The Book of Lies (35 page)

“You sure?” my father asks. “At the Historical Society, someone said—” He cuts himself off. “A few years back, I could swear we sent an old Russian one your way.”

“Really?” she asks. “You don’t happen to remember the original call number, do you?”

“
1.8.4 King
,” we both say simultaneously.

Still on one knee, Ann Maura looks up at both of us.

“It’s fine if you can’t find it. It was sort of a curiosity—we just wanted to know where it went,” I offer.

“Of course,” she says. “Might as well take a look, right?” She closes one drawer and opens another that has a circular red sticker in the corner. Her fingers pick through the cards . . . and just as quickly come to a stop. “Here we go,” she announces.

“You have it?”

“We did. It arrived in 1998.”

“That’s the one!” my dad blurts. “Where’s it now?”

“Ah, that’s the thing. According to this, well . . . I hate to say it, but looks like we pulped it.”

“You
what
?” my father asks.

“You threw it away?” I add. “Why?”

“Doesn’t say. Sometimes a book gets worn apart—other times, an inmate rips their favorite section out, and the whole copy becomes unsalvageable. You have to understand, our clientele can be pretty selfish sometimes.”

“So it’s gone,” my dad says.

“Definitely gone,” Ann Maura says as she slides the card drawer shut. “I’m confused, though. Was there something special about that particular copy?”

“It was just— It was first donated to us by one of our board members, and we thought it might be nice to maybe track it down for him,” I say. “Sorta reunite him with his 1875 family Bible.”

“Hold on,” Ann Maura says. “Did you say 1875 or
19
75?”

“1875.”

“So it’s an
old
book, not a new one.” Before I can even respond, she’s got that faraway look, like she’s checking the card catalog in her mind. “And it’s Russian,” she mutters. “Oh, how funny—I didn’t even think about that.”

I’m about to interrupt, but she’s already gone, dashing to the glassed-in office in the corner of the room. On the wall, she’s got framed head shots of the governor and lieutenant governor of Ohio, as well as a few other frames below those two. Staring down with her back to us, she grabs one of the lower frames from the wall.

“When you first said it, I thought we were looking for a modern Bible,” she calls out as she heads back toward us, carrying the frame, “which is the only reason I didn’t think of
this.
It was a gift from my predecessor—just to keep me on my toes.”

She flips the frame around, revealing a crinkled sheet of paper that’s yellowed like parchment and split into two columns: On the right is Hebrew writing, on the left is . . .

“That’s Russian,” my father says excitedly, rushing forward.

But what’s most noticeable is the crescent-moon-shaped hole that’s cut out from the center of the page and is about the size of a banana.

“Don’t you see? That’s the reason it got pulped,” Ann Maura explains, pointing to the hole in the page. “Somewhere along the way, one of our prisoners must’ve sliced through the pages to smuggle something inside.”

Or Mitchell Siegel did it years earlier
, I say with a look toward my dad.

But to my surprise, he’s not studying the framed page. Instead, he crosses behind the librarian and stares up at the trophy room items that’re glued to the far left wall above the bookcases—or, more specifically, at the moon-shaped horn that’s—

I squint hard and give it another look. The moon-shaped horn. That’s not— That’s not for gunpowder. That’s an animal horn.

I glance down at the cutout in the Bible. A perfect animal horn shape.

Oh, God.

When Jerry Siegel’s Bible got transferred to the prison . . . they confiscated what was hidden inside, then put it up as a trophy for—

There’s a choking sound behind me, like someone fighting for air.

I spin around just in time to see my father’s hands gripping the librarian’s neck from behind. His face is red from squeezing, and a thick vein swells across his forehead. She thrashes and kicks but doesn’t have a chance. Before I can even react, she drops to the floor like a cut puppet, her head sagging down and her orange sneakers pointing in toward each other.

“Wh-What’re you—?
Are you insane!?
” I demand.

“It’s okay. She’s just unconscious,” my father insists, his eyes wide as he rushes to grab a nearby chair.

“Stop!
Right now!
Stop!”

“She’s fine, Calvin. I know what I’m doing.”

“You could’ve killed her!”

“She’s fine,” he repeats, his voice at full gallop as he runs with the chair.

I check the librarian’s chest. She’s passed out but definitely breathing.

“Lloyd, she was just—!
Listen to me!
Why aren’t you listening?
”

“This is it—I finally got it. You see it, don’t you, Calvin? Cain’s murder weapon . . . the Book of Truth—it’s not a book!” he says, shoving the chair against the bookcase and climbing up toward the horn. “You can see the carvings—it’s written on the animal horn! This is it!”

“Lloyd, you can’t do this.”

But he already is. Standing on the chair, he stretches above the bookcase, up toward the trophies, where he grips the animal horn and tries to rip it from the wall. It doesn’t budge. He tries again with both hands. It’s glued on better than he thought.

“Dammit, get down!” I shout.

Undeterred, he yanks the nearest hardcover from the top shelf of the bookcase and flips it around so the spine is facing the wall. Turning it into a makeshift guillotine, he slices the book downward, slamming it into the horn and trying to cleave it from the trophy wall.

“Lloyd, I’m talking to you!”

“He’s not listening, Calvin,” a voice announces from behind me.

I spin back to the front door of the library, and my heart falls from my body. “Th-That’s not possible.”

“Sure it is,” the Prophet says as he slowly steps forward. “All I needed was a little help from your dad.”

75

I
’m lost. Back up,” Naomi barked into her phone, scootching up on the gurney as she stared down at the polished floor. “What does this have to do with the Prophet? And where the hell’s Scotty? He explains stuff better than you.”

“Okay, forget the Prophet. Go back to Cal,” Becky says. “What’s Cal’s job? He picks up homeless people, correct? So to make sure he’s not taking these people and selling them to tattoo parlors for practice skin, Cal is required—by law—to put the name of every person he picks up into his laptop, which connects to the state database that keeps track of such things. You with me so far?”

“Keep going.”

“The point is, Naomi—on that first night Cal found his father, he keyed in his dad’s Social Security number and entered him into the database.”

“So?”

“So Cal’s dad’s name came right up.”

“Again . . . so?”

“And again . . . so Cal’s database isn’t NCIC—he doesn’t have a full list of everyone on the planet. The only people in there are people who were
put
in there.”

“And for the third time . . . why is that so damn important?”

“Naomi, you have to understand: On most nights, when Cal enters a client’s Social Security number, it’s not just so the government can play big brother and I Spy from the Sky. It’s so Cal can pull up the homeless person’s records and see who he’s dealing with. Does this person have a history of drugs? Of mental illness? When was the last time they were helped? Or is this someone just leeching off the system, who goes to a different place every night? Cal covers the entire Fort Lauderdale area—he needs this information to do his job.”

“But you’re saying Cal’s dad was already in his system.”

“There you go. If it were any other night, Cal would’ve scanned the file, looking for details about whoever they found. But when his father’s name popped up . . .”

“. . . Cal went bursting from the van, anxious to start dealing with his daddy issues.”

“And thus he misses one key detail about his father’s background.”

“So which is it?” Naomi asked. “Drugs? Mental illness? You should’ve seen Lloyd attack me with that trophy. He’s a sociopath, isn’t he?”

“Not according to his Service Point file. In fact, the last time he got picked up . . . Dad’s got some real issues.”

“Define
issues
.”

“He’s suicidal,” Becky said as Naomi hopped off the gurney. “His case notes say he was a mess, too. Found him on Fort Lauderdale beach four months ago after he swallowed fifty tabs of trazodone and fell in a pile of fire ants that were—no joke—eating him alive.”

“Okay, and that makes me officially feel bad,” Naomi agreed. “But I’m confused. You said Dad was picked up four months ago—that that’s when he was put in the system. But if Cal picked him up . . . even with the fire ants, didn’t he recognize his own father?”

“See, that’s where I was stuck, too. Until I finally started thinking that maybe Cal wasn’t the one who found him that first night.”

“Wait, I don’t get it,” Naomi shot back. “You just said Dad was found on the beach in Fort Lauderdale. That’s Cal’s route, right? But if Cal wasn’t the one who picked Dad up, who else is driving around in a homeless van except for—?”

This time, Becky didn’t say a word.

Naomi grabbed a nearby IV pole just to help her stand.

“Fudge. Me,” she whispered to herself.

76

I
understand pain. I’ve lived with pain my entire life. But pain is nothing compared to betrayal. And betrayal is nothing compared to knowing that the javelin in your back was rammed there by the one person in your life you actually trusted.

His ponytail swings like a hypnotist’s watch as he calmly enters the room. I have no idea how he got in here or how he even—

“Cal, you need to listen to these words,” Roosevelt says, his hands out and his palms up. “I need you to hear this, okay? I’m sorry this had to happen. I mean that. This was never supposed to be about you.”

“Y-You’re the Prophet,” I blurt.

“You’re not listening, are you?”

“In the park—when we stumbled onto my dad—that was no stumble, was it?” I stutter. “You
knew
he’d be there, didn’t you? Just like you knew I’d come running to— How could—?
You’re supposed to be my brother!
”

“I still am. Don’t you see?” he asks. “Months ago, when I started setting up the shipment . . . when I got word that the man in the coffin—the doctor in China—was dying—I could’ve asked you from the start. But I was trying to protect you.”

“That’s how you protect me? By using my dad as some emotional carrot and then . . . with Ellis . . . You sent that psycho to kill me!”

“No. That’s not— Cal, if there wasn’t that hold notice, I never would’ve involved you. Never. In fact, I didn’t find your dad until
after
the doctor died. But as I was putting together the shipment—to see your dad on the street that night—how could I ignore a sign like that?”

“That wasn’t a sign! It was my
father
!”

“And I did nothing but right by him. I saved his life! But with that shipment coming—you know what it’s worth and how easily those things get stopped. I didn’t know if I’d need you, Cal. Your dad was just— I needed insurance.”

“Oh, then that’s a far more forgivable story. So now my dad was just your lucky rabbit’s foot? What’d you do, throw him some cash as a delivery boy and then you’d at least have a surefire way to get my help just in case something went wrong?”

“Something
did
go wrong!”

“
That doesn’t justify it, Roosevelt!
I mean, okay, so you were nervous about your shipment, that doesn’t mean you—you—you—” A pinprick of vomit knifes the back of my throat, then slides back down to my belly. “Y-You shot him. In the stomach. You shot my dad, knowing it would pull my heartstrings and—”

“He shot himself,” Roosevelt says. “He took my gun—the gun I searched so long for, that I spent so much of my family’s resources to find—and shot himself. He was worried you wouldn’t help him otherwise, isn’t that right, Lloyd?”

I look back at my father, who’s standing on the chair, staring down at us. He’s still got one hand gripped around the animal horn. Never letting go of the prize.

“I saved your father’s life, Cal,” Roosevelt insists for the second time. “Tell him, Lloyd. Tell him how I found you, all those ants crawling through your nose and in your ears.”

My father doesn’t answer.

“He
was
a sign, Cal. God sent him. Lloyd didn’t want to see ya, but I knew it—everything for a purpose, right?” Roosevelt adds. “He was sent to me to be saved. And I did. I set him right—cleaned him up, found him a counselor, even gave him some cash to restart his life. All he had to do was make his delivery. Instead, he got greedy, didn’t you, Lloyd?”

“It wasn’t greed,” my father calls out.

“Then what was it?” Roosevelt shoots back. “Love for your son? Is that your new story? No, no, no. I like that. It’s a nice confession. You saw him, and when your paternal side was reawakened, you decided to go for Father of the Year.” Roosevelt shakes his head and readjusts his ponytail. “There’s only one problem, Lloyd. Why didn’t you ever tell Cal the truth? Oh, that’s right—priceless religious artifacts aren’t half as good when you have to share them.”

“How can you—!? You sent Ellis to kill me!” my father shouts.

“And me!”
I explode. “You knew Ellis was a butcher! And you sent him after us!”

“No. Your father lies. He always lies,” Roosevelt insists. “I never sent Ellis to kill you. I was just trying to get back what was mine.”

“You still helped him!” I yell.

“Only after Alligator Alley. Remember, Lloyd? When you stopped calling in? When you wouldn’t answer your phone at the warehouse? Or at the airport? You’re lucky our delivery guy in Hong Kong—poor Zhao, Lord rest his soul—had told me Ellis was sniffing around. He’s the one who said Ellis made a better offer, even gave me his contact info. When Lloyd went AWOL, what was I supposed to do?”

“Are you really that deluded?” I blurt. “When you sent Ellis to Cleveland—”