The Book of Lies - Brad Meltzer [124]
“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