The Book of Lies

56

You left your dad and Serena upstairs?” Roosevelt scolds through my phone. “By themselves?”

“What was I supposed to do? Bring them along all three of us marching arm in arm and completely matching the two white men with a light-skinned black woman APB that I’m sure is now out for us?” I lower my voice as I reach the supermarket’s checkout lane and dump my only items—vinegar and fabric softener—onto the old conveyor belt that rumbles as it rolls.

Behind the counter, an Arab teenager with a cowboy hat belt buckle doesn’t bother to look up at me. In this neighborhood, I understand why. The market is called Star’s Grocery, but with the metal bars across the front windows and the armed-with-a-shotgun African-American man sitting high up in the crow’s-nest seat that overlooks the front of the store, it’s clear how poor the area is. It’s why I picked it. Neighborhoods like this hate calling the cops.

“Cal, this is the time to be smart,” Roosevelt says in my ear. “Whatever your dad has going with Serena, when you leave them alone like this, it’s all going on behind your back—and that’s never good for you.”

“It’s not like that with them. Besides, Serena—she wouldn’t do that.”

“She wouldn’t do that? Oh, fudge me! Don’t tell me you’re falling in like with this girl!”

“What? No. I barely know her. I’ve barely seen her.”

“And you barely recognize your own blind spot for helpless women.”

“She’s not helpless. She was trying to help me.”

“And there it is again—I hear it in your voice, Cal. And I know it’s warming your cocoa to finally have someone looking out for you, but stop picking out her corsage for the prom and instead focus on the fact that she’s the one who hit Naomi in the head.”

“You should’ve seen Serena, though. She felt horrible. She was crying. It was even her idea to drop Naomi at the hospital.”

“And that’s a wonderful thing to do—especially as a way to snake into your save everyone heart. But take some notes here, Cal. I don’t care how calming or pretty Serena is—I don’t care if you shared a little Zen moment with the rabid possum—the only reason she’s around is because of your dad. So if you don’t believe him, you shouldn’t believe her. You can’t just take the Bonnie away from Clyde.”

There’s a loud jingle as the register spouts open, and the cashier hands me my change. “Sorry, no bags,” he says as I pick up my two items and head for the door.

“Trust me, Serena’s not the problem,” I tell Roosevelt as I glance around the empty streets of East Cleveland, duck my chin into my jacket, and head out into the cold. It’s nearly nine p.m. One mission down; one to go.

“I notice you don’t have the same kind words about your dad,” Roosevelt points out. “And then there’s Ellis—and whoever the hell he’s talking to.”

“The Prophet.”

“That’s a stupid name,” Roosevelt says.

“That’s the name he gave.”

“Whatever he calls himself, he’s clearly helping Ellis—and considering how everything’s gone, you need to find out how this Prophet somehow knows, at all times, where the three of you are.”

“He doesn’t know it now.”

“Or for all you know, he—or she—does,” Roosevelt warns.

I freeze midstep, and a chunk of ice slides into my sneaker, nibbling through my sock. “What’re you saying?”

“The whole reason you’re all running around is to track what’s in this old lost comic, right? Jerry Siegel hid something in there, and everyone’s racing to find it. Timothy teamed with Ellis to find it. Ellis teamed with the Prophet to find it. And then . . . by whatever grace of God . . . in the wallpaper, you found it.”

“So?”

“So now, maybe this Prophet doesn’t need Ellis anymore. Maybe he’s feeling secure about his position and doesn’t want Ellis screwing it up, or even worse, having Ellis take it all for himself—so he knocks Ellis out the window, which conveniently uncorks the pressure cooker but still leaves all the pawns on the board, just in case he needs to play them later.”

Across the street, there’s an old Plymouth in a snowed-in parking spot. The driver guns the engine, but the wheels spin hopelessly. I know exactly how he feels. “So you’re saying my dad’s the Prophet?”

“Your dad . . . Serena—maybe it’s both of them. But ask yourself: How did this all start, Cal? Because you saw your father that night in the park, right? Then when you got the hold notice taken off his shipment, you started realizing that as much as he tried to act clueless, he always seemed to have this uncanny sense for what was really going on. Then he convinces you to go off to Cleveland, promising to track down whoever hired him. But whatever happened to that search? Has he spent a single minute on it? No. And the reason you can’t find who hired your dad . . . well, maybe it’s simply because no one hired your dad. Or his girlfriend.”

The wheels of the Plymouth continue their futile spin. The driver just needs a push. Up the block, there’s half a dozen people waiting at a bus stop, all of them watching. Not one of them gets up to help.

“I know you want the happy ending, Cal—and I know what you’re really chasing up there with your father—but don’t forget, in the original Pinocchio story, Jiminy Cricket gets stomped and left for dead. By Pinocchio.”

“Thanks for that. But I’m not my father’s conscience,” I insist.

“You sure about that?”

I stare at the stranded Plymouth, tempted to help. But there’s a reason I didn’t bring my dad or Serena or even our rental car. When I close my eyes, I picture the Johnsels’ lifeless bodies spread awkwardly across their mattress. The only thing keeping me from joining them is staying out of sight. Lowering my head, I walk past the Plymouth. Destination is the Burger King that’s dead ahead. I don’t need food. But they have something far more valuable. “Can we please get back to the research?” I plead. “What’d you find out about this Book of Lies?”

Through the phone, I hear Roosevelt turning pages. “I know this’ll sound a little hoo-ha, but . . . I think it’s a murder weapon.”

“The book is?” I laugh as my frozen breath fills the air. “Must’ve been a hell of a paper cut.”

“I’m serious, Cal. Scholars have spent centuries theorizing that Cain killed Abel with a rock or a club or even the jawbone of an ass. But one of the oldest theories is that Cain used, of all things, a book.”

“And I suppose no one cares about the fact that Cain’s tirade supposedly took place thousands of years before the Chinese or the Egyptians got their hands on a single piece of papyrus?” I ask as I peer over my shoulder. A local bus hisses to a stop at the bus bench, carting all the people away. Even the Plymouth is gone. Good sign. I cut as fast as I can into the Burger King parking lot.

“Sure, today, when we hear the word book, we think bound paper between two covers. But let your brain stretch a little, Cal. If someone carved a message on the blade of a sword . . . or along the length of an ancient wooden staff . . . or on a sacred tablet . . . Couldn’t those be books?”

I stop just outside the Burger King, stealing a peek through the glass. It’s cold out here. And colder every minute. “Just tell me what the book theory says.”

“According to the story, knowing that the great flood is coming, God instructs Adam to create a book—in Jewish legend, they’re said to be carved pillars; in Babylonia, they use the word tablets—but God tells Adam to fill it with all earthly knowledge, and that Adam should give this birthright to his most favored son. When Adam chooses Abel, well . . . Cain grabs it in a fit of jealousy and turns it into the world’s first murder weapon. But as I’ve always said, the real story is what happens next. As penance for the crime, even the Bible says that God gave Cain a Mark—and from what I can tell here—I think this Mark and the Book are actually the same thing.”

“Says who?” I ask as I watch two teenagers placing their order at the counter. There’s a man with a red scarf standing behind them. I can’t see his face.

“Again, it’s all translation. The word Mark in Mark of Cain comes from the Hebrew word Ot. And when I was looking at some of these other theories, Ot can just as easily be translated as an omen. A sign. A remembrance.”

“So God gave Cain a remembrance—the actual murder weapon—to remind him of what he’d done.”

“That’s the idea. And when you trace the word Ot in the Bible, the next time it’s used is to refer to Moses’s rod that turns into a snake in front of Pharaoh—an everyday item that suddenly becomes a deadly weapon.”

“I don’t know,” I say, still studying the man with the red scarf. “Old tablets . . . weapons of Cain . . . I’m really supposed to believe this all happened, much less somehow survived to modern days?”

“You can roll your eyes all you want, but nearly all we know of ancient Greece comes from the clay and stone artifacts that survived.”

“But if this tablet or book or animal skin or whatever it is—assuming it was filled with all the world’s earthly knowledge—why would having it be such a punishment?”

“See, that’s where Ellis was finally helpful,” Roosevelt says as the man with the red scarf turns my way. He’s no older than the teenagers. Just a kid. Nothing to worry about. “When Cain grew jealous of Abel and killed him for it, God gave Cain a very different book to carry.”

“A Book of Lies.”

“That’s what Ellis called it. Penance, punishment . . . a remembrance for Cain,” Roosevelt says as I cross around to the side of the Burger King and check the seating area. “Look at it this way, Cal—whether this book is filled with lies or all the world’s knowledge—don’t underestimate the power that people attribute to a sacred object.”

In the seating area of the Burger King, an employee wipes down one of the tables. The teenagers share a booth in the corner. No one else is there. “You really believe all this is real?” I ask as I pull open the door and head for the bathroom in back.

“You really believe it’s all fake?”

I stop at the door to the men’s room, still picturing the way Ellis stroked his tattoo and stared so obsessively at his pointy-eared dog.

“Cal, the only thing more frightening than a disbeliever is a true believer.”

Entering the bathroom, I know Roosevelt’s right. But that’s what brought me here.

A quick glance around tells me I’m alone. Perfect.

Ducking into the single open stall, I ignore the usual mess of graffitied insults that decorate the walls, step up on the toilet, and reach for the grid of white ceiling tiles that’re directly overhead. With a push, I shove open the nearest square grid and pat inside the ceiling. Nothing. I lift another tile and try again. Still nothing. I don’t panic. This is the third restaurant I’ve tried. Sooner or later, one’ll be here.

Studying the rest of the ceiling, I spot a tile with a few smudges. Fingerprints. Bingo. With my fingers spread apart like a waiter balancing a tray, I lift up the white tile and slide it aside. Patting around inside, I feel nothing . . . nothing . . . kuuunk.

My hand slides around the grip even as my finger hugs the trigger.

“Finally find one?” Roosevelt asks.

From the ceiling, I pull out a polished .380-caliber pistol. No serial numbers. No question, illegal. Cain grabbed a book. My father grabbed a trophy. I need something for myself.

It’s hardly a perk of my job, but it’s the same in every crap neighborhood in America: Show me the local fast-food joint, and I’ll show you where the kids are hiding their guns.

I tuck the pistol in the back of my waistband, then zip my jacket and dive back into East Cleveland’s ferocious cold. It’s a two-minute walk back to our motel—a two-story dump that doesn’t even have a name, just a sign out front that’s painted red, white, blue, green, black, and more red. U.S. and Palestinian colors, with the word Vacancy along the bottom.

“You got the supermarket stuff?” Roosevelt asks.

In my jacket pocket, I feel for the vinegar and fabric softener. “All set,” I tell him.

“So you’re gonna do the rest by yourself, yes?”

I circle up the outdoor stairs and follow the signs for room 216.

“Cal, please tell me you’re doing the rest by yourself,” Roosevelt pleads.

“Listen, I should run,” I say, stopping at the door.

“You’re not even listening, are you? Dammit, yo momma’s so fat—”

“Don’t start,” I warn as I twist my key and use my shoulder to shove open the motel door.

“Didja get it?” Serena calls out, leaping my way.

“Cal, you’re a big boy,” Roosevelt warns in my ear. “You do what you want. But please: I know what happened at the Siegel house, but don’t feel the need to protect her just because she protected you.”

I slap the phone shut.

Serena’s already holding my hand, dragging me inside. I take my jacket off slowly. They know about the supermarket. They don’t need to know about the gun.

“You get it or not?” my father calls out from the narrow bed. He’s no longer holding his side. The bleeding’s stopped.

“Of course I got it,” I say as I toss my two supermarket purchases onto the empty bed. My dad knows it from his painting days. Vinegar and fabric softener. The best way to unstick wallpaper glue.

From my backpack, I take out the swatch of wallpaper we found in Jerry Siegel’s old bedroom. Four panels glued on top of one another. Ellis called it the rest of a map. Looks like torn-up pages from an old comic book to me. But whatever Jerry Siegel hid by gluing them together, it’s time to finally peel it apart.