The Book of Lies - Brad Meltzer [105]
“Sure it did.”
I pause at this, for the first time wondering if he might be right. “Even still . . . if I hadn’t walked in—if she hadn’t turned to me—I’m the only reason she didn’t see it coming.”
The dmm dmm dmm flattens and disappears as we leave the bridge. The world has never been more silent.
“Calvin, she forgives you,” my dad insists.
They’re just words—stupid, empty words—but the tears quickly well in my eyes.
“I—I know,” I say, wiping them away. “She forgives you, too.”
He tightens his jaw, unable to face me. His reflection in the passenger window nods a thank-you. He’s fighting to hold it together.
“So you really talk to her that much?” I ask.
“Cal, when Jerry Siegel died in 1996, half his ashes were put in a copper urn, and the rest were put in a hollowed-out set of fake books with all of Jerry’s creations on the spine—Superman, Clark Kent, Lois Lane—which his wife is saving for whenever Cleveland decides to take that synagogue’s exhibit and build a proper Superman museum. That way he can be with his fans forever.”
“Who told you that?”
“It was in the pamphlet Serena got from the exhibit. The point is, as death gets closer—it’s no different than this Book of Truth—what’s so wrong with wanting someone you love to live forever?”
Following the curves in the road, I tug the wheel to the right, sending both my dad and myself leaning to the left. For the first time since we’ve been together, I’ve got no reason to argue.
Within ten minutes, we’re out of the park as the powdered pine trees are once again replaced by fast-food signs, empty rest stops, and far too many billboards for local massage parlors. The neighborhood’s sinking quickly.
My dad doesn’t care. He’s still lost in thought and wiping his eyes. But even that fades as we leave the exit and the local two-lane road eventually reveals our destination: a four-story slablike brick building filled with hundreds of narrow, vertically slit windows.
Of course there’s no welcome sign. They don’t welcome anyone at the Ohio State Penitentiary. But that doesn’t mean they can keep us out.
71
If you really missed us that bad, you coulda just sent us a card,” the young nurse said to Naomi as he cut away the dead gray skin from the bullet wound in her shoulder.
“That’s funny,” Naomi replied, using her free hand to dial a number on her phone. “You should be on M*A*S*H.”
“What’s M*A*S*H?” the nurse asked.
Naomi looked up, staring at him. “Oh, God—you’re not even twenty, are you?”
The sharp ring of Naomi’s phone interrupted the exchange.
“Scotty?” she answered.
“Nope. Becky,” replied a woman with a cigarette-scarred voice. “Becky Alter.”
“I don’t know any Becky Alters.”
“From C3.”
“I don’t know what that is, either. Ow!” she hissed, pulling away from the nurse’s dabbing Q-tips.
“Sorry,” the nurse whispered. “It needs to be cleaned.”
“It can wait two minutes,” Naomi shot back, shooing the nurse out of the small curtained exam room. “Go Google M*A*S*H. It’ll make you smarter.”
“C3—Cyber Crimes Center,” Becky explained. “I do computer forensics here at ICE. I was at your birthday party.”
“Of course, of course,” Naomi said, eyeing her wet, open wound, which was now burning from whatever cleaning ointment the nurse had put on it. Naomi was nauseated just looking at it and took a seat on the gurney to steady her stomach. “You have dark hair.”
“I’m blond,” Becky said. “Don’t fret. I just came for free cake,” she added with all the sensitivity of someone who does computer forensics. “Leastways . . . I just finished picking through those files you asked for.”
“I asked for files?”
“The ones Scotty sent—through HUD—Service Point homeless records for a Calvin Harper: all the people he picked up during the last year.”
“No—of course,” she said, remembering the database entries from Cal’s laptop. “What took so long?”
“Long? Scotty just sent them last night. This is fast,” Becky pointed out. “So not to panic you, but there’s one record here I think you need to