“Keep going.”
“The point is, Naomi—on that first night Cal found his father, he keyed in his dad’s Social Security number and entered him into the database.”
“So?”
“So Cal’s dad’s name came right up.”
“Again . . . so?”
“And again . . . so Cal’s database isn’t NCIC—he doesn’t have a full list of everyone on the planet. The only people in there are people who were put in there.”
“And for the third time . . . why is that so damn important?”
“Naomi, you have to understand: On most nights, when Cal enters a client’s Social Security number, it’s not just so the government can play big brother and I Spy from the Sky. It’s so Cal can pull up the homeless person’s records and see who he’s dealing with. Does this person have a history of drugs? Of mental illness? When was the last time they were helped? Or is this someone just leeching off the system, who goes to a different place every night? Cal covers the entire Fort Lauderdale area—he needs this information to do his job.”
“But you’re saying Cal’s dad was already in his system.”
“There you go. If it were any other night, Cal would’ve scanned the file, looking for details about whoever they found. But when his father’s name popped up . . .”
“. . . Cal went bursting from the van, anxious to start dealing with his daddy issues.”
“And thus he misses one key detail about his father’s background.”
“So which is it?” Naomi asked. “Drugs? Mental illness? You should’ve seen Lloyd attack me with that trophy. He’s a sociopath, isn’t he?”
“Not according to his Service Point file. In fact, the last time he got picked up . . . Dad’s got some real issues.”
“Define issues.”
“He’s suicidal,” Becky said as Naomi hopped off the gurney. “His case notes say he was a mess, too. Found him on Fort Lauderdale beach four months ago after he swallowed fifty tabs of trazodone and fell in a pile of fire ants that were—no joke—eating him alive.”
“Okay, and that makes me officially feel bad,” Naomi agreed. “But I’m confused. You said Dad was picked up four months ago—that that’s when he was put in the system. But if Cal picked him up . . . even with the fire ants, didn’t he recognize his own father?”
“See, that’s where I was stuck, too. Until I finally started thinking that maybe Cal wasn’t the one who found him that first night.”
“Wait, I don’t get it,” Naomi shot back. “You just said Dad was found on the beach in Fort Lauderdale. That’s Cal’s route, right? But if Cal wasn’t the one who picked Dad up, who else is driving around in a homeless van except for—?”
This time, Becky didn’t say a word.
Naomi grabbed a nearby IV pole just to help her stand.
“Fudge. Me,” she whispered to herself.
76
I understand pain. I’ve lived with pain my entire life. But pain is nothing compared to betrayal. And betrayal is nothing compared to knowing that the javelin in your back was rammed there by the one person in your life you actually trusted.
His ponytail swings like a hypnotist’s watch as he calmly enters the room. I have no idea how he got in here or how he even—
“Cal, you need to listen to these words,” Roosevelt says, his hands out and his palms up. “I need you to hear this, okay? I’m sorry this had to happen. I mean that. This was never supposed to be about you.”
“Y-You’re the Prophet,” I blurt.
“You’re not listening, are you?”
“In the park—when we stumbled onto my dad—that was no stumble, was it?” I stutter. “You knew he’d be there, didn’t you? Just like you knew I’d come running to— How could—? You’re supposed to be my brother!”
“I still am. Don’t you see?” he asks. “Months ago, when I started setting up the shipment . . . when I got word that the man in the coffin—the doctor in China—was dying—I could’ve asked you from the start. But I was trying to protect you.”
“That’s how you protect me? By using my dad as some emotional carrot and then . . . with Ellis . . . You sent that psycho to kill me!”
“No. That’s not— Cal, if there wasn’t that hold notice, I never would’ve involved you. Never. In fact, I didn’t find your dad until after the doctor died. But as I was putting together the shipment—to see your dad on the street that night—how could I ignore a sign like that?”
“That wasn’t a sign! It was my father!”
“And I did nothing but right by him. I saved his life! But with that shipment coming—you know what it’s worth and how easily those things get stopped. I didn’t know if I’d need you, Cal. Your dad was just— I needed insurance.”
“Oh, then that’s a far more forgivable story. So now my dad was just your lucky rabbit’s foot? What’d you do, 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?”