The Book of Lies

veer toward the sign for I-90 East. Behind us, the Jeep with no lights does the same. I slow down, giving it a chance to pass, but it doesn’t.

“The Bible ain’t just a bunch of stories about dead people, Cal. It’s the greatest and oldest book of human civilization—a book that people through the centuries have given their lives for. But that doesn’t mean there aren’t problems of translation. It’s like Adam and Eve and the apple, right? Like you mentioned, one of the Bible’s most famous tales, except for the problem that there was no apple.”

“Says who?” my father asks.

“Look at the text, sir: The word apple never appears in the Bible. It ain’t there. Eve ate a fruit—probably a fig—but in ancient Greece, when the Old Testament was translated from Hebrew, the scribes put in the word apple because at the time, apples were the big symbols of desire and destruction. And those slight editorial changes—over time, they start affecting how we think about the Bible, even though they’re not even in the original text.”

“But now, thanks to the wonders of Bible college, you’ll reveal the far more interesting alternate history that’ll surprise us all,” I say.

“Cal, this ain’t about what you believe. It’s about what Ellis believes. And right now, you gotta understand that he’s coming at you with what he perceives is the power of God on his side.”

We all fall silent. Serena scootches up in her seat and scratches my dad’s shoulder. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath through his nose.

“So to understand the tattoo, we need to understand Cain,” I say as Serena points to the right, signaling for us to get off at the next exit. In the rearview, the Jeep with no lights is barely two car lengths back. I tap on the brakes and slow down to get a better look. Annoyed, the Jeep pulls around us and passes on our right. I get my first good look at the driver: a pissed-off mom with three kids in the back.

“It all goes back to how we view him,” Roosevelt says. “Cain’s the ruthless brother-killer, right? For thousands of years, he’s the symbol of our worst sins—the bad man who makes us feel better about ourselves. But when you check out the earliest theories—like those geniza fragments they found in Cairo centuries ago—those fragments are as close as we get to the earliest copies of the Bible, and in there, they question the entire premise,” he adds with a brand-new seriousness in his voice. “Or to put it more bluntly: Instead of thinkin’ Cain’s the ultimate villain, what if he’s the good guy in the tale?”

“Yeah, except for that part in act one where he kills his own brother,” I point out.

“Forget your Sunday school, Cal. Sure, over the years, we all demonized Cain. But the Bible doesn’t.”

“That’s not true,” I say. “When Cain asks, ‘Am I my brother’s keeper?’—those’re hardly the words of a saint.”

“And that’s fine. But the story of Cain and Abel isn’t just about fratricide. It’s about what happens after Abel’s death. God’s reaction. Punishment versus redemption.”

“So now the Mark of Cain is God’s way of rewarding Cain?”

“Again, look at the translation. According to most modern Bibles, Cain thinks God’s punishment is too much —‘My punishment is greater than I can bear,’ is what the text says—which is why Cain is seen as such a remorseless monster. But when you go back to the original text—like in the geniza fragments—that same passage can just as easily be translated as ‘My sin is too great to forgive.’ See the difference there? In this version, Cain feels so awful . . . so sorry . . . for what he’s done to poor Abel, he tells God he should never be forgiven. That’s a pretty different view of Cain, no?” Roo-sevelt asks, letting it all sink in. “Of course, most religions prefer the vicious Cain. A little threat of evil is always the far better way to fill the seats. But sometimes the monsters aren’t who we think they are.”

In the backseat, Serena has long forgotten the map. My dad stares down at the phone. “So God forgave Cain?” he asks.

“Think about it: What if that’s the whole point of the story? The Mark of Cain wasn’t a punishment. It was God’s reward: to show Divine mercy—to teach us that those who repent get forgiveness.”

“So the Mark of Cain could be something good?” Serena asks.

“This is a gift straight from God,” Roosevelt replies, his southern accent lingering on the final word. “So, yeah, I’d wager ‘good’ covers it.”

“C’mon, you’re telling me that the whole reason we’re running around—the reason my dad got shot—”

“I think he got shot for the address,” Serena interrupts. When I glance in the rearview, she adds, “From the comic. It’s just a feeling, but it’s the only thing that makes sense. You said there’re other copies of the comic. But the address . . . That’s the new piece of information, right? Maybe that’s their meeting place. Or their storage place.”

“Or their hiding place,” my dad says without turning back to either of us.

“Whatever it is, they wanted that address on the comic,” Serena points out. “They thought your dad had it. Maybe . . . I don’t know . . . you think that’s why Mitchell Siegel got shot eighty years ago, too?”

“Perfect, just perfect,” I continue. “So what Timothy and Ellis and everyone else—what they’re really all after is the long-lost, barely believable Mark of Cain, which is somehow on a Superman comic from some crappy neighborhood in Cleveland?”

“I’m not saying it exists,” Roosevelt’s voice goes on as we reach the exit for Martin Luther King Jr. Drive. “You asked about Ellis’s tattoo; I’m telling you what it stands for. And when you look at what the Bible says about the Mark—‘The Lord set a mark upon Cain, that whoever found him should not kill him.’ Look at the last part there—‘should not kill him.’ The images in Ellis’s tattoo, those are God’s gifts to Cain: things that’re gonna protect him from all the wild beasts in the wilderness.”

“Y’mean like weapons?” my dad asks.

“Or a dog,” Roosevelt says. “Named Benoni.”

Everyone is silent as I tug the wheel to the right, and we all sway to the left, curving around the exit. At the red light, it’s no different from the Martin Luther King Jr. street at home: Even with the darkness, it’s clear we’re in a rough neighborhood. Within a few quick turns, nearly all the businesses are either burnt out or boarded up. On each corner, there’s some kid in a thick winter coat bouncing in place to find some warmth. Not one of them gets on the passing buses. I work in these neighborhoods every day. I know drug dealers when I see them.

“You still there?” Roosevelt asks.

“You were saying about the dog,” I reply as Serena and my dad glance out their respective windows. Both of them sit up straight. Like they know we’re close. “That from Bible college, too?”

“Nah, that was Google,” Roosevelt says. “Benoni was apparently Abel’s dog, then when Abel got killed, God supposedly gave the dog to Cain as protection.”

“Okay, so Ellis renamed his dog,” I say. “Big deal.”

“Maybe it ain’t just the dog,” Roosevelt says. “Most people are taught Cain wandered through the Land of Nod for seven generations. But another interpretation says that God’s gift—that no one should kill Cain—was literal. That God let him live forever.”

“You mean Ellis thinks he’s Cain?” Serena asks.

Next to me, my dad’s now mesmerized by our surroundings, staring out the window. “I think it’s the next right,” he blurts. When I look at him, he adds, “I saw it on the map.”

“It’s only been a few hours. I gotta do more research,” Roosevelt says. “But for a book like the Bible, where nearly every major figure’s death is pointed out—Noah lived for X years; Moses lived for Y—the Bible is completely, and almost strangely, silent about the death of Cain.”

“This is it—Kimberly Avenue,” my dad blurts as I turn onto the narrow block that’s lined with small, beaten two-story houses and barely any cars. It’s one thing to be in a bad neighborhood; it’s another to be in an abandoned one.

“Do people live here?” Serena asks as the car bangs through one of the street’s ice-filled potholes. On both sides of the block, the sidewalks are barely plowed. I check the windows and front porches of every house we pass. It’s only four-thirty. There’s not a person in sight.

“Roosevelt, can we deal with the rest of the nutty Cain stuff later?” I ask.

“You’re missing what I said, Cal. Ellis thinks he has God on his side. Take it from the former pastor: The true believers are the ones who’ll burn you the worst,” he says. “Though what all this has to