The Book of Lies Page 18

  The curator stands there a moment, once again blinking, and I wonder if he’s about to—

  “Y’know how much Jerry and Joe sold the rights to Superman for? One hundred and thirty dollars. A few years after that, they were fired by DC Comics, and their names were removed from all references as creators. Over the next decade, as Superman raked in millions, Joe started going blind, while Jerry became so poor he couldn’t afford to eat out for dinner. Eventually, the publisher realized what a PR disaster it would be if they let Superman’s creators die of starvation, so they gave Jerry another shot. And in 1960, Jerry wrote a story called Superman’s Return to Krypton!”

  “Oooh, was that in Superman Number 62 or 63?” Naomi asks.

  “It was in Number 141, actually—and don’t make fun just because it’s a comic book,” he shoots back, more annoyed than ever. “In the story, Superman travels back in time to his home planet and gets to see his real father, Jor-El. The hardest part for Superman, though, is that he knows that Krypton is about to explode—so these are his last moments with his dad. Even worse, he knows that if he stops the planet from exploding and saves his family, then he will never exist as Superman on Earth. He doesn’t care, though. He’s so happy living on Krypton—being reunited with his dad—that when the planet starts to rumble and shake, he decides he’d rather die with his father than lose him again,” the curator says as we all listen silently. “It was Jerry’s most constant battle: the life you live versus the life you leave behind.”

  It’s the first time I see my dad looking directly at me.

  “But fate is fate,” the curator continues, “and at the last moment, the grown Superman gets knocked into a second rocket and is launched away, safe from harm. And the story ends with him returning to Earth, knowing that he can save everyone around him, but he can never save his own father. This was the story Jerry Siegel wrote when he was allowed to return to his creation. So don’t tell me he wasn’t obsessed with the death of his dad.”

  My father continues to stare at me. I break away from the look to stare straight at the curator. “That’s what you were looking for before when you were flipping through the comic,” I say, pointing my cuffed hands toward the empty wax-paper sleeve. “These attic copies of Action Comics—what makes them so valuable isn’t the comic itself or the typed address outside. . . .”

  “Exactly—it’s what the most devoted of collectors hope to find hidden inside.” The curator nods. “The remaining, torn-up pieces of Jerry Siegel’s most personal story. His greatest tragedy hidden inside his greatest success.”

  “So you think that’s what Timothy was chasing?” Naomi asks. “That’s the reason he wanted this comic?”

  “It’s certainly priceless.”

  “Maybe,” Naomi says. “But if The Superman—if this story was so important, why would Jerry ever leave those pieces rotting in his attic?”

  “Same reason he left ten pristine copies of Action Comics Number 1 up there. People forget,” the curator replies.

  “You’re telling me you never hid money from yourself and then forgot where it was?” I ask Naomi.

  “This is more important than money,” she shoots back.

  “Mmm . . . she’s right,” the curator says. “But that’s why he kept it, and sealed it in wax paper, and locked it in the attic. Besides, when Jerry died a few years back, they went through the rest of his belongings. There’s no record of that first story. It’s gone. These few attic copies are the only hiding spots left.”

  “And how many copies are accounted for so far?” I ask.

  “Again, the rumor is there were ten copies to start, though that could be wrong. The first one was found in the seventies, right after the first Superman movie hit. Then a Baltimore collector found two more, both at garage sales. Another was found in London, and another was bought by some wealthy doctor in China,” he says as I think back to the stethoscope in the coffin. “So I think seven total, including yours and the one we have here in the Superman Today exhibit.”

  I look over at the security monitors and spot Serena backtracking through the exhibit hall. We’ve been gone for fifteen minutes. She’s smart enough to not call our names. But she’s gonna start panicking soon.

  “Here’s the other thing that makes no sense,” Naomi interrupts. “How would Jerry even know how his father died?”

  “Maybe he witnessed it,” my father whispers, staring long and hard at me.

  I’m about to turn away. But I don’t. Some things need to be faced.

  My dad leans forward in his chair, his cuffed hands still shaking. He plants his elbows on his knees, as if he’s in midprayer. But the look in his eyes—it’s the same frozen look he had when I saved him in Alligator Alley. Back then, I thought it was shock or just relief. It’s not.

  I’m sorry, he says with nothing more than a glance. After nineteen years.

  Naomi stares at me a moment—not judging, just staring, her tall frame looking even taller with my dad seated in front of her. She doesn’t offer the reassuring nod. She scratches at her short, choppy hair and turns away. But there’s no question we just gave her a piece of our own puzzle. One she didn’t have before.

  “Okay, so if young Jerry knew what happened, why didn’t he go to the cops?” she asks.

  “Same reason that for the past eighty years they told that heart attack story to their own family,” the curator says. “Whatever was going on, there was clearly something Jerry’s family didn’t want said. And it’s a secret still lost to history.”

  “Could it have anything to do with Cain?” my dad blurts, his apology long gone.

  “Cain?” The curator looks confused. Naomi stays silent, glancing down at the carpet. Whatever she knows, she’s not trusting us just yet.

  “Maybe Jerry’s dad died doing something illegal,” I say.

  “Or embarrassing,” my dad adds, following my lead. “Could he have been cheating on his wife?”

  “I don’t think so,” the curator replies. “Mitchell was supposedly a quiet and low-key sort.”

  “Like in a mobster low-key way?” I ask. “Or in a—”

  “He was a fed,” Naomi says, looking up at the rest of us.

  “Pardon?” I ask.

  “Mitchell Siegel. I bet he was a fed.”

  “What makes you—?”

  “Your Indian pal. Ocala.”

  “You spoke to Ocala?” I ask.

  “He told me about the gun, which is when my assistant put a name check request on Mitchell Siegel. Tax records, military service, all the typicals. When word came back the files were delayed, I assumed it was because the records were old or buried in some warehouse somewhere, but now—if they’re hiding him—it’s for a reason.”

  Without even touching a button on her phone, she barks into her earpiece: “Scotty, call the Bureau directly. I need you to get that file on Mitchell Siegel.” Her phone’s been on the entire time.

  I shoot a look to Naomi. “If he wasn’t a fed, maybe he was an informant,” I suggest. “Or even a boss.”

  “If he was a boss, he could’ve been making cash,” she agrees.

  I turn to the curator. “Did the Siegels have money?”

  “You kidding? Jerry and Joe—they were both so poor, when they worked at Jerry’s house, they used to draw on the back side of the wallpaper. Don’t forget, when Jerry’s dad died, his mom had to feed six kids plus—”

  “Is that true?” I interrupt.

  “What, the five kids?”

  “No. The wallpaper. Did they really draw on the back of wallpaper?”

  The curator nods. “It’s as much a part of the lore as the hot rainy night and the crabapple tree. Why? You think that’s important?”

  My eyes lock with Naomi’s. She won’t give me a smile, but I see that grin in her eyes.

  “You said this is the only attic copy you’ve seen with the address typed on the outside?” she asks, pointing to the wax-paper covering.

  Again, the curator nods.
/>
  “Maybe we should take another look at the house,” I say.

  My father stands up, suddenly excited.

  “No, whoa, whoa—you think this is some kinda team-up?” Naomi shoots back, approaching the table and making sure we again see her gun. “Timothy’s still missing, and you’re the last ones he was with. You two are being dropped off for questioning.”

  “And then what?” I ask. “You’ll bring us inside and put up with the two hours of paperwork it’ll take before they let you leave us there, at which point Ellis will already have beaten you to the source, since I’m guessing he was right behind us and, no offense, ahead of you. This isn’t Miami, Naomi. We’ve already been to the Siegel house. If you plan on being fast—and on actually finding something—you’re better off taking us with you.”

  She knows the logic’s right, but that doesn’t mean she’s agreeing to it. “Maybe I should just give you my gun, too,” she offers. “That way when I’m chauffeuring you around, you can put a hole in my head nice and easy.”

  “You really think my goal is to hurt you, Naomi?”

  “I was there when you got fired, Cal. There’s a reason you’re in those cuffs.”

  I glance down at my wrists. PlastiCuffs are lightweight and easy to carry, but as any cop knows, if you wedge something small into the zipper . . . like, say, an unbent paper clip you grabbed from this filing cabinet . . . well . . . With a light tug, I free my left wrist, then my right, then toss the cuffs back to Naomi.

  “If I wanted your gun, I’d have that, too,” I tell her.

  “You’re wrong. I spotted you three minutes ago.”

  “I’ve been free for over ten. Now do you wanna go recheck the attic bedroom or would you rather stay here and leave Ellis to take the prize?”

  50

  Ellis’s back was hurting as he reached the top step of the second-floor landing. He understood the Johnsels’ fears. In this neighborhood, there were real consequences for inviting a police officer into your home. But that didn’t mean he was staying outside, he reminded himself as he lugged the second body up the stairs. It was actually a blessing for the Johnsels. Being with God was far better than being in that prayer group they were screaming about.

  The house was dark now, but Ellis was still smart enough to stay away from the windows. He’d learned that years ago when he and his dad began their life of hiding.

  Back then, the rules were clear: With Mom dead, her family would be on the hunt for them. Ellis never questioned why. Looking back, he should’ve known something was wrong. So much of it didn’t make sense: Yes, Mom was dead. But his father never cried. There was no funeral. No grave. So rules were rules: No playing outside, no letting anyone spot you. Ellis used that same approach in school, in life—even as he rose through the ranks on the force. There were benefits to lying low and skills that came with growing up a ghost.

  His dad learned—the Johnsels learned—Ellis was good at not being seen.

  But that didn’t mean he couldn’t be found.

  There was a low buzz as his phone began to vibrate. Ellis picked up without saying hello.

  “Ellis, I know you’re there,” the Prophet said on the line. “Stay where you are. Cal . . . all of us . . . we’re on our way.”

  51

  From the museum, to the parking lot, to the ride back past the burned-out storefronts of Martin Luther King Jr. Drive, I keep peeking in the side mirror, searching every headlight behind us and being careful that Naomi doesn’t see what I’m—

  “Who’re you looking for?” Naomi asks, glaring at me in the passenger seat.

  “Just making sure we’re alone,” I tell her. It’s mostly right.

  When we left the museum, the exhibit hall was empty. The good news is, Serena was smart enough to stay out of sight. The even better news is, she had the keys to our rental car in her purse. But the bad news is, as we turn onto Kimberly Avenue, all the cars disappear, leaving nothing but darkness behind us.

  “You think Ellis is out there, don’t you?” Naomi asks, squinting through the night and fighting hard against the poorly plowed street.

  “He’s gotta be somewhere,” I say as we pull up to the blue-and-red house with the crabapple tree along the left-hand side.

  “They painted it Superman colors?” Naomi asks, offering something close to a laugh.

  It’s an easy joke, but I know why she’s making it. If she warms us up, she’s hoping we’ll start talking.

  “The city won’t even give them a plaque,” my dad says, laughing back as he hops out of the backseat. I shoot him a look that tells him to stay quiet. Naomi was kind enough to take off his PlastiCuffs, but after our last encounter with an ICE agent—she’s still Timothy’s partner.

  “How’s it look?” Naomi asks as I scan the rest of the block. She knows how I work. We had the same training.

  “There’re a few cars that weren’t here before, but nothing too nice for the neighborhood,” I say, eyeing an old, pale gray Mercury across the street and a silver Ford pickup down the block. Thanks to the snow, I get footprints, too. They’re hard to read because of our own previous trampling up the front porch, but at least there’re no dog tracks.

  Everything’s clear. Until Naomi taps a knuckle on the front door, which yawns slightly open at the impact.

  My dad steps back. I step forward.

  “Mr. Johnsel . . . ?” I call out.

  No one answers.

  “Maybe they’re at prayer group,” my dad offers. “Didn’t they say they had prayer group?”

  It’s a fine explanation, but this isn’t the kind of neighborhood where people leave their doors unlocked.

  “Mr. Johnsel!” I call again.

  Still no response.

  Next to me, Naomi doesn’t move. I know how she works. Federal agents need warrants before they can march into a strange house.

  “C’mon, I’m a potential suspect wanted for questioning—you can chase me inside,” I tell her, grabbing the doorknob.

  “Cal, wait!”

  Too late. “Mr. Johnsel, you there? Anybody home?” I ask as I step inside.

  The main hallway and kitchen are both empty. All the lights in the house are off. That’s a good sign. Johnsel and his wife are at least eighty years old. Maybe they did forget to lock the door.

  “Mr. Johnsel? . . . Mrs. Vivian?” my dad adds, halfway up the stairs.

  I turn to follow. Naomi’s right behind him, her gun clutched in both hands and pointed down by her knees.

  We keep calling their names, circling upward past the second floor. A few of the bedroom doors are closed, but again, all the lights are off. Nothing but an empty house. I head for the third floor.

  “Dammit!” my dad shouts.

  “What? What’s wrong?” I call out, racing up the stairs two at a time.

  Stumbling onto the third-floor landing, I follow the noise into the open room with the exposed wooden slats along the ceiling and the milk crates and religious books stacked along the walls. The heart of creation. Jerry Siegel’s bedroom.

  “So this is where he came up with Superman?” Naomi asks.

  “Doesn’t matter,” my dad says, pointing to the walls. “It’s already picked clean.”

  He’s right about that. The rest of the house is filled with ancient peeling wallpaper that hasn’t been changed in decades, but up here . . . I didn’t notice it before . . . all four walls are peeled away, revealing nothing but cracked plaster and some fake pine paneling just between the windows.

  “Can we possibly be more stupid?” Naomi asks.

  “Don’t say that,” I shoot back. “We had to come and check.”

  “But to think that after seventy years, no one would come here and pull the wallpaper themselves—”

  “Okay, let’s just regroup . . . rethink,” I jump in. “Maybe there’s something we missed.”

  “What’s to miss? We heard the story fifteen times,” Naomi says. “Young Jerry lying awake in this room . . . staring out a
t the stupid crabapple tree and pining for his dead dad. Where else is he gonna hide it? In his sock drawer? Under the floorboards? Maybe he tucked it behind the wood paneling,” she shouts, kicking at the pine panels between the two windows.

  “What about the attic?” my dad asks. “Was there wallpaper up there?”

  “No,” I say. “It’s completely—”

  “Crabapple,” Naomi blurts.

  “Wha?”

  We both turn to see Naomi staring out of the room’s side-by-side double-paned windows. “The crabapple tree. You can’t see it from here.”

  My dad and I race next to her. Sure enough, the never cleaned windows are thick with dust and remnants of cracked paint, but they still give a muddy view of the front lawn as well as the snow-covered street and the equally beat-up houses that sit across the way.

  “I don’t get it,” my father says.

  “Look!” Naomi insists, pointing out to the right.

  We press our foreheads against the cold, filthy glass, but no matter how hard we push, there’s no view of the crabapple tree that sits in the alley on the right side of the house.

  Pulling back, I check the far right side of the room, but there’s nothing but wall.

  “These are the only windows in here,” Naomi points out, still at the front windows.

  “So if you can’t see the crabapple tree, either the whole Superman creation story is wrong . . .”

  “. . . or this wasn’t Jerry’s room,” Naomi says excitedly. “Is there another room with windows that overlook—?”

  “Right below us,” I say, already rushing toward the stairs.

  52

  There,” Naomi says, racing toward the small window, then pointing outside at the surprisingly full tree that stood alone in the alleyway on the east side of the house.

  “You sure that’s a crabapple?” I ask.

  She nods. “You can see the fruit.”

  “So then this,” I say, turning back to the modest room lined with family photos, old track team trophies, and a National Geographic foldout poster of a mountain lion, “this is where Superman was really created.”