The Book of Lies

81

October 17, 1931

Cleveland, Ohio

You okay with this, yes?” Mitchell Siegel asked in his heavily accented English.

His youngest son, Jerome, sat on the radiator, his foot anxiously tapping the floor, his eyes locked on the thick, oversize Bible that rested like a cinder block in his lap. He was a restless, gangly kid with a weak, pointy jaw, a bush-top of thick black hair, and oversize glasses that came off only at bedtime, during showers, and for yearbook photos.

“I can’t, Pop. This is yours.”

“And now yours,” Mitchell insisted, his big voice bellowing from his big body.

Jerry was tempted to argue, but the truth was, he didn’t want his father to take the book back.

“You keep it, then, yes?”

Jerry nodded, brushing his fingertips along the fine, tan leather. Smooth as skin. “Can I just ask you . . . the object inside—”

“The totem,” his father said.

“The totem inside,” Jerry repeated, his foot still tapping as his knee rocked the book like a seesaw. “Do you even know what it is?”

Mitchell’s eyes went dark. “You think that matter!? All that matter is men gave lives for it. Men died for it, Jerome!” Mitchell cut himself off, thinking back to how his own father used to raise his voice. He took a heavy breath through his nose. “Is your gift now, Jerome. Yours to protect.”

Shifting his weight on the radiator, Jerry glanced over his shoulder and stared out the second-story window, where his two older brothers played skully in the street. “Why didn’t you give it to Harry or Leo—or even Minerva?” Jerry said, referring to his older sister. “I mean, I’m the smallest.”

Standing over his youngest son, Mitchell knew Jerry was right. Of his six children, Jerry was the smallest. And weakest. And least popular. When his siblings came home from school and raced out to play games in the street, Jerry regularly stayed inside, scribbling stories and drawing daydreams.

Just as Mitchell used to back in Lithuania when he was the same age.

“You argue with your father? Show respect!” his dad insisted, seizing Jerry’s shoulder in his meaty mitt.

Still staring outside, Jerry nodded, knowing better than to fight.

For an instant, his father’s grip softened and Jerry thought his dad was about to say something else.

But he never did.

In a slow, heavy shuffle—Jerry always thought he was hiding a limp—Mitchell Siegel headed for the door.

“Oh, say, Pop—can I ask one last thing?”

His father turned, framed by the threshold.

“What you said about those men—the ones in the cave, with the cloaks and the blood and the—”

“What’s your question, Jerome?”

Jerry looked at his father. “They tried to kill you, didn’t they?”

Mitchell didn’t say anything.

“What if they try again?” Jerry asked, his foot tapping faster than ever.

“They won’t,” Mitchell promised. “They can’t. There is no way they know where I am.”

Jerry nodded as though he understood. “But still . . . when you were there . . . do you really think they were trying to create some kind of monster?”

“Jerome, this was long time ago. Nothing to worry about today.”

“I’m not worried. I—” Jerry put aside the book. His eyebrows furrowed. “It’s just, well . . . if someone really could do magic or summon something or build whatever Aryan creature those men were building . . .” He tilted his head slightly, and the streaming outdoor sun made him look like a little boy. “I don’t know, Pop. Couldn’t it also be done for good instead?”