The Book of Lies - Brad Meltzer [9]
“Gimme one sec,” I call out. The computer hums, our tracking software loads, and I click on the button marked Find Client. On-screen, a blank form opens, and I tab over to the section labeled SSN.
“Cal, you need to hurry,” Roosevelt adds as the man whispers something. At least he’s conscious. “He’s starting t—”
“Ready!” I insist, all set to type with one hand. In my other, I grip my cell and hit send as the 911 line starts ringing.
Years ago, if you wanted to drive around and work with the homeless, all you needed was a van and some Lysol. These days, the state of Florida won’t let you pick up a soul unless you’re logged on to the statewide computer network that tracks who’s where. The better to see you with, my dear. And the better to see what diseases, medication, and psychological history you’re carrying around as well.
“Zero seven eight, zero five, one one two zero,” Roosevelt announces as I key in the man’s Social Security number.
In my ear, the 911 line continues to ring.
In the distance, refusing to wait, Roosevelt rips open the man’s shirt and starts applying pressure to his wound.
And on-screen, I get my first look at his identity.
LLOYD RANDALL HARPER
DANIA BEACH, FLORIDA
DOB: JUNE 19—52 YEARS OLD
A swell of heat burns my chest, my throat. I can’t breathe. I open my mouth to call Roosevelt’s name, but my lips won’t move.
LLOYD RANDALL HARPER
My father.
“This is 911,” the operator announces in my ear. “What’s your emergency?”
4
Darting between two oak trees, I race through the black park as the rain collects in little rivers on my face. I ignore it. Just like I ignore my heart kicking from inside my rib cage. All I see is him.
When I was little, I used to have fantasies about finding my dad. That he’d be released early, and my aunt and I would run into him at dinner or while I was getting a haircut. I remember being in church on the plastic kneelers, praying that we’d find each other again in some dumb Disney movie way. But those dreams faded as he missed my tenth birthday. And eleventh. And twelfth. Within a few years, the childhood dreams shifted and hardened—to fantasies of not seeing him again. I can still run them in my head: elaborate escape plans for ducking down, running, disappearing. I’d ready myself, checking over my shoulder as I’d pass the bagel place where he used to love to get breakfast. And a few years after that, those dreams settled, too, entering that phase where you think of him only as much as you think of any other dead relative.
For the past nineteen years—for me—that’s all he’s been. Dead.
And now he’s crumpled at the base of a palm tree as a slow, leaky rain drips from above.
“Cal! Med kit!” Roosevelt shouts.
I cut past the white gazebo at the front of the park, and my foot slips in the grass, sending me flat on my ass, where the damp ground seeps through my pants.
“Cal, where are you?” Roosevelt calls without turning around.
It’s a fair question. I close my eyes and tell myself I’m still in the poorly lit park, but all I see is the tarnished doorknob in that spearmint-gum-and-hairspray room where my dad and I said good-bye. I blink once and the doorknob twists, revealing the child psychologist assigned by the state. It’s like that Moby song. When you have a damaged kid, you don’t ask, “How you feeling?” You give him a crayon and say, “Draw something nice.”
I drew lots of nice.
“Med kit!” Roosevelt snaps again.
I scramble to my feet. Years of training rush back. So do decade-old escape plans. I should turn around now. Let Roosevelt handle it. But if I do— No. Not until—
I need to know if it’s him.
Ten feet in front of me, Roosevelt still has the flashlight tucked under his armpit. It shines like a spotlight, showcasing the bloody inkblot stained into the man’s silk shirt. As I barrel toward them, Roosevelt turns my way and the armpit flashlight follows. There’s no missing the terror on my face. “Cal, what’re you—?”
Like a baseball player rounding third, I drop to one knee and slide through the wet grass, slamming the med kit into Roosevelt’s