body stiffen, wondering if Mallory’s question would give her an opening to mention the death threat, but all Mrs. Whitehouse said was, “As well as anyone else, I guess.”

  “Here he is,” Russ said, standing up to wave Jameson over to our table.

  Every one of us turned our attention to the last incoming member of our group. Mallory and I were sure Jameson would look like someone who should be hooked up to an IV. His appearance then, came as a shock.

  He looked fine, the same as he always did, maybe even better than usual, since he had a little color in his usually very pale cheeks. “Good morning,” he said, pulling up a chair on the end of the table and plunking himself awkwardly down. He never seemed to fit on standard furniture.

  “We wondered where you were,” Mr. Specter said, looking at him over the top of his glasses.

  “Sorry, I overslept.” Jameson made the best apologetic face I’d ever seen. “It won’t happen again.”

  “It better not,” Mr. Specter said, looking at him over his wire-rimmed glasses. “And I say that not to be dictatorial, but because in order for this trip to run smoothly, everyone has to be accounted for at all times. It’s a safety issue and it’s very serious.”

  “I understand, sir. You can count on me from now on.”

  He and Russ got up to visit the buffet, and when they came back with their plates heaped full, Mallory and I looked on in amazement. “You’re really going to eat all that?” she asked, gesturing to Jameson’s plate.

  “Yeah, I’m starving.” He dug into the scrambled eggs and took a bite. I didn’t know much about hangovers, but this had to be a record fast recovery time.

  “I want to take a moment to talk about the rest of our day,” Mr. Specter said. “We’ll be doing a walking tour of Miraflores and end up spending a good amount of time in Parque Kennedy, which is the specified site of our first location.” He was speaking in shorthand because we were in a public place, but all of us knew he was referring to the first of the three locations on the sheet of paper Mr. Hofstetter gave Russ before he died. It was amazing, really, that latitude and longitude could be used so precisely that it could pinpoint something as small as a park.

  I couldn’t imagine what we’d find there, but there had to be something significant about the place, or it wouldn’t have been on the map. I thought about how incredible it would be if we found David Hofstetter there sitting on a bench, reading a book or feeding the birds.

  “What will we do at the park?” Mallory wondered aloud.

  “Keep your ears and eyes open, missy,” Kevin said. “Look for Waldo, or anything else that stands out.”

  “If anyone approaches you, use caution, but listen to what they have to say,” Mr. Specter said. “And commit it to memory.” He leaned across the table and lowered his voice. “Nadia, we’ll be relying on your empathic abilities to pick up on anyone in distress or anyone who is lying. How close do you have to be to pick up on something like that?”

  “Pretty close,” I said. He looked disappointed. “At least a foot or so, but closer is better. If I’m touching someone, I can get a really accurate reading.”

  “Well, do what you can,” he said.

  “How long will it take to get to Miraflores?” asked Russ.

  “We’re in Miraflores, stupid,” Jameson said. Their short reign of friendship appeared to be over.

  “I thought we were in Lima.” Russ looked to Mr. Specter for confirmation.

  Mr. Specter said, “We landed in Lima, and drove to Miraflores. It’s a suburb of Lima. It’s easy to get them confused.”

  “And some people are easily confused.” Jameson took a bite of toast.

  Russ said, “Shut up.”

  “Is Alex coming with us?” Mallory asked. I’d kind of forgotten about Alex, but she hadn’t.

  “Not today,” Kevin said. “Most people in Miraflores speak some English. We’ll be able to walk around by ourselves and find our way pretty easily. When we get on the bus to head out of town tomorrow, Alex will join us then.”

  “There’s really nothing that can go wrong in Miraflores,” Mr. Specter said. “You’ll be as safe as you’d be at home.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Nadia

  We spent the morning walking, just getting a feel for being in a city in Peru, but the adults were always hanging right over our shoulders, so it was impossible to speak privately amongst ourselves. Mr. Specter, in particular, seemed determined not to give us any breathing room. I constantly found my eyes drawn to Jameson, puzzled by his apparent health and energy. I thought the breakfast food might disagree with him, but he seemed more than fine. In fact, when we stopped for lunch at a restaurant on top of a cliff overlooking the ocean, he ate again with gusto. At one point, I was able to catch Russ’s eye. I gestured to Jameson like what gives? Russ, noticing the proximity of the adults right behind us, mouthed something that indicated he’d explain later.

  Our next stop, at a Mercado, an open-air marketplace, made me hopeful I could find out what had happened, but the chaperones herded us around like stray cattle and there weren’t any opportunities to talk. There were no stores at the Mercado, just stall after stall, each one filled to the brim with brightly colored merchandise. Place mats, pottery, jewelry, blankets, carved chess pieces, dolls. Some of the stalls were tiny, not much bigger than an office cubicle. There were no cash registers. Instead, each vendor made change out of a pouch, and when someone made a purchase, they pulled plastic bags out from under their chairs. Some of the women attending the stalls were young, with babies slung across their chests or resting in strollers. I kept waiting to hear a baby cry, but all of them were good, like adorable black-haired dolls.

  Mrs. Whitehouse hung out with “us girls,” seeming to take a special interest in Mallory, and asking her opinion about various gem stone earrings and bracelets. As if Mallory were a jewelry expert. Kevin Adams bought an armload of t-shirts a few stalls away, and then he and Jameson tracked us down to show off their purchases. “I’m set for clothing for the next decade!” he joked. At least I think he was joking.

  Jameson had a large plastic bag bulging with stuff, but the one thing he wanted to show us was a long leather cord with two leather-covered balls on either end. “Look what I found,” he said, as if we’d be awed by his discovery. He held the cord up over head and let the tennis-ball sized balls swing like a pendulum.

  “What is it?” Mallory asked.

  “This is what is known as a bola.” He gave it a shake, which made the two balls collide with a loud thwack. “A decorative one, but the vendor told me that if you swung this around and got enough velocity you could kill a guy.” Jameson sounded gleeful. “There are rocks under the leather.”

  “So cool,” Kevin said. “I wish I’d spotted it first.”

  “You probably won’t be able to take it home,” Mrs. Whitehouse said. “No weapons through customs.”

  “Oh, I’m going to take it home,” Jameson said with certainty. He held up his bag. “I’m taking it all home.” And he and Kevin Adams wandered off to do more shopping.

  Our parents were going to be told that we got these souvenirs in a gift shop in Miami. Mr. Specter assured us they’d go for this without question. “People believe what you tell them,” he said.

  Out of everyone in the group, I seemed to have the most trouble finding things to buy. I had a pocket full of Peruvian money—a sol was what they called the unit of currency here. Each of us had gotten a stack of bills on the plane in our information packet. Part of it was that I didn’t want to use up all my cash on our first day, and yet, I wasn’t sure if I’d have the chance to shop again. I browsed, looking at coffee
mugs imprinted with llamas and stacks of soft blankets woven from alpaca wool. When Mallory bought a purse-sized backpack and I realized it was only about seven U.S. dollars, I grabbed one for myself in a different color, but after that I was stuck. I wanted to get gifts for my parents, especially my mother, to soften the blow of me leaving without her permission, but everything seemed too bulky or breakable. Finally, I let Mallory talk me into getting a silver bracelet. “Trust me, she’ll love it,” Mallory said as the old woman wrapped the bracelet in white paper and tucked it into a bag.

  “Gracias.” I reached to take the change, but the stall owner’s outstretched hand froze in place as she noticed my face. She stared unabashedly, but there was compassion in her eyes. She set the bag down and reached out to touch my scars, running her fingers over my ruined skin. I resisted the inclination to pull away. She said something in Spanish and I looked to Mallory for a translation.

  “She wants to know if it hurts,” Mallory said.

  “No. Not anymore.”

  The woman nodded in understanding. She spoke to Mallory, a long string of words. Somewhere in the rush I heard the phrase ‘Ángel quemada.’ Inwardly I groaned. I knew where this was going.

  When the old woman stopped talking, Mallory said, “She said there is a legend—,”

  “About a burned angel,” I said.

  “You know it?” Mallory was surprised.

  I was pleased to have caught her unawares. I couldn’t speak the language but I knew about the Ángel quemada. Score one for Nadia. “Sure, doesn’t everyone know that legend? The angel appears as a human girl with half her face burned. She travels with a man who makes the lame walk and heals sick people. She can fly, and when she does, she becomes invisible.” I tried to remember the rest. “And then something about a fire storm.”

  Mallory and the woman exchanged a flurry of words in Spanish and when they paused, Mallory said, “Just what you said. She’s telling me the same story.”

  “I heard it at the airport,” I said. “The guys who detained me thought they were really on to something.”

  Mallory spoke to the woman again, and they both laughed. The woman patted my face in a grandmotherly fashion. “I explained to her that since the legend is hundreds of years old and you’re only sixteen that there can’t be any connection.”

  The woman spoke again, this time to me. She held up one finger, the universal sign to wait, and then rummaged through a box in the corner.

  “She has something for you,” Mallory said.

  The woman returned with a pottery figure, about four inches high. It was a mustached man in a knit Peruvian hat, his arms full of various items. He looked a lot like the dad, Gomez, from The Addams Family. She jabbered excitedly and held it out to me. Taking it, I made a point to exclaim over it as if I was really pleased to see it. “What am I looking at here?” I asked Mallory out of the side of my mouth.

  “She says it’s a Lucky Man,” Mallory said. “See how he’s carrying all that stuff? It’s symbolic: the money, the heart, the bottle of medicine. It stands for wealth, health, and love. If someone gives you a Lucky Man, you’ll have good luck.”

  I fingered the small terracotta heart, attached by a string. I wouldn’t turn down any money or good health, but the love was the one that intrigued me the most. “Quantos?” I asked, repeating what I’d heard Mallory say.

  “No, no,” said the woman shaking her head adamantly. “No dinero. For you.” Her hand went again to my cheek and her fingertips brushed my scars. She said something to Mallory, who translated, “She said she can tell you are an angel. Keep the Lucky Man close. It will help you in your time of need.”

  “Gracias,” I said, a lump in my throat as I tucked the Lucky Man into my new backpack. This was such an odd country. I’d been questioned at the airport, included in a death threat, and now given a gift. In the last thirty-six hours, I’d experienced a greater range of emotions than I would have in a month at home. I could see why people acquired wanderlust. It was a big world, and I’d missed out on so much of it. “Muchas gracias.”

  As we left the stall, Mrs. Whitehouse fell into step beside us. I’d lost track of her, but it was clear she’d been just one aisle over, within earshot of our exchange with the old woman. I wondered if she was going to ask what we’d been talking about, but she remained silent.

  When we met up with the others, Mr. Specter made an announcement. “We’ll be spending several hours at the park,” he said. “We’ll stop at the hotel first to drop off our purchases. While we’re there, it’s a good idea to take care of your needs. I’m not sure if they have bathrooms in the park, or if there will be a place to buy snacks or water so plan ahead.”

  This was starting to feel less like a spy mission and more like a school field trip, but I didn’t care. I couldn’t have been happier.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Nadia

  To get to Parque Kennedy we walked twenty minutes from our hotel, passing through a neighborhood of businesses—gas stations and travel agencies and banks. We walked by a casino and several restaurants, including a Chili’s, just like back at home. As gringos, we stood out, especially Jameson who was so tall and pale by Peruvian standards. Still, people were friendly, smiling as they walked past us on the sidewalk. One woman who was sweeping the steps of her café tried to wave us in, but Jameson explained that we’d already eaten, so she implored us to come back, “mañana.” I was discovering I knew far more Spanish than I’d realized. Maybe I would add the language to my studies when I got home.

  Back home it was June, sunny and warm—at least in the mid-seventies. On this side of the equator, it was cool and overcast, more like fall in Wisconsin. I found that I liked the weather here a lot better. All of us wore jackets, so having the hood of my sweatshirt up didn’t attract attention. And even if someone spotted my face within the shadows of my hood, there was no expression of pity like I’d encountered at home. People’s attitudes seemed to be—things happen, not everyone is perfect.

  I felt like I could walk forever. I noticed Russ doing a mental check of my whereabouts, especially when we crossed the atrociously busy streets. The passing cars drove assertively, honking far more than they did at home. They honked, not just as warnings for close calls, but all the time, and seemingly for fun.

  I had a feeling we’d get some space and time to ourselves at the park, and while that was true, I still had to wait to have a private conversation with my friends because when we first arrived, the novelty of the park was a huge distraction. The Parque Kennedy was an enormous triangle, an oasis of green in the middle of the city. Each of the three sides was a busy street, but once you were in the park, it was peaceful. On one of the adjacent streets stood a gorgeous church, and on a connecting street was a row of restaurants with outdoor seating. There was a playground for small children and park benches filled with lovers. Leafy trees provided a canopy for the pathway, and well-tended flowerbeds were abundant. In the middle of the whole thing was a large raised circular platform, where a few artists sketched on large pads of paper. Mr. Specter said it was a Rotunda, although it looked more like the foundation of a Rotunda, since it lacked a dome.

  And everywhere else in the park, there were cats. Dozens and dozens of cats. A calico lounging under a bench. Cats walking nonchalantly along the path. I spotted a black cat stretched out full length on a tree limb, and several others sleeping in the grass. Others lounged by the fence that surrounded the playground. Cats everywhere. All different colors, shapes, and sizes. All of them seemingly healthy and meandering around like they owned the place. It was as if a tribe of house cats randomly decided go to the park that day. I’d never seen so many cats in one outdoor spot.

  We all stared, mouths agape. Jameson was the first to say it: “What’s with all the cats?”

  Mallory knelt down to pet a gray striped tabby, an especially fat one. “Oh, aren’t you the cutest thing? Yes, you are.”

  “Seriously,” Jameson said, looking to Mr. Spect
er. “What’s the story with the cats?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, pushing his glasses up his nose. “I haven’t a clue.” The other adults admitted ignorance as well. Mallory’s fussing over the one cat drew the attention of two others. They came running and soon enough Russ and I had crouched down to pet them. As much as I had a contentious relationship with my mother’s cat, Barry, it was hard to resist these kitties.

  “I wouldn’t touch them,” Mrs. Whitehouse said. “Who knows what diseases they carry?”

  “They look healthy enough,” Mallory said. “They’re not feral.”

  Jameson said, “I’m going to ask one of the artists to give me the lowdown on the cats.” He took off, hands in his jacket pockets, walking jauntily, completely unlike someone who’d been drinking numerous Pisco Sours the night before.

  Mrs. Whitehouse pulled frantically at Mr. Specter’s sleeve. “Are you going to let him go off on his own like that?”

  Mr. Specter’s eyes never left Jameson. “It’s okay. I’ve got him covered.”

  I stood up to watch Jameson approach one of the guys sketching over on the concrete Rotunda; he talked in a spirited way, gesturing toward the church across the street and giving the park a broad sweep of his hand. When Jameson came back, he was bursting with the news. “The cats belong in the park,” he said. “They live here 24/7. The church takes care of their food and medical care. One funny thing—the guy didn’t know the word for neutering so he said they whack off their sex parts.” Jameson grinned.

  “Ouch!” said Kevin Adams.

  “But why?” Mallory said, standing up. “Why do they feed them and take care of them?’

  Jameson shrugged. “He didn’t know how it got started. But now it’s a thing they do.”

  Mr. Specter motioned for all of us to gather around him, like we were in a football huddle. “I don’t want to be a wet blanket, but we do have a reason for being here today and we should get down to business. We need to break into pairs and just meander around the park. Act like tourists. Take pictures. If you see anyone who looks suspicious, pretend to take pictures of each other and get that person in the background. We’ll send the photo to the Praetorian Guard headquarters when we get home.”