The Book of Lies

16

Ohnonono!” my father stutters, still clutching my shoulder as he stumbles and pulls us back.

Ellis stares over our shoulders at the car that’s coming our way.

“Hand me his gun,” Ellis says to us as he motions to Timothy, who’s flat on his back with what looks like a pinprick at his jugular. There’s no stream of blood as his body convulses like a snake and he continues to threaten and scream. First, Timothy’s left knee freezes awkwardly, cocked out to the side, then his torso stops moving. In less than a minute, he’s motionless on the pavement. He looks dead, his gun still clutched in his hand.

“I’m waiting,” Ellis adds, and for the first time, I see the new reality he’s building. If he shoots us with Timothy’s gun, then leaves my van here along with Timothy’s unmarked car—now the picture shifts: It’ll look like Timothy and I were having a late night get-together . . . two dirty feds arguing over a deal. My father was with me because, of course, we’re in on it together. Maybe a few words got exchanged, and both sides wound up dead. Best of all, with no one searching for the real killer, Ellis rides off in my father’s truck and whatever prize—he called it a book—he thinks is inside.

“I’d like that gun now,” Ellis says, his pistol now aimed at my dad’s face.

Panicking, my dad picks up the gun and tosses it to—

“Don’t!” I call out.

Ellis catches it with his free hand—a hand that I realize is covered by a plastic glove—but never takes his eyes off me. “You’re smarter than Timothy,” he says. “You understand why I’m here, Cal.”

Behind me, the car on the road is about a half mile away. But the way Ellis keeps staring at me—his amber eyes barely blinking even as the headlights grow brighter—it’s like he doesn’t even care the car’s coming. His uniform tells me he’s a cop, but that burning obsessed look . . . that odd tattoo on his hand and how he rubs it over and over . . . and especially the way he keeps glancing at his dog like it’s the Messiah. I don’t know what he meant when he said he’s been searching for a century. But I know a zealot when I see one.

“Easy, Benoni,” he murmurs as he finally notices the approaching car, about a city block away.

For a moment, I’m worried it’s someone he knows. But as Ellis lowers his chin at the arriving lights and hides both guns behind his back, it’s clear this is a stranger. And potential witness. For at least the next thirty seconds, Ellis knows better than to pull the trigger, which means I still have a chance to—

“Don’t be this stupid,” Ellis tells me in a condescending tone.

But I’ve always been stupid. And stubborn. And lots of other things that look bad on a report card. Right now, that’s the only thing to keep me alive. Behind me, I hear my dad breathing heavily. Us alive. That’ll keep us alive.

The car’s fifty yards away. In this darkness, its lights barrel at my back like a freight train and mix with the swirling blue lights that I swear are pulsing at the exact same speed as my pulse.

“If you flag them down, their deaths will forever be on your conscience,” Ellis says, already starting to squint.

I believe him. But if I let them pass, “forever” is going to last about twenty more seconds.

“Calvin,” my dad pleads, tugging on my sleeve. As I turn around, I figure he’ll be pleading for help. He’s not. His brow furrows, and his eyebrows knit into an angry glare. He’s pissed. This is my fault, he says with a glance. Go. Leave. I consider it for a moment. But I’m not listening to him, either. Ellis has two guns. We have none. Once this car passes, those bullets are going in both our heads.

I take a step toward Ellis, who’s still too smart to raise his guns. But that doesn’t mean he’s out of options.

“Benoni, ready!” Ellis commands as the dog prepares to pounce.

I squat slightly, preparing to spring. The crickets squeal in every direction. The car’s so close, Ellis’s pupils shrink. This is it. On three . . .

One . . . two . . .

I leap as fast as I can. But not at Ellis. At his dog.

“Benoni, attack!” Ellis shouts just as the car blows past us, pelting us with an air pocket full of dust and gravel.

From the front seat, Benoni leaps like a wolf, all muscle and sharp teeth.

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?”