The Book of Lies Read online

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2008 by Forty-four Steps, Inc.

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  The Superman copyright 1933 by Joe Shuster and Jerome Siegel.

  Grand Central Publishing

  Hachette Book Group, USA

  237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017

  Visit our Web site at www.HachetteBookGroupUSA.com.

  First eBook Edition: September 2008

  ISBN: 978-0-446-54219-7

  Contents

  A Special Offer from Brad Meltzer and Victor Records

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Author’s Note

  A Special Offer from Brad Meltzer and Victor Records

  The Book of Lies Companion Soundtrack features music compiled to enhance your reading experience and includes the new song “The Book of Lies”.

  Available now for digital download from Victor Records.

  You can download a free musical excerpt from the soundtrack and listen to a podcast from Brad at www.BradMeltzer.com (Limited time only).

  ALSO BY BRAD MELTZER

  The Tenth Justice

  Dead Even

  The First Counsel

  The Millionaires

  The Zero Game

  The Book of Fate

  For my mom,

  Teri Meltzer,

  who still teaches me how fiercely,

  how selflessly,

  how beautifully,

  a parent can love her child

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I believe that what you are now reading is the most important part of this book. And yes, the publisher again asked me to move it to the back, but keeping it right in front is the whole point. So thank you to all—especially you, our incredible readers—whose support is the only reason I get to dream these dreams: First and always, my Wonder Woman, Cori, whose strength and unwavering love convinced me to finally write this book, which is one I’ve been afraid of for years. I owe her forever for that. And I’ll love her for all that time. Jonas, Lila, and Theo, you are the ones I dream for. You are the ones who inspire me. And the love in this father-child story is the love I keep for you. Jill Kneerim, my unwavering anchor, who believes I’m a better writer than I am, even when I fall short; Ike Williams, Hope Denekamp, Cara Shiel, Julie Sayre, and all our friends at the Kneerim & Williams Agency.

  In this book about family, I need to thank my parents, who forever let me find my own adventures, especially the creative ones. They gave up so much for me. No one loves me more; my sister, Bari, who continues to lend me strength; Will Norman, for trusting me and reminding me about the real value of family; Dale Flam, whose reach and help knows no bounds; Bobby, Matt, Ami, and Adam, for more than they realize; Noah Kuttler, who is such a vital part of this process. He is a brother and mentor and keeps me intellectually honest about the craft. He also helps me feel cooler than the pathetic, bald little man that adulthood has turned me into. Thanks for pushing me, Calculator. Ethan Kline steers every early draft; Edna Farley, Kim from L.A., Marie Grunbeck, Georgie Brown, Maria Nelson, Michelle Perez-Carroll, and Brad Desnoyer, who do the true hard work; Paul Brennan, Matt Oshinsky, Paulo Pacheco, Joel Rose, Chris Weiss, and Judd Winick, such superfriends, who save me over and over.

  As I’ve always maintained, every novel is a book of lies trying to masquerade as a book of truth. I therefore owe these people huge thank-yous for handing me the truths that are threaded throughout this book. First and without question, Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster, the creators of Superman, for building something that has meant more to me than any other art form, including novels. For me, the best part of the story has never been the Superman part; it’s the Clark Kent part—the idea that any of us, in all our ordinariness, can change the world. I only hope, even in the fictional universe, I did your stories justice. To that end, this is a book about heroes, which is why I was blessed to find so many new ones, so thanks to: Joanne Siegel, Laura Siegel Larson, Marlene Goodman, Rita Hubar, Norma Wolkov, and Jerry and Irving Fine for sharing their memories, their family, and their friendship; Zachary Mann, a dear friend who kept me honest on how crime is really fought in the federal world of ICE investigations; Michael San Giacomo, my master of all things super and all things Cleveland; Courtney at the TaskForce Fore Ending Homelessness, David Abel, and Laura Hansen and Scott Dimarzo at the Coalition to End Homelessness, who fight the good fight every single day; my law enforcement team of Matt Axelrod, Brenda Bauer, Dr. John Fox, Steven Klein, Ed Kazarosky, Lisa Monaco, Maria Otero, Wally Perez, and Keith Prager, whose trust means so much; Mark Dimunation, Natalie Firhaber, Georgia Higley, Dianne L. van der Reyden, and Roberta Stevens answered every insane question about ancient book history; Hattie and Jefferson Gray, for sharing the Siegel house; Stan Lee, Paul Levitz, and Jerry Robinson, for so much more than comic book lore; Rabbi Steven Glazer, Rabbi David Golinkin, A. J. Jacobs, James L. Kugel, and Burton Visotzky, who helped steer and guide me through thousands of years of biblical interpretations; Paula Tibbetts and all the stories that came from Covenant House (1-800-999-9999, if you’re young and on the street and need help); Brian Fischer, Terry Collins, and Marc C.
Houk, for all the prison details; Grant Morrison and Geoff Johns for feeding my Cain fascination, and Mark Lewis and Robert Leighton, artists and puzzle-makers extraordinaire. I also had an incredible group from the Library of Congress who helped with so much of the research: Tema David, Katia Jones, Sara Duke, Martha Kennedy, Peggy Pearlstein, Teri Sierra, and Kathy Woodrell, as well as the librarians at the Western Reserve Historical Society; Gerard Jones’s Men of Tomorrow, James L. Kugel’s How to Read the Bible, Louis Ginzberg’s The Legends of the Jews, Simon Singh’s The Code Book, and Ruth Mellinkoff’s The Mark of Cain were all invaluable to this process. Dr. Ronald K. Wright and Dr. Lee Benjamin yet again aided my medical details; John Ingrassia, Alex Miller, Leslie Collman-Smith, Matt Stringer, Tony Ward, and everyone at Sony BMG for their tremendous vision (check out the companion soundtrack they made for this book at www.BradMeltzer.com); and John Goins, Michael Orkin, Jacob Booth, Jeff and Emily Camiener, Janet Doniger, and Jessica Gardner trusted me with traits I truly hold dear, especially the ones you see in the characters. Finally, Stewart Berkowitz, Matthew Bogdanos, David Brazil, Sy Frumkin, Jerry Gottlieb, Mike and Laure Heuer, Jay Kislak, Abe Laeser, Brian Lewis, Tony and Jonna Mendez, Ben Powell, Tom Savini, Raquel Suarez, Andy Wright, and Mark Zaid lent their expertise to so many different details; Rob Weisbach for the initial faith; and of course, my family and friends, whose names, as always, inhabit these pages.

  I also want to thank everyone at Grand Central Publishing: David Young, Maureen Egen, Emi Battaglia, Jennifer Romanello, Evan Boorstyn, Chris Barba, Martha Otis, Karen Torres, the kindest and hardest-working sales force in show business, Harvey-Jane Kowal, Mari Okuda, Thomas Whatley, Jim Spivey, and all the dear friends who, over the years, have helped build what we’re building. I’ve said this before, but it’s still true: They’re the real reason this book is in your hands. Also, thanks to Mitch Hoffman, whose insights and editing changed the course of Cal’s story. So glad to have you in the family. Finally, let me thank Jamie Raab. When I told her what this book was about, she never hesitated. She forced me to challenge myself, and for that, I am blessed. Thank you, Jamie, for knowing that the best stories are the ones we believe in, and most important, for your faith.

  The story of Cain and Abel takes up just sixteen lines of the Bible.

  It is arguably history’s most famous murder.

  But the story is silent about one key detail: the weapon Cain used to kill his brother.

  It’s not a rock. Or a sharpened stone.

  And to this day, the world’s first murder weapon is still lost to history.

  PROLOGUE

  Nineteen years ago

  Miami, Florida

  When Calvin Harper was five, his petite, four-foot-eleven-inch mom ripped the pillow from his bed at three a.m. and told him that dust mites were feeding off his skin. “We need to wash it. Now!” On that night, his mom seemed to change into someone else, as if she were possessed by some ghost or devil . . . or demon.

  His dad told Calvin it was one of Mommy’s “bad days.” The doctors had a name for it, too. Bipolar.

  When Calvin was seven, his mom called home with a cheery slur in her voice (the demon loved a good drink) to proudly tell him she had carved Calvin’s initials in her arm. When Calvin was eight and she was in a drunken rage, she took the family dog to the pound and “accidentally” had him put down. The demon liked laughs.

  But none of those nights prepared Calvin for this one.

  Fresh from his bath, with his white blond hair still soaking wet and dangling over the birthmark near his left eye, nine-year-old Calvin sat in his room, bearing down on his paper with an orange Crayola, while his parents shouted in the kitchen.

  Tonight, the demon was back.

  “Rosalie, put it down!” his father growled.

  Crash.

  “Get away from me, Lloyd!” his mother howled. Clang.

  His father grunted. “That’s it—you’re done!” he screamed back.

  “You’re done!”

  Cling. Clang. Cling.

  Calvin twisted the doorknob, ran for the kitchen, and froze as he turned the corner. All the kitchen’s lower drawers were open and empty, their contents—pans, pot lids—scattered across the floor. In the corner, the fridge was open, too—and picked just as clean. Jars of ketchup, soda, and spaghetti sauce were still spinning on the floor. In the center of the kitchen, his six-foot-two-inch dad was bent forward in pain as Mom brandished a fat white jar of mayonnaise, ready to smash her husband in the head.

  “Mom?” Calvin said in a small voice.

  His mother wheeled around, off balance. The jar fell from her grip. Calvin saw it plummet. As it hit the floor and exploded, there was a low, thick pooomp, sending a mushroom cloud of mayo spraying across the floor. Calvin’s mother never flinched.

  “You always root against me!” she seethed at her nine-year-old boy with her dark, alligator green eyes.

  “Maniac!” his dad erupted, and with one brutal shove pummeled his wife squarely in the chest.

  “Mom!” Calvin shouted.

  The blow hit her like a baseball bat, sending her stumbling backward.

  “Mom, look out for—”

  Her heel hit the mayonnaise at full speed and she flipped backward like a seesaw. If Lloyd hadn’t been so big or so enraged . . . if he hadn’t blown up with such a fierce physical outburst . . . he might not have shoved her so hard. But he did. And as she fell backward, still looking at Calvin, she had no idea that the back of her neck was headed straight toward the lower kitchen drawer that was still wide open.

  Calvin tried to run forward but could scarcely lift his arms and legs.

  In mid-air, his mother was turned toward him, her alligator eyes still burning through him. There was no mistaking her final thought. She wasn’t scared. Or even in pain. She was angry. At him. The white blond, wet-haired boy who caused her to drop the mayo and . . . from that day forward, in his nine-year-old mind . . . the person who caused her to fall.

  “Mom!”

  She was falling. Falling. Then—

  The sound was unforgettable.

  “Rosie!” his father screamed, leaping forward and scooping her head toward his chest. Her arms rag-dolled across the mayonnaise-smeared floor.

  “Calvin, don’t you look!” Lloyd cried. The tears were running down his twisted Irish nose. “Close your eyes! Don’t you look!”

  But Calvin looked. He wanted to cry, but nothing came. He wanted to run but couldn’t move. As he stood frozen, a stream of urine ran down his right leg.

  Most lives crumble over time. Cal Harper’s crumbled in one crashing fall. But nineteen years later, thanks to a single call on his radio, he’d begin his quest through history and finally have a chance to put his life together.

  1

  Nineteen years later

  Hong Kong

  Good girl—such a good girl,” Ellis said, down on one knee as his dog snatched the beef treat from his open palm. With a bite and a gulp, the treat was gone, and Ellis Belasco, with his sleek copper red hair, smiled proudly and added a strong authoritative pat to the back of his smoky brown pet’s neck. As the trainer said, attack dogs had to be rewarded.

  “P-Please . . . my leg . . . he chewed my leg!” the thin Chinese man whined as he crawled across the worn beige carpet toward the hotel room door.

  “To be clear, she chewed your Achilles’ tendon,” Ellis said, calmly standing up and brushing back his long European-style haircut—he was always meticulous—to reveal amber eyes framed by striking, lush eyebrows that almost merged on the bridge of his nose. Because of his rosy coloring, his cheeks were always flushed, as were his full lips, which he licked as he stared down at a small tattoo between his thumb and pointer finger.

  His birthright was healing nicely.

  For the past two months, Ellis had been tracking the ancient book from collector to collector—from the doctor in China whose death gave it away, to Zhao, the shipper, who schemed to deliver it elsewhere. Every
culture called it by a different name, but Ellis knew the truth.

  “I know you have it,” Ellis said. “I’d like the Book of Lies now.”

  From the corner of the bed, Ellis reached for his small gray pistol.

  “Nonono . . . you can’t— My fiancée— We just got engaged!” the young dockworker begged, scrambling on his one good knee as his other leg left a smear of blood across the carpet.

  Ellis pressed the barrel of his gun against the man’s throat. It was vital he hit the jugular. But he knew he would. That was the advantage of having God on your side. “I paid what you asked me, Zhao,” Ellis said calmly. “But it makes me sad that someone else clearly paid you more.”

  “I swear—the book—I told you where it’s going!” Zhao screamed, his eyes rolling toward the pistol as Ellis glanced out the hotel window, into the dim alley. The view was awful—nothing more than a blank brick wall. But that was why Ellis had Zhao meet him here. No view, no witnesses.

  With a squeeze, Ellis shot him in the throat.

  There was no bang, just a pneumatic hiss. Zhao jerked slightly, and his eyes blinked open. . . . “Ai! Ai, that—! What was that?” he stuttered as a drop of blood bubbled from his neck.

  The military called them “jet injectors.” Since World War I, they had been used to vaccinate soldiers quickly and easily. There was no needle. The burst of air was so strong, it drilled through the skin with nothing more than a disposable air cartridge and the one-use red nozzle that looked like a thimble with a tiny hole. All you’d feel was the snap of a rubber band, and the vaccine was in your blood. For Ellis, it was a bit overdramatic, but if he was to find the Book that had been taken from him . . . that had been taken from his family . . . He knew every war had rules. His great-grandfather left him this gun—or the plans for this gun, at least—for a reason. It took time and patience to build it from scratch. Ellis had plenty of both.

  “Forty . . . thirty-nine . . . thirty-eight . . .” Ellis began to count, peeking under the wrist of his starched shirt and checking his new Ulysse Nardin watch.

  “Wait . . . ! The shot—! What’d you put in me!?” Zhao screamed, gripping the side of his neck.