The Book of Lies

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.