The Book of Lies

by Brad Meltzer

  “Wh-What’re you—? Are you insane!?” I demand.

  “It’s okay. She’s just unconscious,” my father insists, his eyes wide as he rushes to grab a nearby chair.

  “Stop! Right now! Stop!”

  “She’s fine, Calvin. I know what I’m doing.”

  “You could’ve killed her!”

  “She’s fine,” he repeats, his voice at full gallop as he runs with the chair.

  I check the librarian’s chest. She’s passed out but definitely breathing.

  “Lloyd, she was just—! Listen to me!Why aren’t you listening?”

  “This is it—I finally got it. You see it, don’t you, Calvin? Cain’s murder weapon . . . the Book of Truth—it’s not a book!” he says, shoving the chair against the bookcase and climbing up toward the horn. “You can see the carvings—it’s written on the animal horn! This is it!”

  “Lloyd, you can’t do this.”

  But he already is. Standing on the chair, he stretches above the bookcase, up toward the trophies, where he grips the animal horn and tries to rip it from the wall. It doesn’t budge. He tries again with both hands. It’s glued on better than he thought.

  “Dammit, get down!” I shout.

  Undeterred, he yanks the nearest hardcover from the top shelf of the bookcase and flips it around so the spine is facing the wall. Turning it into a makeshift guillotine, he slices the book downward, slamming it into the horn and trying to cleave it from the trophy wall.

  “Lloyd, I’m talking to you!”

  “He’s not listening, Calvin,” a voice announces from behind me.

  I spin back to the front door of the library, and my heart falls from my body. “Th-That’s not possible.”

  “Sure it is,” the Prophet says as he slowly steps forward. “All I needed was a little help from your dad.”

  75

  I’m lost. Back up,” Naomi barked into her phone, scootching up on the gurney as she stared down at the polished floor. “What does this have to do with the Prophet? And where the hell’s Scotty? He explains stuff better than you.”

  “Okay, forget the Prophet. Go back to Cal,” Becky says. “What’s Cal’s job? He picks up homeless people, correct? So to make sure he’s not taking these people and selling them to tattoo parlors for practice skin, Cal is required—by law—to put the name of every person he picks up into his laptop, which connects to the state database that keeps track of such things. You with me so far?”

  “Keep going.”

  “The point is, Naomi—on that first night Cal found his father, he keyed in his dad’s Social Security number and entered him into the database.”

  “So?”

  “So Cal’s dad’s name came right up.”

  “Again . . . so?”

  “And again . . . so Cal’s database isn’t NCIC—he doesn’t have a full list of everyone on the planet. The only people in there are people who were put in there.”

  “And for the third time . . . why is that so damn important?”

  “Naomi, you have to understand: On most nights, when Cal enters a client’s Social Security number, it’s not just so the government can play big brother and I Spy from the Sky. It’s so Cal can pull up the homeless person’s records and see who he’s dealing with. Does this person have a history of drugs? Of mental illness? When was the last time they were helped? Or is this someone just leeching off the system, who goes to a different place every night? Cal covers the entire Fort Lauderdale area—he needs this information to do his job.”

  “But you’re saying Cal’s dad was already in his system.”

  “There you go. If it were any other night, Cal would’ve scanned the file, looking for details about whoever they found. But when his father’s name popped up . . .”

  “. . . Cal went bursting from the van, anxious to start dealing with his daddy issues.”

  “And thus he misses one key detail about his father’s background.”

  “So which is it?” Naomi asked. “Drugs? Mental illness? You should’ve seen Lloyd attack me with that trophy. He’s a sociopath, isn’t he?”

  “Not according to his Service Point file. In fact, the last time he got picked up . . . Dad’s got some real issues.”

  “Define issues.”

  “He’s suicidal,” Becky said as Naomi hopped off the gurney. “His case notes say he was a mess, too. Found him on Fort Lauderdale beach four months ago after he swallowed fifty tabs of trazodone and fell in a pile of fire ants that were—no joke—eating him alive.”

  “Okay, and that makes me officially feel bad,” Naomi agreed. “But I’m confused. You said Dad was picked up four months ago—that that’s when he was put in the system. But if Cal picked him up . . . even with the fire ants, didn’t he recognize his own father?”

  “See, that’s where I was stuck, too. Until I finally started thinking that maybe Cal wasn’t the one who found him that first night.”

  “Wait, I don’t get it,” Naomi shot back. “You just said Dad was found on the beach in Fort Lauderdale. That’s Cal’s route, right? But if Cal wasn’t the one who picked Dad up, who else is driving around in a homeless van except for—?”

  This time, Becky didn’t say a word.

  Naomi grabbed a nearby IV pole just to help her stand.

  “Fudge. Me,” she whispered to herself.

  76

  I understand pain. I’ve lived with pain my entire life. But pain is nothing compared to betrayal. And betrayal is nothing compared to knowing that the javelin in your back was rammed there by the one person in your life you actually trusted.

  His ponytail swings like a hypnotist’s watch as he calmly enters the room. I have no idea how he got in here or how he even—

  “Cal, you need to listen to these words,” Roosevelt says, his hands out and his palms up. “I need you to hear this, okay? I’m sorry this had to happen. I mean that. This was never supposed to be about you.”

  “Y-You’re the Prophet,” I blurt.

  “You’re not listening, are you?”

  “In the park—when we stumbled onto my dad—that was no stumble, was it?” I stutter. “You knew he’d be there, didn’t you? Just like you knew I’d come running to— How could—? You’re supposed to be my brother!”

  “I still am. Don’t you see?” he asks. “Months ago, when I started setting up the shipment . . . when I got word that the man in the coffin—the doctor in China—was dying—I could’ve asked you from the start. But I was trying to protect you.”

  “That’s how you protect me? By using my dad as some emotional carrot and then . . . with Ellis . . . You sent that psycho to kill me!”

  “No. That’s not— Cal, if there wasn’t that hold notice, I never would’ve involved you. Never. In fact, I didn’t find your dad until after the doctor died. But as I was putting together the shipment—to see your dad on the street that night—how could I ignore a sign like that?”

  “That wasn’t a sign! It was my father!”

  “And I did nothing but right by him. I saved his life! But with that shipment coming—you know what it’s worth and how easily those things get stopped. I didn’t know if I’d need you, Cal. Your dad was just— I needed insurance.”

  “Oh, then that’s a far more forgivable story. So now my dad was just your lucky rabbit’s foot? What’d you do, throw him some cash as a delivery boy and then you’d at least have a surefire way to get my help just in case something went wrong?”

  “Something did go wrong!”

  “That doesn’t justify it, Roosevelt! I mean, okay, so you were nervous about your shipment, that doesn’t mean you—you—you—” A pinprick of vomit knifes the back of my throat, then slides back down to my belly. “Y-You shot him. In the stomach. You shot my dad, knowing it would pull my heartstrings and—”

  “He shot himself,” Roosevelt says. “He took my gun—the gun I searched so long for, that I spent so much of my family’s resources to find—and shot himself. He was worried you wouldn’t
help him otherwise, isn’t that right, Lloyd?”

  I look back at my father, who’s standing on the chair, staring down at us. He’s still got one hand gripped around the animal horn. Never letting go of the prize.

  “I saved your father’s life, Cal,” Roosevelt insists for the second time. “Tell him, Lloyd. Tell him how I found you, all those ants crawling through your nose and in your ears.”

  My father doesn’t answer.

  “He was a sign, Cal. God sent him. Lloyd didn’t want to see ya, but I knew it—everything for a purpose, right?” Roosevelt adds. “He was sent to me to be saved. And I did. I set him right—cleaned him up, found him a counselor, even gave him some cash to restart his life. All he had to do was make his delivery. Instead, he got greedy, didn’t you, Lloyd?”

  “It wasn’t greed,” my father calls out.

  “Then what was it?” Roosevelt shoots back. “Love for your son? Is that your new story? No, no, no. I like that. It’s a nice confession. You saw him, and when your paternal side was reawakened, you decided to go for Father of the Year.” Roosevelt shakes his head and readjusts his ponytail. “There’s only one problem, Lloyd. Why didn’t you ever tell Cal the truth? Oh, that’s right—priceless religious artifacts aren’t half as good when you have to share them.”

  “How can you—!? You sent Ellis to kill me!” my father shouts.

  “And me!” I explode. “You knew Ellis was a butcher! And you sent him after us!”

  “No. Your father lies. He always lies,” Roosevelt insists. “I never sent Ellis to kill you. I was just trying to get back what was mine.”

  “You still helped him!” I yell.

  “Only after Alligator Alley. Remember, Lloyd? When you stopped calling in? When you wouldn’t answer your phone at the warehouse? Or at the airport? You’re lucky our delivery guy in Hong Kong—poor Zhao, Lord rest his soul—had told me Ellis was sniffing around. He’s the one who said Ellis made a better offer, even gave me his contact info. When Lloyd went AWOL, what was I supposed to do?”

  “Are you really that deluded?” I blurt. “When you sent Ellis to Cleveland—”

  “Ellis was always the enemy—always on a tight leash—tell me you don’t see that. But Ellis was on his mission whether I was there or not. At least this way . . . I was keeping him under control.”

  “There was no control! He killed the Johnsels! Those deaths are on your hands!”

  “I told Ellis to stay out of the house. I was fighting for you there, Cal. Trying so hard to keep you safe. I was. I fought him to stay out of there.”

  “But he didn’t. He tried to kill us, Roosevelt. You tried to kill us!”

  The problem is, no preacher likes to hear his own flaws named. Refusing to face me, Roosevelt stays locked on my father.

  “You’re a sinner, Lloyd. All you had to do was hand over the comic book. Instead, you ran to Cleveland, hoping to steal God’s treasure for yourself. But here’s your chance. I have your penance. Hand it back now, and you’ll get everything I promised.”

  Without a word, my father turns back to the animal horn, slamming it again with the spine of the book. It connects with a loud duumm. Even he freezes. This is still a prison. The librarian’s out cold, but we don’t have much time.

  “Now you’re offering deals?” I ask as my father again guillotines with the book, unleashing another loud duumm. Roosevelt doesn’t even look up.

  “You have any idea how I got in here?” Roosevelt challenges. “All I had to do was say we were together. So simple, right? If you’ve learned nothing else, can you even comprehend the power of God’s will?”

  It’s a perfect bluff. And as he slides his hand into his jacket pocket, I tell myself there’s no way they’d let him bring in a weapon. But I also see that smug twinkle in his eyes. I used to call it southern charm. I was wrong. He’s no different from Ellis. Just another zealot who’d give everything to get his old life back.

  “I know that look, Cal. You’re judging me,” he says as he fidgets with whatever’s in his pocket. No way it’s a gun. No way. He circles sideways, toward my dad, with the prowl of a mountain cat. But all he’s really doing is trying to keep the reference desk between us. The last thing he needs is to give me a clear path. “You wanted it, too, Cal. You chased it as hard as I did. There’s nothing wrong with wanting forgiveness from the past.”

  “Oh, so that’s your big grand plan? Go back to the church and offer the weapon in exchange for a brand-new pulpit? Or are you dreaming the big dreams now?” For once, Roosevelt doesn’t answer. “That’s it, isn’t it? Now that you’ve seen the prize, you can save far more than just your old parish, can’t you?”

  “Didn’t you listen at all when we spoke? Cain created murder with this weapon. Ellis and his Nazis—Lord knows what they were trying to create with it. But now—as a Book of Truth— ‘What you intended for evil, God intended for good’! Don’t you see, Cal? That’s why you were chosen—and why I kept helping you. You took us further than anyone’s ever gotten,” he says, still making it sound like we’re a team. “B-B-But this isn’t just about you or me or any one person,” he insists, his eyes dancing wildly.

  I search his face, looking for my friend. But somewhere—this deep in his fervor—he’s long gone. As he bounces on his heels, Roosevelt’s voice flies faster than ever. “And this isn’t about them kicking me out, or my old little church, either. Can you see the bigger theological picture? All the naysayers of God—all the doubters and smug skeptics who love looking down at us—this ends the argument, Cal. Forget relying on faith—this is proof God didn’t punish Cain. Real proof. Do you understand the power in that? Everyone . . . everyone . . . everyone thinks we need monsters, but we don’t. We need forgiveness. And understanding. Just like we give every day in the van. Just like you were searching for when you first came to me. When Cain repented, God rewarded him. He granted that forgiveness. That’s the religion the world needs to see—that we can make sure they see. How can you and your father not want to share that with everyone else?”

  A swell of rage rises like mercury through my body. I circle around to his side of the reference desk. From above, there’s another duumm from my dad. “The only reason I wanted this thing was to prove I didn’t kill Timothy!” I shout.

  “C’mon, Cal—chasing ancient artifacts . . . coming here—it doesn’t prove your innocence. It never did,” Roosevelt says. “Don’t you see? Even if all the guards in the building come running, no one will ever believe the disgraced agent and his pathetic murderer father. It’s over,” he insists. “It’s always been over. You lost.”

  I shake my head, tensing to jump. “Not if I give them . . . you.”

  I fly at him like a bullet. He goes for whatever’s in his pocket. Maybe it is a gun. I don’t care.

  77

  I slam my shoulder into his chest, and Roosevelt flies backward toward the bookcase. On impact, I hear the air forced from his lungs. The way his head snaps back, one of the shelves clipped him in the back of the neck.

  But he laughs, fighting to stand up straight.

  “Really, Cal—the two of us—two brothers fighting? Isn’t that a bit on the nose?”

  I’ve got two decades of pent-up fury. My fists are made of thunder.

  “You’re not . . . my brother!” I shout, burying a punch in his face. The bookcase again catches him from behind. But at his age and size, he’s already starting to wobble.

  “Okay, your teacher, then. I did teach you everything,” he says almost proudly, his left eye already swelling shut.

  I shake my head and hit him again. And again. The skin on my knuckles cracks open as his nose pops.

  “You didn’t teach me how to fight,” I growl.

  “Sure . . . ptthh . . .” He spits a wad of blood to the floor, tottering sideways. He’s holding on to the edge of the reference desk just to stay on his feet. “Sure I did. You just didn’t like fighting dirty.”

  There’s a noise from above, a loud crack, like a
snapped bone. A few shelves down, my father pulls the animal horn free from the wall.

  “I got it!” he calls out.

  I look away for barely a second. That’s all Roosevelt needs.

  From the edge of the reference desk, he grabs a stapler, flips it open like a butterfly knife, and swings straight at my face.

  I try my best to turn away. I’m not nearly fast enough.

  Cunk.

  The staple sinks its teeth into my cheek, biting hard as my jaw lurches sideways.

  “Naaaahhhh!” I scream through clenched teeth.

  Already stumbling backward, I’m completely off balance as Roosevelt plows toward me. He’s big like a truck and knows how to use it to his advantage.

  Winding up with the stapler, he swings at my face again. And again. And again. I raise my arm—still sore from Benoni—to block each shot, but all it does is send the staples into my forearm, which burns from each metal bee sting.

  But it’s not until I spot him glancing over my shoulder that I see what he’s really aiming for: the empty mop bucket that sits next to the sink—and is now right behind me.

  The backs of my legs hit it at full speed. I’ve already got too much momentum. Like an overloaded lever, I tumble backward, my head hitting the hard green industrial tile with a brutal thud. For a moment, the world goes black with bright, burning stars.

  As I blink them away, Roosevelt pounces, ever the mountain cat, landing on my chest and using his full weight to pin my arms back with his knees. With his big paws, he holds my throat with one hand, then pins the stapler against my Adam’s apple. He learned this one talking to Ellis. He’s aiming for my jugular. And as hard as he’s pressing down, he’s gonna take a deep chunk of it.

  “Lloyd, I see you!” Roosevelt calls out.

  Back by the bookcase, my father leaps down from the chair and freezes with the carved horn in his hand.

  “I need to know what you’re doing, Lloyd,” Roosevelt says in full southern drawl. “You got a real big decision to make.”