The Book of Lies

night is dark as a coffin. Ellis can’t see us. But as I crane my neck to peer out, we can’t see him, either.

There’s a hushed splash on our far right. We both turn just in time to hear the krkk krkk krkk—someone walking through the dried saw grass on the edge of the canal. The sound gets louder the closer they get. I squint and peer between the branches, up toward the road. There’s a fast scratching sound— someone running—then the unmistakable pant—hhh hhh hhh—that’s the dog. Benoni. The dog’s right above us. By the road. I see her.

My father and I both duck deeper into the water. It’s freezing cold and my shirt sucks like a jellyfish to my chest. The dog bite didn’t break skin, but my arm still stings. Behind me, my father’s still holding the wound at his side. We both know how filthy this water is. But as the panting gets closer, we lower ourselves without a word.

Up on the embankment, the dog stands there, her pointy ears at full attention. I squat even lower until the muddy black water reaches my neck, my chin, my ears. I’ve got my head tilted back, trying to keep everything submerged. My father does the same—as far underwater as he can get. A few feet in front of us, there’s a squiggle in the water as a thin indigo snake skates across the surface. I hold my breath, pretending it’s not there.

“Benoni! Come!” Ellis calls as the dog darts to the right, back the way she came.

My father doesn’t move. I don’t move. Nothing moves until the krkk krkk krkk fades in the distance. For a moment, I worry they’re coming back—until, from the opposite side of the road, I hear the hiccup of an engine, followed by a huge diesel belch, followed by a final piercing hiss that slashes the night. My father’s truck—Ellis wants the prize inside even more than he wants us. I lift my head as the muddy water streams down my neck and face.

“They’re leaving,” I whisper.

Behind me, my dad doesn’t say a word, even as the engine rumbles and fades. I assume it’s because he’s still terrified . . . still in shock . . . and most likely way pissed if Ellis drove off with his truck.

“You saved me,” my dad blurts. As I turn around to face him, he’s got tears in his eyes.

“You did— You saved my life.” He shakes his head over and over. “I thought you hated me.” He starts sniffling.

I raise my hands from the water and pull him toward the bank. “Listen, erm . . . Lloyd . . . I appreciate that—I do. But can we please have this talk later?”

He nods, but the tears are still there. “I just— What you did— You didn’t have to do that for me.”

Sometimes a speech can make things better. This isn’t one of those times.

“Can we just go back to that cop? Ellis. Who the hell is he?” I ask as we slosh through the canal, climbing back up toward the road and eyeing the fence that separates us from the alligators.

“I have no idea.”

“Don’t lie,” I challenge, waiting to see his reaction.

“Cal, I swear to you, I’ve never seen him until tonight. When he pulled me over, I thought he was giving me a ticket.” His voice is flying—he means it—but as he says the words, the consequences finally hit. Reaching the top of the embankment, he looks across the road at my van and Timothy’s car, where the blue lights are still spinning.

“Motherf—! He stole my truck!” my dad shouts.

“What was in it, anyway? He mentioned a book.”

“D’you know what this—? I’m dead.”

“What book was in the truck, Lloyd?”

“Mary, mother of— I’m dead!” he explodes at full detonation, spit flying through the air. “We should’ve killed his fu—” He catches himself.

During my short career in law enforcement, I sent eleven people to prison. To real prison. And when you go to prison—no matter how straitlaced and Dr. Jekyll you are going in, the monsters within those walls always bring a little bit more of your own monster out.

My father swallows hard, clearly regretting the outburst. Whatever tears he had are long gone. “I’m sorry, Cal. I’m not— It’s been a tough few years.”

“Just tell me what’s in the truck, and who you’re so scared of.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Sure it is. Give me the name and we’ll at least know who we’re dealing with—or at least who Ellis is working against.”

“That’s the thing: When they got in contact, they didn’t give me a name.”

“How could you not—?”

“Last year, I got my second DUI, which got me fired from my company. Since then, business is more word of mouth these days, y’know? I get a phone call. They send the paperwork and tell me where to drop it off—in this case, I was supposed to leave Alligator Alley at Naples and wait for a call. I know they have a 216 area code. From Cleveland. But that’s it.”

“That’s it? You sure?”

“Why wouldn’t I be sure?”

“A minute ago, you were saying, ‘I’m dead! I’m dead!’ Why be afraid of someone you don’t know?”

My father studies me. I look for his U.S. Navy ring and realize he’s no longer wearing it.

“Calvin, I may not be the best father . . .”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Great Santini. Though I have to admit, I cannot wait to see how you finish this sentence.”

“. . . but I’m not a liar.”

“No, Lloyd, you’re just an innocent truck driver. Nothing more than that, right?”

He tugs his soaking silk shirt away from his chest. From what I can tell, it’s another Michael Kors.

“You’re giving me too much credit,” my dad says. “I never heard of no books, and got no idea what could take centuries to find, except for maybe some old art or something. Ease up, okay?”

“Oh, I’m sorry—usually when I get attacked, potentially framed for murder, and almost killed, I’m much more cheery and fun.”

“What do you want from me, Calvin?”

“I wanna know what the hell is really going on! You’re fresh out of the hospital and still got up at four in the morning for this! You’re telling me you thought it was for three thousand pounds of frozen shrimp!?”

“It’s Miami, Calvin. If they’re calling me instead of a real company—I figured it was guns or . . . or . . . or something like that.” He shakes his head before I can argue. “I’m not proud of it, y’know? But once you have that ex-con label on your neck— You don’t know what it’s like to be judged like that.”

I think back to the days after they took my gun and badge. Even the secretaries from the office were instructed to hang up when I called.

“Okay, first we need to get out of here,” I say. As we run across the road and back to my van, I scan the ground, the road, even under the van itself. Timothy. His body’s gone.

“Y’think he’s still alive?” my dad asks.

I pause a moment. Then I picture that bubble of blood in Timothy’s neck. “I don’t think so.”

“Maybe Ellis took the body with him.”

“Maybe,” I say. But to set all this up—to bring my van out here just to make us look like the killers . . . to leave no witnesses . . . I cross around to the passenger side of the White House. Down the tall grass of the embankment, there’s another canal that runs parallel to the road. When we were hiding on the other side . . . There was another splash.

“Gator food,” my father says, pointing over the fence.

“That’s what I would do.”

I wait for him to ask why, but to’ve abandoned me this long, my dad’s got plenty of heartless in him. He doesn’t need help developing the picture: Ellis is a cop. He did his homework. My dad’s a convicted murderer . . . I’m a disgraced agent . . . There’s no question who’s the easiest to blame for this. And why he asked my dad to hand him Timothy’s gun.

“He’s got my prints on one of the weapons,” my father says.