The Book of Lies

by Brad Meltzer

  “They painted over it, but there’s definitely wallpaper here,” my dad adds, already tracing the wall with his fingertips. For a moment, I forgot he used to be a painter. “Here’s the seam,” he adds, nicking the 1970s cocoa brown wallpaper with his fingernail.

  “So what now?” I ask. “Peel the whole room down?”

  “I peeled wallpaper in my old apartment,” Naomi says. “Best thing is to wet it with soapy water—it’ll come right off.”

  Behind us, though, my dad’s still running his fingertips from one side of the wall to the other. When he reaches the end, he raises his hand a few inches and goes back the way he came, like an old typewriter. The way his fingers skate along the wall . . . it’s as if he’s feeling for something.

  “What’re you doing?” I ask.

  “Playing a hunch,” he replies, now on his tiptoes with his hand reaching upward. When it gets too high, he pulls a nearby chair into place, climbing up so he can touch the top of the wall, right where it meets the ceiling. Naomi shoots me a look.

  “Lloyd,” I call out to my father.

  He’s not listening. “Most people use wallpaper for decoration,” he explains without looking back at us. “But in older houses, especially if you had access to a lot of it, which I’m guessing they did if they were drawing on it . . .” A few feet from the corner, he stops, his five open fingertips pressing against the top of the wall, sucking it like a starfish. I can see the way the paper gives. He feels something underneath.

  “. . . it could also give you one hell of a hiding spot,” he says, shutting his eyes so he can focus on his touch.

  With a hard push, he presses his fingertips against the wall. And with one final shove, the paper tears, flopping inward like a fallen playing card and—in a small, decades-old puff of smoke and dust—revealing a softball-size hole that swallows my dad’s hand up to his wrist.

  “H-How’d you know that was there?” Naomi asks him.

  “I told you,” he says, reaching up into the hole like Tom searching for Jerry, “playing a hunch.”

  Naomi gives me a look that says she doesn’t buy it, either. But before she can say anything, my dad pulls his hand from the hole. He’s crestfallen.

  “It’s empty,” he tells us.

  “You sure?” I ask, waving him off the chair. “Lemme see.”

  Standing on the chair, I reach into the hole and pat around. Filled with dust and old bits of plaster, the space feels like a narrow shelf built into the wall. But whatever was once there is long gone.

  “Maybe there’s another somewhere else,” my dad says, already skating his fingertips along the wall on our right. Now excited, Naomi starts patting down the wall by the door. But within a minute, it’s clear this is the only hole.

  “You sure it’s empty?” Naomi asks me.

  “I’m telling you, it’s just dust and sand and whatever old crusty stuff settles in houses after seventy years.” Rummaging in the hole, I sweep out most of the debris, which rains down in a gray cloud, followed by the original flap of wallpaper that was covering the hole. Still attached at the base, the torn flap sticks out at me like a tongue, then sags downward against the wall. But it’s not until the flap of wallpaper dangles that I finally see what’s printed on the opposite side. It’s hand-drawn . . . black-and-white . . . like an old 1930s . . .

  Comic book.

  Fudge. Me.

  “That’s it, isn’t it?” my dad blurts. “That’s the missing story!”

  “What’s it say? Are there any more?” Naomi adds.

  I tug on the thin flap of wallpaper and slowly peel it away from the wall. There’s about a half inch more of art, then the back side of the wallpaper becomes blank with patches of yellow from the old, rancid glue. With a final rip, I hop from the chair. I’m trying to skim the comic—which is only a single panel—but the way my hands are shaking, it’s like being eighteen and trying to read a pregnancy test.

  “What’s it say?!” Naomi insists.

  “Hold on!” I shoot back, staring down at the panel.

  “Yowzie?” my dad reads over my shoulder. But I’m still staring at the book.

  Before I can even read the rest, I look at the edges of the panel—from the weight of the small sheet—there’s even more art that’s stuck together underneath this one. It’s hiding other ripped-up pieces.

  “Jerry glued them all together,” I blurt. “H-He— I think I’ve got a full page of—”

  I look up at Naomi, whose back is to the bedroom door. But as she smiles at the news, a pale shadow appears in the open door behind her. Someone’s here.

  If Ellis—

  No. This isn’t Ellis.

  In a blur, Serena whips around the corner, her yellow blue eyes constricted into two black slits. She’s crouched like a baseball player, thanks especially to the fact that she’s armed with a broom, which she clutches down by the neck of the bristles, already swinging away.

  “Serena, don’t!” I call out.

  But I see the way she’s looking at Naomi’s gun.

  Plowing into the room, Serena aims at Naomi’s head and swings the broom like a Major League slugger. The problem is, she’s not one. There’s a dull thud at the impact. Naomi bends forward, grabbing the back of her head.

  “Ow! That— Ow!” Naomi shouts. “You friggin’ nuts!?”

  Lifting her gun, Naomi turns to face Serena. And that’s why she doesn’t see my father behind her.

  Already flying, my dad grabs the hammer-size gold trophy that’s sitting on a nearby TV. But the darkness in his eyes . . . even when he killed my— I’ve never seen him like this.

  “Dad?” I call out in a whisper that surprises even me.

  Naomi wheels around, off balance as she follows my voice. It’s just— Just like before. There I am. The perfect distraction.

  Time, once again, slows to a crawl.

  My father clutches the golden man at the top of the track meet trophy and swings the heavy marble base toward the back of Naomi’s head.

  I’m not a child anymore. I run forward. But that doesn’t mean I’m fast enough.

  Midstep, my father turns toward me. But as our eyes lock— No. My father is long gone. The rage on this man’s face . . . I haven’t seen him since I was little. I keep forgetting. I don’t know this man at all.

  Naomi never sees it coming.

  When I was nine years old, my father committed the worst accident of his life. But today, as my dad swings the trophy as hard as he can—this is no accident.

  Naomi turns, and the base of the trophy is inches from her right temple.

  “Naomi!”

  The sound is unforgettable.

  Like a child’s punching bag, Naomi topples sideways, crumpling to the floor as a burst of blood sprays from her head. Her gun slides across the wood floor, under the bed.

  “What’re you doing!?” I shout.

  “She put us in cuffs, Cal!” my dad shoots back.

  “She also let us out!”

  “Not for long!”

  “Hold on,” Serena says, confused. “She wasn’t attacking you?”

  “Why would she—?”

  “She had a gun,” Serena insists.

  “And handcuffs. And a badge!” I shout back. “That’s what happens when you’re a federal agent!”

  “She was about to shoot Serena!” my dad yells.

  “No, she— How can you possibly think that?”

  “A federal—? Oh my,” Serena whispers. “Is she breathing?”

  “I think— Yeah,” I say, kneeling down near Naomi. “She’s breathing,”

  “You sure she’s breathing?” Serena asks, her eyes already filled with tears.

  “She’s breathing,” I repeat, turning back to Serena. “Where the hell were you, anyway?”

  “Following. From the museum. I saw her force you out, so I thought she was with Ellis or that she was—I don’t know—Ellis’s partner or something. Then when I got here and saw that you were parked around back a
nd—”

  “Wait. What?”

  “In back. Isn’t that her blue Malibu parked behind the house?”

  “We parked up the block. Away from here,” I point out.

  “Then whose rental car is that behind the—?” With her mouth gaping open, Serena cuts herself off.

  I look at her, then my dad. No one says a word. And the house suddenly doesn’t seem as quiet as it was a minute ago.

  “We need to get out of here,” I announce as my dad already starts running for the door.

  I shove the wallpaper comic in my backpack and, still kneeling, scoop my arm behind Naomi’s neck. “What’re you doing?” my dad asks.

  “What? I should leave her here?”

  “The moment she’s up, she’ll arrest us!”

  “I can’t leave her!” I tell him.

  My dad is silent. From the look on his face, he has no such problem—and as he darts from the room, I’m once again reminded what a stranger he is to me.

  “I—I didn’t know who she was. I wouldn’t do that,” Serena insists, and as she kneels down across from me, she reaches over Naomi’s unconscious body and grips my wrist. Her touch is clammy and unsure, but as she holds on, she clenches my wrist until I finally look up at her. “Please—I need to tell you this, Cal. This— I’m not like this. I’d never hurt anyone. I was just—”

  “Serena, can we not—?”

  “I just wanted to protect you,” she blurts, her voice stronger than ever.

  I freeze at the words—the same words I say to every client every day. But for once— I know she’s talking about my dad, too, but— It’s been a long time since someone was protecting me.

  “Did I say something wrong?” she asks, reading my expression.

  I shake my head, staring down at her hand on my wrist.

  “Cal, move!” my dad calls from the stairs.

  Without another word, Serena helps me lift Naomi fireman style over my shoulder. Naomi’s heavier than she looks, and she looks pretty heavy. I hear the comic getting crushed in my backpack. “Cal, we need to go.”

  Serena’s right about that. But as I burst out onto the second-floor landing, I notice that the back bedroom door on my left is now open. It was closed before. For a split second, I peer inside and spot two bodies lying on the bed, their necks bent awkwardly. Mr. and Mrs. Johnsel. Both dead.

  “Oh, God,” Serena whimpers, the tears coming fast. But if Ellis is still in the house—

  “Go!” I shout, shoving the hips of Naomi’s unconscious body into Serena’s back. “Hurry!”

  The wooden stairs rumble and squeal as we circle down at full speed. Carrying Naomi, I’m off balance, but not by much. As for Serena, she’s the one who needs the missing handrails, looking like she’s about to pass out. She’s too nice for this.

  Ahead of us, my dad had a good head start, but as we reach the main floor, he’s just standing there on the last step, still holding the trophy and staring at something in the living room.

  “Move!” I yell.

  But I quickly see why he doesn’t.

  “I’d like the Book of Lies now,” Ellis announces in full police uniform as he taps the tip of his air gun against his open palm. “And Cal . . . I haven’t forgotten what you did to my dog.”

  53

  I don’t even know what a Book of Lies is,” I tell him.

  “I know you found it,” Ellis says, calm as ever. He blocks the way out and pushes his copper hair back from his forehead. “In the wallpaper. The rest of the Map.”

  “That’s not what you . . . what’d you call it again? A Book of Lies?”

  “Now you’re stalling. People stall when they’re scared, Cal. Scared little boys whose mothers get taken away,” he says. “My father cut me with that same blade.”

  I look at my father, then over to Ellis. “You know nothing about me.”

  “Right. Next time try saying that without your voice cracking,” Ellis says. “Life is a monster, Calvin. Especially when it doesn’t turn out the way you hoped. But that doesn’t mean you can hide from it.”

  This time I don’t say a word.

  “Exactly,” Ellis adds. “The Prophet said you’d understand that one.”

  In front of me, Serena freezes at the word. Next to her, my dad does the same. The Prophet. Who the hell’s he talking about?

  “Ellis, listen to me, when you lost your mom—”

  “Don’t try sympathy! I’m not one of your homeless pets!”

  “No, you’re just one of those normal guys who spends time with someone named the Prophet. Does that sound like a rational thought to you?” I say.

  “How do you think I knew you were coming back here?” Ellis asks.

  This time, I’m the one who freezes. No one—not even Roosevelt—knew we were making this second visit to the house. Besides myself, Naomi, and her assistant, the only people who knew were—

  I stare again at Serena. Then my father.

  I see her only from behind as Serena wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, her whole body shivering. She sways back and forth, barely able to stand. On her right, my dad barely moves at all. He breathes like a bull—slowly and deeply through gritted teeth—puffing faster and faster with each breath. He’s starting to fume. The way he studies Ellis—chin down, stabbing him with an angry glare—my father’s not the least bit scared. Everyone has their breaking point. And the way his grip tightens around the top of the trophy—

  “You’re done!” my dad detonates, leaping forward before I even realize he’s moving.

  Stumbling backward, Ellis is clearly unprepared. My father’s not fast, but at six foot two, he plows forward like a falling tree. With one hand, he grips Ellis’s shoulder; with the other, he swings the trophy as if it’s the hammer of Thor.

  The impact is frightening. Ellis’s jaw is rocked sideways with a gob of flying red spit as the marble base of the trophy slams into the side of his mouth. I was wrong before. When my dad hit Naomi, he was holding back. He’s not holding back anymore.

  Ellis tries lifting his gun, but my dad’s momentum, his size—he’s just smothering. Pressing his forearm like a billy club across Ellis’s neck, my father sends Ellis crashing backward into the wall as the shelves of needlepoints and religious candles tumble from their nests. But Ellis was a cop. He knows how to fight back.

  Gripping my dad by his lapels, Ellis spins to the right, twirling my father as though they’re ballroom dancing and slamming him backward into the wall. On impact, another shelf of needlepoints and candles tumbles and bounces across the floor.

  I go to put Naomi down, but there’s no need. My father’s doing just fine.

  Ellis thinks he has the upper hand, but within seconds his eyes go wide, and I realize my dad just kneed him in the nuts. This isn’t a burst of raw rage. This is a prison fight. And with Ellis in his police uniform—I swear my dad’s smiling. It’s already over.

  For the past two days, I’ve known my father was hiding something. But as I watch him now—his lip curled in a snarl—I finally see what he was really trying to contain.

  “We’re finished,” he whispers to Ellis.

  With a final ballroom spin, my father flings Ellis to the right, not even realizing as he sends him whipping backward toward the double-hung window in the hall.

  “The glass!” I call out.

  He doesn’t hear. Or care.

  For a moment, the large glass pane crackles like ice in warm water, and with the full impact of Ellis’s back, shards of glass explode outward like fireworks, sucking Ellis into the wide black hole created by his own weight. As he crashes out the window and disappears, a nasty winter wind leaps inside and swirls through the hall. We hear a thud outside.

  Still holding Naomi over my shoulder, I rush to the window, which overlooks the concrete driveway on the west side of the house. Like a bloody snow angel, Ellis is flat on his back, the right side of his face covered with cuts and scrapes. He’s gasping—the wind knocked out of him—but alre
ady struggling to his feet. On my far left, at the end of the driveway, Benoni is bucking wildly in the backseat of Ellis’s rental car, her barks muffled by the windows.

  Behind me, Serena is bawling, her arms curled around herself.

  “Y-You still have the comic strip?” my father asks, putting a hand on my shoulder.

  I spin around and look him straight in the eye. My father looks exhausted, his mouth open, his breathing heavy again. For a moment, I wonder if it’s all an act, but the way he’s cupping his waist . . . I look down and see blood soaking through his shirt. His bullet wound has reopened. Outside, Ellis is almost up, reaching for his gun. We’re in no shape for a second round.

  “C’mon,” I tell him, motioning us to the front door. “We need to go.”

  54

  Hi, Clydene—I’m looking for Special Agent Guggenheim,” Scotty said into his headset.

  “And who may I say is calling?” Clydene asked.

  “Agent Naomi Molina from ICE would like to talk with him.”

  “And is Agent Molina on the phone right now?”

  Scotty rolled his eyes and rolled back slightly in his wheelchair. The FBI was always such a pain in the ass. “I have her waiting on hold,” he said.

  “Then can you put her on, so that way Agent Guggenheim won’t be waiting when he gets on?”

  Rolling forward and leaning both elbows on the desk of his small cubicle, Scotty reached for a small red egg of Silly Putty and cracked it open. It didn’t have the smell he loved when he was a kid, but as he tweezed it from the egg and squeezed it in his fist, it was still the best stress relief around.

  “Clydene, you show me your boss, I’ll show you mine,” Scotty said.

  “That’s fine,” Clydene agreed, “as long as this is a real call from your actual boss and not just you calling for the third time today, pretending to have her when you actually don’t.” She paused for a long breath. “We’re all in this together, Scotty, but Guggenheim’s still the number three guy here. He doesn’t talk to assistants.”

  Scotty kneaded the Silly Putty with his middle finger. For the past ten minutes, he’d been dialing Naomi on the other line. She still wasn’t picking up. But as he’d learned when he’d first started—when he’d first met Timothy—some things had to be done without the boss.