The Book of Lies (39 page)

“Why don’t you come inside, Mr. . .”

“Cal Harper,” I say, extending a hand.

“Joanne,” she says, inviting me in without shaking back. “Where’d you find the art?”

“In Jerry’s Cleveland house. In his room,” I say, watching as she stares at the comic panels in my hand. “You didn’t know they were there, did you?”

She doesn’t answer. Instead, she leads me into her living room, which is decorated in light pastels and sea-foam green. Just like the prison. There’s a bookcase on our left, but the rest of the walls are filled—absolutely stacked—with picture frame after picture frame of family photos. Pictures of her and Jerry, her and her daughter, her and her grandchildren. There’s not a single one of Superman.

Over by a white Formica credenza, she reaches for the double cassette player and lowers the Dean Martin volume—but doesn’t turn it off. She doesn’t like being alone. Me neither.

She takes a seat on her wicker-and-peach sofa, crossing her ankles like a true lady. “Tell me what you want from us, Mr. Harper.”

“No. No no no. I don’t want anything.”

“Then why’re you here?”

“I’m just— It’s hard to explain.”

She raises a thin eyebrow. “Every single day of my Jerry’s life, someone wanted something: the lawyers, the reporters, the so-called fans, and don’t even start me on the publisher. Before the whole mess went public, when Jerry was in his sixties, y’know he was reduced to sorting mail? The man creates a billion-dollar legend, and he spent his twilight years dropping packages on people’s desks and fighting to get paid for it. Even when they finally wrote the check and tried to make right, everyone eventually wanted something from him, Mr. Harper. So you might as well tell me: Are you doing this for the cash or just for the story?”

“I know this sounds odd, Mrs. Siegel. But I think . . . I think I’m doing this for my father, if that makes any sense.”

“It doesn’t make any sense at all.”

“I know, but I was right before, wasn’t I? Jerry did witness his dad’s murder.”

At first, she’s silent, staring off at the family photos that fill the wall. “You need to understand, in the comic book, Superman was the hero, and Clark Kent was the act. But in real life . . . Clark Kent . . . that was Jerry. The awkwardness, the fears, even the slight stammer—he was the little guy that the bully would kick sand at on the beach. But that would all disappear when he was talking about his stories. Then he was a dynamo—excited, energized—able to hold his own with anyone. It was like he had this well of strength inside him that would overflow once you got him in his element. But only when he was in his element. Did you ever meet anyone like that?”

I can’t help but nod, seeing my own reflection in a nearby picture frame. “Every single day.”

“Y’know Hitler banned Superman? Mussolini also. Jerry was flying then. But when he lost the rights to Superman—when they took his name off it—Jerry the dynamo disappeared, too. But even then, even at his lowest, when the electric company said they were shutting our power off, he was still strong inside. Jerry took that beating in front of everyone. And that—I can’t explain it—but I know that strength came from his dad.”

“That him?” I ask, pointing to a gray-tone photo of a young, mustached man in a Russian army uniform. His body is small and thin, barely filling his buttoned tunic. In the photo, he’s posed in front of a railing, as though he’s holding it to stand.

“That’s Mitchell,” she says.

“So Jerry spoke of him often?”

“No. He just . . . he spoke of him
differently.
”

“But never in public.”

“See, that’s the misconception. Sure, Jerry gave thousands of interviews, but just because he never mentioned his father, people want to see it as a flaw or a controversy—or say that Jerry didn’t want to be pitied as the little boy who lost his parent. But that’s not why Jerry was so quiet about his dad.”

“You think he was protecting him,” I say.

“He was protecting
something
,” she acknowledges.

“And you know what it is.”

“I never said that, Mr. Harper.”

I shake my head, turning toward the bookcase on my left. The shelves are packed with mostly romance novels and a few random hardbacks, but along the top shelf, there’s a set of tall leather books with the words
Superman
,
Clark Kent
, and
Lois Lane
across their respective spines. “I know about the ashes, Mrs. Siegel.”

For the first time since I’ve been here, Joanne Siegel’s high cheeks fall.

To be fair, it was my father who mentioned the story: of Jerry Siegel splitting his ashes between a copper urn and a set of hollowed-out fake books that his wife was saving for when Cleveland finally builds a true Superman museum. But it wasn’t until Alberto said the magic words that the truth finally hit me. Once people think there are ashes in something, it becomes the one hiding spot no one’ll ever open.

Shazam.

“You’re going to take it away now, aren’t you?” she asks.

“I promised you, ma’am, I don’t want anything.”

I walk toward the shelf. Joanne stays silent.

“Can you at least tell me what it is?” she finally asks.

Glancing over my shoulder, I stare back at Jerry Siegel’s widow. Of course he never told her. The contents inside had already cost his father his life. If his wife knew the truth . . . if they ever came after her . . . No way would Superman ever put Lois in danger.

“You really don’t know?” I ask.

“I have an idea. But not for sure.”

I pull out the fake books and realize there’s one more book attached to the set: a green one that says
The Spectre
on the spine. “The Spectre?”

“Jerry’s other great creation: A murdered man gets sent back by God to take vengeance on evil sinners,” Joanne explains.

“Sounds pretty biblical.”

“All the best stories are,” she says. “Jerry always said that. Don’t you see? Comic books aren’t just a ragbag of words and pictures. The Superman story exists in every culture on this planet. We all need our heroes. And our villains. So how could it not be like the Bible? Jerry apologized for it, but I don’t. There’s nothing wrong with wanting someone to save us—or admitting we can’t do it all ourselves.”

“Yeah . . . my pastor used to say that.”

“Your pastor’s right. Jerry never learned that part. Always thought he could fight the world himself—or at the very least outsmart it,” she says, focusing back on the hollow books that supposedly hold half of her husband’s ashes.

With her nodded permission, I lower them from the shelf, and it’s clear that all the volumes are glued together as one. Sure enough, there’s a small latch in back. With a flick, it opens and the spines of the books pop forward half an inch, like a barely opened drawer.

“You’re nervous,” Joanne Siegel says behind me.

But all I hear is Roosevelt’s voice buzzing in my head with theories of God’s most precious gift passing from Adam to Cain, from Mitchell Siegel to his son, and at the cherry-top of this surreal sundae, somehow, from my father to me. According to Roosevelt, when Cain repented, God gave him a mark, a sign, this Book of Truth that contained the secrets of immortality.

I don’t believe in magic. Or immortal gifts from God. But I do believe that there are some sons who will do anything to carry out their father’s final wishes. And protect their family.

I edge my fingertip into the crack and pull on the spines of the books, revealing a deep, tissue-lined compartment that holds two sheets of paper stuck together. I finger-tweeze them out, feeling how sticky they are. Of course. Jerry’s favorite. Wax paper.

Like the holder for the original comic book, the paper’s been melted and sealed around the edges, preserving whatever’s inside. I try my best to peer through it—there’s definitely writing of some kind—but it’s all mottled and brown, impossible to read. This isn’t another comic book. From the crumbled bits of sand and stone collected at the bottom, it’s something far older than that.

After tearing the corner of the wax paper, I poke my finger in and slide it like a letter opener down the right-hand side. My hands should be trembling. But they’re not. Whatever’s inside, I just want the answer.

A thin stream of sand pours down in a fine waterfall as my letter opener finger slides along the bottom edge of the wax seal. Inside is an ancient sheet of—it’s not paper. The way it’s yellowed and dried . . . as if it’s written on some kind of animal skin. But it’s not until I fold back the protective wax cover that I get my first good look.

My eyes narrow, then widen. Dean Martin continues his serenade.

Oh my wow.

It . . . it exists: the one and only chapter of the Book of Truth.

Behind me, Joanne says something. I don’t hear it. The only sound in the world is the slow-motion
poomp-puuum
of my own heartbeat.

Bits of the dried animal skin crack off as I touch it.

It’s not some cryptic message in Hebrew. Or Greek. Or some lost ancient tongue I can’t understand.

The Book of Truth is written in the one language the whole world speaks.

It’s a picture.

And it’s glorious.

At first it looks like an etching, but the way it’s framed at the corners—like a stamp . . . or a seal. The horn . . . this is the carving that was on the horn. Someone pressed it in ink and rolled it like a rubber stamp. Right onto the skin.

I study the lines, which are rough, almost primitive. The pale brown color . . . it’s dried blood. Ancient blood. But what makes my eyes well with tears is the picture itself: It’s rudimentary, with poor, crude dimensions—but there’s no mistaking the image of a young child sitting on his parent’s lap—his father’s lap—as the man whispers something in his ear.

A story.

A father telling his child a story.

My brain turns into the skid, searching for traction. At first I assume it’s Adam, whispering to Abel . . . to Cain . . . it’s gotta be one of his sons. My eyes scan it again, inspecting each ragged line for clues. The way the father leans in close . . . the way the boy dips his head downward, like he’s relishing every detail. I think of Bible stories from when I was young—of Noah and his quest to save God’s creatures. I think of Jerry Siegel, alone in his bedroom, staring at his ceiling. And of course, I think of my father and all the secrets and stories I missed. So much harm comes into this world when the wrong thing is said. But that’s nothing compared to the pain from what goes unsaid.

The image blurs from my tears, but with an eyeblink, they’re gone. And I see father and son and story. Clear as can be.

Roosevelt . . . Roosevelt was right. It
is
a birthright—a mark—a sign—the ultimate remembrance—a “book” that Adam created to pass all earthly knowledge. The instructions are right there:

Tell your story.

That’s the secret of immortality. The one true way to live forever.

“So it’s one of Mitchell’s old sketches, right? Something he did for Jerry maybe back in Lithuania?” Joanne calls out behind me.

I blink more tears from my eyes and feel the smile that’s overtaken my face, and all I can think about is Ellis and the Thules. Their theories were so wrong. But when they called it magic . . .

They were absolutely right.

“Yeah, it’s just one of Mitchell’s old sketches,” I say, sliding the brittle parchment back into its protective cover, which I tuck back into its hollow hiding spot behind Jerry’s greatest creations.

“Jerry always hoped it would go into a Superman museum—y’know, let his dad live on and all. But Cleveland barely seems to acknowledge that Jerry and Joe even existed. I mean, those boys created
Superman
, for God’s sake. But you know how it is . . . some dreams linger for years.”

“And some last forever,” I tell her, returning the fake books to the shelf.

“So that’s it? You just came to see the sketch? No Superman questions? No were-you-really-the-model-for-Lois-Lane?”

“I got what I needed, ma’am, thank you,” I tell her. “By the way, these are for you,” I add as I hand her the four original comic strips that we pulled from Jerry’s wall.

She fans out all four panels on the glass table in front of her, then stares at them with the kind of look that elderly women save for their wedding photos.

“I can’t pay you for these,” she says, her voice quivering.

“Your husband already did,” I say, heading for the door. I know they’re worth a ton. I don’t care. Everything eventually has to make its way home again.

“Wait!”

She thanks me with a sweet peck on the cheek. I got a kiss from Lois Lane. Then Joanne Siegel waves good-bye, and the door closes behind me.

I head down the breezeway, the father and son image still fixed in my mind.

“What’s with the happy face?” a familiar voice calls out.

I turn just in time to see Naomi sitting on the bottom step of the open stairwell. There’s a bandage still on her arm.

“You’re kidding, right?” I ask. “C’mon, Rambo, war’s over.”

“I can’t help myself. We always get our man.”

“Naomi, my deal with your bosses—to nail Roosevelt, to ID Ellis—we’re done. Finished. So don’t take this the wrong way, but coming this far? Sometimes you just gotta let things go.”

“Says the man who couldn’t stop chasing his dad.”

It’s a slight push, but I see that smirk in her eyes.

“Look, Cal, I just wanted to say . . . no hard feelings, okay?”

I know her better than that. “You flew all this way just to say
thanks
?”

“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.”