谎言书：13（在线收听） |
“Is it easy for you to lie like that?” I ask. “You’re not just some truck driver. You knew all along this coffin was in here — and what was in it.”
“Cal, stop talking. I think I just saved our lives.”
With a pop, he rips open the Ziploc and — At first it looks like two sheets of
paper stuck together, but as he touches it — it’s sticky. Like . . .
“Wax paper,” my father says, running his fingers along the edges, which
have been ironed or melted together. In the bottom right corner, there’s faint
lettering.
My father pulls it closer, and we both read the typed note:
If found, please return to:
10622 Kimberly Ave. Cleveland
But what’s far more important is what the wax paper holds hidden inside. You
can almost see through it — tons of bright colors.
“Oh, man — if this is a Renoir,” my dad blurts. Like a child with a bag of
candy, he tugs the two sides and pulls it open. A hiccup of dust and stale air
floats upward, revealing an old yellowed magazine that’s trapped within. But
as my dad takes out the magazine and thumbs through it . . . No. Not a
magazine. The hand-drawn pictures . . . the childish art . . . He flips to the
front, and the bright red font on the cover says: Action Comics. In the corner,
it says: “No 1. June 1938.” But there’s no mistaking the drawing of the hero
with the bright red cape and the big red S on his chest. Superman.
“Oh, we got ’em, Cal. We got ’em!” my father says, his zigzag smile
spreading wider.
For a moment, it feels as if someone’s punctured my lungs with a metal hook
and is tugging them up through my throat. Ellis said he wanted a book.
Benny’s words echo in my head. That murder eighty years ago . . . Mitchell
Siegel . . . and his son created—
24
No way this comic book is just a comic book.
“You knew, didn’t you? You knew what was in there,” I say, reaching for the
old Superman comic and snatching it from my dad’s hands.
“Be careful with that!”
“Why’d you lie!?” I explode, my voice rebounding through the metal
container.
He takes a half-step back, surprised by my anger. “Cal, if you think I knew
anything—”
“Enough bullshit, Lloyd! That’s why they shot you, didn’t they!? That’s what
they wanted: that key and what was in that coffin! And you’ve been lying
about it the whole time!”
“No, that’s fair. You’re right — I lied. I’m sorry for that. But that was it. I
swear to you, Cal — I had no idea the key went to a coffin. They sent it to me
with the paperwork.”
“So they sent you a key and said, ‘You’ll know what to do with this’?”
“They said, here’s the key and when I got to Naples, I was supposed to
unload the truck, find the book — they didn’t say what kind — and wait for
further directions. Look, does it sound a little suspicious? Of course — that’s
why they hired me. But that’s the way it happened. To be honest—”
“Oooh, honest. What would that be like?”
He stops, but not for long. Outside, the sirens are still silent. “Whoever hired
me, they’re not stupid, Cal. When you ship something that you think is
important, you don’t tell anyone what’s inside. ‘Oh, yes — please go pick up
my metal case with twenty million dollars tucked in there. I trust that you
won’t steal it, Mr. Cheap-hired-hand-who-I-don’t-know.’ You send it and you
give as little info as possible.”
“Then why even send the whole coffin? Why not just take the comic and
FedEx it?”
“I have no idea. I’m assuming this comic was this guy’s prized possession,
right? That’s why he’s buried with it. That’s the book Ellis wanted. So maybe
they were worried the guys who dug up the casket would pick it clean if they
opened it . . . or maybe they just told the grave diggers that they were some
crazy relative who wanted the body, so that way, no one asked questions. The
point is, the trouble they went through to get this — one side hiring me, then
Timothy and Ellis trying to steal it away — if this baby’s worth dying for, can
you imagine what it’s worth paying for?”
“For a comic?”
“C’mon, you know this isn’t just a comic. I don’t care how popular Superman
is, people don’t get shot just for some old funny-book,” he says, snatching the
comic back, his voice once again racing. “Now I don’t care if it’s got some
secret treasure map or some superhero Da Vinci Code that needs a Captain
Midnight decoder ring, we have what they want! We won the lottery, Cal —
now we just gotta find out how to cash it in!”
“You’re right,” I say, snatching the comic right back and storming out of the
metal container, back through the warehouse. “And the way to do that is by
going to ICE, taking it to the authorities, and telling the truth.”
I cut through the stacked maze of shrimp boxes, trying my best to ignore the
smell. I’d rather be out with the non-sirens.
“You’ll be dead by tomorrow,” my father calls out.
“I’m done being manipulated, Lloyd. Especially by someone who thinks it’s
okay to dig up someone’s dead body and use their coffin as a shipping
envelope. That man was someone’s family — not that you know the definition
of that.”
For once, he’s silent.
I step over the last box of shrimp, hop off the loading platform, and head
straight for the door. My father stays where he is.
“Calvin, you don’t have to believe this — but if I’d known they had dug up
someone’s father — even I wouldn’t’ve taken the job.”
“Yet another wonderful speech. Good-bye, Lloyd. Time to be smart.”
“You think turning yourself in is smart? You think you’ll get a medal and a
big thank-you? No, Calvin. They’re gonna lock you in a room and grill you
about Timothy, giving Ellis plenty of time to flash his badge, come inside, and
put that final bullet in your brain.”
“ICE would never let that happen.”
“Timothy was ICE! And for all you know, he wasn’t working alone!”
I stop right there. I know my dad’s just in it for the cash.
“This isn’t just about the money, Cal. Look at the logic: It’s just a matter of
time until Timothy’s body shows up. If we turn ourselves in, guess who the
murder suspects are? No one’s believing the two convicts.”
“I’m not a convict.”
“No, you’re just Timothy and Ellis and everyone else’s target practice.
They’re not stopping till you’re convicted or dead. But if we figure out what’s
really going on, then we’ll have the steering wheel.”
I know what my father’s doing. I saw the way he went straight for that comic,
how his eyes went wide, and the greedy thrill when he realized that
whatever’s really going on is now solely in his hands. I know this isn’t about
just keeping me safe. But that doesn’t mean he’s not right.
I turn around and finally face my dad, who hasn’t taken a step from the open
container. From here, his face is hidden by the shadows. Outside, the brandnew
siren screams from less than a block away. “I thought you didn’t know
who hired you,” I call out.
“So?”
“So how you plan on tracking him down?”
Stepping out into the morning light, he holds up the wax-paper sleeve with
the faint typed message in the bottom corner.
If found, please return to:
10622 Kimberly Ave. Cleveland
“You kidding?” he calls back with his zigzag smile. “We got the address right
here.”
“That’s fine,” I say. “I just need to check something at home first.”
25
In his black rental car, Ellis circled the block slowly, studying the protective
metal fence that surrounded the two-story brown building that looked like a
1970s Howard Johnson’s. He noted the delivery entrance at the rear of the
building. No sense going in the front if the trickster could just sneak out the
back.
733 Breakers Avenue. Cal’s home. The small sign in front had a dove flying
from an open palm:
COVENANT HOUSE
Ellis knew Covenant House from the force. There was one in Michigan, too.
Local homeless shelter. Cal clearly had his own penance he was paying. But
as Ellis turned the corner, all he really cared about was that the white van
with the three dents — Cal’s van — was parked in front.
To come back here, either Cal needed something or he was just being cocky.
But that’s what happens when you think you’ve won. No question, Cal and his
dad had found the coffin. They opened it — and grabbed what Mitchell Siegel
stole in the name of—
A low rumble coughed through the beach air as a convertible Chevy Cavalier
turned the corner of the block. From its speed alone, Ellis knew something
was wrong. He stayed where he was, didn’t even duck down as the forest
green car skidded to a stop right behind the white van. Blocking Cal in.
A tall woman with a creased tan suit and brown hair got out. The way her
worn shoes attacked the pavement — tunk tunk tunk — there was no slowing
her down. Even from here, Ellis could see the outline of a gun strap under her
cheap suit jacket. Cops were the same everywhere.
“Naomi here,” she said, pulling out her cell phone. “No, Ma . . . why would
you—? I don’t care what he says, don’t buy him any more Hot Wheels cars,
okay? He’s lying. Treat him like a little junkie stripper on blow: He’ll say
anything to get more.”
Clipping the phone back on her belt, the woman pounded past the privacy
wall and disappeared inside the building.
Across the street, Ellis reached over to the passenger seat and unzipped a
small leather case. If cops were here, they were already searching for
Timothy. Searching for Cal. To be honest, Ellis didn’t care. Let them fight it
out. He’d take what he wanted from the winner.
26
“He’s still here?” Naomi asked, running through the shelter’s open courtyard.
“I’m looking at a tracking screen right now,” Scotty replied through her
earpiece. “According to his cell signal, Cal’s definitely in the building.”
“And you can’t get me closer than that? I thought they improved all this
nonsense after 9/11 — y’know, so they could find trapped people within a few
feet.”
“And that’s true — especially in the Bourne Identity trilogy. But back in
reality, where we all still use our old phones, we pinpoint based on cell towers
— and that gets us a few dozen feet at the closest. Listen, I gotta run. I’m a
tech guy, not a sidekick.”
Racing up the outdoor stairs two at a time, Naomi reached for her gun.
On the second floor, she darted across the outdoor breezeway as she traced
the room numbers — 210 . . . 208 . . . 206. Cal’s apartment was 202. As she
passed each metal door, she saw a blue sign on each one:
SINGLE RESIDENTS BEDTIME Is 9:45 P.M.
She finally stopped at the last door on her right:
202
RESIDENT ADVISER
From what she could tell, the door was slightly open. As if someone were still
there. Or about to leave. She lowered her shoulder and plowed forward. As
the door swung open and crashed into the wall, Naomi burst into the room.
A gang of six clearly pissed-off black kids looked up from the video game they
were crowded around. The second-biggest kid, in his twenties, with braids, an
oversize Knicks jersey, and a panther tattoo across his neck, dropped his
game controller and strode directly at her.
“Whatsamatta, lady?” he asked, flashing a bottom row of bright gold teeth
as Naomi hid her gun behind her back. “Dontcha like black people?”
27
“His whut?” asked the kid with the panther tattoo.
“She’s thumpin’ ya, she is, Desi,” added one of his friends, a fat black kid
with a British accent and a blue bandanna on his head. He stepped forward
with Panther Tattoo, hoping to scare Naomi. She didn’t step back.
“Listen . . . Desi, right?” Naomi asked, knowing better than to pull her badge
in a group like this. “Desi, I promise you — I’m not thumpin’, or lying, or
whatever you’re suggesting that verb means. I’m Cal’s girlfriend. Naomi.
We’ve been dating three weeks. |
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