The Book of Lies

by Brad Meltzer

  “I’m sorry for what I did, Calvin. I really am. It’s just . . . in life, you can either be a hammer or a nail. And for far too long . . . I guess I got tired of being a nail.”

  “But don’t you see? You made me the nail instead. So no matter how much you want to justify it—”

  “I don’t want to justify it,” he interrupts. “I admit: I wanted a better life. It was just . . . to see you . . . to really see you . . .” He looks away, then back, then away, pretending to stare at all the passing cars that whip up and down the beachfront strip. “I just want to be forgiven.”

  Outside the window, my father’s grassy green eyes are even more terrified than that night in the park. He swallows hard and his big Adam’s apple tightens like a fist.

  “That heart of yours made of rocks?” Alberto calls out from the backseat. “Give your ol’ man a little somethin’!”

  I can’t help but laugh.

  My dad leaps at the opening. “Just hear me out on this, Calvin: A few weeks back, in the newspaper, there was this columnist who said, ‘Wouldn’t it be great if we could live life backwards?’ You start out dead and get that out of the way—then you wake up in old age and feel better every day. With each passing year, your illnesses disappear, and you get more hair, more handsome, more virile—and best of all, you keep getting younger, finally ending life as a fantastic orgasm,” he says with his zigzag smile. “Okay, the column was just a joke, but imagine it a moment: What if all our mistakes—all the bad choices and painful regrets—would just undo themselves and fade into nothingness? Wouldn’t that make this so much easier?”

  I stare straight ahead. “That isn’t how life is, Lloyd.”

  Up the block, a police car wails, fighting through the dinnertime traffic along the beach. As it gets closer, my father is bathed in the siren’s glowing blue lights, which smooth away his wrinkles and flatter his sun-beaten skin. For those few seconds, as it passes, my father is young again. Just like on the night he pushed my mom.

  “I forgive you, Lloyd.” I take a long, deep breath. “I just don’t want to see you.”

  Still gripping the base of the window, my father simply stands there. There are some prisons with no bars.

  But that doesn’t mean you can’t dig your way out.

  “I’ll always be your father, Cal.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “How ’bout this Friday, then?” he asks. “We can go to dinner.”

  The police car is long gone. But I still hear it in the distance.

  “Maybe.”

  Pumping the gas, I pull out toward the traffic. For the first few steps, my father holds on to the window, trying to limp along with the van. He doesn’t get far.

  “You like Indian food? We can grab Indian,” he calls out, excited.

  “I hate Indian,” I call back, leaving him behind.

  I peer out the window. He looks older again. Too old to run. But even in the darkness, even as he stops, I see his zigzag smile.

  It matches my own.

  As we zip up the block, I check the rearview to get a final look, but all I see is Alberto, his nose pressed to his RC Cola can with the plastic wrap on top.

  “Let me ask you, Alberto—you really think it helps, talking to your dad’s ashes like that?”

  Alberto looks up, confused. “Ashes? What you talkin’ about?”

  “In the can. Those aren’t your dad’s ashes?”

  “Cal, I may be a drunk, but I ain’t wacky.”

  “But that night—you said—”

  “Damn, boy—we was in a crowded van full of junkies and baseheads. I go tellin’ ’em where I keep my piggy, and it’ll be gone by lockdown.”

  His piggy? “Hold on. That’s your bank?”

  Flashing a gray-toothed smile, Alberto shakes the RC Cola can, and I hear bits of change cling-cling against the insulation of crumpled dollar bills. “You keep it in yo’ socks, they steal it,” Alberto says, beaming. “It’s like your story, Cal—that coffin you was chasin’: Once people think there’s a body inside . . . ain’t no better hiding spot in the whole damn world.”

  He’s right about that. But in our case, with the coffin, there was a body in—

  My heart lurches, leaping up to my throat.

  Double crap.

  I need an airline ticket.

  80

  Orchard Lake, Michigan

  Judge Felix Wojtowicz wasn’t a fool. Electrified from the moment he saw it, he knew the power of history. And ritual. And even the ceremonial value of a blood rite.

  He knew—thanks to his own family’s diaries—that the blood sacrament was what delayed his brethren at the Cave of Treasures all those years ago. So with Ellis’s body at his feet, already wrapped in plastic, he knew he wouldn’t make the same mistakes here.

  Most of all, the Judge knew the stories from times past.

  He knew that dating back to 3500 BC, Mesopotamian women used to wear cylinder seals—carved stone cylinders no bigger than the cork of a wine bottle, but with a hole through them, like pieces of ziti—around their necks to ward off nightmares and evil spirits.

  He knew that early archaeologists mistakenly thought the seals were jewelry. But the true secret of the seals was what was carved on them. Indeed, when the seals were rolled in blood—like a roller stamp—they’d reveal pictures and stories.

  And he knew that the best of these pictures even had their own narratives.

  Like a book.

  For decades, the archaeological community had overlooked so much. In 1899, The New York Times reported on the British Museum’s unearthed cylinder seals that dated to 4000 BC in Babylonia. So many of them, when rolled in wet clay, revealed what the Times called “biblical incidents,” including vivid carvings of the “Genesis stories of the creation, of the fall of man, the flood, and others.”

  Archaeologists at the time didn’t know what to make of it.

  But the Thules did.

  Just as they understood that long before Babylonian times, man hid ancient secrets by carving them onto everyday objects—like the horns of goats or rams. Or sheep. Abel was a herder of sheep.

  “I’m confused,” the sixty-year-old named Kenneth asked, carrying a wide cookie sheet of wet modeling clay to the glass bar. “All the carvings on the weapon—they’re faded and cracked away. Look at it, it’s practically smooth. There’s gonna be nothing to see.”

  The Judge laughed to himself.

  Again, he wasn’t a fool. He knew—even anticipated (especially with a beast like Ellis)—that would be the case.

  If this really was the weapon that murdered Abel—if the ivory-and-gray animal horn was indeed the true Mark of Cain—a Book of Truth—carved with God’s greatest secrets and passed to Adam, to Abel, and eventually as a sign to Cain—surely the carvings would have faded over time.

  But the Coptic monks who first unearthed it in the late sixteenth century? They weren’t stupid, either.

  Which was why they kept a backup copy.

  The Judge stuffed his hands into a pair of white cotton gloves, then held the animal horn in one hand and picked up a brand-new X-Acto knife in the other. Just touching it, gripping it—Lord, to finally have it after all these centuries—this wasn’t just a find. It was a reawakening for the whole movement. Thule revived!

  Like a surgeon, he edged the knife underneath the lip of the tanned flap of leather that covered the wide end of the horn.

  “You knew all this time, didn’t you?” Kenneth asked as his partner looked on behind him. “You knew the monks hid something inside.”

  “I couldn’t possibly know,” the Judge admitted. “But I had faith.”

  With a sharp slice of the knife, the leather gave way, opening with a silent burp and delivering a rancid stench that wafted from the innards of the horn and smelled like vinegar and foul eggs. It stung the Judge’s nose and made his eyes water. But he didn’t look away.

  Without a word, Judge Felix Wojtowicz peered inside. His eyes narrowed
, searching—then grew wide again.

  “What? What’s it say?” Kenneth asked.

  The Judge didn’t answer.

  Panicking, he turned the horn over and shook it to double-check. Nothing but a cloud of fine dust rained out.

  “I-It can’t be,” he stammered. “Someone . . . they . . . someone already took it.”

  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?”

  82

  The word Superman comes from

  Nietzsche’s Übermensch and George Bernard Shaw’s Man and Superman.

  But it was Hitler, stating he wanted a nation of “supermen,” that gave the term its popularity.

  —Maltz Museum brochure

  Today

  Marina del Rey, California

  You look scared.”

  “I’m not scared,” I tell Serena as I grip the steering wheel of our rental car, which is parked at the end of the wide cul-de-sac. “I’m just nervous.”

  “About this—or you still thinking about your father?”

  I pause for a second too long. “About this.”

  In the passenger seat, Serena tucks her legs into an Indian-style position, never taking her eyes off me. “If it makes you feel better about it, Cal, your dad—”

  “Please don’t give me a Buddha quote right now. Can’t I just worry I’m being too easy on him?”

  “Maybe you are,” she admits. “But just remember—”

  “I said no Buddha.”

  “No Buddha. Just listen: When baby Superman gets rocketed to the planet Earth and his real parents die on Krypton, he lands here and gets two new flawless parents who treat him perfect as can be.”

  “So?”

  “So that’s just a comic book. Real life has much more complicated endings. And beginnings.”

  “And that’s it? Now I’m supposed to feel better? Or just forgive him? Or not second-guess myself for potentially inviting him back into my life?”

  She turns to me, her yellow blue eyes trying to absorb whatever pain and regret she thinks I’m feeling. She’s not my girlfriend. I know she’s not. But there’s no denying the fact that throughout this whole mess, she’s the one clear reminder, even with all the hokey self-help quotes, that not everything carries freight with it.

  “Cal, the soul would have no rainbow if the eyes had no tears.”

  I stare at her. She stares back, unblinking.

  “That was Buddha, wasn’t it?” I ask.

  “Native American. Minquass tribe.”

  I nod, still gripping the steering wheel. I fight for my clients every day, and I always will. It’s nice to finally feel someone fighting for me. “Have I thanked you for coming here?”

  “Over nine times. You still nervous?”

  I stare over her shoulder at our destination: the three-story, beige-and-white apartment building with the odd flock of pelicans nesting on top.

  “Terrified,” I tell her.

  “That’s why you need to go. Without me. You’re the one who needs to know, Cal.”

  She’s right about that.

  As I nudge open the car door and step outside, the California sun salutes me. I hear the squawks of pelicans and a boat horn in the distance. We’re not far from the marina.

  “Take your time. I’ll pick you up in an hour,” Serena calls out, already pulling away. She’s worried if she waits around, I might back out. She’s right.

  Behind me, I hear the car take off and disappear.

  Following the concrete path and counting door numbers, I make my way to the back of the older, three-story apartment building, where, just past a set of open jalousie windows, there’s a coral-colored door with four different locks. I hear an old Dean Martin song playing inside. Just below the doorbell is the name:

  SIEGEL

  I study it for a minute, collecting my—

  “I see you out there,” an elderly woman’s voice announces. “You here for the air-conditioning?”

  It’d be simple to say yes. Or to flash my wallet in front of the eyehole and pretend I’m still a fed. She’s gotta be nearly ninety. She wouldn’t know the difference.

  But I would. And this woman—and her family—deserves better.

  “I’m—if you can—I was hoping to ask you about your husband,” I tell her.

  The door stays shut. “If you’re one of those comic book people, I don’t
do interviews. I don’t talk about Superman. I’ve told my stories,” she tells me.

  “Ma’am, I don’t care about Superman. I’m here about your husband. Jerry.”

  “Then you care about Superman. You think you’re the first yahoo to try that line?”

  “Ma’am—”

  “I’ve been putting up with people like you since 1948,” she yells through the door.

  “I know who murdered Jerry’s father.”

  “Nice try. I’ve heard that one, too. Lemme guess: You wanna write a book. Everyone loves a mystery.”

  “I know it wasn’t a mystery. And I know Jerry saw it happen.”

  There’s a long pause. The pelicans continue to squawk.

  “I found these,” I add, pulling the four panels of the old comic strip—with the old Thule symbol—from my pocket and holding it up to the peephole.

  There’s another long pause.

  Tnnk. Tnnk. Cuunk. Tnnk. The locks come undone.

  I’m expecting a frail Miami Beach Golden Girl. Instead, I get an elderly woman with teased reddish brown hair, lively dark eyes, and the most stunning cheekbones I’ve ever seen. According to the brochure from the museum, this woman posed for Jerry and Joe, making her the physical model for Lois Lane. Of course she’s beautiful.

  “Why don’t you come inside, Mr. . .”

  “Cal Harper,” I say, extending a hand.

  “Joanne,” she says, inviting me in without shaking back. “Where’d you find the art?”

  “In Jerry’s Cleveland house. In his room,” I say, watching as she stares at the comic panels in my hand. “You didn’t know they were there, did you?”

  She doesn’t answer. Instead, she leads me into her living room, which is decorated in light pastels and sea-foam green. Just like the prison. There’s a bookcase on our left, but the rest of the walls are filled—absolutely stacked—with picture frame after picture frame of family photos. Pictures of her and Jerry, her and her daughter, her and her grandchildren. There’s not a single one of Superman.

  Over by a white Formica credenza, she reaches for the double cassette player and lowers the Dean Martin volume—but doesn’t turn it off. She doesn’t like being alone. Me neither.