The Book of Lies Page 15

  “Hoooo—it’s definitely seen better days,” Johnsel admits. “But like they say, you gotta sorta imagine: This was it . . . the exact spot where a teenage kid was lying awake in bed one rainy summer night and came up with a hero who could fly above all the world’s problems. Can ya imagine: one sweaty night to change your whole life?”

  I don’t have to turn around to know my dad’s watching me.

  “What about Jerry’s father?” Serena interrupts, sounding far more interested than I expected. “Any idea how he died?”

  “I thought it was . . . maybe a heart attack?” Johnsel guesses. I don’t bother correcting him. “I think Jerry was in high school.”

  “Is that when he made this?” I ask, realizing it’s time to show some cards. From my backpack, I pull out the wax-paper protective sleeve that holds Action Comics #1. Johnsel takes an excited step toward me. I take a step to the left, stealing a quick peek out the double-square windows that overlook the front yard. They’re so thick with dust, I can barely see out.

  “That’s— Hoooo— Where’d you get an attic copy?” Johnsel asks.

  “A what?” I ask.

  “Those copies—with the—” He glances down at the typed message on the wax paper. “And you got one with an address,” he says. “Hoooo, this’s— You know what this’s worth?”

  My father shakes his head.

  “Last I heard, when the movie came out . . . something like 1.2 million,” Johnsel says.

  “Million?” my dad and Serena ask simultaneously.

  I stay silent.

  “Cal, maybe we were wrong,” my dad says. “Maybe it’s the comic that they wanted instead of the—” He cuts himself off, watching me carefully.

  “You knew,” he adds. “You knew how much it was worth.”

  He’s right. I had Roosevelt look it up before we left.

  “Why didn’t you say something?” my dad asks.

  Again, I’m silent.

  “What? You thought I’d swipe it from you? You really think I’m that much of an animal?”

  For a moment, I close my eyes and try not to picture the fact that my dad knew about the coffin key. Or which block this house was on. Or that we should even come here in the first place.

  “Let’s just focus on what’s important,” I tell my dad, and turn back to Johnsel. I hold up the comic. “Sorry, you were about to tell us what this is.”

  “Already did: It’s an attic copy,” Johnsel replies. “Just like it sounds, one of his personal copies from the attic.” Seeing we’re lost, he quickly adds, “Action Comics Number 1 is the very first appearance of Superman. . . .”

  “We gathered that part,” I tell him.

  “Then you also know how rare they are. Less than a hundred copies still exist—and of those, most of them are beaten and torn, because back then, who knew to save them? Well, I’ll tell you who: the young kid who was so darn thrilled to see his creation in print.”

  I stare at the tiny room with the torn-away ceiling and try to imagine the teenage boy sitting up in bed. “Jerry Siegel.”

  “Why not, right? When each comic came out, the publisher used to send a few free copies to all the writers and artists who worked on it. Again, most would give ’em away or do whatever with ’em. Even Joe Shuster—the Superman artist and co-creator—never kept ’em.”

  “But Jerry Siegel saved them.”

  “He did save them—even preserved them in his own makeshift wax-paper sleeve. But more important—Jerry Siegel forgot them. In the attic. Within months, his new Superman idea took off, young Jerry finally got a bigger paycheck, and he eventually moved to New York to get closer to the action.”

  “But the comics stayed here,” I surmise.

  “With Jerry’s mother. The owners before me said they bought it from the Siegel family when his mom died in the early forties. Skip forward a few years later when they eventually start crawling through the attic, and look what’s there—tucked away where no one would find them—half a dozen pristine copies of some old Superman comic . . .”

  “They didn’t even know what they found, did they?” my father asks.

  “. . . which they quickly sold at a garage sale for something like a buck or two apiece, thereby scattering these attic editions back into the population—”

  “And kicking off the ultimate geek gold rush for Jerry Siegel’s so-called personal copies,” I say, running my fingers across the melted edges of the wax paper and rereading the typed address in the bottom corner. I know it’s worth $1.2 million. And sure, people kill for much less than that. But that haunting look in Ellis’s eyes. All this talk of Cain. There’s still no way this is just about a comic.

  Across from me, Johnsel rolls up the arms of his sweater and stares out the double-square windows. As if he’s looking for someone.

  Oh, Lord. If he’s stalling us . . .

  “I think we should go,” I insist.

  “No,” my dad says. “This comic— The address said to come here.”

  “Just what are you boys looking for?” Johnsel asks, confused.

  “Mr. Johnsel, is this it back here?” a voice calls out behind us.

  Following the question, we spin around to see Serena outside the room, standing at the landing at the top of the stairs. She’s got a single finger pointed upward.

  “That’s the one,” Johnsel replies as we join her on the landing and raise our chins up toward the unfinished wooden square that’s set into the ceiling. I didn’t even see it at first. The entrance to the attic.

  Serena keeps staring at it. “Think there’s anything left?” she asks.

  “Hoooo—you’re dreaming big dreams now,” Johnsel says, laughing.

  “That doesn’t answer my question,” she teases, smart enough to keep it nice. “Maybe there’s something still up there.”

  Again, Johnsel laughs. “It’s been over sixty years—plus all the people that picked through it before we got here. Trust me, there ain’t nothin’—”

  “When was the last time you were up there?” Serena interrupts.

  Johnsel cocks his head, confused. “When we first moved in. Why would I wanna go again?”

  “Wait. Hold on,” I say. “You haven’t been up there since you first moved in? When was that?”

  “Not that long. We came in . . .” He thinks for a moment. “1972.”

  If I had water in my mouth, I’d do the full spit shot.

  “Okay,” my dad says. “We need a ladder.”

  43

  First time flying?” a young woman with a pencil-point chin asked from her seat next to him.

  Ellis stared downward at the floor of the airplane, his fingers wedged above his closed tray table. But he didn’t answer.

  “Sir, you okay?”

  Again, Ellis stared at the floor. He was at the window; she was on the aisle.

  “You need to throw up?” the woman asked, rifling through the seat pocket. “There’s a bag right—”

  “Y’hear that?” Ellis asked.

  The woman looked at him, confused. “You’re really gonna throw up, aren’t you?”

  “You don’t hear that sound? Like a high-pitched whimper. Y’know, like a dog?”

  At that, the woman raised an eyebrow and lowered her sharp chin. Ellis was still staring at the floor of the plane. “Ohh . . . you have a puppy down there, don’t you?” she asked, motioning downward as if she were pointing through the floor to the cargo hold.

  “There it is again!” Ellis insisted.

  “Sweetie, I got a mopey cocker spaniel at home. Every time I take her on the plane, I swear I hear her crying for me. And then someone’s kind enough to tell me I’m just being nuts.”

  For the first time, Ellis turned toward the woman. And grinned. “I’m just being nuts, aren’t I?”

  “Totally understandable,” she said, tapping him on the shoulder. “You’re sweet for worrying, though. You really love your pup, huh?”

  “She means a great deal to me,” Ellis sa
id. With a deep breath, he stared out the open window at the tiny lights that dotted the landscape.

  “We’re beginning our descent into Cleveland,” the pilot announced overhead.

  “By the way, for your pup,” the woman next to Ellis began. “Have you tried giving her a sedative? That always calms mine before a big flight.”

  “No, I need her alert,” Ellis explained as he reached for his leather diary. “She’s about to have a very busy night.”

  44

  I think it’s glued shut,” Serena calls down from the top of the ladder.

  “Hit it again,” my dad says.

  “Not too hard,” Johnsel adds.

  “Let me just help you,” I say.

  That’s all she needs. Ramming her palm up toward the ceiling, she slams the square piece of wood that covers the entrance to the attic. It looks thin, like balsa wood. From the thud and the pain on her face, it’s not.

  “There you go. It moved,” my father says.

  “It didn’t move,” she shoots back.

  “I think it did,” I say. “Now use the flashlight to hit it.”

  She looks again, knowing I’m right. To be honest, I should be the one up there, but the hole’s so small—she’s got the best chance of squeezing through.

  “It’s good we brought her along, huh?” my dad whispers, but I don’t answer.

  Serena winds up again with the flashlight Johnsel gave her and grips the ladder for support. On three—one . . . two . . .

  The base of the flashlight plows into the wood. There’s a loud pop, then a rip as the square piece flips upward like a reverse trapdoor. The only reward is a lungful of dust and a light shower of pebbles and chunks of plaster that rain over all of us. According to Johnsel, the house was built in 1911. Tastes like it.

  Waving the dust away, Serena stares up at the square black hole of the attic. It’s teeny. Barely bigger than a phone book.

  “Careful,” I call out.

  She steps up on the top rung of the ladder, raises her arms, and boosts herself easily into the darkness.

  “Hoooo—that was anticlimactic,” Johnsel blurts.

  Wasting no time, I leap toward the ladder and scale it as fast as I can.

  “What’re you doing?” my father asks.

  “She made it easy. I’ll fit,” I tell him as I look up at the black square hole. There’s a flicker of white light inside, from the flashlight. “Serena, anything up there?” I ask.

  She doesn’t answer.

  As I climb closer to the top rung, bits of dust continue to tumble my way.

  “You’re not gonna fit,” my dad says.

  Only one way to find out.

  I put my arms straight up.

  “Just like Superman,” Johnsel jokes. No one laughs.

  I thread my arms through the hole, then my head, as I slowly extend my knees. The darkness descends like a noose.

  “You’re too big,” my father warns.

  He’s wrong. The hole swallows everything above my chest. I feel around, palming the dusty floor of the attic. All I need to do is boost myself up. But just as I push off the top rung, something catches my back . . . or, more specifically, my backpack, with the comic inside. Dammit. I’m definitely too big.

  “Told you,” my dad calls out as my feet kick wildly from the ceiling.

  A bright light blinds me. “Throw the backpack up here,” Serena says.

  “Just drop it—I’ll catch it,” my dad promises from below.

  The lady or the tiger.

  I choose neither.

  Thrashing wildly, I’m halfway through. The edge of the hole digs into my stomach. I don’t care what it takes. I squirm and shimmy like a worm as splinters and sharp rocks bite at my belly. My backpack tugs like a leash. Above me, Serena grips my left bicep and starts the tug-of-war. I wriggle and plant my elbows. She digs in her feet and jerks harder. The hole pinches my rib cage. The leash stays taut, pulling and yanking me . . . and then . . . then it isn’t.

  Like a baby shooting from the birth canal, I fly forward as Serena tumbles back on her ass. The flashlight zigzags as she falls. My stomach scrapes across the attic floor, leaving a wide, swerving wake through the dust.

  “You okay!?” my dad calls out as he hears the crash. He’s tempted to join us himself, but he knows he won’t fit.

  I’m still catching my breath, which I can see in the beam of light from above. There’s no insulation. It’s freezing up here. Slowly, my eyes adjust to the darkness, but I don’t need to see Serena to know what she’s thinking. “Go ahead—say the line,” I tell her. “I’m more stubborn than my dad.”

  She climbs to her feet, brushes off the dust, and stays hunched to avoid hitting the attic’s low, slanted ceiling. But she’s not the least bit annoyed. “You really believe your father’s stubborn?”

  “C’mon . . . the way he insisted on coming to Cleveland . . . then held his breath like a fifth grader so I couldn’t say no to you coming, too?”

  “That’s not stubborn, Cal. Your dad’s terrified.”

  “He’s not alone,” I shoot back. “If Ellis made that next flight, he’ll be here any—”

  “He’s not terrified of Ellis,” Serena says. “Your father’s terrified of you.” She doesn’t yell it at me. She’s concerned. Almost sad.

  Down on my knees, I take a deep breath of sandy air as dozens of small stones stab through my pants. “Me? You’re joking, right?”

  She shakes her head, and the beam from the flashlight shakes with her, tracing the inky air. But she never loses sight of what we’re here for. Pointing the light across the empty room, she’s already on the hunt. “You need to understand, Cal—in this world, we’re not humans having a divine experience. We’re divine beings having a human experience.”

  “Yeah, I took yoga once, too.”

  “See, there it is again: That’s what he has to fight.” Above our heads, the rafters crisscross like wooden monkey bars. On our left, the eroded brick chimney rises through the room and out the roof. The floor’s so thick with dust, it looks like the moon—and with each step, a cloud of it explodes upward. Serena keeps heading deeper, ducking lower and lower until she’s chicken-walking toward the far corner of the attic. But she never slows down. It’s amazing, really. No fear.

  “Think about it, Cal. In this life, y’ever notice that you face the same challenges again and again? We all do. They’re challenges to your soul. We repeat them until we face them and master them. Yes, we all have free will, but there’re divine patterns out there, and the battle is to see them.”

  “Oh, okay,” I say, crouching behind her as she shines the light and draws a horizontal line across the baseboard where the roof and floor meet. There’s a few ancient mousetraps and cobwebs and some tiny black droppings, but like the rest of the attic, it’s empty. “So instead of searching for old comic books, we’re now searching for God’s patterns?”

  “The patterns are already there,” she says, squatting like a catcher on a baseball team and turning her sword of light up toward the dark wood rafters. “From federal agent, to the homeless van . . . why’s there such a need in your life to protect people? Why do you think you found your dad lying in that park last night? You think that’s all coincidence? Or better yet: that this is just some dumb search for Superman or the imagined Mark of Cain? You and your dad . . . This is your battle, Cal—the one challenge you’ll keep repeating until—”

  She stops.

  “What?” I ask, craning my neck up and following her gaze. “You find something?”

  She points the light up at the rafters, not far from the top of the chimney.

  “Serena, what is it?”

  She doesn’t say a word.

  “Serena—”

  “There,” she whispers, pointing upward with the flashlight. I follow the flagpole of light up through the shadows of the rafters. Bits of dust sprinkle down like snow in a settling snow globe. But I don’t see—

  Krrrrrk.

&nbs
p; The sound is soft. Like a squeak, or some extra weight on a plank of wood.

  She’s still silent.

  “What?” I ask. “Is it a mouse?”

  Thdddd.

  To land that hard . . . That’s no mouse.

  I jump at the sound. It’s up in the rafters.

  Above our heads, on our far right, a narrow rain shower of dust cascades from the rafters. Whatever it is . . . we’re not alone in h—

  Thddd-thdddd-thdddd.

  Serena screams. The flashlight falls. And a thick black shadow swoops in, then disappears, leaving tiny waterfalls of dust on our right, then above us, then on our left.

  Still hunched over, I grab Serena’s wrist and tug her back the way we came. The flashlight twirls behind us like spin the bottle, flickering bursts of light all across the attic. Up in the rafters, there’s one last thud. Straight ahead of us.

  “Gahhh!” Serena yells, freezing right there.

  This time, I see it also—lit by the attic entrance in the floor—two deep-set eyes: one glowing black, the other milky white, where it’s been injured. Behind it, a thick fleshy tail dangles down.

  I catch my breath and almost laugh. Across from us, perched up on a rafter just past the open hole . . . “Serena, it’s just a possum.”

  “I know what it is! I don’t like possums!”

  “Can you please relax? Possums play dead; they don’t attack,” I insist, stepping forward to—

  “Hsssss!”

  “Y’hear that? That’s a hiss! It’s hissing!” she yells, her palms wide open and facing each other as though she’s holding the ends of an invisible loaf of bread. She cringes like my aunt when we once found a snake in the toilet.

  “That’s not a hiss,” I tell her. “That was—”

  “Hssssss!” it squeals again, baring tiny triangular teeth and raising its ears and fleshy tail.

  “Okay, that part was a hiss,” I admit.