The Book of Lies

“We need to get rid of the device,” I say as I shut the black box and pull the batteries from the back.

“You think she can trace it?” my dad asks.

“You willing to take a chance?” Before anyone can answer, I toss the tracking device into the bathroom sink and run it under water. It’ll only get worse when they find the Johnsels’ bodies. But even without them, Naomi’s done listening to reason. The only way we’re not taking this fall is if we hand her the truth, and right now there’s only one way to get it.

“What about the dialogue?” Serena asks, still studying the comic book panels. “Maybe Jerry hid something in that, too.”

“Yowzie?” my father reads from the panel. “Yeah, that really sounds like you cracked the nuclear codes.”

“I’m serious,” Serena says. “You heard Naomi: Mitchell Siegel supposedly kept this Cain book, or totem, or whatever the so-called murder weapon is, for himself. We know who killed him, we know what they wanted—and since they obviously didn’t get it, the only question is: Where’d Mitchell hide it?”

“That doesn’t mean the answer’s here,” my father says, shaking his head and pointing to the wet comic panels.

“You kidding?” Serena blasts back with an anger that surprises even my dad. “Ellis is clearly one of these Thule guys! He doesn’t care who killed Mitchell Siegel. He just wants the prize. And this,” she adds, motioning to the four panels, “he called it a map, for God’s sake! Why’re you being so dense?”

“I’m. Not,” my father says with the coldest of glares. “I’m just saying, Jerry Siegel wasn’t some NSA cryptanalyst. He was a high school kid who lost his dad. So no offense to the rash of movies and books, but not everything has to come in some secret code. Especially when it’s staring right at us.” He jabs a thick finger against the last panel: with the boy dodging bullets on the way to the building.

184 King Street.

“I thought you said no such street existed,” I point out, taking a seat at the table and looking for myself.

“Not on our rental car map, but let’s not forget, this was eighty years ago—the Cleveland suburbs were just being built. For all we know, this was one of the main thoroughfares.”

Now I’m the one shaking my head. “No way is it that easy.”

“I agree,” Serena says, leaning over my shoulder and putting her hand on my back.

My father shoots her the kind of look that comes with divorce papers.

“What?” Serena asks, still not pulling away. She has no idea what he’s mad about. But I do.

In a huff, my father grabs his coat from the bed and storms for the door.

“What’d I do? Where’re you going?” she calls out.

“Front desk had a sign for free Internet,” my dad explains. “There’s gotta be old Cleveland maps online.”

Before we can argue, my phone rings. Caller ID tells me who it is. I need this call. But I don’t take my eyes off my father.

“Want me to come?” Serena asks him.

“Stay with him,” my dad shoots back. “You’re apparently getting good at it.”

As the door slams, I flip open my phone and lean my elbows against the round table. The way we’ve been running, exhaustion is finally setting in.

“Tell me that message wasn’t bullcrap,” Roosevelt says, his voice galloping through my phone. “The Book of Truth? For real?”

Who is it? Serena asks with a glance.

Roosevelt, I mouth back as she takes the seat next to me and leans in to share the ear of my phone.

I could push back and chase her away. Roosevelt would tell me to do exactly that.

I tilt the phone slightly, and we both listen in.

“Cal, what you found . . . all the theories . . .” Roosevelt says. “We had it so wrong. Don’t you see? If this’s really a Book of Truth . . . this wasn’t penance for Cain . . . no . . . it truly was God’s reward.”

“Y’mean all those secrets of earthly knowledge you were talking about?”

“Forget earthly knowledge. This secret . . . look at the name: the Book of—” He’s so excited, he can barely get the words out. “It’s a Book of Truth, Cal. In Hebrew, ‘truth’ is emet, one of the most mystical words in the language. Writing that word was how the Golem was brought to life—it’s how—”

“It’s ten o’clock, Roosevelt. I don’t care. Just tell me what’s inside.”

He takes a deep breath, fighting to calm down. I keep forgetting. As much as I’m trying to save my rear, Roosevelt’s the one coming face-to-face with his faith.

“Remember when we talked about the Mark of Cain?” he finally asks. “How I said some people thought Cain was immortal and that God let him live forever? Well, what if that’s what’s actually in the book?”

“The truth about his immortality?”

“No. The secret to it,” Roosevelt says, his voice more serious than ever. “In the Bible, Cain never died. What if the Book of Truth was his instruction manual?”

Twelve hours ago, I would’ve laughed out loud. But as I look down at the comic book panel with the hidden ancient Nazi group symbol, and the young boy clutching a book and running for his life . . .

“Does 184 King Street mean anything to you?” I ask.

“As an address?”

“As anything: 184 King Street . . . 184 kings on a street . . . Anything Cain-like come to mind?”

“I’ll look it up, but even without it . . . Cal, if this is really the Book of Truth . . . I think you’re close, Cal! I can feel it!”

“I’ll be sure to tell Ellis that the next time he sends the hound of hell at us.”

“Forget Ellis. You’re now— I know you think I’m nuts, but this is what you’re meant for, Cal. We all have higher callings. All of us. It’s no different than Jerry Siegel. We think Superman was his calling, but in reality it was watching over his father, protecting this gift . . . this book. It’s the same with you, Cal. Same calling. Protect the gift.”

“Roosevelt, I appreciate the faith, but we’re not getting anything unless you start figuring out King Street.”

“That’s fine. I’m on it. But take strength from this, Cal. You’re close. Close to something far bigger than most people will ever see.”

As he hangs up the phone, I try my best to ride his excitement, but after a full day of running and dodging and fighting, my shoulders plummet. Next to me, Serena does the opposite. I’m still leaning on the motel’s round table. She hops up, on a rocket of newfound adrenaline.

“He’s right, Calvin. You see that, don’t you?”

“I don’t know—for me, religion’s always been more of an acquired taste.”

“This isn’t religion. This is how life works—the hunches you have that tell you to not walk down a certain alleyway . . . or to stay with you and your dad instead of cowering in a hotel . . . that feeling in your belly that tells you someone you love is in danger—we have to have a certain trust in the universe.”

“I hear you. And for once, I really am trying to believe it. But the universe screwed me a big one.”

“But now it’s trying to make amends. These are the divine patterns I told you about. You still think it’s a coincidence you found your dad in that park? Or that I got on that plane? There are no accidents! Ooooh, I feel fantastic!” she insists, reaching both arms straight up, fingers fully extended, in some yoga/-praise-the-Maker pose.

It’d be so easy to make fun, but as I watch her . . . “Serena, I’m trying to be sulky and pessimistic here.”

“You can’t,” she insists, her arms still in the air as she rises up, eyes wide, on her tiptoes. “I’m happy. Love and hate can’t occupy the same space.”

I laugh at that one. “Obviously, you haven’t seen me with my father.”