But that was not its deepest secret.
Not by far.
Henry fingered the twine that snugly wrapped the parcel. He sent out a silent apology and prayer to Richard and Penelope Ransom.
As water climbed to his lips, he tasted the sandy water. He spat and choked. His vision blurred. Lights danced before his eyes.
No, not lights…
His vision sharpened despite his panic.
Torches approached through the boggy jungle. Flames flickered. Dark shadows shed to reveal a dozen warriors. They were half naked, dressed in loincloths. Ashes and black paint daubed their faces. Some came forward with drawn bows, flint arrows pointed toward him. Others had rifles shouldered.
The hunters had found their prey.
From out of their midst, a larger figure pushed forward. The leader of the bandits. But Henry knew the bandits were no more bandits than Montaña de Huesos was a simple mountain.
The attackers also hid a darker secret.
Henry heard a familiar whump-whump echoing from off in the distance. Helicopters were sweeping toward the burning campsite. Military helicopters. Henry had managed to get out a Mayday on the radio before escaping.
If only they’d come sooner…
The bandits’ tall leader strode forward and lowered to one knee.
Henry struggled to see the man’s face, but the torchlight seemed to shun his form. Wearing a longcoat and slouched hat, he was more shadow than man.
He reached out a wooden pole with a wicked steel hook at the end. Henry knew the man was not offering to pull him out of the quicksand. He was after the package. Henry attempted to yank it under the water, but he moved too slowly. The man lunged out with the pole and snagged the package from his fingertips.
Henry struggled to regain it, but it rose beyond his reach.
The bandits’ leader climbed to his feet. With a skilled flip, the package sailed high and landed in his open palm. For just a moment, Henry caught a glimpse of bony fingers with nails sharpened to points.
Like claws.
Then the man tossed aside the pole and started to leave.
“Thank you, Dr. Bethel,” came a hoarse whisper, strangely accented. “You’ve proven most resourceful.”
Henry strained his neck as far back as it could reach. His lips rose above the water. He spat his mouth clear.
“You’ll never have it!” Henry’s choked words were followed by a bitter laugh of satisfaction.
The leader swung back toward him. From beneath his hat, his eyes appeared like polished shadows, brighter than the cloaking darkness, sinister, unnatural.
As Henry sank beneath the pond’s surface, those strange eyes focused on him and narrowed. The waters grew colder under that questioning gaze.
As the water swamped over Henry’s head, he answered silently the dark suspicion of the leader. You’re too late.
He heard the leader cry out. Henry imagined the man ripping into the package he had guarded so bravely. He knew what the man would find: only dried-out palm fronds, folded and bundled.
Through the drowning waters, Henry heard the scream of bright anger from the bandits’ dark leader. The man had finally realized nothing was what it seemed here in the shadow of the Mountain of Bones.
Not bandits, not the mountain…not even a package tied in twine.
All a trick.
The purpose of Henry’s flight was to blaze a false trail, one to lure the hunters away from the true path. As darkness descended and Henry sank into the jungle’s final and eternal embrace, a smile formed on his lips.
The secret was safe, headed to where it belonged.
To be hidden until it was needed.
No one paid attention to the small Mayan boy as he climbed the two steps to the post office in Belize City. He carried a twine-wrapped parcel in his hands. Behind him, the ocean glinted brightly. It had taken the boy and his grandfather a full month to reach the coast. They had to be careful, wary, and watchful.
His grandfather knew all the old paths, the secret ways of their ancient people. He had taught the boy much on the long journey—how to soothe a toothache by chewing on the sap of the chicle tree, how to start a fire with flint and tinder, how to walk a jungle and not be heard.
But the most important lesson was unspoken.
To honor one’s promise.
The boy lifted the package toward the mail slot. He longed to look inside, but promises had been made. So instead he stared at the address written on the brown paper wrapping. He sounded out the letters.
“North Hampshire…Connecticut.”
He imagined the long journey the package would take. He wished he could follow it, too. Fly off to some exotic land.
The boy traced a finger over the top line:
Master Jacob Bartholomew Ransom
So many names for one person. With a shake of his head, the boy tipped the package through the slot. It struck the bottom with a satisfying thunk.
With the promise fulfilled, the boy turned away. “Master Jacob Bartholomew Ransom,” he whispered as he headed down the post office steps.
With so many names, surely he must be someone very important.
Maybe a distant prince or lord.
Still, the question nagged him—and would for many years.
Who exactly was Master Jacob Bartholomew Ransom?
PART ONE
Three Years Later
1
SCHOOL DAZE
From his school desk, Jake Ransom willed the second hand on the wall clock to sweep away the final minutes of his sixth-period history class.
Only another twenty-four minutes and he would be free.
Away from Middleton Prep for a whole week!
Then he could finally get some real work done. He had already mapped out his plans for each day of the weeklong vacation break: to explore the rich vein of shellfish fossils he had discovered in the rock quarry behind his house, to attend a signing by one of his favorite physicists, who had a new book out called Strange Quarks and Deeper Quantum Mysteries, to listen to the fourth lecture by a famed anthropologist on the cannibal tribes of Borneo (who knew sautéed eyeballs tasted sweet?)—and he had so much more planned.
All he needed now was the school’s last bell to ring to free him from the prison that was eighth grade.
But escape would not come that easy.
The history teacher, Professor Agnes Trout, clapped her bony hands together and drew back his sullen attention. She stood to one side of her desk. As gaunt as a stick of chalk, and just as dry and dusty, the teacher peered over her fingertips at the class.
“We have time for one more report,” she announced.
Jake rolled his eyes. Oh, great…
The class was no happier. Groans spread around the room, which only hardened her lips into a firmer line.