Free Addison Cooke and the Treasure of the Incas by Jonathan W. Stokes Page A

Almagro II!”
    â€œDiego who?” asked Eddie.
    â€œI think maybe Addison has heat stroke,” Molly said.
    â€œI copied this down from one of my Incan books. Do you guys realize who Diego de Almagro II is?”
    â€œDiego de Almagro I’s son?”
    â€œDiego,” Addison announced, pausing for dramatic effect, “is the man who killed Francisco Pizarro!”
    â€œThat is so rock-and-roll,” said Raj.
    Molly, mystified, mulled this over. “Wait, so how is this a clue?”
    â€œLook,” 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 . . .”
    â€œIt was a safe place for the Incans to hide their second key.” Addison grinned.
    â€œThat 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?”
    â€œWe don’t want to risk the treasure falling into the wrong hands,” Addison declared. “We want it to fall into the right hands.”
    â€œOur hands,” Eddie specified, rubbing his hands together.
    â€œWell, the Cathedral of Lost Souls is closed for the night,” said Molly, pointing to the sign over the door.
    â€œNothing is closed to the open mind,” said Addison.

Chapter Eight

The Cathedral of
    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.”
    â€œI’m not a hundred percent sure about this one,” said Molly.
    â€œMolly, when have I ever steered you wrong?”
    â€œDo you really want me to answer that?”
    â€œI’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.
    â€œHe has no idea what you’re saying, Addison,” Eddie explained.
    â€œI 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?”
    â€œTell 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.”
    â€œQuite.” Addison smiled ingratiatingly. “We just flew in and have no place to spend the night.”
    The priest peered into the darkness and