The Book of Lies Page 23

  “Okay, good as new,” the nurse announced.

  Naomi barely noticed, still focused on Scotty. “And the FBI boys told you all that?”

  “Well . . . let’s be honest . . . those requests I sent in were in your name. They were really just helping you.”

  “That’s fine,” she said, sitting up straight and letting her legs dangle off the gurney. “What about Timothy? Any word yet?”

  “Listen, I didn’t wanna be the one to say it, but—”

  “They found the body, didn’t they?”

  “They found a leg. Fish and Wildlife guys just called it in. It’s gruesome, Naomi.”

  This time, Naomi was silent.

  “You okay?” Scotty asked.

  “I need to call his family. I don’t want them seeing this on the news. God, his poor twins. . . .”

  “Suarez’s already on it. First call he made. Then he called me. You’ve officially got your murder investigation.”

  For a moment, Naomi just sat there as the nurse tied the final knot in the stitches and put some ointment on the wound. “Scotty, put a lookout in NCIC for Cal—”

  “Already done. NCIC . . . IBIS . . . I listed him as a threat to the homeland just to make sure the other agencies take a long look at his photograph.”

  “I also need you to run both Cal’s dad and this woman he was with. Cal called her Serena. Check the airline records. If she’s a novice, maybe she flew under her real name.”

  “So you think one of them might be this Prophet?” Scotty asked.

  “Where’d you even hear that name—the Prophet? That from the FBI?”

  “No, from you—through your earpiece when you were unconscious. Anyway, you think it’s one of them?”

  “I have no idea. But I’m telling you right now—to do that to Timothy—to his twins . . . I don’t want these lowlifes anymore. I want chunks of them.”

  “I assume that means Cal, too. I assume you got the bug on him?”

  “Of course,” Naomi replied, reaching for the tracking device in her front pants pocket. “I slipped it in his jacket back at the—” She patted her front pocket, then her back. The tracking device was gone. But if Cal had that . . . If he’d found the bug . . . “Oh, don’t tell me he—” Cutting herself off, she pulled the earpiece from her ear and unscrewed the small rubber tip by the microphone. No listening device there.

  “Ma’am, just give me one more minute to close this,” the nurse pleaded, fighting to cover the wound with a bandage.

  Undeterred and already frantic, Naomi reached for her phone.

  “Nomi, what’s wrong?” Scotty’s voice echoed distantly from the earpiece that now sat on the gurney.

  With her thumb wedged against the back of her phone, she slid open the compartment, revealing the battery, the serial number—and the small round listening device that she’d planted on Cal back at the museum.

  “Sonuvabastard!” she shouted, hopping off the gurney and holding the small disk to her lips. “I know you can hear me, Cal! I know you heard it all, you sack of turd! His leg!? You’re letting his twins bury a leg!? Every part they find, Cal—I don’t care if they have to slice open every gator’s stomach—you’re gonna feel the pain of every part they find!”

  “Ma’am, if you don’t sit down . . .” the nurse warned.

  “Are you done stitching me up?” Naomi shot back as she tossed the listening device into the red biohazard trash can.

  “Y-Yes.”

  “Good. Thank you. Bye,” Naomi said, whipping the blue curtain sideways and storming out, the bandage barely held in place. The hallway was busy—doctors, nurses, and pushcarts buzzing in every direction—but Naomi stopped.

  “Nomi!” Scotty’s tiny voice squeaked from the earpiece in her hand. “Nomi, what happened!?”

  “Scotty, stop talking,” she scolded, sliding the earpiece back in place and staring out at the emergency room lobby. A tall doctor was talking to the receptionist. An Arab family was huddled in prayer. An older black woman was either sleeping or unconscious with a half-knit quilt in her lap. “Scotty, y’know that itch in the back of your brain when you feel like you’re being watched?”

  “I’m sure it’s nothing. Just get moving,” he said.

  “I know, but the—”

  “It’s nothing. I understand you were close with Timothy, but don’t let it make you imagine stuff,” Scotty insisted as Naomi took one last scan of the lobby. “The only thing you have to worry about now is finding Cal and— Serena Amend.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “That’s her name. On the flight that Cal and his dad took to Cleveland, a woman named Serena Amend sat in seat twenty-five C.”

  “Thank you,” she said, stepping out into the night and realizing there was no way she’d find a cab in this neighborhood. “Scrub her through the system, then send that name to every Cleveland rental car company. There’s a LoJack tracker in their car. Those companies hate it when their stuff gets lost.”

  “It’s nearly ten at night. This is gonna take some time.”

  “Scotty, I’ve got fifteen stitches running down my right temple, I feel fishing line tug through my skin every time I move my eyebrow, and I’m now wondering what I’m going to say if they ask me to speak at Timothy’s funeral. Now you find me that LoJack signal, and I’ll find us Cal, and this Prophet, and whatever it is those Nazis wanted in Jerry Siegel’s old comic strip. Oh, and I need a cab to get to my car.”

  “Don’t worry, boss. Whatever you want, I’m already on it.”

  61

  His leg!? You’re letting his twins bury a leg!? Every part they find, Cal—I don’t care if they have to slice open every gator’s stomach—you’re gonna feel the pain of every part they find!” Naomi’s voice ripped through the small round speaker of the tracking device.

  “Still wanna go to the cops?” my dad asks, patting me on the shoulder. “This is exactly what I said would happen.”

  “We need to get rid of the device,” I say as I shut the black box and pull the batteries from the back.

  “You think she can trace it?” my dad asks.

  “You willing to take a chance?” Before anyone can answer, I toss the tracking device into the bathroom sink and run it under water. It’ll only get worse when they find the Johnsels’ bodies. But even without them, Naomi’s done listening to reason. The only way we’re not taking this fall is if we hand her the truth, and right now there’s only one way to get it.

  “What about the dialogue?” Serena asks, still studying the comic book panels. “Maybe Jerry hid something in that, too.”

  “Yowzie?” my father reads from the panel. “Yeah, that really sounds like you cracked the nuclear codes.”

  “I’m serious,” Serena says. “You heard Naomi: Mitchell Siegel supposedly kept this Cain book, or totem, or whatever the so-called murder weapon is, for himself. We know who killed him, we know what they wanted—and since they obviously didn’t get it, the only question is: Where’d Mitchell hide it?”

  “That doesn’t mean the answer’s here,” my father says, shaking his head and pointing to the wet comic panels.

  “You kidding?” Serena blasts back with an anger that surprises even my dad. “Ellis is clearly one of these Thule guys! He doesn’t care who killed Mitchell Siegel. He just wants the prize. And this,” she adds, motioning to the four panels, “he called it a map, for God’s sake! Why’re you being so dense?”

  “I’m. Not,” my father says with the coldest of glares. “I’m just saying, Jerry Siegel wasn’t some NSA cryptanalyst. He was a high school kid who lost his dad. So no offense to the rash of movies and books, but not everything has to come in some secret code. Especially when it’s staring right at us.” He jabs a thick finger against the last panel: with the boy dodging bullets on the way to the building.

  184 King Street.

  “I thought you said no such street existed,” I point out, taking a seat at the table and looking for myself.

  “Not on
our rental car map, but let’s not forget, this was eighty years ago—the Cleveland suburbs were just being built. For all we know, this was one of the main thoroughfares.”

  Now I’m the one shaking my head. “No way is it that easy.”

  “I agree,” Serena says, leaning over my shoulder and putting her hand on my back.

  My father shoots her the kind of look that comes with divorce papers.

  “What?” Serena asks, still not pulling away. She has no idea what he’s mad about. But I do.

  In a huff, my father grabs his coat from the bed and storms for the door.

  “What’d I do? Where’re you going?” she calls out.

  “Front desk had a sign for free Internet,” my dad explains. “There’s gotta be old Cleveland maps online.”

  Before we can argue, my phone rings. Caller ID tells me who it is. I need this call. But I don’t take my eyes off my father.

  “Want me to come?” Serena asks him.

  “Stay with him,” my dad shoots back. “You’re apparently getting good at it.”

  As the door slams, I flip open my phone and lean my elbows against the round table. The way we’ve been running, exhaustion is finally setting in.

  “Tell me that message wasn’t bullcrap,” Roosevelt says, his voice galloping through my phone. “The Book of Truth? For real?”

  Who is it? Serena asks with a glance.

  Roosevelt, I mouth back as she takes the seat next to me and leans in to share the ear of my phone.

  I could push back and chase her away. Roosevelt would tell me to do exactly that.

  I tilt the phone slightly, and we both listen in.

  “Cal, what you found . . . all the theories . . .” Roosevelt says. “We had it so wrong. Don’t you see? If this’s really a Book of Truth . . . this wasn’t penance for Cain . . . no . . . it truly was God’s reward.”

  “Y’mean all those secrets of earthly knowledge you were talking about?”

  “Forget earthly knowledge. This secret . . . look at the name: the Book of—” He’s so excited, he can barely get the words out. “It’s a Book of Truth, Cal. In Hebrew, ‘truth’ is emet, one of the most mystical words in the language. Writing that word was how the Golem was brought to life—it’s how—”

  “It’s ten o’clock, Roosevelt. I don’t care. Just tell me what’s inside.”

  He takes a deep breath, fighting to calm down. I keep forgetting. As much as I’m trying to save my rear, Roosevelt’s the one coming face-to-face with his faith.

  “Remember when we talked about the Mark of Cain?” he finally asks. “How I said some people thought Cain was immortal and that God let him live forever? Well, what if that’s what’s actually in the book?”

  “The truth about his immortality?”

  “No. The secret to it,” Roosevelt says, his voice more serious than ever. “In the Bible, Cain never died. What if the Book of Truth was his instruction manual?”

  Twelve hours ago, I would’ve laughed out loud. But as I look down at the comic book panel with the hidden ancient Nazi group symbol, and the young boy clutching a book and running for his life . . .

  “Does 184 King Street mean anything to you?” I ask.

  “As an address?”

  “As anything: 184 King Street . . . 184 kings on a street . . . Anything Cain-like come to mind?”

  “I’ll look it up, but even without it . . . Cal, if this is really the Book of Truth . . . I think you’re close, Cal! I can feel it!”

  “I’ll be sure to tell Ellis that the next time he sends the hound of hell at us.”

  “Forget Ellis. You’re now— I know you think I’m nuts, but this is what you’re meant for, Cal. We all have higher callings. All of us. It’s no different than Jerry Siegel. We think Superman was his calling, but in reality it was watching over his father, protecting this gift . . . this book. It’s the same with you, Cal. Same calling. Protect the gift.”

  “Roosevelt, I appreciate the faith, but we’re not getting anything unless you start figuring out King Street.”

  “That’s fine. I’m on it. But take strength from this, Cal. You’re close. Close to something far bigger than most people will ever see.”

  As he hangs up the phone, I try my best to ride his excitement, but after a full day of running and dodging and fighting, my shoulders plummet. Next to me, Serena does the opposite. I’m still leaning on the motel’s round table. She hops up, on a rocket of newfound adrenaline.

  “He’s right, Calvin. You see that, don’t you?”

  “I don’t know—for me, religion’s always been more of an acquired taste.”

  “This isn’t religion. This is how life works—the hunches you have that tell you to not walk down a certain alleyway . . . or to stay with you and your dad instead of cowering in a hotel . . . that feeling in your belly that tells you someone you love is in danger—we have to have a certain trust in the universe.”

  “I hear you. And for once, I really am trying to believe it. But the universe screwed me a big one.”

  “But now it’s trying to make amends. These are the divine patterns I told you about. You still think it’s a coincidence you found your dad in that park? Or that I got on that plane? There are no accidents! Ooooh, I feel fantastic!” she insists, reaching both arms straight up, fingers fully extended, in some yoga/-praise-the-Maker pose.

  It’d be so easy to make fun, but as I watch her . . . “Serena, I’m trying to be sulky and pessimistic here.”

  “You can’t,” she insists, her arms still in the air as she rises up, eyes wide, on her tiptoes. “I’m happy. Love and hate can’t occupy the same space.”

  I laugh at that one. “Obviously, you haven’t seen me with my father.”

  “I’ve seen. I’ve watched how you struggle, Calvin. But I can also tell you’re trying to decide. Love or hate. Eventually, we all need to choose.”

  When I look away, she steps toward me and reaches out, gripping my shoulder. She’s trying to be reassuring, to shake me awake. But in the euphoria of the moment, she pulls me forward and I’m suddenly a half-step too close. It’s an odd few seconds, crossing into her personal space.

  I’m about to step back, but as I look down at her, I find myself planted right where I am. Serena would credit my stasis to listening to your soul or finding divine patterns.

  But there’s something to be said about plain old euphoria.

  We both slowly lean in.

  “N-No . . . we’re not supposed to,” she says, pulling back. “I swear, I—I—I—” She looks down and away. The way her head shakes back and forth, she feels awful. Like she overstepped some unmarked boundary.

  But all I’m really focused on is that her hand is still on my shoulder. It skates down my arm, like a skier, until her fingertips rest on my forearm. But she never lets go.

  I stare right at her. I’m smarter than this. I am. I should know better. And I do. But that doesn’t mean I’m stopping.

  We move even closer and her lips press against mine. The warmth burns in such a good way.

  There’s a whispering voice outside. Then it goes silent.

  “—why call it free Internet if it’s not even . . . free?” my dad says as the motel door bursts open.

  Serena and I jump backward, like two high school kids being caught. We’re not nearly fast enough.

  My dad stands at the door, frozen.

  “We’re not— This isn’t—” I wave my hands, unable to get the words out.

  “Lloyd, w-we have a theory on the Book,” Serena says, sounding truly concerned.

  My father still hasn’t moved. He stands in the open door, staring at us as the wind and bits of snow dive into the room.

  “Dad . . .”

  “I’m perfect,” he says flatly. The door slams shut behind him. His eyes are still on us, but his focus has shifted, as if he’s looking at something that’s moved farther away.

  On the plane ride here, Serena swore they weren’t together. Otherwise I wouldn
’t have kissed her, I tell myself, trying hard to believe it.

  My dad takes a deep breath through his nose. His big Adam’s apple moves just slightly. “I have good news about the address,” he blurts.

  “Lloyd, I just want you to know . . .” Serena begins.

  “Stop. It’s fine. I promise you. It’s fine,” he repeats, revealing an I’m okay grin and approaching the comic strip. He puts a hand on my back and adds a strong, single pat as we turn back to the table. “Now, you wanna hear where we can find 184 King Street or not?”

  Bouncing on the balls of her feet, Serena’s so excited that I barely notice as she slides up next to me.

  My dad smiles even wider.

  But every time I turn away, I swear I feel him painting a bull’s-eye on the back of my head.

  62

  It’s too early. They’re not even open,” Serena says, stuffing her hands in her winter coat (mine, not my dad’s) and running to keep up as we rush through the bottom floor of the parking garage.

  “It’s not too early,” my dad insists, leading the way. From the moment we woke up this morning, he hasn’t said a word about last night. I should be thankful. I’m not. We got four Band-Aids to close his wound, and he hasn’t mentioned anything about that, either. As all three of us know, some things can’t be fixed by a Band-Aid.

  “C’mon, Calvin—keep up!” he hisses, ignoring all the signs for PATIENT ENTRANCE and PHYSICIAN PARKING. Instead, he heads in the opposite direction of the arrows, cuts between two cars, and takes us outside, where the sun is just up, revealing a baby blue sky, half a dozen American flags, and a red-and-white sign that says, “Happy Holidays to Our Vets!”

  The parking garage connects to Cleveland’s largest Veterans Administration hospital. For us, it’s the best and closest place to keep our rental car out of sight. But we’re still not completely safe.

  As we reach the end of the block, I glance over my shoulder. The only one there is Serena.

  “What?” she asks, following my gaze and looking over her own shoulder. “What’re you doing?”

  “Trusting in the universe,” I say as I study the parking garage and check each level. Then I check again.