The Book of Lies - Brad Meltzer [125]
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