“Until . . .”

“Until six months later, when Edward’s suspicious squad leader opens

Edward’s locker at work and finds the old Missing Child poster from when

Edward was young. But instead of the picture of him as a little boy, your man

Officer Edward had taken photos of his father and glued the head shots onto

the head of his own old childhood body. Now they revisit Dad’s so-called

accidental death. Anything seem a little fishy to you?”

“Who knew that collage skills could be used for evil?” Naomi asked as she

made another left and veered toward the entrance for the highway. No

question, traffic was murder, but with her blue lights, it wouldn’t slow her

down. “So they fired Ellis right there?” she asked, pulling around the pack and

riding along the shoulder of the road.

“Fired? Please. First they put him on leave, then they tried to prove he

committed the murder, and then they let him resign, pension and all. You

know the game: If they fire him, he’ll slap back with a lawsuit, then all this

homemade Missing Child stuff hits the cable shows, and then the Michigan

cops will have one of those public headaches that even the public doesn’t

want. Better to just — poof — wave your wand and make it disappear.”

“But the way he’s calling himself Ellis again . . . going all Mr. Ripley with

himself . . .”

“No doubt. He clearly found something he loved in his old life,” Scotty said.

“Anyway, where’s Officer Nutbag now?”

As Naomi plowed along the shoulder of the road, she again eyed the crimson

triangle on the digital screen. “Approaching the rental car center. I’m betting

he’s meeting Cal at the airport.”

“You think they’re in it together?”

But before Naomi could answer, her phone beeped and Seminole Police

appeared on caller ID. “Scotty, I gotta take this.”

With a click, she flipped to the other line. “Agent Molina,” she answered.

“Benny Ocala,” replied a man with a creaky low voice.

Benny Ocala, Naomi nodded to herself. Chief of the Semi-nole Police. And the

last person Cal called from his cell phone last night.

“Thanks for getting back to me, Benny,” she said, pumping the gas, nearly at

the airport. “I think we have a good friend in common.”

36

My dad heads to the gate alone. Serena follows by herself. By the time I get

there, the plane’s already boarding. But my father’s waiting, tucked in the

corner by the wide, sun-filled windows. I’d like to think he’s concerned about

me, but I can see what he’s really looking at. He’s not going anywhere

without my backpack.

Wasting no time, he heads toward me, limping slightly and tender from the

stitches. It’s amazing how much slower he moves when he needs something.

Especially sympathy. As he steps next to me, he just stands there, waiting for

his moment, and I can feel him teeing up his apology for what he said about

Mom.

“Calvin, I just want you to know . . .” He clears his throat. “I really

appreciate you looking out for Serena like this.”

“Any families with small children or requiring special assistance are invited to

board at this time,” the gate agent announces.

“Anyway, I think having her here — it’ll be good for us,” he adds, though

when I see who he’s looking at, I don’t think us means him and me.

Tracing his glance, I spot Serena in the corner. She’s staring up at the sky as

she marvels at one of the departing planes while talking on her cell. Her

skin’s splotchy, and a bit of tummy chub rolls over the front of her jeans. But

the way the sun hits her — it’s like she’s made of bronze. She’s gotta be my

age. Maybe a year or two younger.

“See that?” my dad adds, turning his crooked face back at me. “I don’t

never get women like that. So the fact she even came here — for me—”

“Who’s she talking to on the phone?”

“She does nutritional consulting for people on chemo. She’s just canceling

appointments.”

“You willing to bet your life on that?” I ask, searching the crowd for Naomi

and Ellis.

“Calvin, listen: For that agent to even catch you on the phone — feds are

already at your house, aren’t they? They’re racing here. What other proof do

you need? We’re fighting for our lives now. And Serena’s part of mine. So if

you wanna back out — if you don’t wanna come, I understand. But Serena

and me—” He breathes hard through his nose. From his front pocket, he pulls

out the scrap of paper where he copied the Cleveland address. I make a

mental note. He thinks it’s about the address and not the comic. “Anyhow, I

hope you come with us.”

My dad walks slowly to the boarding gate. I keep waiting for him to look back

to see my decision. But he just keeps watching Serena.

I still don’t move. I know it’s pathetic, but — C’mon, just look back.

He doesn’t.

I still wait.

And he still walks. Part of me can’t blame him. I’ve been out of his life for—

He glances over his shoulder. Our eyes lock.

It’s small and silly and far too precious to actually matter . . .

But it matters.

Everything with your father matters.

Ten feet in front of me, Serena slides next to my dad, and they quickly lock

pinkies. She’s not even a bit scared. He’s walking fine now. No limp at all.

Boy, was that easy for them.

I don’t know her. I barely know him. And they’re headed to Cleveland based

on a delivery address my father pulled out of a dead man’s coffin.

I can stay here. I can. But I heard Naomi’s threats. I saw Ellis’s gun. My

father was right about one thing: If I don’t get on this plane, I’ll be arrested

today and dead by tomorrow.

My father and Serena disappear down the jetway.

I follow right behind them.

Up, up, and away.

37

“Benoni, what’s wrong? What happened?” Ellis asked his dog, who was down

on her stomach, barely moving in the backseat.

Ellis pulled into an open spot at the rental car return center, then hopped out,

ripped open the back door, and leaned down toward Benoni. “What? What do

you see?” he asked, following the dog’s eyeline and looking over his own

shoulder. Behind him, up in the corner of the garage, a security camera in a

black globe peered directly at him.

Craning his neck up, Ellis stared directly into the camera for a full thirty

seconds. Let ’em try. His life of hiding was over.

He knew it with each turned page when he first found the diary. He could see

his family’s — his real family’s — legacy. All their work. They were scholars.

Back then, Ellis thought the Mark of Cain was a cross or a horn or something

on Cain’s forehead. But his family knew the true story of the Book of Lies.

From there . . . with the names . . . it wasn’t hard for him to track the

Leadership. So much of their rank and strength had been decimated over the

years. But a few remained. Judge Wojtowicz remained. And therefore, so did

the dream. The dream guided him. It still did. His mother’s dream for him.

That’s what it took to be Ellis.

It was a simple goal — the birthright — the Book — would help him reclaim

his life — but it wouldn’t be easy. The Judge said as much . . . tried to turn

him away. Even threatened him. But as he learned at the lake with his father,

fear makes the wolf bigger than he is.

And that was where he began: with the wolf.

“Hey, bud,” a rental car employee with a handheld computer called out,

“what’s wrong with your dog? She carsick?”

“She’s fine,” Ellis insisted, still staring at the security camera.

“You sure?”

Ellis leaned down into the back of the car. Benoni twisted her head slightly.

Her eyes were glazed. Something was definitely wrong.

It had taken Ellis less than three weeks to find Benoni. That path was clear.

The first pariah dog was Abel’s . . . and then . . . then eventually Cain’s.

Cain’s first true mark. His first gift from God. But not his most vital one. That

was the one still hidden — hidden and buried for centuries — then uncovered

by the Coptic monks, redeemed by the Leadership, and stolen by the soldier

— young Mitchell Siegel — so long ago. Stolen, then hidden again by Siegel’s

own child. Parent and child. Always parent and child. Just like with his mom.

Patting Benoni’s head with both hands, Ellis glanced at his tattoo — at the

dog, the thorns . . . and the man embraced by the moon. . . .

Parent and child. God’s perfect symmetry. It made even more sense when the

Prophet told him what Cal had found. The Map. The address. Of course.

Siegel’s son never hid the Book of Lies. He kept it. And now . . . that original

address . . . Of course they were going to Cleveland.

“Hjjjkkkk . . . hjjkkkk . . .” At first, Ellis thought it was a sneeze. Then, still

leaning in the back door, he saw Benoni’s head jerk down, then up, then down

again. A slobbering waterfall of drool poured from the dog’s mouth. Her legs

shook.

“Benoni!” he screamed, fighting to pull the dog out.

“Hjjkkk . . . hjjjkkkkk . . . !” The convulsing quickened, and the dog’s legs

buckled as she collapsed in the backseat. She was having a seizure.

“Benoni!” Frantically gripping her legs, her body . . . he lifted her out

through the back door.

“Hggggguuh . . .” There was a loud splash as a clear, mucousy liquid erupted

from Benoni’s mouth, spraying the concrete and pooling on the garage floor.

Benoni hacked and coughed a few times, jerking her head as though she

were trying to twist it off. Ellis held Benoni close, embracing her as the acidic

smell hit. Vomit. Not a seizure. For her to throw up like that, she was choking

on something.

There. On the floor of the garage: A small, bright orange gob peeked out of

the shallow puddle like a chewed piece of gum. But as Ellis reached down for

it—

He pinched the dripping, mangled gummy worm with two fingers . . . and saw

the gray, flat oval disk that was stuck in its half-chewed web.

A transmitter. She put a—

Ellis’s phone beeped, and a text message appeared on-screen:

Too late.

We’re off.

Next flight is 1 hr.

— The Prophet

In his lap, the dog sneezed, then whimpered slightly as she finally caught her

breath.

“Yeah, I know, girl — Cal’s gone,” Ellis said, patting Benoni’s stomach and

squinting hard at the oval transmitter. “Don’t worry, we’ll use the time. The

Judge should be able to find her easily.”

Benoni again coughed a wet cough.

“Exactly, girl,” he said as he tweezed two fingers toward the transmitter’s

battery. “I don’t want to hurt her, either.”

But that’s what it took to be Ellis.

38

There was a high-pitched bloop as the red triangle blinked and disappeared.

“Craparoo,” Naomi whispered to herself as she looked down at the GPS

screen.

“You need to grab that?” Chief Benny Ocala asked through the phone as

Naomi’s car zipped toward the rental car building.

Naomi stared outside, where a dozen passengers — most of them tourists —

buzzed like bees from the rental car bus and flooded the front doors of the

modern white building, making it far too hard to see. Based on Ellis’s last

signal, he was close, but . . . No, there’s no way he knew Naomi was

following. And to track her that fast? No way. But that didn’t stop her from

staring at each and every passenger.

“Agent Molina?” Ocala asked.

“Sorry . . . I was—” She tucked the GPS back in her jacket and followed the

signs for Departures. If she was lucky, Scotty would be calling in soon with

the right terminal. “So you were telling me about Cal.”

“No, you were asking me questions about Cal.