The Book of Lies - Brad Meltzer [94]
“Ma’am, just give me one more minute to close this,” the nurse pleaded, fighting to cover the wound with a bandage.
Undeterred and already frantic, Naomi reached for her phone.
“Nomi, what’s wrong?” Scotty’s voice echoed distantly from the earpiece that now sat on the gurney.
With her thumb wedged against the back of her phone, she slid open the compartment, revealing the battery, the serial number—and the small round listening device that she’d planted on Cal back at the museum.
“Sonuvabastard!” she shouted, hopping off the gurney and holding the small disk to her lips. “I know you can hear me, Cal! I know you heard it all, you sack of turd! His leg!? You’re letting his twins bury a leg!? Every part they find, Cal—I don’t care if they have to slice open every gator’s stomach—you’re gonna feel the pain of every part they find!”
“Ma’am, if you don’t sit down . . .” the nurse warned.
“Are you done stitching me up?” Naomi shot back as she tossed the listening device into the red biohazard trash can.
“Y-Yes.”
“Good. Thank you. Bye,” Naomi said, whipping the blue curtain sideways and storming out, the bandage barely held in place. The hallway was busy—doctors, nurses, and pushcarts buzzing in every direction—but Naomi stopped.
“Nomi!” Scotty’s tiny voice squeaked from the earpiece in her hand. “Nomi, what happened!?”
“Scotty, stop talking,” she scolded, sliding the earpiece back in place and staring out at the emergency room lobby. A tall doctor was talking to the receptionist. An Arab family was huddled in prayer. An older black woman was either sleeping or unconscious with a half-knit quilt in her lap. “Scotty, y’know that itch in the back of your brain when you feel like you’re being watched?”
“I’m sure it’s nothing. Just get moving,” he said.
“I know, but the—”
“It’s nothing. I understand you were close with Timothy, but don’t let it make you imagine stuff,” Scotty insisted as Naomi took one last scan of the lobby. “The only thing you have to worry about now is finding Cal and— Serena Amend.”
“Excuse me?”
“That’s her name. On the flight that Cal and his dad took to Cleveland, a woman named Serena Amend sat in seat twenty-five C.”
“Thank you,” she said, stepping out into the night and realizing there was no way she’d find a cab in this neighborhood. “Scrub her through the system, then send that name to every Cleveland rental car company. There’s a LoJack tracker in their car. Those companies hate it when their stuff gets lost.”
“It’s nearly ten at night. This is gonna take some time.”
“Scotty, I’ve got fifteen stitches running down my right temple, I feel fishing line tug through my skin every time I move my eyebrow, and I’m now wondering what I’m going to say if they ask me to speak at Timothy’s funeral. Now you find me that LoJack signal, and I’ll find us Cal, and this Prophet, and whatever it is those Nazis wanted in Jerry Siegel’s old comic strip. Oh, and I need a cab to get to my car.”
“Don’t worry, boss. Whatever you want, I’m already on it.”
61
His leg!? You’re letting his twins bury a leg!? Every part they find, Cal—I don’t care if they have to slice open every gator’s stomach—you’re gonna feel the pain of every part they find!” Naomi’s voice ripped through the small round speaker of the tracking device.
“Still wanna go to the cops?” my dad asks, patting me on the shoulder. “This is exactly what I said would happen.”
“We need to get rid of the device,” I say as I shut the black box and pull the batteries from the back.
“You think she can trace it?” my dad asks.
“You willing to take a chance?” Before anyone can answer, I toss the tracking device into the bathroom sink and run it under water. It’ll only get worse when they find the Johnsels’ bodies. But even without them, Naomi’s done listening to reason. The only way we’re not taking this fall is if we hand her the truth, and right now there’s only one way to get it.
“What about the dialogue?” Serena asks, still studying the