The Book of Lies

29

Ten minutes ago

Fort Lauderdale Airport

We enter the terminal separately. We get in line separately. We pick up our tickets separately. My father’s calm. I’m not. I spent years covering every port, including this airport. I know where all the security cameras are hidden. I know which taxicabs out front have undercover agents in them (the ones lingering in the limo line), ready at any moment to pick up an arriving suspect who thinks he’s home free. But what’s got me scanning the crowd is whether Ellis saw us leaving as we snuck out of my building.

“Here you go, Mr. Frenzel,” says the woman at the airline counter, handing me my ticket and calling me by the name of one of the dozens of fake IDs that had been left in the van over the years.

“Have a nice day, Mr. Sanone,” another agent says to my dad, who for once is following my directions and keeping his head down as he leaves the counter. By flying under fake names, we’re untraceable. But if Ellis is half the cop I think he is—the way he got to Timothy right after I did—all he has to do is pull airport video to be right back on our trail. That’s what I would do. But that doesn’t mean I’m making it easy for him.

Readjusting the green backpack that holds the Superman comic in its wax-paper protector, I keep my chin down but am surprised to see a spy cam—flat and thin like a calculator—mounted in a fake palm tree at the end of the airline counter. Dammit. I duck under the velvet check-in rope, wishing I could blame it on my lack of sleep. But I’m clearly rusty. I’ve been off the job for over four years. Of course there’s gonna be new cameras.

Trying to be smarter as I head toward security, I glance back at my father, but he’s barely moving. Worst of all, he’s no longer staring down, hiding his face. In fact, the way he’s looking around . . . like he sees something. Or someone.

On our left, by the airport gift shop, a dolly stacked with old magazines and newspapers is wheeled out of the way, revealing a young, light-skinned black woman in a rhinestoned Bob Marley T-shirt, dark jeans, and 80s Top Gun sunglasses. I’ve seen her before. At the hospital.

“Serena,” my dad blurts just as I reach the front of the security line.

“I’m sorry, I forgot something,” I tell the lady checking tickets at security. Swimming upstream and squeezing past the other passengers, I fight toward the back of the line and grab my dad by the biceps.

“What’re you doing?” I hiss.

“Cal, this isn’t my fault.”

“We were supposed to tell no one. As in no one.”

“I swear to you, I didn’t say a word,” my dad insists.

“He didn’t say a word,” Serena adds. “Quisiera estar aquí para ti,” she whispers to my dad in Spanish. I just wanted to be here for you.

From the shock on my dad’s face—as I tug his arm and steer us away from security—he’s just as surprised as I am. “Cal . . . son . . .”

“Don’t call me son!” I explode as every nearby TSA employee turns our way. I don’t care.

My dad forces a smile and puts a hand on my shoulder like all is well. I jerk back until he takes it off.

“Please don’t blame your father. Every soul needs its own flow,” Serena says, carefully pronouncing each syllable. She has a tender voice that’s as calming as wind chimes, and as she speaks, her yellow blue eyes make peaceful contact. First with me, then my dad. Like she’s seeing something within.

“That’s the mushiest, new-agey-ist manure I’ve ever heard,” I tell her, finally stopping all three of us in front of a set of floral sofas, where there are no cameras in sight. “Now tell me why you’re really here!”

She steps back slightly, almost as if she’s confused. “When we were on the phone—when I heard the terror in his voice—how could I not help him? He needed me.”

“Needed you? What’re you, his muse?”

She shakes her head, but I’ve been around enough addicts to know what’s really going on.

“She’s your sponsor, isn’t she?” I ask my dad.

“No. That’s not—”

The phone I traded with one of the kids vibrates in my front pocket. Only one other person knows I have it.

“Roosevelt?” I answer. “I told you not to call unless—”

“They sent someone, Cal. From ICE, just like you sa—”

There’s a loud noise, like a door slamming. I hear some arguing, but nothing I can make out.

“Hey, Cal,” a female voice says. “Naomi. Remember me?”