“Y’know, that’s the second time you saved me today,” she teases. “I owe you, Superman.”
“Must be the house,” I tease back. It’s nothing more than sharing a stupid joke. But, man . . . it feels good to share something.
“You’re just like him, aren’t you?” she calls up at me.
“Who?” I ask, assuming she’s talking about my father.
“Andrew. My brother,” she says. “He was protective, too—and the walls he kept around himself . . . just like with you, they’re too tall,” she explains. “But that’s why you brought me, isn’t it? To help you lower them.”
I’m about to remind her that we brought her only because we couldn’t leave her at the airport.
But I don’t.
“Cal, we really should get her to a hotel,” my dad interrupts, helping her down the ladder. “It’s not safe for her to run around like this.”
“You think?” I ask. “When she’s with us, we can at least—”
“What the french toast? What’d I tell you ’bout letting people in my roof?” a female voice calls out, making the word roof rhyme with hoof.
Taking off the backpack and squeezing down through the hole, I spot Mrs. Johnsel coming up the stairs.
“Possums are back,” her husband says, calm as ever.
“I told you that. You said it was rain.” She then looks up at me. She’s not mad, just confused. “I thought they just wanted to see the bedroom?”
“They got an attic copy,” Johnsel says.
“A whut?”
I hop off the ladder and unzip the backpack. “We were hoping to find some more details about this,” I say, pulling out the wax-paper sleeve with the Superman comic inside.
She studies the translucent cover and the typewritten address. “You should go to the museum. They got one just like it.” Looking down at the white dust all over the floor, she adds, “This better not be asbestos.”
“Wait. There’s a Superman museum?” I ask.
“This should be the museum,” Mrs. Johnsel says, bending down and picking up the small bits of plaster and rocks that’re scattered across the landing. “Can you believe the city of Cleveland wouldn’t give us a plaque to put out front? Superman was born here! Not even a plaque!”
“Um . . . you were saying about the museum,” my father jumps in.
“It’s just an exhibit—Maltz Jewish Museum. By the temple over on Richmond,” Mrs. Johnsel explains. “I think you’d like it. They have one of those attic copies. Plus they got all sorts of biblical stuff, too.” She turns casually to her husband. “We got prayer group before dinner. Don’t think of being late.”
45
He parked the rental car around back to stay out of sight.
“You stay here, girl,” Ellis said, giving Benoni a strong stroke along her ears. He kept the car running to make sure she’d be warm, but even with the window cracked, the dog’s breath puffed like smoke in the Cleveland air. “Relax, girl. This won’t take long.”
He walked calmly up the snow-covered alley, sticking to the far left side as he marched toward the front steps of the run-down house. There were lights on inside. Someone was definitely home.
In his pocket, he felt for the jet injector and released the cap from the nozzle. The only reason he’d gotten this far was by not leaving witnesses. And as he knew in his heart, this was a war that had lasted over a hundred years. There must be casualties. “It’s cold here,” he whispered into his phone.
“You’re still better waiting outside,” the Prophet said on the other line. “Let Cal do the legwork. He’ll have it soon. And when he does—”
“I don’t believe in Calvin. I believe in myself,” Ellis insisted, staring at his breath in the night air. “And I believe Cain’s Book was a test. Just as today, it’s a test for me.”
“Then it’s a test you’ll fail. Because if you make a scene and the cops come— The last thing we need is for Cal to run. If he runs—and I’m learning this myself—you will not get what you want, do you understand? You should see him right now—born investigator. And the way this is headed, I think we’re finally on to something good.”
Ellis slapped the phone shut and looked up at the bright blue-and-red house. The Prophet may’ve been right about coming to Cleveland, but the Prophet didn’t care about the destiny that Ellis’s mother laid out for him. The Prophet didn’t care about the Leadership and his family’s dream. The Prophet just wanted the Book. The birthright. The Judge warned him as much. And for all the Judge’s faults, he was right about this: The Prophet wasn’t Leadership. And as long as that was true, the Prophet wasn’t on their side. In the end, Ellis knew it was no different than with Timothy, Zhao, or even Cal. Only one of them could get what he wanted.
Lumbering up the front steps, he put his foot in each of the shallow snow footprints left by Cal. There were other footprints, too. One of them small. Like a woman’s. With two hard raps, Ellis banged on the front door. A handwritten sign in the window said, “Superman’s House!!!”
“Easy . . . easy,” a man called from inside. With a thunk and a twist, the door swung open, and Mr. Johnsel studied Ellis for a full five seconds. But Ellis knew that look. All the man saw was the uniform. And the badge. “Whatsda problem, Officer?”
“No problem at all,” Ellis said, forcing a sickly grin. He should’ve come here sooner. The last known location of the Book of Lies.
46
How many?” an older woman with a doughy face asks at the front desk of the museum.
“Three,” I tell her.
She stares, confused, seeing only me. Over my shoulder, the front door to the museum opens and my dad steps inside. It was his idea: waiting in the car to see if anyone followed. But as the door opens, for a moment, I could’ve sworn he was talking to someone out there. “All clear,” he announces to me.
The woman’s still confused. “You said three?”
“We have— In the bathroom,” I explain, pointing behind me at the ladies’ room.
“Welcome to Metropolis,” the doughy woman says with a far too high level of joy as she hands me the tickets. “Though remember, we’re only open till five.”
I look at my watch. Less than fifteen minutes.
“C’mon, Serena!” I call out, heading past the restroom just as the door swings open.
Surprised to see me so close, she jumps back, stuffing something into her purse.
“Who were you talking to?” I ask.
“Pardon?”
“Your phone. Sorry,” I add as I point with my chin, “it looked like . . . in your purse . . . you were putting back your phone.”
She stares straight at me for barely a second. It’s a helluva long second. “Just checking messages,” she finally replies, calm as ever. Reading my expression, she adds, “You believe me, right?”
I’m lied to every single day by most of my clients. But as I look at her . . . “I believe you, Serena.”
“Don’t use the phone anymore, okay?” my father barks, so clearly pissed that the woman at the ticket desk looks our way.
“Okay, everybody lose the claws,” I say. “We’re all tired . . . we’ve got twelve minutes till closing . . . Let’s just be—”
“Faster than a speeding bullet!” a baritone voice announces behind us.
“See, now that’s just horrible,” Serena says, rolling her eyes as we turn toward the official entrance of the exhibit.
Beneath the tall glass windows and across the long rectangular Jerusalem stone lobby, a six-foot-tall statue of Superman holds a giant Earth over his head. On the Earth, there’s a little red flag stuck into Cleveland with a note that says, “Birthplace of Superman!”