CHAPTER 47

“Remember that time on the Lost when I looked at one of Dad’s maps while wearing my three-D glasses?” said Beck, still gaping at the painting on the sleek cavern wall.

“Of course we do,” I said. “You found the map Dad had drawn with some kind of invisible ink that could only be seen if you were wearing those stupid goggles you wore all the time.”

“Chya,” said Tommy. “And the hidden map led us all the way to New York City and the Grecian urn.”

“It was some of your best work, Beck,” added Storm.

I nodded.

“Thanks, you guys,” said Beck, her attention still on the map. “Not to brag, but I think I just topped myself. When you look at that wall through the Sacred Stone, you can see a second map filled with inscriptions.

“It’s way more detailed,” Beck reported. “And it looks like we’re not supposed to go directly to the City of Gold. We have to take a detour first. To a temple of some sort…”

“What?” I said. “We can’t take a detour. Mom and Chaupi need the gold from the lost city to stop Juan Carlos Rojas and save the rain forest.”

“Well, I’m sorry, Bick. I didn’t draw the map. I wasn’t even born in the 1530s, which was probably when Inkarri or his friends painted the wall of this cave with their invisible ink or whatever they used to hide the real route to Paititi.”

“May I take a look?” asked Storm.

“Totally,” said Tommy. “And Storm? Can you memorize it?”

“Well, duh,” said Storm. “It’s what I do.”

While Storm gazed at the map through the Sacred Stone, Beck dashed off a quick sketch of what she had seen on the wall.

“Well done, you two,” said Storm, after she’d soaked up the visuals and committed them to memory. “I believe you have just discovered the final key to locating Paititi.”

“This is so awesome!” said Tommy. He stuck his fingers in his mouth and let loose the family whistle. “We need to show Dad.”

“But not Chet Collier,” I said.

“I agree with Bick,” said Beck. “And not just because we’re twins. That Collier kid is sketchy.”

“He doesn’t need to know about the map,” said Storm. “His purpose on this expedition is to document rain-forest devastation.”

“And make us TV stars,” added Tommy, practicing his head tilt and toothy smile. “But he doesn’t need the map for that either.”

He whistled again.

Dad didn’t whistle back.

But somebody else did. Somebody who’d just stepped into that rectangular window of bright sunlight. Even though he was in silhouette, I recognized his ridiculous French Foreign Legion cap.

It was that jerk Guy Dubonnet Merck!