The Book of Lies by Brad Meltzer

flying—he means it—but as he says the words, the consequences finally hit. Reaching the top of the embankment, he looks across the road at my van and Timothy’s car, where the blue lights are still spinning.
    “Motherf—! He stole my
truck
!” my dad shouts.
    “What was in it, anyway? He mentioned a book.”
    “D’you know what this—? I’m dead.”
    “What book was in the truck, Lloyd?”
    “Mary, mother of—
I’m dead
!” he explodes at full detonation, spit flying through the air. “We should’ve killed his fu—” He catches himself.
    During my short career in law enforcement, I sent eleven people to prison. To real prison. And when you go to prison—no matter how straitlaced and Dr. Jekyll you are going
in,
the monsters within those walls always bring a little bit more of your own monster
out.
    My father swallows hard, clearly regretting the outburst. Whatever tears he had are long gone. “I’m sorry, Cal. I’m not— It’s been a tough few years.”
    “Just tell me what’s in the truck, and who you’re so scared of.”
    “It’s not that simple.”
    “Sure it is. Give me the name and we’ll at least know who we’re dealing with—or at least who Ellis is working against.”
    “That’s the thing: When they got in contact, they didn’t give me a name.”
    “How could you not—?”
    “Last year, I got my second DUI, which got me fired from my company. Since then, business is more word of mouth these days, y’know? I get a phone call. They send the paperwork and tell me where to drop it off—in this case, I was supposed to leave Alligator Alley at Naples and wait for a call. I know they have a 216 area code. From Cleveland. But that’s it.”
    “That’s it? You sure?”
    “Why wouldn’t I be sure?”
    “A minute ago, you were saying, ‘I’m dead! I’m dead!’ Why be afraid of someone you don’t know?”
    My father studies me. I look for his U.S. Navy ring and realize he’s no longer wearing it.
    “Calvin, I may not be the best father . . .”
    “Don’t sell yourself short, Great Santini. Though I have to admit, I
cannot wait
to see how you finish this sentence.”
    “. . . but I’m not a liar.”
    “No, Lloyd, you’re just an innocent truck driver. Nothing more than that, right?”
    He tugs his soaking silk shirt away from his chest. From what I can tell, it’s another Michael Kors.
    “You’re giving me too much credit,” my dad says. “I never heard of no books, and got no idea what could take centuries to find, except for maybe some old art or something. Ease up, okay?”
    “Oh, I’m sorry—usually when I get attacked, potentially framed for murder, and almost killed, I’m much more cheery and fun.”
    “What do you want from me, Calvin?”
    “I wanna know what the hell is really going on! You’re fresh out of the hospital and still got up at four in the morning for this! You’re telling me you thought it was for three thousand pounds of frozen shrimp!?”
    “It’s Miami, Calvin. If they’re calling
me
instead of a real company—I figured it was guns or . . . or . . . or something like that.” He shakes his head before I can argue. “I’m not
proud
of it, y’know? But once you have that ex-con label on your neck— You don’t know what it’s like to be judged like that.”
    I think back to the days after they took my gun and badge. Even the secretaries from the office were instructed to hang up when I called.
    “Okay, first we need to get out of here,” I say. As we run across the road and back to my van, I scan the ground, the road, even under the van itself. Timothy. His body’s gone.
    “Y’think he’s still alive?” my dad asks.
    I pause a moment. Then I picture that bubble of blood in Timothy’s neck. “I don’t think so.”
    “Maybe Ellis took the body with him.”
    “Maybe,” I say. But to set all this up—to bring my van out here just to make us look like the killers . . . to leave no witnesses . . . I cross around to