Addison Cooke and the Treasure of the Incas (7 page)

“We
have
the key, and we don't know where to begin.” Molly shrugged.

Eddie bobbed his head in agreement. “What if Ragar beats us to the punch? He has a head start. Plus he has your aunt and uncle—and they're Incan experts.”

The sunset cast long shadows across the cobbled courtyard of the cathedral. Darkness was falling fast. Addison could tell his team felt just as frazzled as he did. He shook his head. “My aunt and uncle won't help Ragar. They'll provide clever clues that sound right, but are deliberately wrong.”

Molly sighed. “They can't fool him forever.”

“Probably not. But they
can
slow him down. And that gives us a chance.”

Raj could never sit still for long. He explored the looming walls of the ancient cathedral, peppered with Gothic spires, snarling gargoyles, and vaulted archways. “Eddie, can you read that plaque by the door?”

Eddie glanced up. “Probably. It's in English.”

“Oh,” said Raj, embarrassed. “For tourists, I guess.” Raj crossed to the sign and read it aloud. “This church is the Cathedral of Lost Souls. It was built in the time of Francisco Pizarro.”

“What's that about Frank's Pizza?” Eddie asked.

“Built just after Pizarro's conquistadors defeated the Incas,” Raj continued, reading the chiseled calligraphy on the plaque.

Addison turned to examine the cathedral with sudden interest. “So this old heap is five hundred years old.” His
eye zeroed in on a carved stone crest that crowned the portico over the massive double doors. And the Addison Cooke brain finally flicked into gear. “Benedict Arnold!” he exclaimed, leaping to his feet. “I've seen that crest before. Raj, you're a genius!”

“I am?”

“Well, one of us is. Because we now have a clue.”

Addison flipped through the sketches in his pocket notebook until he found the right page. He pointed a finger triumphantly at the coat of arms—a shield supported by two fire-breathing dragons. It matched the crest on the cathedral. “There. The crest of Diego de Almagro II!”

“Diego who?” asked Eddie.

“I think maybe Addison has heat stroke,” Molly said.

“I copied this down from one of my Incan books. Do you guys realize who Diego de Almagro II is?”

“Diego de Almagro I's son?”

“Diego,” Addison announced, pausing for dramatic effect, “is the man who killed Francisco Pizarro!”

“That is so rock-and-roll,” said Raj.

Molly, mystified, mulled this over. “Wait, so how is this a clue?”

“Look,” said Addison, his four-cylinder words struggling to keep pace with his six-cylinder brain, “Diego's father was Spanish, but his mother was a local tribeswoman—Diego sided with the Incas. He helped them kill their greatest enemy—Pizarro.”

The light snapped on in Molly's eyes. “So if Diego built this cathedral . . .”

“It was a safe place for the Incans to hide their second key.” Addison grinned.

“That makes sense,” said Eddie, bobbing his head. “Guadalupe said there were only three things worth seeing in Olvidados: the cathedral, the llama farm, and a giant pile of rubber tires. If I had to find a five-hundred-year-old Incan key in this town, I'd start with the five-hundred-year-old cathedral.”

Addison hastily slipped his shoes back on. “We've got to get inside this church.”

Molly hesitated. “If we want to rescue Aunt Delia and Uncle Nigel, why not just hide here until Professor Ragar arrives? Why go after the key?”

“We don't want to risk the treasure falling into the wrong hands,” Addison declared. “We want it to fall into the right hands.”

“Our hands,” Eddie specified, rubbing his hands together.

“Well, the Cathedral of Lost Souls is closed for the night,” said Molly, pointing to the sign over the door.

“Nothing is closed to the open mind,” said Addison.

Lost Souls

A
DDISON CONFIDENTLY LED THE team up the front steps of the cathedral. He adjusted the peak on his Ivy cap and buttoned his school blazer. “Straighten your ties, and look respectable.”

“I'm not a hundred percent sure about this one,” said Molly.

“Molly, when have I ever steered you wrong?”

“Do you really want me to answer that?”

“I've got this under control,” said Addison. He reached up and clanged the heavy brass door knocker. After a moment, the oak doors creaked open.

A priest with a short white nose and a long black cassock poked out his head.

Addison offered a cheerful hello in Latin.
“Salve, quid agis. Bonum est vespere!”

The priest appraised the group suspiciously with his dark beady eyes. He rattled off a curt reply in Spanish.

“He has no idea what you're saying, Addison,” Eddie explained.

“I thought priests spoke Latin.”

Eddie spoke to the priest in Spanish and blanched at the priest's tart reply. “He says they speak Latin in the service,” Eddie translated. “But they don't go around making chitchat in a language that's been dead for two thousand years.”

The priest barked a few questions at Eddie.

Eddie turned to Addison. “Who are we? And what do we want?”

“Tell him we're the Vienna Boys Choir,” said Addison with an elaborate bow. “We know his cathedral is closed for the night, but we've traveled a long way. We'd love to view his beautiful church and maybe sing a free concert in exchange.”

The frowning priest listened to Eddie and rolled this new information around in his mind for a moment. At last, he spoke in broken English. “The Vienna Boys Choir. Here. In Olvidados.”

“Quite.” Addison smiled ingratiatingly. “We just flew in and have no place to spend the night.”

The priest peered into the darkness and snapped a few words in his halted English. “There are four of you. Shouldn't there be a hundred?”

“We're actually the Vienna Boys Barbershop Quartet,” Addison offered.

The priest pointed at Molly. “That one is not a boy.”

“True, but she sings like one.”

“I kick like one, too,” Molly growled at Addison.

The priest crossed his arms and looked sternly from Eddie to Raj and back to Addison. He was having exactly none of it. “You,” the priest said flatly, “are from Vienna. In Austria.”

“Vienna, South Carolina,” Addison clarified.

“The New York chapter,” Eddie added.

“In America,” Molly said, to round things out.

“I sing tenor,” Raj put in helpfully.

“Enough,” said the priest, pushing his spectacles up his short, piglike nose. He jabbed a finger in the air and unleashed a blistering tirade of fiery Spanish that left Eddie dabbing a mist of spittle from his forehead. Addison only recognized the words
“prisión”
and
“policía.”
The priest slammed the heavy oak doors so that they cracked like thunder.

Addison stared at the shut door, inches from his face.

“I don't think I should translate some of that,” said Eddie.

“We really could have thought that one through better,” said Molly.

Addison was stunned. It was the first time he could remember not being able to charm his way into a place. “I guess my infectious good nature only works on people who are fluent in English.” He clasped his hands together, warming them against the cool night air. “Well,” he said brightly, “if at first you don't succeed, try the back door.”

•   •   •

The team climbed over a crumbling piñon fence into the cemetery behind the cathedral.

Under the cloak of night, they ducked behind gravestones that slumbered in silence and sneaked to the rear of the vast building.

“I don't know if the Olvidados police department will appreciate this,” said Eddie, staring uncertainly at the ominous shadow of the dark cathedral.

"What they don't know can't hurt them,” said Addison. He scraped old leaves aside to reveal a wooden cellar door leading down to the cathedral's basement. He tested the heavy doors with his dress shoe. “Raj, can you get these doors open?”

“Can I ever!” Raj's eyes bulged with excitement. He
threw open his backpack and began unpacking matches, fuses, bang snaps, sparklers, electrical tape, batteries, goggles, and at last, his prized possession—a lock-picking set.

“Never mind,” said Molly, trying the door handles. “It's unlocked.”

“Ah,” Raj said, a little deflated.

Molly quietly hoisted open the rotting cellar doors. Addison drew a flashlight from his blazer pocket. The team followed the flashlight's beam, descending into the darkness.

•   •   •

Together they crept through the musty cathedral basement. Addison listened to the sound of men's voices upstairs and gestured the group for silence. He moved stealthily, the echoing stone walls amplifying his every footstep.

“Addison, what are we looking for?” whispered Eddie.

Addison closed his eyes and quoted the Incan key from memory. “
‘In the seat of the Andes Mountains, by the Forgotten River, lie the bones of the underworld that guard the key to silver and gold.'
”

Addison scanned the room with his flashlight and shouldered his backpack. “The clue says
‘the bones of the underworld.'
Lots of cathedrals have crypts—basement rooms filled with bones. We need to figure out if there's a basement to this basement.”

“This is all just a hunch,” said Eddie skeptically.

“There's a chance,” said Addison.

They tiptoed past rusted candelabras, clothing racks of faded priest robes, and antique incense burners of burnished copper. Parchment maps with burnt edges adorned the walls. Hundreds of dog-eared books lined dusty shelves.

Molly sneezed repeatedly. “It smells just like Uncle Nigel's office.”

Raj opened a rotting oak door and discovered a spiral staircase, leading both up and down. “Which way?”

“Down,” Addison whispered, “to the underworld.” The steep stone steps coiled their way underground, into a deep cellar.

The team emerged in a dank hallway beneath the exposed foundation of the cathedral. Addison cast his flashlight about the sagging beams and cobwebbed stone pillars.

“Do you see anything that looks like a clue?” Molly whispered, peering into the gloom.

“I don't know what we're looking for, but I know we'll know it when we see it.”

They reached the end of the cellar and stopped.

“It's a dead end,” said Raj.

“I don't see any crypt in here,” said Eddie. He peered about the dingy room, draped in cobwebs and shadow. “Maybe we should just leave?” he added hopefully.

Addison took a closer look at the stone cellar. On the far wall stood an oak cabinet, piled with dusty jars of pickled herbs and ancient bottles of wine. Addison rapped the sturdy oak with his knuckles. “This wood isn't too old. It was built much later than the cathedral.” He turned to face the group. “It's the one thing that doesn't belong. We have to move this cabinet.”

Eddie groaned. “It's gigantic.”

“We can see the other three walls of the cellar,” said Addison. “We have to make sure there's nothing hidden here. On the count of three. One . . . two . . . three.”

They heaved against the cabinet with all their strength. One of the jars of pickled herbs wobbled a bit, but nothing else moved.

“Let's get rid of these bottles.”

They stripped the shelves bare, moving the jars to the floor, careful to keep quiet. Eddie, miraculously, didn't drop a single bottle.

“That should do it,” said Addison. “Take two.”

Again the team pushed with all their might. Slowly, they managed to scrape the wooden cabinet away from the foundation wall.

Addison swept his flashlight beam over the stone masonry but saw nothing to write home about. He sighed.

“Wait!” cried Raj. He wiped dust from the stone with his palms, revealing a large symbol faintly etched into the
rock wall of the foundation. A life-size shield supported by two fire-breathing dragons.

“Diego de Almagro II's coat of arms,” Addison gasped.

“It's still a wall and not a crypt,” said Eddie.

Addison could not argue with Eddie's astute observation. Still, he peered hard at the ancient symbols carved on the stone shield, “Something about the crest seems different . . .”

“There,” said Molly, pointing to the design at the center of the shield. “That part looks just like Atahualpa's key.”

Raj let out a low whistle. This time, he managed to get a few notes.

“Good eye, Mo,” said Addison. He aimed the flashlight on the center of the crest. And there, inside a ram's skull with twisted black horns, was a piece of stone carved in the shape of the Incan key.

“What does it mean?” asked Raj, his voice trembling with excitement. “Is it some kind of clue?”

Addison reached out a cautious hand and brushed cobwebs from the stone wall with his fingertips. If there was a puzzle to the design, he could not figure it out. Finally, unable to think of anything better, he pressed the stone key firmly with his thumb.

Dust shook from the wall. And with a low rumble, the entire shield swiveled inward, revealing a dark cavern.

“A secret door!” Eddie whispered.

“I've waited my whole life for a secret door,” said Raj, his eyes glowing.

Addison carefully studied the cobwebbed doorway under the glow of his flashlight. “What do you make of it, Raj?”

“I don't think this door has been opened in a long time. If we're on the right track, Ragar hasn't been here yet.”

“Then we're in the lead,” said Addison.

Molly peered into the dark tunnel. She could resist no longer. “Ladies first.” She grinned, and stepped inside.

•   •   •

Molly led the team down a long stone shaft carved through the limestone bedrock.

Addison played his flashlight over the walls. They were covered in painted murals, faded by time, depicting Incas and Spaniards locked in battle. “Look at these, Molly! At least five hundred years old! Aunt Delia would lose her mind if she saw these.”

“Aunt Delia would lose her mind if she knew we were down here,” Molly countered. “We're not allowed south of 42nd Street.”

The tunnel was so cramped even Molly had to stoop. She waved the group forward.

“You're lucky to be raised by archaeologists with exciting jobs,” Raj said. “My mom is just an anesthesiologist.”

“What's that mean?” asked Molly.

“It means she literally puts people to sleep.”

The tunnel finally opened into a chamber where they could stand. As everyone gratefully stretched their backs, Addison panned the flashlight beam across the room.

One wall was dominated by a huge iron cross. Swords, pikes, and javelins were leaned against a rack. On the far side of the room were jail cells with corroded iron bars.

“A torture chamber!” Molly gasped.

“Awesome,” said Raj.

“They kept people in these cages?” Eddie asked.

“Most cathedrals had a tribunal like this,” said Addison. “The Spanish Inquisition killed people for not being Catholic. Often by burning them at the stake, like King Atahualpa. People would say they were Catholic to avoid being killed. So the Inquisition would torture them to find out who was telling the truth.”

“Aunt Delia used to tell us about the Inquisition whenever Addison said her punishments were too harsh,” Molly explained.

“Diego de Almagro was part Native Indian,” said Eddie. “Why would he want to torture people?”

Addison shrugged and shook his head. “Maybe he tortured the torturers.”

“I don't feel hungry anymore,” Eddie announced.