The Book of Lies Page 28

  I wait for my father to panic. From where he’s standing across the room, I can only see him out of the corner of my eye. But he’s not swaying or stuttering or scratching at his beard. Worst of all, he’s not even looking at me.

  “Dad, whatever he offers, he’s a liar!” I shout, barely able to get out the words.

  Roosevelt presses the stapler even harder. “Your boy has a point, Lloyd. But do you really wanna go back to your old life? That old trailer? Or better yet, a second visit to prison? I can tell you right now, they’re not gonna have your fancy Michael Kors shirts there.”

  My father stares at Roosevelt, never once breaking eye contact. My dad doesn’t hesitate.

  “I found it. I want a finder’s fee,” my father insists, gripping the horn.

  “Money won’t be an issue,” Roosevelt promises. “Now what about your son?”

  “You don’t have to hurt him.”

  “That’s not really one of the options, Lloyd. Try again.”

  “I can stall him. I’ll stall him. If I don’t, then you don’t send me my cash.”

  Roosevelt doesn’t smile. His eyes narrow.

  “Thank you, Lloyd,” he says calmly. “I just need the weapon first,” he adds, extending his free hand. No question, this part’s a test.

  But my dad again reacts quickly, passing with flying colors. Heading toward us, he holds the ancient brown animal horn from the bottom tip, like an ice-cream cone. The top of the cone—the wider side of the horn—is covered by a tan piece of leather that’s pulled taut as a drum. The closer he gets, the more clearly I can see that half the horn’s carvings have cracked off or faded away.

  I fight hard to break free, but Roosevelt’s weight is too much. He presses the stapler against my jugular, and I can barely breathe. The far edges of my vision go blurry and the burning stars slowly return.

  No . . . please don’t pass out.

  I turn to my right, searching for my father. He’s just a few steps away, but he still won’t look at me.

  Dad . . . please, I beg, though nothing comes out.

  I can see the end. It doesn’t come with a fistfight, or macho banter, or even a quiet prayer. It comes with a desperate pastor from Tennessee flattening my windpipe.

  Roosevelt grins, pressing even harder.

  I take a final breath, ready to see my mom.

  And my father loosens his grip on the bottom tip of the ice-cream cone, letting the horn slide down in his palm until he’s holding it from the wide side. Like a weapon.

  My dad cocks his arm back and stabs the jagged horn at Roo-sevelt’s neck.

  My father spent eight years in prison. He knows exactly where to strike.

  The problem is, Roosevelt spent his years getting attacked by street drunks. He knows exactly how to defend himself.

  In one fluid movement, as my father lurches forward with Cain’s birthright, Roosevelt grips my dad’s wrist and twists. Hard. Air returns to my lungs, blood to my brain, and my head starts to clear.

  I hear the snap of muscle and bone. But it’s not nearly as bad as watching my dad hunch forward as Roosevelt sends my father’s wrist—and the jagged pointed horn—stabbing back toward the wound in my dad’s stomach.

  Skrrrp.

  My father’s eyes go wide as it rips his stitches and pierces deep into his belly. A small spray of blood soaks his shirt. He tries to yell, but all he musters is a toneless gasp.

  “Dad!”

  A shrill bell rings, screaming through the room. From the floors above us, we hear the metal ch-chunk of hundreds of prison doors slamming shut simultaneously. Lunchtime’s over.

  Without a word, Roosevelt climbs off my chest, approaches my dad, and effortlessly tugs the blood-covered horn from my father’s stomach. I’m still catching my breath as my dad falls forward, crumpling to the floor. He’s not breathing . . . not moving . . .

  “That wound needs pressure,” Roosevelt says coolly, wiping the horn on my father’s back, then heading for the door. He shoots me a look to make sure I get the point.

  I can still catch him, but only if I leave my dad. And after what my father did to me . . . no question, it’s a simple choice.

  I look at my dad, then back to Roosevelt, then down at my dad.

  But there’s no choice at all.

  I flip my father over. His eyes are open and rolled back in his head.

  “That’s why you found it, Cal,” Roosevelt calls out, already at the door. “The purest soul gets the prize.”

  With a sharp tug, he pulls open the library door. But instead of a hallway, all he sees are metal bars and the two prison guards who block his exit. That sound we heard before . . . the metal ch-chunk . . . The protective gate that rolled down from the ceiling doesn’t budge as he grabs it.

  “That’s him! He stabbed me!” Ellis barks, hunched over and holding a thick gauze to his chest as he steps between the guards and points at Roosevelt.

  Two enormously pissed guards reach through the bars, grip Roosevelt’s shoulders, and tug him forward, smashing his face into the metal gate and holding him there as if they’re about to physically pull him through the four-inch space between the bars.

  It takes me a moment to process, until one of the guards steps aside, and I spot Ellis still wearing his Michigan State Police uniform.

  “This what he stole?” one of the guards asks, snatching the animal horn from Roosevelt’s hands.

  “That’s it,” Ellis says without even the smallest of grins as he holds open a clear plastic evidence bag and the guard drops Cain’s birthright inside.

  “N-No!” Roosevelt screams. “H-He’s a killer! He killed two people in Cleveland!”

  “Didn’t I tell you he’d say that?” Ellis asks, already out of sight.

  “That’s not—! He’s lying!” Roosevelt explodes, spit flying from his mouth. “He’s not a real cop!”

  “Ann Maura’s down! Plus we got a bleeder!” another guard shouts, staring through the gates at me and my dad. “Tell Henkel we need medical now!”

  Down on my knees, I give my dad a few breaths and start CPR. He coughs, breathing quickly, but the bleeding in his belly won’t stop. The red puddle on his shirt swells and expands, starting to bleed onto the floor. I grab a rag from the sink and start applying pressure. We need paramedics.

  “Ahuuh . . . ahhuh . . .” my father coughs, unable to lift his head as he turns my way. His voice is less than a whisper. “I—I didn’t mean to— I tried to do better, Cal.”

  I nod, refusing to look down at him.

  “I mean it, Cal. And when I—ahuuh—w-when I . . . in the car . . . what I said about Mom. N-None of that changes.”

  His voice cracks and fades with each syllable. His face is pale, all the color running from the hole in his belly. He knows what’s coming. His last wound was superficial. This one is deep.

  “D-Didja hear me?” he whispers. “With Mom . . . please . . . none of that changes.”

  He’s begging now, his eyes flooded with tears.

  I shake my head, feeling my own bubble in my throat. “Of course it changes, Dad. Of course it damn well changes.”

  “He’s stealing it!” Roosevelt rails, spit still flying through the bars. “Tell them, Cal! You need to tell them!” he shouts as he finally looks over his shoulder to face me.

  I’m already racing at him.

  My fists. Still made of thunder.

  Roosevelt turns just as I swing, but he never sees the punch coming.

  78

  Four days later

  Orchard Lake, Michigan

  Few things excited Ellis. It wasn’t that he wasn’t capable of the emotion. But life delivers far less disappointment when your expectations are low.

  Still, as he pulled up to the circular driveway of the tasteful, snow-capped Georgian Colonial—as he parked the car and reached over to the passenger seat to pick up the worn leather case that used to house his jet injector—Ellis’s heart, his ears, everything was buzzing.

  �
��Let’s go, Benoni,” he said as the dog leaped out of the car, and Ellis strode after her. He could swear the Michigan wind was whistling just for him.

  Tonight, no question, was worth the excitement.

  Sure, Ellis could’ve come sooner. But the wounds in his chest and stomach . . . to get them cleaned and stitched . . . No. This was his arrival. The completion of his mother’s wish. He needed to be strong.

  Ignoring the front door of the house, Ellis followed the Judge’s instructions and took the slate path to the guesthouse around back. The Judge was still a public man. And this—to unlock the birthright—tonight had to be private.

  “This way, Benoni,” he called out, keeping the dog from running into the woods.

  “Boy, what a beauty,” a croaky bullfrog of a voice called out as the door to the guesthouse opened. Leaning down to welcome Benoni, Judge Felix Wojtowicz looked older—much older—than when Ellis first came to visit a year ago.

  “Okay to give her a treat?” the Judge asked, wiping his wispy white hair to the side as he welcomed Ellis into the bungalow, which held a modest home office, a leather sofa, and a mirrored bar in the corner. “I saved her some steak. It’s filet.”

  Ellis couldn’t help but grin. The Judge was sucking up now.

  “She loves filet,” Ellis said as Wojtowicz knelt down to let Benoni eat from his hand.

  “I saw the story in yesterday’s paper,” the Judge added. “You know, they had your picture in there. From the prison videocamera. I understand Cal’s using that as support for his own defense. It’ll work.”

  “I’m aware. But he still lost what mattered, and I don’t just mean his friend,” Ellis said, delicately setting the leather case on the bar’s glass countertop. He took a final deep breath as he unzipped the case and carefully, so carefully, peeled through the thick wad of bubble wrap and acid-free tissue paper to reveal the precious prize inside.

  “My great-grandfather died for this,” Ellis said as he held the gray-and-ivory-striated animal horn in his open palms and turned toward the Judge. “You better know how to read it.”

  The Judge studied the object, nodding over and over. Goats, cows, sheep—most horns were composed of keratin, the structural protein that toenails and hooves and claws are made of. In ancient times, horns were some of the strongest objects around, making them ideal writing implements. And weapons. In fact, in the right dry resting place—like a cave—an animal horn could survive for centuries.

  “Heaven above,” the Judge said as tears pooled in his eyes. “You actually found it. Praise you, Ellis. Praise you.”

  Hands shaking, the Judge reached for the leather case, then had Ellis place the horn back into the wad of bubble wrap and tissue paper. “The markings . . . the crossed sickles: This is it,” the Judge said, looking at Ellis. “This is it!” His hands still shaking, he carefully carried the ancient carved horn toward the back room of the bungalow. “I need my magnifier.”

  But as he followed the Judge into the back bedroom, the only thing Ellis saw were two older men—they looked like twins, both in their late sixties—dressed in herringbone overcoats.

  Motherf—

  Ellis just stood there, arms plainly at his side, as the first silenced shot was fired.

  The Judge was smiling and holding the birthright as the bullet pierced Ellis’s neck.

  Ftt.

  Benoni! Benoni, attack! Ellis screamed, crumpling awkwardly onto his side as he hit the floor. But his words were lost in the bubbling froth of blood from his shattered voice box.

  Ftt. Ftt. Ftt. Ftt. Ftt.

  Five hushed gunshots. All of them in Ellis’s chest.

  As Ellis lay there on his back, the last thing he saw was the Judge standing over him, staring down. He suddenly didn’t look so old anymore.

  “Just remember, Ellis. No one likes a bully.”

  Within seconds, the Judge, the room, the world went blurry.

  “Heil, Thule,” one of the other men called out.

  “Yes— Heil—of course,” the Judge said. “Now get me my gloves. Time to open the Book of Truth.”

  79

  Fort Lauderdale, Florida

  It’s a trap, Cal! It’s always a trap!” Alberto screams.

  I nod, tugging Alberto to his feet, wrapping an arm around his waist, and trying to steady him as we leave the alley and walk past the Thai restaurant’s front brick patio. He’s wearing the same ratty clothes he had on last week, though he’s added a REHAB IS FOR QUITTERS bumper sticker that he’s taped around his ankle.

  “I clipped my toenails into that soup!” Alberto shouts, pointing to a blond patron’s bowl.

  “H-He’s joking,” the restaurant manager swears as he follows behind us. But the way the blonde scowls at her waiter, who then scowls at me, it’s clear no one believes it.

  “Alberto . . .”

  “Don’t fight with me, Cal! Where you been, anyway? This sonuvabitch thinks he owns the whole block!”

  “I hear you. I’ll take care of it. But no more yelling, okay?”

  “Cal, he—!”

  I cup my hand, pressing it into the small of Alberto’s back. I don’t press hard. I don’t need to. He gets the picture. I’m here for him.

  “Alberto, when you talk . . . I’m listening. You understand? I’m listening.”

  His bloodshot, hound-dog eyes study me a moment, but not for long. I wait for him to say something—to say anything—but he just clutches his old RC Cola can with the plastic wrap on top, then turns to the curb, where I’ve parked the used maroon van I borrowed from another shelter.

  “Where’s Roosevelt?” he blurts.

  “In jail.”

  He thinks on this a moment. “I heard.” Then, in a reassuring voice, “You don’t need him.”

  Without another word, he hops in through the open side door of the van. “You got coffee for me?” he asks, fishing around on the front seats.

  “Hey, listen—before you go,” a voice calls out behind me.

  I turn back to find the restaurant manager—a sweaty Asian in a shiny hipster suit—making his way toward me.

  “Thanks again for your help,” the manager says. “I wouldn’t’ve called, but the customers started complaining.”

  He extends a handshake, all set to slip me a fifty. “Just to say thanks for getting here so fast,” he says.

  I look down at my old black T-shirt, faded sweats, and Vans sneakers. Nothing’s changed.

  Except me.

  I step toward the manager and wrap an arm around him with newfound ease.

  “Listen, I’m not allowed to take cash like that, but can I ask a favor?” I say, motioning over his shoulder. “Would you mind if I donated this to your wait-staff? You can add it to their tips—especially this guy serving the blonde,” I say, pointing to the table with the angry woman who’s now returning her soup. “He’s gonna need a bit of help tonight.”

  The manager smiles, his thin eyebrows rising. “That’s nice. Fair deal,” he says, offering another handshake. This time a real one.

  I cross around the back of the van, climb behind the wheel, and manually roll down the window, where I take a deep breath of Florida’s salty beach air. But as I twist the ignition key and turn on the lights, I finally see the man blocking my way, standing in front of the van, his hands in his pockets and his shoulders as slumped as usual.

  “Lloyd, what’re you doing here?” I call out.

  “I was just— I thought I’d . . .” My father’s voice trails off. “I don’t really know,” he finally admits. “I spoke to Serena.”

  “I don’t want to talk about Serena.” I pump the gas and jerk the van forward, hoping he’ll move out of the way. All he does is rush around to my open side window, gripping it like a child holding on to the counter of an ice-cream truck.

  “Did you get my messages?” he pleads, refusing to let go.

  I hit the brakes but stare straight ahead, through the front windshield. Even without eye contact, I can see his beard�
��s gone and his grizzly hair’s combed. He got a better lawyer than last time, which explains the deal he got for testifying against Roosevelt. And a better doctor, which explains why he’s out of the hospital. “Yes, Lloyd. I got all fifteen of them.”

  “You didn’t call me back.”

  It’d be so easy to explode and shout in his face.

  “No. I didn’t call you back.”

  He watches me, still gripping the ice-cream counter. “You’re not going to, are you?”

  “I told you—I need some time.”

  “But that’s just what you’re saying, hoping I’ll go away.”

  For the first time, I look down at him from the driver’s seat. “What’d you really expect? Tossing a ball back and forth like Field of Dreams? Everything you said—everything we did—it was all poison. You lied and tricked me. On purpose. And, oh yeah, almost got me framed for murder, not to mention almost killed, all for your own selfish reasons.”

  “That’s not true. All we wanted was help with the shipment. And once we— In Alligator Alley, when you saved me—”

  “Then what? You came to your senses and realized that the love of your long-lost son conquers all? Save it for the TV movie, Lloyd. I don’t care that you cut ties with Roosevelt—you still knew I was on the phone with him every free minute. Even in the car, you never once said, ‘Hey, Cal, your best friend is going all Judas on you.’ Why didn’t you say something then?”

  My father looks down, unable to face me.

  “Lemme guess,” I add. “You were worried if you told the truth, I’d walk away forever. Well, guess what? You get the same result either way. Karma is kinda a bitch like that.”

  He nods to himself, still holding the ice-cream counter, still staring down. “You’ll understand when you—”

  “When I what? When I have kids? Is that the parental chestnut you’re reaching for? That I’d understand what you did if I had a son?”

  “No, Calvin,” he says, finally looking up at me. “You’d understand if you lost a son.”

  I tighten my jaw and try to look away. But the words undo me, tugging on a bow—maybe it’s a knot—that’s buried far deeper inside me than the pain and rage of my current anger.