The Book of Lies

by Brad Meltzer

  “Was a cop. Stepped down about a year ago.”

  “Like Cal.”

  “No. Very much not like Cal. First of all—”

  “You already did first of all.”

  “Excuse me?” Scotty asked.

  “You can’t say first of all more than once. You already said it.”

  Scotty paused, stewing in silence. “Second of all . . . this guy Edward Belasco,” he said through her earpiece. “He’s bad news—and worst of all, he knows the system. Never been arrested, never been caught.”

  “Just tell me what he did,” Naomi said with yet another glance at the GPS’s glowing crimson triangle. Still on target.

  “See, that’s the problem, no one can prove he did anything,” Scotty explained. “It goes back to when he was seven years old and he and his mom got into this mess of a car wreck in some schmancy neighborhood in Michigan.”

  “You’re joking, right? Another broken bird with parent issues? I thought you said he wasn’t like Cal.”

  “Trust me, this is far from Cal. Anyway, Mom gets slammed in the car wreck, young Edward is untouched, and as a result, he gets sent to live with his recently divorced dad for two weeks while the mom recovers. Two weeks. Instead, a few days into the visit, his father tells him that his mom has suddenly died. Young Edward never went back home again.”

  “Oh, boy. And Edward believed him?”

  “Dad said it, didn’t he? Of course he believed him. Until one rainy day when now fully grown Officer Edward, who’s moved back to Michigan, opens up the morning newspaper and sees his mom’s obituary staring back at him. With a few phone calls, he tracks down the lawyer for his mom’s estate, who tells him his mom had spent decades, and most of her money, searching for him. And that’s the first time in twenty years that he hears his real name: Ellis.”

  “Real candidate for Thorazine, huh?”

  “Candidate? We’re talking spokesmodel,” Scotty said.

  “How’d you even get all this info?”

  “It’s in his file.”

  “His personnel file has this?”

  “Personnel? No, no, no. This is his case file. That’s what happens when there’s a murder investigation,” Scotty explained. “A few days later, the estate lawyer reports a break-in at his office, with Mom’s books and papers suddenly gone, including an old Missing Child flyer that was in the files. Two weeks after that, Edward’s dad is found floating facedown in a lake behind his house. With no one to blame, it gets labeled as a boating accident.”

  “Until . . .”

  “Until six months later, when Edward’s suspicious squad leader opens Edward’s locker at work and finds the old Missing Child poster from when Edward was young. But instead of the picture of him as a little boy, your man Officer Edward had taken photos of his father and glued the head shots onto the head of his own old childhood body. Now they revisit Dad’s so-called accidental death. Anything seem a little fishy to you?”

  “Who knew that collage skills could be used for evil?” Naomi asked as she made another left and veered toward the entrance for the highway. No question, traffic was murder, but with her blue lights, it wouldn’t slow her down. “So they fired Ellis right there?” she asked, pulling around the pack and riding along the shoulder of the road.

  “Fired? Please. First they put him on leave, then they tried to prove he committed the murder, and then they let him resign, pension and all. You know the game: If they fire him, he’ll slap back with a lawsuit, then all this homemade Missing Child stuff hits the cable shows, and then the Michigan cops will have one of those public headaches that even the public doesn’t want. Better to just—poof—wave your wand and make it disappear.”

  “But the way he’s calling himself Ellis again . . . going all Mr. Ripley with himself . . .”

  “No doubt. He clearly found something he loved in his old life,” Scotty said. “Anyway, where’s Officer Nutbag now?”

  As Naomi plowed along the shoulder of the road, she again eyed the crimson triangle on the digital screen. “Approaching the rental car center. I’m betting he’s meeting Cal at the airport.”

  “You think they’re in it together?”

  But before Naomi could answer, her phone beeped and Seminole Police appeared on caller ID. “Scotty, I gotta take this.”

  With a click, she flipped to the other line. “Agent Molina,” she answered.

  “Benny Ocala,” replied a man with a creaky low voice.

  Benny Ocala, Naomi nodded to herself. Chief of the Semi-nole Police. And the last person Cal called from his cell phone last night.

  “Thanks for getting back to me, Benny,” she said, pumping the gas, nearly at the airport. “I think we have a good friend in common.”

  36

  My dad heads to the gate alone. Serena follows by herself. By the time I get there, the plane’s already boarding. But my father’s waiting, tucked in the corner by the wide, sun-filled windows. I’d like to think he’s concerned about me, but I can see what he’s really looking at. He’s not going anywhere without my backpack.

  Wasting no time, he heads toward me, limping slightly and tender from the stitches. It’s amazing how much slower he moves when he needs something. Especially sympathy. As he steps next to me, he just stands there, waiting for his moment, and I can feel him teeing up his apology for what he said about Mom.

  “Calvin, I just want you to know . . .” He clears his throat. “I really appreciate you looking out for Serena like this.”

  “Any families with small children or requiring special assistance are invited to board at this time,” the gate agent announces.

  “Anyway, I think having her here—it’ll be good for us,” he adds, though when I see who he’s looking at, I don’t think us means him and me.

  Tracing his glance, I spot Serena in the corner. She’s staring up at the sky as she marvels at one of the departing planes while talking on her cell. Her skin’s splotchy, and a bit of tummy chub rolls over the front of her jeans. But the way the sun hits her—it’s like she’s made of bronze. She’s gotta be my age. Maybe a year or two younger.

  “See that?” my dad adds, turning his crooked face back at me. “I don’t never get women like that. So the fact she even came here—for me—”

  “Who’s she talking to on the phone?”

  “She does nutritional consulting for people on chemo. She’s just canceling appointments.”

  “You willing to bet your life on that?” I ask, searching the crowd for Naomi and Ellis.

  “Calvin, listen: For that agent to even catch you on the phone—feds are already at your house, aren’t they? They’re racing here. What other proof do you need? We’re fighting for our lives now. And Serena’s part of mine. So if you wanna back out—if you don’t wanna come, I understand. But Serena and me—” He breathes hard through his nose. From his front pocket, he pulls out the scrap of paper where he copied the Cleveland address. I make a mental note. He thinks it’s about the address and not the comic. “Anyhow, I hope you come with us.”

  My dad walks slowly to the boarding gate. I keep waiting for him to look back to see my decision. But he just keeps watching Serena.

  I still don’t move. I know it’s pathetic, but— C’mon, just look back.

  He doesn’t.

  I still wait.

  And he still walks. Part of me can’t blame him. I’ve been out of his life for—

  He glances over his shoulder. Our eyes lock.

  It’s small and silly and far too precious to actually matter . . .

  But it matters.

  Everything with your father matters.

  Ten feet in front of me, Serena slides next to my dad, and they quickly lock pinkies. She’s not even a bit scared. He’s walking fine now. No limp at all. Boy, was that easy for them.

  I don’t know her. I barely know him. And they’re headed to Cleveland based on a delivery address my father pulled out of a dead man’s coffin.

  I can stay here. I can.
But I heard Naomi’s threats. I saw Ellis’s gun. My father was right about one thing: If I don’t get on this plane, I’ll be arrested today and dead by tomorrow.

  My father and Serena disappear down the jetway.

  I follow right behind them.

  Up, up, and away.

  37

  Benoni, what’s wrong? What happened?” Ellis asked his dog, who was down on her stomach, barely moving in the backseat.

  Ellis pulled into an open spot at the rental car return center, then hopped out, ripped open the back door, and leaned down toward Benoni. “What? What do you see?” he asked, following the dog’s eyeline and looking over his own shoulder. Behind him, up in the corner of the garage, a security camera in a black globe peered directly at him.

  Craning his neck up, Ellis stared directly into the camera for a full thirty seconds. Let ’em try. His life of hiding was over.

  He knew it with each turned page when he first found the diary. He could see his family’s—his real family’s—legacy. All their work. They were scholars.

  Back then, Ellis thought the Mark of Cain was a cross or a horn or something on Cain’s forehead. But his family knew the true story of the Book of Lies.

  From there . . . with the names . . . it wasn’t hard for him to track the Leadership. So much of their rank and strength had been decimated over the years. But a few remained. Judge Wojtowicz remained. And therefore, so did the dream. The dream guided him. It still did. His mother’s dream for him.

  That’s what it took to be Ellis.

  It was a simple goal—the birthright—the Book—would help him reclaim his life—but it wouldn’t be easy. The Judge said as much . . . tried to turn him away. Even threatened him. But as he learned at the lake with his father, fear makes the wolf bigger than he is.

  And that was where he began: with the wolf.

  “Hey, bud,” a rental car employee with a handheld computer called out, “what’s wrong with your dog? She carsick?”

  “She’s fine,” Ellis insisted, still staring at the security camera.

  “You sure?”

  Ellis leaned down into the back of the car. Benoni twisted her head slightly. Her eyes were glazed. Something was definitely wrong.

  It had taken Ellis less than three weeks to find Benoni. That path was clear. The first pariah dog was Abel’s . . . and then . . . then eventually Cain’s. Cain’s first true mark. His first gift from God. But not his most vital one. That was the one still hidden—hidden and buried for centuries—then uncovered by the Coptic monks, redeemed by the Leadership, and stolen by the soldier—young Mitchell Siegel—so long ago. Stolen, then hidden again by Siegel’s own child. Parent and child. Always parent and child. Just like with his mom.

  Patting Benoni’s head with both hands, Ellis glanced at his tattoo—at the dog, the thorns . . . and the man embraced by the moon. . . .

  Parent and child. God’s perfect symmetry. It made even more sense when the Prophet told him what Cal had found. The Map. The address. Of course. Siegel’s son never hid the Book of Lies. He kept it. And now . . . that original address . . . Of course they were going to Cleveland.

  “Hjjjkkkk . . . hjjkkkk . . .” At first, Ellis thought it was a sneeze. Then, still leaning in the back door, he saw Benoni’s head jerk down, then up, then down again. A slobbering waterfall of drool poured from the dog’s mouth. Her legs shook.

  “Benoni!” he screamed, fighting to pull the dog out.

  “Hjjkkk . . . hjjjkkkkk . . . !” The convulsing quickened, and the dog’s legs buckled as she collapsed in the backseat. She was having a seizure.

  “Benoni!” Frantically gripping her legs, her body . . . he lifted her out through the back door.

  “Hggggguuh . . .” There was a loud splash as a clear, mucousy liquid erupted from Benoni’s mouth, spraying the concrete and pooling on the garage floor. Benoni hacked and coughed a few times, jerking her head as though she were trying to twist it off. Ellis held Benoni close, embracing her as the acidic smell hit. Vomit. Not a seizure. For her to throw up like that, she was choking on something.

  There. On the floor of the garage: A small, bright orange gob peeked out of the shallow puddle like a chewed piece of gum. But as Ellis reached down for it—

  He pinched the dripping, mangled gummy worm with two fingers . . . and saw the gray, flat oval disk that was stuck in its half-chewed web.

  A transmitter. She put a—

  Ellis’s phone beeped, and a text message appeared on-screen:

  Too late.

  We’re off.

  Next flight is 1 hr.

  —The Prophet

  In his lap, the dog sneezed, then whimpered slightly as she finally caught her breath.

  “Yeah, I know, girl—Cal’s gone,” Ellis said, patting Benoni’s stomach and squinting hard at the oval transmitter. “Don’t worry, we’ll use the time. The Judge should be able to find her easily.”

  Benoni again coughed a wet cough.

  “Exactly, girl,” he said as he tweezed two fingers toward the transmitter’s battery. “I don’t want to hurt her, either.”

  But that’s what it took to be Ellis.

  38

  There was a high-pitched bloop as the red triangle blinked and disappeared.

  “Craparoo,” Naomi whispered to herself as she looked down at the GPS screen.

  “You need to grab that?” Chief Benny Ocala asked through the phone as Naomi’s car zipped toward the rental car building.

  Naomi stared outside, where a dozen passengers—most of them tourists—buzzed like bees from the rental car bus and flooded the front doors of the modern white building, making it far too hard to see. Based on Ellis’s last signal, he was close, but . . . No, there’s no way he knew Naomi was following. And to track her that fast? No way. But that didn’t stop her from staring at each and every passenger.

  “Agent Molina?” Ocala asked.

  “Sorry . . . I was—” She tucked the GPS back in her jacket and followed the signs for Departures. If she was lucky, Scotty would be calling in soon with the right terminal. “So you were telling me about Cal.”

  “No, you were asking me questions about Cal. I was simply being courteous and trying hard not to embarrass you. Agent Molina—”

  “Naomi.”

  “Naomi, even when you dial our phone number, it’s like you’re entering sovereign land, as in sovereign nation, as in the most utilitarian use for your badge right now is as a Halloween costume, though to be honest, we Native Americans don’t much like Halloween.”

  “See, I hate Halloween, too—my son dressed up as a Thug Life rapper this year, whatever that is. But I got a potential homicide I need to ask your pal Cal about.”

  “Homicide’s a state crime. You’re a federal employee. Wanna try again?”

  “The victim is a guy I partner with—Timothy Balfanz—he’s a friend,” Naomi explained, hitting the brakes at the crosswalk and carefully watching the small group of passengers that were now passing in front of her, on their way to Terminal 2. “So no offense, Chief, but if someone went up to one of your people—say, that sweet girl with the lisp that I left my message with—if someone nabbed her on a dark road and chopped her into hors d’oeuvres . . . I’d like to think, if it was someone you cared about and you needed my help, I’d do more than tell you off and bad-mouth Halloween.”

  Ocala was silent as Naomi noticed a sudden blur in her rearview, where a tall man in a windbreaker stepped out of the crosswalk and cut behind her car.

  “I just wanna know what Cal called about,” Naomi pleaded, glancing over her shoulder and out the back window. The man was already gone. And being out here, exposed to every passing airport stranger, she knew she wasn’t being safe.

  “Y’know what the Seminole word for guilt is?” Ocala finally asked. “You.” She heard a sudden thunk through the phone. Like a file cabinet being opened and shut. “I got the bullet here that they pulled from his dad last night.”

  “His dad?”
>
  “Cal asked me to run it through the ATF folks, who traced it back to Cleveland and some obscure gun that was used to kill a man named Mitchell Siegel—”

  “Mitchell Siegel,” Naomi said, jotting down the name as she heard a beep through her earpiece. Caller ID told her it was Scotty. “I’ll run him ASAP.”

  “Think what you want, Naomi,” Ocala added, “but I’m telling you right now, Cal Harper isn’t the demon in this.”

  “A dirty badge is a dirty badge—you know that. Besides, if he’s such an angel, why doesn’t he at least come in and talk with us?”

  “Maybe he’s worried that instead of listening to reason, you’ll just spout silly catchphrases like ‘A dirty badge is a dirty badge.’ ”

  “I appreciate your help,” Naomi said to Ocala as she clicked to the other line.

  “Nomi, I think I found Cal,” Scotty blurted. “I need to double-check, but on that airport list of who paid in cash, there were a few tickets bought this morning—at least three headed to Cleveland.”

  Naomi was about to re-enter the loop for departures when a high-pitched bloop whistled from her GPS device. Ellis’s tracer—the bright crimson triangle—was back in place and once again moving.

  It took a moment to read the streets and orient herself, but as the crimson triangle turned onto NE 23rd Court . . .

  Naomi’s eyes went wide. No. That can’t—

  Oh, God.

  “Nomi, you okay?”

  “He’s there, Scotty.”

  “Where? What’re you talking about?”

  “Twenty-third Court. Ellis . . . he’s . . . I think Ellis is at my house.”

  39

  Ladies and gentlemen, the captain has turned off the Fasten Seat Belt sign—you may now move freely about the cabin,” the flight attendant announces as I stare through the egg-shaped window and watch Florida disappear beneath the cotton candy clouds.