The Book of Lies - Brad Meltzer [74]
“Is that true?” I interrupt.
“What, the five kids?”
“No. The wallpaper. Did they really draw on the back of wallpaper?”
The curator nods. “It’s as much a part of the lore as the hot rainy night and the crabapple tree. Why? You think that’s important?”
My eyes lock with Naomi’s. She won’t give me a smile, but I see that grin in her eyes.
“You said this is the only attic copy you’ve seen with the address typed on the outside?” she asks, pointing to the wax-paper covering.
Again, the curator nods.
“Maybe we should take another look at the house,” I say.
My father stands up, suddenly excited.
“No, whoa, whoa—you think this is some kinda team-up?” Naomi shoots back, approaching the table and making sure we again see her gun. “Timothy’s still missing, and you’re the last ones he was with. You two are being dropped off for questioning.”
“And then what?” I ask. “You’ll bring us inside and put up with the two hours of paperwork it’ll take before they let you leave us there, at which point Ellis will already have beaten you to the source, since I’m guessing he was right behind us and, no offense, ahead of you. This isn’t Miami, Naomi. We’ve already been to the Siegel house. If you plan on being fast—and on actually finding something—you’re better off taking us with you.”
She knows the logic’s right, but that doesn’t mean she’s agreeing to it. “Maybe I should just give you my gun, too,” she offers. “That way when I’m chauffeuring you around, you can put a hole in my head nice and easy.”
“You really think my goal is to hurt you, Naomi?”
“I was there when you got fired, Cal. There’s a reason you’re in those cuffs.”
I glance down at my wrists. PlastiCuffs are lightweight and easy to carry, but as any cop knows, if you wedge something small into the zipper . . . like, say, an unbent paper clip you grabbed from this filing cabinet . . . well . . . With a light tug, I free my left wrist, then my right, then toss the cuffs back to Naomi.
“If I wanted your gun, I’d have that, too,” I tell her.
“You’re wrong. I spotted you three minutes ago.”
“I’ve been free for over ten. Now do you wanna go recheck the attic bedroom or would you rather stay here and leave Ellis to take the prize?”
50
Ellis’s back was hurting as he reached the top step of the second-floor landing. He understood the Johnsels’ fears. In this neighborhood, there were real consequences for inviting a police officer into your home. But that didn’t mean he was staying outside, he reminded himself as he lugged the second body up the stairs. It was actually a blessing for the Johnsels. Being with God was far better than being in that prayer group they were screaming about.
The house was dark now, but Ellis was still smart enough to stay away from the windows. He’d learned that years ago when he and his dad began their life of hiding.
Back then, the rules were clear: With Mom dead, her family would be on the hunt for them. Ellis never questioned why. Looking back, he should’ve known something was wrong. So much of it didn’t make sense: Yes, Mom was dead. But his father never cried. There was no funeral. No grave. So rules were rules: No playing outside, no letting anyone spot you. Ellis used that same approach in school, in life—even as he rose through the ranks on the force. There were benefits to lying low and skills that came with growing up a ghost.
His dad learned—the Johnsels learned—Ellis was good at not being seen.
But that didn’t mean he couldn’t be found.
There was a low buzz as his phone began to vibrate. Ellis picked up without saying hello.
“Ellis, I know you’re there,” the Prophet said on the line. “Stay where you are. Cal . . . all of us . . . we’re on our way.”
51
From the museum, to the parking lot, to the ride back past the burned-out storefronts of Martin Luther King Jr. Drive, I keep peeking in the side mirror, searching every headlight behind us and being careful that Naomi doesn