“So?”
“So now, maybe this Prophet doesn’t need Ellis anymore. Maybe he’s feeling secure about his position and doesn’t want Ellis screwing it up, or even worse, having Ellis take it all for himself—so he knocks Ellis out the window, which conveniently uncorks the pressure cooker but still leaves all the pawns on the board, just in case he needs to play them later.”
Across the street, there’s an old Plymouth in a snowed-in parking spot. The driver guns the engine, but the wheels spin hopelessly. I know exactly how he feels. “So you’re saying my dad’s the Prophet?”
“Your dad . . . Serena—maybe it’s both of them. But ask yourself: How did this all start, Cal? Because you saw your father that night in the park, right? Then when you got the hold notice taken off his shipment, you started realizing that as much as he tried to act clueless, he always seemed to have this uncanny sense for what was really going on. Then he convinces you to go off to Cleveland, promising to track down whoever hired him. But whatever happened to that search? Has he spent a single minute on it? No. And the reason you can’t find who hired your dad . . . well, maybe it’s simply because no one hired your dad. Or his girlfriend.”
The wheels of the Plymouth continue their futile spin. The driver just needs a push. Up the block, there’s half a dozen people waiting at a bus stop, all of them watching. Not one of them gets up to help.
“I know you want the happy ending, Cal—and I know what you’re really chasing up there with your father—but don’t forget, in the original Pinocchio story, Jiminy Cricket gets stomped and left for dead. By Pinocchio.”
“Thanks for that. But I’m not my father’s conscience,” I insist.
“You sure about that?”
I stare at the stranded Plymouth, tempted to help. But there’s a reason I didn’t bring my dad or Serena or even our rental car. When I close my eyes, I picture the Johnsels’ lifeless bodies spread awkwardly across their mattress. The only thing keeping me from joining them is staying out of sight. Lowering my head, I walk past the Plymouth. Destination is the Burger King that’s dead ahead. I don’t need food. But they have something far more valuable. “Can we please get back to the research?” I plead. “What’d you find out about this Book of Lies?”
Through the phone, I hear Roosevelt turning pages. “I know this’ll sound a little hoo-ha, but . . . I think it’s a murder weapon.”
“The book is?” I laugh as my frozen breath fills the air. “Must’ve been a hell of a paper cut.”
“I’m serious, Cal. Scholars have spent centuries theorizing that Cain killed Abel with a rock or a club or even the jawbone of an ass. But one of the oldest theories is that Cain used, of all things, a book.”
“And I suppose no one cares about the fact that Cain’s tirade supposedly took place thousands of years before the Chinese or the Egyptians got their hands on a single piece of papyrus?” I ask as I peer over my shoulder. A local bus hisses to a stop at the bus bench, carting all the people away. Even the Plymouth is gone. Good sign. I cut as fast as I can into the Burger King parking lot.
“Sure, today, when we hear the word book, we think bound paper between two covers. But let your brain stretch a little, Cal. If someone carved a message on the blade of a sword . . . or along the length of an ancient wooden staff . . . or on a sacred tablet . . . Couldn’t those be books?”
I stop just outside the Burger King, stealing a peek through the glass. It’s cold out here. And colder every minute. “Just tell me what the book theory says.”
“According to the story, knowing that the great flood is coming, God instructs Adam to create a book—in Jewish legend, they’re said to be carved pillars; in Babylonia, they use the word tablets—but God tells Adam to fill it with all earthly knowledge, and that Adam should give this birthright to his most favored son. When Adam chooses Abel, well . . . Cain grabs it in a fit of jealousy and turns it into the world’s first murder weapon. But as I’ve always said, the real story is what happens next. As penance for the crime, even the Bible says that God gave Cain a Mark—and from what I can tell here—I think this Mark and the Book are actually the same thing.”
“Says who?” I ask as I watch two teenagers placing their order at the counter. There’s a man with a red scarf standing behind them. I can’t see his face.
“Again, it’s all translation. The word Mark in Mark of Cain comes from the Hebrew word Ot. And when I was looking at some of these other theories, Ot can just as easily be translated as an omen. A sign. A remembrance.”
“So God gave Cain a remembrance—the actual murder weapon—to remind him of what he’d done.”
“That’s the idea. And when you trace the word Ot in the Bible, the next time it’s used is to refer to Moses’s rod that turns into a snake in front of Pharaoh—an everyday item that suddenly becomes a deadly weapon.”
“I don’t know,” I say, still studying the man with the red scarf. “Old tablets . . . weapons of Cain . . . I’m really supposed to believe this all happened, much less somehow survived to modern days?”
“You can roll your eyes all you want, but nearly all we know of ancient Greece comes from the clay and stone artifacts that survived.”
“But if this tablet or book or animal skin or whatever it is—assuming it was filled with all the world’s earthly knowledge—why would having it be such a punishment?”
“See, that’s where Ellis was finally helpful,” Roosevelt says as the man with the red scarf turns my way. He’s no older than the teenagers. Just a kid. Nothing to worry about. “When Cain grew jealous of Abel and killed him for it, God gave Cain a very different book to carry.”
“A Book of Lies.”
“That’s what Ellis called it. Penance, punishment . . . a remembrance for Cain,” Roosevelt says as I cross around to the side of the Burger King and check the seating area. “Look at it this way, Cal—whether this book is filled with lies or all the world’s knowledge—don’t underestimate the power that people attribute to a sacred object.”
In the seating area of the Burger King, an employee wipes down one of the tables. The teenagers share a booth in the corner. No one else is there. “You really believe all this is real?” I ask as I pull open the door and head for the bathroom in back.
“You really believe it’s all fake?”
I stop at the door to the men’s room, still picturing the way Ellis stroked his tattoo and stared so obsessively at his pointy-eared dog.
“Cal, the only thing more frightening than a disbeliever is a true believer.”
Entering the bathroom, I know Roosevelt’s right. But that’s what brought me here.
A quick glance around tells me I’m alone. Perfect.
Ducking into the single open stall, I ignore the usual mess of graffitied insults that decorate the walls, step up on the toilet, and reach for the grid of white ceiling tiles that’re directly overhead. With a push, I shove open the nearest square grid and pat inside the ceiling. Nothing. I lift another tile and try again. Still nothing. I don’t panic. This is the third restaurant I’ve tried. Sooner or later, one’ll be here.
Studying the rest of the ceiling, I spot a tile with a few smudges. Fingerprints. Bingo. With my fingers spread apart like a waiter balancing a tray, I lift up the white tile and slide it aside. Patting around inside, I feel nothing . . . nothing . . . kuuunk.