谎言书：01

For my mom,
Teri Meltzer,
who still teaches me how fiercely,
how selflessly,
how beautifully,
a parent can love her child 
 
 
The story of Cain and Abel takes up just sixteen lines of the Bible.
It is arguably history’s most famous murder.
But the story is silent about one key detail: the weapon Cain used to kill his brother.
It’s not a rock. Or a sharpened stone.
And to this day, the world’s first murder weapon is still lost to history.
 
 
PROLOGUE 1
Nineteen years ago
Miami, Florida
 
When Calvin Harper was five, his petite, four-foot-eleven-inch mom ripped
the pillow from his bed at three a.m. and told him that dust mites 2 were
feeding off his skin. “We need to wash it. Now!” On that night, his mom
seemed to change into someone else, as if she were possessed 3 by some
ghost or devil . . . or demon 4.
His dad told Calvin it was one of Mommy’s “bad days.” The doctors had a
name for it, too. Bipolar.
When Calvin was seven, his mom called home with a cheery slur 5 in her voice
(the demon loved a good drink) to proudly tell him she had carved Calvin’s
initials in her arm. When Calvin was eight and she was in a drunken rage, she
took the family dog to the pound and “accidentally” had him put down. The
demon liked laughs.
But none of those nights prepared Calvin for this one.
Fresh from his bath, with his white blond hair still soaking wet and dangling 6
over the birthmark near his left eye, nine-year-old Calvin sat in his room,
bearing down on his paper with an orange Crayola, while his parents shouted
in the kitchen.
Tonight, the demon was back.
“Rosalie, put it down!” his father growled 7.
Crash.
“Get away from me, Lloyd!” his mother howled. Clang.
His father grunted 8. “That’s it — you’re done!” he screamed back.
“You’re done!”
Cling. Clang. Cling.
Calvin twisted the doorknob, ran for the kitchen, and froze as he turned the
corner. All the kitchen’s lower drawers were open and empty, their contents —
pans, pot lids — scattered 9 across the floor. In the corner, the fridge was open,
too — and picked just as clean. Jars of ketchup 10, soda 11, and spaghetti sauce
were still spinning on the floor. In the center of the kitchen, his six-foot-twoinch
dad was bent 12 forward in pain as Mom brandished 13 a fat white jar of
mayonnaise, ready to smash her husband in the head.
“Mom?” Calvin said in a small voice.
His mother wheeled around, off balance. The jar fell from her grip. Calvin saw
it plummet 14. As it hit the floor and exploded, there was a low, thick pooomp,
sending a mushroom cloud of mayo spraying across the floor. Calvin’s mother
never flinched 15.
“You always root against me!” she seethed 16 at her nine-year-old boy with her
dark, alligator 17 green eyes.
“Maniac!” his dad erupted, and with one brutal 18 shove pummeled his wife
squarely in the chest.
“Mom!” Calvin shouted.
The blow hit her like a baseball bat, sending her stumbling backward.
“Mom, look out for—”
Her heel hit the mayonnaise at full speed and she flipped 19 backward like a
seesaw 20. If Lloyd hadn’t been so big or so enraged 21 . . . if he hadn’t blown up
with such a fierce physical outburst . . . he might not have shoved her so
hard. But he did. And as she fell backward, still looking at Calvin, she had no
idea that the back of her neck was headed straight toward the lower kitchen
drawer that was still wide open.
Calvin tried to run forward but could scarcely lift his arms and legs.
In mid-air, his mother was turned toward him, her alligator eyes still burning
through him. There was no mistaking her final thought. She wasn’t scared. Or
even in pain. She was angry. At him. The white blond, wet-haired boy who
caused her to drop the mayo and . . . from that day forward, in his nine-yearold
mind . . . the person who caused her to fall.
“Mom!”
She was falling. Falling. Then—
The sound was unforgettable.
“Rosie!” his father screamed, leaping forward and scooping 22 her head toward
his chest. Her arms rag-dolled across the mayonnaise-smeared floor.
“Calvin, don’t you look!” Lloyd cried. The tears were running down his
twisted Irish nose. “Close your eyes! Don’t you look!”
But Calvin looked. He wanted to cry, but nothing came. He wanted to run but
couldn’t move. As he stood frozen, a stream of urine ran down his right leg.
Most lives crumble 24 over time. Cal Harper’s crumbled 25 in one crashing fall. But
nineteen years later, thanks to a single call on his radio, he’d begin his quest
through history and finally have a chance to put his life together.
1
Nineteen years later
Hong Kong
“Good girl — such a good girl,” Ellis said, down on one knee as his dog
snatched the beef treat from his open palm. With a bite and a gulp 26, the treat
was gone, and Ellis Belasco, with his sleek 27 copper 28 red hair, smiled proudly and
added a strong authoritative 29 pat to the back of his smoky brown pet’s neck.
As the trainer said, attack dogs had to be rewarded.
“P-Please . . . my leg . . . he chewed my leg!” the thin Chinese man whined 30
as he crawled across the worn beige carpet toward the hotel room door.
“To be clear, she chewed your Achilles’ tendon,” Ellis said, calmly standing 31 up
and brushing back his long European-style haircut — he was always
meticulous 32 — to reveal amber 33 eyes framed by striking, lush eyebrows 34 that
almost merged 35 on the bridge of his nose. Because of his rosy 36 coloring, his
cheeks were always flushed, as were his full lips, which he licked as he stared
down at a small tattoo 37 between his thumb and pointer finger.
His birthright was healing nicely.
For the past two months, Ellis had been tracking the ancient book from
collector to collector — from the doctor in China whose death gave it away, to
Zhao, the shipper, who schemed to deliver it elsewhere. Every culture called it
by a different name, but Ellis knew the truth.
“I know you have it,” Ellis said. “I’d like the Book of Lies now.”
From the corner of the bed, Ellis reached for his small gray pistol.
“Nonono . . . you can’t — My fiancée — We just got engaged!” the young
dockworker begged, scrambling 38 on his one good knee as his other leg left a
smear 23 of blood across the carpet.
Ellis pressed the barrel of his gun against the man’s throat. It was vital he hit
the jugular 39. But he knew he would. That was the advantage of having God on
your side. “I paid what you asked me, Zhao,” Ellis said calmly. “But it makes
me sad that someone else clearly paid you more.”
“I swear — the book — I told you where it’s going!” Zhao screamed, his eyes
rolling toward the pistol as Ellis glanced out the hotel window, into the dim
alley 40. The view was awful — nothing more than a blank brick wall. But that
was why Ellis had Zhao meet him here. No view, no witnesses.
With a squeeze, Ellis shot him in the throat.
There was no bang, just a pneumatic hiss 41. Zhao jerked slightly, and his eyes
blinked open. . . . “Ai! Ai, that—! What was that?” he stuttered as a drop of
blood bubbled from his neck.
The military called them “jet injectors.” Since World War I, they had been
used to vaccinate 42 soldiers quickly and easily. There was no needle. The burst
of air was so strong, it drilled through the skin with nothing more than a
disposable air cartridge 43 and the one-use red nozzle that looked like a thimble
with a tiny hole. All you’d feel was the snap of a rubber band, and the vaccine 44
was in your blood. For Ellis, it was a bit overdramatic, but if he was to find the
Book that had been taken from him . . . that had been taken from his family .
. . He knew every war had rules. His great-grandfather left him this gun — or
the plans for this gun, at least — for a reason. It took time and patience to
build it from scratch. Ellis had plenty of both.
“Forty . . . thirty-nine . . . thirty-eight . . .” Ellis began to count, peeking 45
under the wrist of his starched 46 shirt and checking his new Ulysse Nardin
watch.
“Wait . . . ! The shot—! What’d you put in me!?” Zhao screamed, gripping
the side of his neck.
“. . . thirty-seven . . . thirty-six . . . thirty-five . . .” Ellis said, his voice as
serene 47 as ever. “My family first encountered it in Belgium. Conium
maculatum. Hemlock 48.”
“Are you—? You put hemlock—!? You put a poison — are you a fool!? Now
you get nothing!” Zhao yelled, fighting hard as he thrashed and crawled
toward the door.
In a way, Zhao was right. Shooting him was a gamble. But Ellis knew . . . it’s
not a gamble when you know you’ll win. After unscrewing the empty hemlock
vial, he replaced it with a vial filled with a cloudy yellow liquid.
“I-Is that the antidote 49?” Zhao asked. “It is, isn’t it!?”
Ellis stepped back, away from his victim’s reach. “Do you know who Mitchell
Siegel is, Zhao?”
“Wh-What’re you talking about?”
“Thirty-one . . . thirty . . . twenty-nine . . . In 1932, a man named Mitchell
Siegel was shot in the chest and killed. While mourning the death of his
father, his young son Jerry came up with the idea of a bulletproof man that he
nicknamed Superman.”
Mid-crawl, Zhao’s feet stopped moving. “M-My—! Wh-What’d you do to my
legs!?”
Ellis nodded and stood still. To this day, scientists didn’t know why hemlock
poisoning started in the feet and worked up from there.
“Such a dumb idea, right, Zhao — a bulletproof man? But the only reason
Superman was born was because a little boy missed his father,” Ellis pointed 50
out. “And the best part? The murder’s still unsolved. In fact, people are still
so excited by Superman, they never stop to ask just why Mitchell Siegel was
killed — or to even consider that maybe, just maybe, he might’ve done
something that made him the bad guy in this story. . . . Twenty . . .
nineteen . . . eighteen . . .”
“I can’t feel my legs!” Zhao sobbed 51 as tears ran down his face.
“You think I’m the bad guy here, but I’m not,” Ellis said, putting away the
empty vial, zipping his leather doctor’s case, and smoothing the sheets on the
edge of the bed. “I’m the hero, Zhao. You’re the bad guy. You’re the one
keeping the Book of Lies from us. Just like Mitchell Siegel kept it from us.”
“P-Please, I don’t know who the hell you’re talking about!”
Ellis crouched 52 down next to Zhao, who was flat on his belly 53, barely able to
catch his breath. “I want my Book. Tell me its final destination.”
“I — I — I told you,” Zhao stuttered. “W-We — It’s going to Panama.”
“And then where?”
“That’s it — Panama . . . ” he repeated, his nose pressed to the carpet, his
eyes clenched 54 in pain. “Just . . . the antidote . . .”
“You feel that tightening 55 in your waist?” Ellis asked, looking down and
realizing that his shoes could use a new shine. “Your thighs 56 are dead, Zhao.
Then it’ll climb to your testicles. Hemlock is what killed Socrates. He narrated 57
his entire death — how it slithered from his waist, to his chest, right up to
when his eyes were fixed 58 and dilated 59.”
“Okay . . . okayokayokay . . . Miami! After Panama . . . they’re . . . it’s going
to Miami! In Florida,” Zhao insisted. “The sheet . . . the lading bill . . . it’s . . .
I swear . . . it’s in my pocket! Just make it stop!”
Ellis reached into Zhao’s pocket and extracted the sheet of light pink paper
that held all the details of the shipment’s arrival.