The Secret Cipher (15 page)

Ethan grabbed his baseball cap. “He made you that secret box.”

“Sure, he made me a box, but that doesn't mean he wants me to come for a visit.”

“This doesn't look like a prison,” Pyrrha said. “Why is no one screaming in agony? Why is no one pushing boulders?”

Tyler leaned against the car. “Are you saying that those stories about Zeus's punishments are true? Sisyphus has to push a boulder up a hill every day, then start over in the morning? And Prometheus is chained to a rock while his liver is eaten by a giant eagle?”

“Yes, all true.”

“That's barbaric,” Ethan said. “Why would Zeus do that?”

“Sisyphus was a king who deceived the gods,” Tyler explained. “And Prometheus broke Zeus's law and gave man fire, which is a major reason why mankind advanced scientifically.”

“Zeus does not forgive those who disobey him,” Pyrrha said, a note of sadness in her voice. Was she thinking about her father? Was he being punished in some horrid way for stealing the urns?

More cars drove into the lot. “Let's do this,” I said.

We walked up to the security booth. One of the guards was watching something on his computer. The other was looking about as bored as I looked when I sat in math class, counting the minutes until the bell rang. “Hi,” I said.

He sighed. “You here for a visit?”

“Yes. I'm here to see the Locksmith.” Then I cleared my throat. “I mean, I'm here to see Isaac Romero.”

He looked at the four of us. “Inmates are allowed two visitors per day, no more.”

Ethan stepped back. “Pyrrha should go with you. I can wait out here.”

“I need to see your IDs,” the guard said. I pulled out my wallet and handed over my Chatham
Middle School ID. It was the dorkiest picture ever. My eyes were half closed and I looked like I was pooping. The guard grinned. “Why didn't you get a retake?”

“I was sick on retake day,” I informed him, a bit snippily.

He made a copy of my ID, then set it on the counter. Then he held out his hand and looked at Pyrrha. This should be interesting. What kind of identification would she have? A student ID from Zeus's Academy or Hades High School? Maybe a gym membership from the Hercules Athletic Club?

She looked at me and shook her head. Then she stepped back.

So I grabbed Ethan's arm. “Come on. Let's go.” I was actually relieved. I'd much rather have him by my side, especially since I was feeling like I might hurl. I couldn't remember ever being this nervous about meeting someone. Ethan showed the guard his Chatham Middle School ID. He was wearing his baseball cap in the photo, just like in real life. The school photographer was a friend of the family, so he'd let Ethan wear the hat, even though it was against yearbook policy.

The guard made a copy of the ID. “After you
go through those doors, you'll have to check in again.” He handed the cards back to us.

“Take the belt,” Pyrrha said. “You can show it to the Locksmith.”

She started to wrap it around my waist but the guard said, “You won't be able to wear that. They make you leave belts, shoes, and bags outside the visiting room.” He brought out a handheld metal detector and ran it over me. Then over Ethan. It beeped. Ethan took off his watch, then fished through his pockets. “Oops,” he said, pulling out his phone, his Swiss Army knife, and an extra key to his house. He handed them to Tyler.

“Do you remember the code?” Pyrrha asked me.

“‘The Locksmith unlocks love with a kiss,'” I said. She nodded. I looked worriedly at Tyler. “Keep a lookout for Ricardo.”

“Roger that.”

Once inside, we passed through another metal detector, and had to remove everything else from our pockets and put it into a tray. Gum, my wallet, his wallet, which were identical because we'd bought them at the Chatham Saturday farmers, market. We also had to leave our coats, shoes, and Ethan's hat. Then we signed in at the reception
desk and were given visitor badges.

Twenty minutes passed. Maybe my father was trying to make up his mind whether or not to see me. Had we come all this way for nothing? My hands got sweaty. And my stomach still hurt. I tried to look at a magazine, but couldn't focus. Had Mom hidden the truth from me because my father was a bad person? Should I be afraid of him? Would Mom ground me for the rest of my life if she found out I'd been here?

A guard appeared in the lobby. “Jax Malone and Ethan Hoche?” he called.

As we followed the guard down the hall, I felt like I was walking into an operating room, about to be cut open and examined. Would he like me? Did that matter? We were here to figure out if he knew anything about the urns. If he didn't like me, my life wouldn't change. He hadn't been a part of it anyway. I told myself I didn't care. He was just a man and I needed him to help solve a riddle. Nothing more.

“I don't think we should say anything about Pyrrha,” I told Ethan. “It's too complicated and it sounds crazy.”

“I agree,” he said.

We were ushered into what looked like a huge living room. Couches, love seats, and small tables were set up in a jumbled way. There were no glass partitions. A man in jeans and a white shirt was sitting in a corner talking to the woman who'd been putting on makeup. Another man, also dressed in jeans and a white shirt, was talking to the second woman and her child. Two guards sat on chairs in opposite corners, watching our every move. “Isaac Romero's over there,” our escort told us. He pointed, then left.

Even though I'd read about minimum-security prison camps, I still expected a man dressed in prison stripes, with chains around his wrists and ankles, because that's the way it always looked in movies. So when he rose from his chair, I didn't realize I was looking at my father.

“Hello, Jax.”

FACT:
The most famous prison in this country is Alcatraz, in San Francisco. Set on an island and surrounded by freezing water, it used to be a maximum-security facility, where the toughest and most violent criminals were sent. While some managed to escape, most were caught, drowned, or never found. Today, there is no evidence that any of those who disappeared survived. Other famous prisons include the Tower of London, which held two wives of King Henry VIII; South Africa's Robben Island, which was once a leper colony but then became the prison that held Nelson Mandela; and French Guiana's Devil's
Island, where if you tried to escape you faced piranha-infested waters.

I
wanted to ask Jax's father if anyone had escaped from this prison, which looked more like a hotel. But we never got to that particular topic.

“I'm Isaac Romero.” He held out his hand. Jax wiped her palm on her jeans, then shook. Maybe it was odd for a father and daughter to shake hands, but I think it would have been weirder if they'd hugged. I never understand why people I don't know want to hug me.

I waited a few feet behind Jax, trying to give her some personal space. Her dad wore a pair of jeans and a white shirt, same as the other inmates. The shirt had a stamp on the right breast pocket,
Brookville Federal Prison Camp
. His hair was dark, with some gray at the temples, and pulled into a ponytail like Jax's. His mustache and beard were trimmed into a goatee. His eyes were dark brown, as was his skin. Jax definitely looked more like him than like her mother.

People always tell me that I look like my mom and Tyler looks like Dad. Tyler definitely takes after Dad, with his math and science skills. Mom calls them
the absent-minded professors because when they get interested in something, they forget about everything else. But I'm the only one with the allergies and the worries. I don't know where those came from.

“I'm Ethan,” I told him, reminding myself to look into his eyes.

“Right. You're Cathy's son. I saw you once, but you were a toddler.”

As I shook his hand, I wondered if there were lots of germs in prisons. “It's nice to meet you. . . .” What should I call him? Uncle Isaac didn't seem right. Mr. Romero sounded formal.

“Call me Isaac,” he said.

There was a strong accent, definitely Mexican. I'd never been to Mexico but I'd met plenty of people who'd been born there. Our gardener, Roberto, was super nice and he always brought his cocker spaniel to play in our pool. And the woman who managed Tyler's favorite coffee bar, Taza de Café, always made Tyler a
café con leche
.

Jax shuffled. She didn't say anything, which was weird because she rarely got nervous. She'd go right up to anyone and ask a question. She'd grab the front seat at the movies and not worry if people were looking at her. But she wasn't even smiling. She
looked like she'd eaten something that had made her sick. Maybe we should stop buying doughnuts and get some fruit.

“How 'bout we sit down,” Isaac said.

Without a word, Jax sank into the nearest chair. I sat next to her. Isaac took the chair across the table. He placed his hands on the tabletop. His fingernails were trim and clean. Hard labor wasn't a part of his prison-camp life. Then he wrung his hands, a sign of nervousness. “Did something happen? Is your mother okay?”

Jax still didn't say anything. She just stared at him. “Aunt Lindsay's fine,” I said.

He exhaled. He must have thought we'd come with bad news. That made sense. All those years without seeing us and then we show up, unannounced. He sat back in his chair and unclenched his hands. “Does she know you're here?”

“No.”

“Who brought you?”

“My brother drove us,” I said. “Tyler.”

He nodded. “Yes, I remember Tyler. He was a smart kid.” Then he met Jax's gaze and his face seemed to relax. “You have her eyes. Lindsay has the most beautiful eyes. I've never forgotten them.”

That felt awkward. Silence filled the space between us. Jax fiddled with the hem of her shirt. “Uh . . .” I tried to help her. What should I say? “Uh . . . so how are you doing? Is the food good?”

He didn't take his eyes off Jax. “You didn't come here to talk about the food, did you? There's only fifteen minutes for visiting. If you've come to ask me some questions, you'd better get started.”

Jax looked around. More visitors had entered the room. The conversation level was getting louder. If one of the guards wanted to eavesdrop on us, he'd have to scoot closer. Jax straightened her shoulders, summoning her courage. “I didn't know anything about you until this summer. Mom never told me your name. She pretended you didn't exist. Then Great-Aunt Juniper told me about you.”

“How is she?”

“She had a stroke,” Jax said.

His brow furrowed. “I'm sorry to hear that. She's a good friend to me. Is she going to recover?”

“She's okay except that she's confused about things. She was in the Museum of Fine Arts when she had the stroke. Now she can't remember stuff,” Jax said.

He sat up. “The museum? In Boston?”

“Yes.” Jax looked around again. She lowered her voice. “Do you know why she was there?”

“I might.” He rubbed his neck but didn't say anything else. Was he waiting to see what we knew? I checked the clock on the wall. We were running out of time. “You still haven't told me why you're here.”

“We're here because Great-Aunt Juniper asked us to help her find three very important . . . things,” Jax said. She was being careful not to give too much away. The urns were still a secret and we had no idea if we could trust this man.

“Things?” One of his eyebrows arched.

“Yes. Old things. We found one,” Jax told him, “but now we're looking for the second.”

I hated not having my hat, especially because one of the guards kept staring at me in a real intimidating way, as if he expected me to suddenly jump up and initiate a prison break. “She gave us a clue,” I told Mr. Romero. “But it's a riddle and we're hoping you can help us solve it.”

He sat very still, his gaze moving between Jax and me, as if measuring our story. “What is the riddle?” he asked.

Jax described the belt, then she said, “‘The Locksmith unlocks love with a kiss.'”

Isaac Romero tapped his fingers on the table. He
knew something. His eyes had flashed.

“Please,” Jax said. “This is very important. Juniper is sick and you are the only person who can help. She needs us. You said in your email that you wanted to talk to her but you didn't know where she was.”

He cocked his head. “My . . .
email
?”

“Yeah,” Jax said. “Your email to me. The day before yesterday.”

He rubbed the back of his neck again, a confused expression on his face. I sat very straight. “Mr. Romero? You didn't send Jax an email?” He shook his head. I looked at Jax. I could tell, by the way her eyes were narrowing, that she was coming to the same conclusion as me.

“Ricardo,” she whispered. Then she smacked her hand on the table. “He tricked me. That's how he found us. He sent me fake emails, asking how I was doing, and telling me he wanted to talk to Juniper. I told him that I was leaving to see her. So he followed us. I can't believe I fell for that trick.” Her cheeks turned red. “But I thought he was . . .” She hung her head. “I feel so stupid.”

“You're not stupid, Jax.” Isaac Romero reached out his hand, as if to pat hers, but hesitated. “Ricardo is a very clever man.”

“You know him?” I asked.

“He is the reason I am in prison.”

“What?” Jax and I both said.

“He double-crossed me. He double-crossed Juniper, too. He wanted the urn of Hope and the urn of Love for himself.”

“You know about the urns?” Jax asked. “Then you
can
help us. We found Hope. Now we need to find Love.”

Mr. Romero shook his head. “This is much too dangerous. You must go home and forget about this.”