The Book of Lies

“I didn’t say thanks. I said no hard feelings.”

“Naomi, tell me why you’re really here.”

She bites at her bottom lip, then finally looks up, standing from the steps. “You flew across the country with barely seven hours’ notice. The animal horn is still missing. I was worried you were coming here to meet up with Ellis.”

“How do you know I wasn’t?”

She motions to her phone. “I just got the call. They found Ellis’s body. In Michigan.”

I nod but don’t reply.

“And that weird gun he had that I wrecked at the library? With the hemlock? They matched it to what was in Timothy’s blood. Oh, and we also found a twenty-thousand-dollar payment in Timothy’s bank account. From a fake name they think was Ellis.”

She kicks at the concrete. We all have our own secret identities.

“Y’know, I still think your father—I don’t care what kinda rosy picture you painted in his plea deal—I still think he got into this for the wrong reason.”

I don’t argue with her. But she doesn’t understand.

“Don’t think I don’t understand,” she adds. “My son? He was an orphan, too.”

“Naomi, please spare me the rah-rah.”

“I’m just saying, if his parents came back, I wouldn’t blame him for wanting to find out who they really are. It’s not a weakness, Cal. I mean, most people don’t really want to know their parents. They just want to know themselves.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better.”

“It will when you think about it,” she promises. “I’m a mother. We’re not wrong.”

I can’t help but grin. I head up the covered walkway toward the car. But Naomi doesn’t follow.

“So whatever happened with the Book of Lies . . . or Truth . . . or whatever you named it?” she calls out. “Y’ever figure out what the story was with those old comic strips from Jerry’s wall?”

I spin around and see her staring at Joanne Siegel’s closed door.

“No. Not really,” I tell her.

She stays locked on the door.

“Yeah . . . me either,” she finally says, following in back of me and leaving Joanne Siegel behind.

I nod a thank-you. She pretends she doesn’t notice.

As we reach the end of the breezeway, the sun bakes us from overhead.

“Just tell me one last thing,” she adds. “You really traveled three thousand miles just to see Jerry Siegel’s widow?”

“Yeah. I did.” I turn to Naomi. “Though I thought you didn’t know who I was meeting with?”

This time, she’s the one who’s silent. But the smile on her face says it all.

“By the way, about your son . . .” I start. “Y’ever tell him what you do?”

“With what? With work?”

“With anything. Does he know what your job is? What you fight for?”

“He knows I have a gun. That’s enough to impress him.”

I shake my head. “No. You need to tell him. Tell him your stories.”

For a moment, she makes a face, loading up the quick comeback.

But it never comes.

“I will,” she says, brushing her dyed brown hair from her face.

We both cross the small grass patch that leads to the cul-de-sac. “So how do you explain to your boss that the animal horn is still out there, and you’re coming home empty-handed?” I ask.

“Empty-handed? I got a nibble on Ellis’s old phone records. There’s a judge in Michigan I’m gonna go say hello to,” she says. “And you know judges just hate wearing those PlastiCuffs,” she adds, already starting to wave good-bye. “Just remember, though, Cal: You only lose what you cling to.”

“That’s nice. That Native American?”

“Buddhist,” she calls back, ducking into her white rental car.

Her tires howl, she takes off, and I’m left standing in the empty cul-de-sac as the wind shoves my white hair back, revealing my face.

Serena won’t be here for at least a half hour. I’m alone. All alone. And for once, I think that’s how it’s supposed to be.

On my far right, between two other apartment buildings, I spot the edge of a dock and a few bobbing boats.

Before I even realize it, I’m walking toward it.

Jerry’s father had it so damn right. There’s the life you live and the life you leave behind. But what you share with someone else—especially someone you love—that’s not just how you bury your past. It’s how you write your future.

Following the nearby path and a few pelicans, I head toward the lapping splash of water at the marina in the distance. Even between the buildings, the sun shines like gold from overhead.

With a final, deep breath, I crane my neck back and stare straight up at the heavenly blue sky.

“I know it’s been a while, Mom. But have I got a story for you . . .”

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Over the past two years, I’ve spent far more time than I ever anticipated thinking I could solve the murder of who killed Mitchell Siegel. From the original death certificate, to the built-in lore that comes with any family’s stories, to tracking down the old owners of the funeral home that held his body in 1932, I took up this quest in the hopes of unearthing real answers about why the world actually got Superman. And to this day, I am convinced that the only reason young Jerry Siegel dreamed of a bulletproof man is because of the robbery that took his father.

But to be clear, this book is a work of fiction. Yes, Mitchell Siegel was in the Russian army, and there is no explanation for how (at such a young age and with no money) he got out of the army and was able to come to America, but that does not mean that he was a government asset or that he found the murder weapon that Cain used to kill Abel.

But.

The details of Jerry’s life—the unsolved, uninvestigated death of his father, the fact that half the family was told it was a heart attack and the other half a shooting, the two Superman stories that preceded Action Comics (one whose art is seen in these pages, of a robber pointing a gun at an innocent man), that all of this happened right after Mitchell died, plus the fact that in thousands of interviews, Jerry never once—not once—ever mentioned his father at all—these observations are not just me playing fanboy psychologist (okay, maybe it partly is). The death certificate says Mitchell Siegel had a heart attack during a robbery. The robbery was never investigated. No autopsy was done. And at least one of the coroners I spoke to pointed out that a small .22-caliber gun (favored in 1932 during the Depression) would not leave an entry mark in someone’s chest (easily making anyone there mistake it for a heart attack). We’ll never know. But in that moment, young Jerry did create the ultimate orphan story. And in 1932, the newspaper did run an editorial about vigilantes—written by someone named Luther—the day after his father’s death. There are parts of this story that cannot be argued away.

Jerry Siegel knew the benefits of thinking big, which is why he hid his ashes inside a set of fake books in the hopes that his memory would live on forever (that’s true, too). And in a place like America, which was founded on our own legends and myths, I believe it’s vital that we know where those myths come from, even if it means admitting our own vulnerabilities. That’s how we truly honor our heroes.

For me, Superman’s greatest contribution has never been the superhero part; it’s the Clark Kent part—the idea that any of us, in all our ordinariness, can change the world.

As for Cain and the Thule Society, it is true that in 1936, the head of the Nazi SS went to explore the first rock art site in Sweden, in one of many quests to find the origins of the Aryan race. What they unearthed was a carving of a man with raised arms, which they believed was “the Son of God.” The explorations continued for years,