The Book of Lies Page 7

  Finally, something goes my way.

  I raise my right forearm like Dracula hiding behind his cape. The dog sees it as a giant bone and opens its jaw. I did six months of K-9 duty. This is the part that hurts.

  Like a metal trap, the dog’s jaw clamps down with all its strength. Its top teeth sink into my forearm, but its bottom teeth get a mouthful of metal pole courtesy of the telescoping baton that’s still hidden in place. I see the pain in the dog’s eyes, but that’s nothing compared with the pain felt by its owner.

  “Benoni!” Ellis screams as the dog cries with a high-pitched yelp. Letting go of my arm, Benoni collapses on its back, whining and bleeding from the mouth.

  “Go . . . move!” I say to my dad, ignoring my own pain, grabbing the shoulder of his shirt, and darting back toward Timothy’s car. For a moment, Ellis freezes. It’s a choice between us and checking on his dog. When I was twelve, I had a beagle named Snoopy 2. It’s no choice at all.

  “Benoni, you okay, girl? . . . Y’okay?” Ellis asks, dropping to his knees.

  It’s all the distraction we need. I try the door to Timothy’s car (locked, no luck), then keep running along the shoulder of the road. My dad’s panting, holding his side. We won’t be able to outrun Ellis and the dog for long.

  On our left is the short chain-link fence that separates us from the Everglades and its alligator population. Directly below us is one of the dozens of canals that run underneath Alligator Alley. As I said, it’s no choice at all.

  “I can’t run,” my father insists.

  “That’s fine,” I tell him as I grab the back of his arm and drag him up onto the ledge of the overpass. “Can you swim?”

  17

  Y’think they see us?”

  “Shhh . . .” I hiss. For the past fifteen minutes, we’ve been waist-high in black water, ducking and hiding behind a thick, thorny bush that sits like a hairy beach ball on the edge of the canal. My shoes and pockets are filled with mud, and the tall sea grass is so thick, it’s like plowing through a giant soaked carpet.

  We had only a few minutes’ lead time, enough to follow the canal underneath Alligator Alley, where it forked and split into the wider canals that run parallel to the road. If we’d gone left, we would’ve gone farther from Ellis. That’s the only reason I went right.

  No question, we were fast. But that doesn’t mean we’re fast enough. Except for the pulsing blue lights, the night is dark as a coffin. Ellis can’t see us. But as I crane my neck to peer out, we can’t see him, either.

  There’s a hushed splash on our far right. We both turn just in time to hear the krkk krkk krkk—someone walking through the dried saw grass on the edge of the canal. The sound gets louder the closer they get. I squint and peer between the branches, up toward the road. There’s a fast scratching sound—someone running—then the unmistakable pant—hhh hhh hhh—that’s the dog. Benoni. The dog’s right above us. By the road. I see her.

  My father and I both duck deeper into the water. It’s freezing cold and my shirt sucks like a jellyfish to my chest. The dog bite didn’t break skin, but my arm still stings. Behind me, my father’s still holding the wound at his side. We both know how filthy this water is. But as the panting gets closer, we lower ourselves without a word.

  Up on the embankment, the dog stands there, her pointy ears at full attention. I squat even lower until the muddy black water reaches my neck, my chin, my ears. I’ve got my head tilted back, trying to keep everything submerged. My father does the same—as far underwater as he can get. A few feet in front of us, there’s a squiggle in the water as a thin indigo snake skates across the surface. I hold my breath, pretending it’s not there.

  “Benoni! Come!” Ellis calls as the dog darts to the right, back the way she came.

  My father doesn’t move. I don’t move. Nothing moves until the krkk krkk krkk fades in the distance. For a moment, I worry they’re coming back—until, from the opposite side of the road, I hear the hiccup of an engine, followed by a huge diesel belch, followed by a final piercing hiss that slashes the night. My father’s truck—Ellis wants the prize inside even more than he wants us. I lift my head as the muddy water streams down my neck and face.

  “They’re leaving,” I whisper.

  Behind me, my dad doesn’t say a word, even as the engine rumbles and fades. I assume it’s because he’s still terrified . . . still in shock . . . and most likely way pissed if Ellis drove off with his truck.

  “You saved me,” my dad blurts. As I turn around to face him, he’s got tears in his eyes.

  “You did— You saved my life.” He shakes his head over and over. “I thought you hated me.” He starts sniffling.

  I raise my hands from the water and pull him toward the bank. “Listen, erm . . . Lloyd . . . I appreciate that—I do. But can we please have this talk later?”

  He nods, but the tears are still there. “I just— What you did— You didn’t have to do that for me.”

  Sometimes a speech can make things better. This isn’t one of those times.

  “Can we just go back to that cop? Ellis. Who the hell is he?” I ask as we slosh through the canal, climbing back up toward the road and eyeing the fence that separates us from the alligators.

  “I have no idea.”

  “Don’t lie,” I challenge, waiting to see his reaction.

  “Cal, I swear to you, I’ve never seen him until tonight. When he pulled me over, I thought he was giving me a ticket.” His voice is flying—he means it—but as he says the words, the consequences finally hit. Reaching the top of the embankment, he looks across the road at my van and Timothy’s car, where the blue lights are still spinning.

  “Motherf—! He stole my truck!” my dad shouts.

  “What was in it, anyway? He mentioned a book.”

  “D’you know what this—? I’m dead.”

  “What book was in the truck, Lloyd?”

  “Mary, mother of— I’m dead!” he explodes at full detonation, spit flying through the air. “We should’ve killed his fu—” He catches himself.

  During my short career in law enforcement, I sent eleven people to prison. To real prison. And when you go to prison—no matter how straitlaced and Dr. Jekyll you are going in, the monsters within those walls always bring a little bit more of your own monster out.

  My father swallows hard, clearly regretting the outburst. Whatever tears he had are long gone. “I’m sorry, Cal. I’m not— It’s been a tough few years.”

  “Just tell me what’s in the truck, and who you’re so scared of.”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “Sure it is. Give me the name and we’ll at least know who we’re dealing with—or at least who Ellis is working against.”

  “That’s the thing: When they got in contact, they didn’t give me a name.”

  “How could you not—?”

  “Last year, I got my second DUI, which got me fired from my company. Since then, business is more word of mouth these days, y’know? I get a phone call. They send the paperwork and tell me where to drop it off—in this case, I was supposed to leave Alligator Alley at Naples and wait for a call. I know they have a 216 area code. From Cleveland. But that’s it.”

  “That’s it? You sure?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be sure?”

  “A minute ago, you were saying, ‘I’m dead! I’m dead!’ Why be afraid of someone you don’t know?”

  My father studies me. I look for his U.S. Navy ring and realize he’s no longer wearing it.

  “Calvin, I may not be the best father . . .”

  “Don’t sell yourself short, Great Santini. Though I have to admit, I cannot wait to see how you finish this sentence.”

  “. . . but I’m not a liar.”

  “No, Lloyd, you’re just an innocent truck driver. Nothing more than that, right?”

  He tugs his soaking silk shirt away from his chest. From what I can tell, it’s another Michael Kors.

  “You’re giving me too much credit,�
�� my dad says. “I never heard of no books, and got no idea what could take centuries to find, except for maybe some old art or something. Ease up, okay?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry—usually when I get attacked, potentially framed for murder, and almost killed, I’m much more cheery and fun.”

  “What do you want from me, Calvin?”

  “I wanna know what the hell is really going on! You’re fresh out of the hospital and still got up at four in the morning for this! You’re telling me you thought it was for three thousand pounds of frozen shrimp!?”

  “It’s Miami, Calvin. If they’re calling me instead of a real company—I figured it was guns or . . . or . . . or something like that.” He shakes his head before I can argue. “I’m not proud of it, y’know? But once you have that ex-con label on your neck— You don’t know what it’s like to be judged like that.”

  I think back to the days after they took my gun and badge. Even the secretaries from the office were instructed to hang up when I called.

  “Okay, first we need to get out of here,” I say. As we run across the road and back to my van, I scan the ground, the road, even under the van itself. Timothy. His body’s gone.

  “Y’think he’s still alive?” my dad asks.

  I pause a moment. Then I picture that bubble of blood in Timothy’s neck. “I don’t think so.”

  “Maybe Ellis took the body with him.”

  “Maybe,” I say. But to set all this up—to bring my van out here just to make us look like the killers . . . to leave no witnesses . . . I cross around to the passenger side of the White House. Down the tall grass of the embankment, there’s another canal that runs parallel to the road. When we were hiding on the other side . . . There was another splash.

  “Gator food,” my father says, pointing over the fence.

  “That’s what I would do.”

  I wait for him to ask why, but to’ve abandoned me this long, my dad’s got plenty of heartless in him. He doesn’t need help developing the picture: Ellis is a cop. He did his homework. My dad’s a convicted murderer . . . I’m a disgraced agent . . . There’s no question who’s the easiest to blame for this. And why he asked my dad to hand him Timothy’s gun.

  “He’s got my prints on one of the weapons,” my father says.

  “You think he didn’t drive my van all around the port, making sure the eyes-in-the-sky got a good look? Ten seconds’ worth of homework before ICE realizes I’m the one who snuck into the port with Timothy. . . .”

  “On behalf of a shipment that’s tied to your father,” my dad adds.

  Which brings us right back to the gun. We’re both silent as it all seeps in. Forget what happened with Mom. Ellis just has to point his cop finger our way. Once they hear we killed a federal agent—we’re repeat offenders. They don’t make bags small enough that’ll carry our remains.

  “We should follow the truck,” my dad suggests, looking out toward the dark road. “He didn’t have that much of a lead.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” I reply.

  “Maybe? The only way to prove what actually happened is by finding what’s really in that—”

  I turn away. That’s all he needs.

  “You know what’s in that truck, don’t you, Calvin?”

  18

  Stay, girl. . . . That’s my girl,” Ellis said to Benoni, adding a quick scratch between the dog’s ears. In the passenger seat of the truck, Benoni was breathing calmly now—but with her ears pinned back and her eyes narrow and intently fixed out the window, it was clear she was just simmering.

  After setting the odometer back to zero, Ellis grabbed an old pair of bolt cutters from the toolbox behind his seat, shoved open the driver’s door, and climbed down from the cab of the truck. He was still annoyed that he’d let Cal get away, but when he’d heard Benoni cry like that—the way she was shaking on the ground—family had to come first.

  Most important, as he glanced around the empty rest stop and walked around to the back of the truck, he had what he wanted. And thanks to his police uniform, surprise was most definitely on his side. Especially with Timothy. But that was the benefit of taking on a partner—there was always someone else to blame things on. As his grandfather wrote, the mission was bigger than a single man. Finally, after the headache in China and Hong Kong and Panama and here—finally—mission accomplished.

  He dialed quickly on his cell, then pinched the phone between his chin and shoulder and lifted the bolt cutters to the metal seal that looked like a silver bolt at the back of the rust-colored container. The phone rang in his ear . . . once . . . twice . . . He knew the time—it was six a.m. in Michigan—but this was victory.

  There was a loud cunk as the bolt cutters bit down and snapped the seal.

  “Judge Wojtowicz’s line,” a female voice answered. “You need him to sign a warrant?”

  “No warrants. This is a personal call. For Felix,” Ellis said, knowing that using the Judge’s first name would speed things up. With a twist of the thin metal bars on the back of the container, Ellis unlocked the double doors.

  He knew how he got to this moment. His grandfathers—in their commitment to the Leadership—began the quest. For all Ellis knew, his mother had searched, too. But the research had survived only because of the water-stained diary.

  The word Schetsboek was embossed in faded gold on the front. Dutch for “Sketchbook.” Flipping through it that first time, Ellis had stopped on a page dated February 16, 1922, on a passage about the covenants between God and man. In the story of Noah, God made a rainbow as a sign of His covenant. With Abraham, God’s sign was a circumcision. And with Moses, the sign was the engraving on the tablets. But covenants could also be between people. That’s what the diary was, Ellis realized. He’d been so focused on the Cain part—on the tattoo and the dog—he’d nearly missed it. The diary was his true sign. His covenant. The promise from his mother. And the way, over a century later, surrounded by cricket songs, he finally found the Book that was more powerful than death itself.

  “Who may I say is calling?” the woman asked through Ellis’s phone.

  “He’ll know,” Ellis said as he tugged on the back doors of the truck. There was a rusty howl as the metal doors swung wide open, clanging against their respective sides of the truck. Surprised by his own excitement, Ellis was up on his tiptoes, peering through the mist of—

  It was supposed to be cold. And smell like shrimp. Why didn’t it smell like—?

  Reaching up and pulling frantically, Ellis yanked the nearest box to the ground. His breathing started to quicken as he ripped it open. Pineapples. Plastic pineapples. He pulled out another box. Fake. They were all fake. Like the government uses when they—

  Damn.

  They switched it. Switched the bloody trucks.

  “I’m paging him now, sir,” the secretary announced.

  “Paging?” Ellis asked. He looked at the phone. “Don’t page him. Leave him be.” Shutting his cell phone, Ellis stood there a second. Just stood there, eyes closed. A rat-tt-tat drumbeat—rat-tt-tat, rat-tt-tat—hammered at the back of his neck at the top of his spine. He clenched his jaw so hard, he heard a high-pitched scream rushing in his ears. Anger. All he had was anger now. People didn’t understand what a life’s worth of holding back and hiding could do.

  He wouldn’t hold back anymore.

  He knew who’d done this. Timothy. Timothy and the other one. The one who hurt Benoni. Cal.

  Cal caused this. Cal and his damn father. But Ellis had it wrong before. Lloyd wasn’t the only trickster. Cal was one, too. To switch the trucks—to steal what was inside—Cal hadn’t just stumbled into this. He’d planned it. Stolen it. And now Cal had the Book of Lies. He had what Ellis had waited a lifetime to find.

  But the one thing Cal didn’t have? A good enough head start.

  Ellis looked down at his tattoo. With the Book, Cain unleashed murder into the world. That was nothing compared to what Ellis would unleash on Cal Harper.

  19

&nbs
p; Do you know what’s in the truck or don’t you?” my dad asks.

  I stomp my feet to shake off the excess water, then open the door to my van, hop inside, and flick off the blue lights. “Not yet.”

  “Whoa, whoa—hold on,” my dad says, climbing into the passenger seat. “I saw him take the truck and drive off with—”

  “He didn’t take anything.”

  Landing with a squish in the passenger seat, my father looks at me, then out at the empty road, then back at me. “No, I saw it—container number 601174-7. I checked the numbers myself. There’s no way you could’ve unloaded it that fast. And when I drove it out, you were following right behi—”

  I close my eyes and picture the black numbers on the side of the forty-foot rust-colored container: 601174-7. At three in the morning, in the dark, it’s amazing what you can do with some black electrical tape.

  “The numbers. You switched them, didn’t you?” my dad blurts. “That container Ellis just drove off with—”

  “Is filled with three thousand pounds of plastic pineapples, courtesy of the controlled delivery sting operations that Customs keeps prepared for just such an occasion.”

  Starting the van and noticing the exposed wires that Ellis used to hot-wire underneath, I swing the steering wheel into a U-turn and do my best to ignore the blue pulsing swirls as Timothy’s unmarked car fades behind us. Up above, the purple-and-orange sunrise cracks a hairline fissure through the black sky. The water from my clothes soaks my seat and puddles at my crotch. But as I look in the rearview mirror, it still hasn’t washed off the flecks of Timothy’s blood that’re sprayed across my cheek.

  “You think this book—whatever it is—you think maybe there could be something good in it? Y’know, like, maybe we’re finally getting some good luck?” my father asks.

  I turn to my dad, who’s eyeing the steering wheel and— Is he studying my hands? He turns away fast, but there’s no mistaking that gleam in his eyes. He’s anxious, but also . . . it’s almost like he’s enjoying himself.

  “Lloyd, let me be clear here. There’s nothing good about this. The shipment . . . the shooting . . . everything. It’s rotten, okay? And once something’s rotten, it can never be good again.”