The Book of Lies

13

Timothy rides the brakes, keeping his distance. “Cal, maybe we should wait back and—”

“That’s my— Someone stole my van from the parking lot. Get us up there!”

We’re barely a few hundred feet away as a uniformed cop approaches the driver’s-side door of my father’s truck. My dad rolls down his window . . . a few words go back and forth . . .

“Looks like he’s giving him a ticket,” Timothy says as we slow down and veer toward the shoulder of the road. The cop looks our way, shielding his eyes as we flick on our headlights. I’m too busy rechecking the license plate: M34 DZP. That’s ours.

“How’d he even get it?” Timothy asks.

Thankful that Roosevelt’s safe at home, I open Timothy’s glove box. “You still have your—? Ah.” Toward the back of the glove box, his metal telescoping baton sits among the mess of maps and fast-food napkins.

“What’re you doing?” Timothy asks as I pull it out and slide it up my sleeve.

“Being smart for once,” I say, kicking open the car door even though we’re still moving.

“Cal . . . don’t—!”

It’s not until my door smashes into a concrete barrier that I realize what he’s warning me about. The car jerks to the left and rumbles over what feels like a speed bump. I was so busy looking at the van, I didn’t even see that we were passing over a small canal, one of the hundreds that run underneath Alligator Alley.

Just beyond the short overpass, Timothy pulls back onto the shoulder of the road, flicks on his own blue lights, and stops nearly fifty feet behind the van. He knows what happens when you surprise a cop.

“Hands!” the cop yells, pulling his gun as we both get out of the car.

“Federal agent! ICE!” Timothy shouts, flashing his credentials and sounding plenty annoyed.

He’s not the only one. “What the hell’re you doing with my van!?” I shout, racing forward without even thinking.

“W-Was I speeding?” my dad asks, panicking through his open window and not seeing us yet.

The cop smiles to himself and raises his gun toward my father. “Please step out of the truck, Mr. Harper.”

“I—I don’t—”

“I’m not counting to three,” the cop warns as the hammer cocks on his gun.

My father opens his door and climbs down from the cab, his face lit by the pulsing blue lights. “Cal? What’re you doing here?” he stutters.

Behind me, Timothy freezes.

On my right, just as I pass the open door of my van, there’s a low roar that rumbles like thunder. I turn just in time to see a snarling brown dog with pointy black ears and pale yellow teeth.

“Stay, Benoni,” the cop warns, never lowering his gun. With his free hand, he shoves my dad toward me. The movement’s too much for my father, who bends forward, holding his side.

As the cop finally turns and points his gun at all of us, we get our first good look at him. The headlights of the van ricochet off his grown-out copper red hair and thick eyebrows. But what lights up most is the prominent tattoo between his thumb and pointer finger. “Nice to finally meet you, Cal. You should call me Ellis.”