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

snapped a few words in his halted English. “There are four of you. Shouldn’t there be a hundred?”
    â€œWe’re actually the Vienna Boys Barbershop Quartet,” Addison offered.
    The priest pointed at Molly. “That one is not a boy.”
    â€œTrue, but she sings like one.”
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œVienna, South Carolina,” Addison clarified.
    â€œThe New York chapter,” Eddie added.
    â€œIn America,” Molly said, to round things out.
    â€œI sing tenor,” Raj put in helpfully.
    â€œEnough,” 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.
    â€œI don’t think I should translate some of that,” said Eddie.
    â€œWe 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.”
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    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.
    â€œI 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?”
    â€œCan I ever!” Raj’s eyes bulged with excitement. Hethrew 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.
    â€œNever mind,” said Molly, trying the door handles. “It’s unlocked.”
    â€œAh,” 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.
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    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.
    â€œAddison, 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.”
    â€œThis is all just a hunch,” said Eddie skeptically.
    â€œThere’s a chance,” said Addison.
    They tiptoed past