The Book of Lies - Brad Meltzer [96]
Twelve hours ago, I would’ve laughed out loud. But as I look down at the comic book panel with the hidden ancient Nazi group symbol, and the young boy clutching a book and running for his life . . .
“Does 184 King Street mean anything to you?” I ask.
“As an address?”
“As anything: 184 King Street . . . 184 kings on a street . . . Anything Cain-like come to mind?”
“I’ll look it up, but even without it . . . Cal, if this is really the Book of Truth . . . I think you’re close, Cal! I can feel it!”
“I’ll be sure to tell Ellis that the next time he sends the hound of hell at us.”
“Forget Ellis. You’re now— I know you think I’m nuts, but this is what you’re meant for, Cal. We all have higher callings. All of us. It’s no different than Jerry Siegel. We think Superman was his calling, but in reality it was watching over his father, protecting this gift . . . this book. It’s the same with you, Cal. Same calling. Protect the gift.”
“Roosevelt, I appreciate the faith, but we’re not getting anything unless you start figuring out King Street.”
“That’s fine. I’m on it. But take strength from this, Cal. You’re close. Close to something far bigger than most people will ever see.”
As he hangs up the phone, I try my best to ride his excitement, but after a full day of running and dodging and fighting, my shoulders plummet. Next to me, Serena does the opposite. I’m still leaning on the motel’s round table. She hops up, on a rocket of newfound adrenaline.
“He’s right, Calvin. You see that, don’t you?”
“I don’t know—for me, religion’s always been more of an acquired taste.”
“This isn’t religion. This is how life works—the hunches you have that tell you to not walk down a certain alleyway . . . or to stay with you and your dad instead of cowering in a hotel . . . that feeling in your belly that tells you someone you love is in danger—we have to have a certain trust in the universe.”
“I hear you. And for once, I really am trying to believe it. But the universe screwed me a big one.”
“But now it’s trying to make amends. These are the divine patterns I told you about. You still think it’s a coincidence you found your dad in that park? Or that I got on that plane? There are no accidents! Ooooh, I feel fantastic!” she insists, reaching both arms straight up, fingers fully extended, in some yoga/-praise-the-Maker pose.
It’d be so easy to make fun, but as I watch her . . . “Serena, I’m trying to be sulky and pessimistic here.”
“You can’t,” she insists, her arms still in the air as she rises up, eyes wide, on her tiptoes. “I’m happy. Love and hate can’t occupy the same space.”
I laugh at that one. “Obviously, you haven’t seen me with my father.”
“I’ve seen. I’ve watched how you struggle, Calvin. But I can also tell you’re trying to decide. Love or hate. Eventually, we all need to choose.”
When I look away, she steps toward me and reaches out, gripping my shoulder. She’s trying to be reassuring, to shake me awake. But in the euphoria of the moment, she pulls me forward and I’m suddenly a half-step too close. It’s an odd few seconds, crossing into her personal space.
I’m about to step back, but as I look down at her, I find myself planted right where I am. Serena would credit my stasis to listening to your soul or finding divine patterns.
But there’s something to be said about plain old euphoria.
We both slowly lean in.
“N-No . . . we’re not supposed to,” she says, pulling back. “I swear, I—I—I—” She looks down and away. The way her head shakes back and forth, she feels awful. Like she overstepped some unmarked boundary.
But all I’m really focused on is that her hand is still on my shoulder. It skates down my arm, like a skier, until her fingertips rest on my forearm. But she never lets go.
I stare right at her. I’m smarter than this. I am. I should know better. And I do. But that doesn’t mean I’m stopping.
We move even closer and her lips press against mine. The warmth burns in such a good way.
There’s a whispering voice outside. Then it goes silent.
“—why call it free