The Book of Lies - Brad Meltzer [116]
Down on my knees, I give my dad a few breaths and start CPR. He coughs, breathing quickly, but the bleeding in his belly won’t stop. The red puddle on his shirt swells and expands, starting to bleed onto the floor. I grab a rag from the sink and start applying pressure. We need paramedics.
“Ahuuh . . . ahhuh . . .” my father coughs, unable to lift his head as he turns my way. His voice is less than a whisper. “I—I didn’t mean to— I tried to do better, Cal.”
I nod, refusing to look down at him.
“I mean it, Cal. And when I—ahuuh—w-when I . . . in the car . . . what I said about Mom. N-None of that changes.”
His voice cracks and fades with each syllable. His face is pale, all the color running from the hole in his belly. He knows what’s coming. His last wound was superficial. This one is deep.
“D-Didja hear me?” he whispers. “With Mom . . . please . . . none of that changes.”
He’s begging now, his eyes flooded with tears.
I shake my head, feeling my own bubble in my throat. “Of course it changes, Dad. Of course it damn well changes.”
“He’s stealing it!” Roosevelt rails, spit still flying through the bars. “Tell them, Cal! You need to tell them!” he shouts as he finally looks over his shoulder to face me.
I’m already racing at him.
My fists. Still made of thunder.
Roosevelt turns just as I swing, but he never sees the punch coming.
78
Four days later
Orchard Lake, Michigan
Few things excited Ellis. It wasn’t that he wasn’t capable of the emotion. But life delivers far less disappointment when your expectations are low.
Still, as he pulled up to the circular driveway of the tasteful, snow-capped Georgian Colonial—as he parked the car and reached over to the passenger seat to pick up the worn leather case that used to house his jet injector—Ellis’s heart, his ears, everything was buzzing.
“Let’s go, Benoni,” he said as the dog leaped out of the car, and Ellis strode after her. He could swear the Michigan wind was whistling just for him.
Tonight, no question, was worth the excitement.
Sure, Ellis could’ve come sooner. But the wounds in his chest and stomach . . . to get them cleaned and stitched . . . No. This was his arrival. The completion of his mother’s wish. He needed to be strong.
Ignoring the front door of the house, Ellis followed the Judge’s instructions and took the slate path to the guesthouse around back. The Judge was still a public man. And this—to unlock the birthright—tonight had to be private.
“This way, Benoni,” he called out, keeping the dog from running into the woods.
“Boy, what a beauty,” a croaky bullfrog of a voice called out as the door to the guesthouse opened. Leaning down to welcome Benoni, Judge Felix Wojtowicz looked older—much older—than when Ellis first came to visit a year ago.
“Okay to give her a treat?” the Judge asked, wiping his wispy white hair to the side as he welcomed Ellis into the bungalow, which held a modest home office, a leather sofa, and a mirrored bar in the corner. “I saved her some steak. It’s filet.”
Ellis couldn’t help but grin. The Judge was sucking up now.
“She loves filet,” Ellis said as Wojtowicz knelt down to let Benoni eat from his hand.
“I saw the story in yesterday’s paper,” the Judge added. “You know, they had your picture in there. From the prison videocamera. I understand Cal’s using that as support for his own defense. It’ll work.”
“I’m aware. But he still lost what mattered, and I don’t just mean his friend,” Ellis said, delicately setting the leather case on the bar’s glass countertop. He took a final deep breath as he unzipped the case and carefully, so carefully, peeled through the thick wad of bubble wrap and acid-free tissue paper to reveal the precious prize inside.
“My great-grandfather died for this,” Ellis said as he held the gray-and-ivory-striated animal horn in his open palms and turned toward the Judge. “You better know how to read it.”
The Judge studied the object, nodding over and over. Goats, cows, sheep—most horns were composed