by Brad Meltzer
“Then he’ll see us. But I can’t drive like this. I wouldn’t worry, though—we’re so far, he’ll never make us out.”
With a twist, Timothy flicks on the lights, and the gray road appears in front of us. I wait for the dragon’s eyes to glow brighter . . . for my dad to panic and hit the brakes . . . but he just keeps moving. It doesn’t make me feel any better. I pull out my cell phone to check the time. The bars for my signal fade from four . . . three . . . two . . . just a tiny X. No signal.
“If you want, we can turn back,” Timothy offers. “Have them call in the helicopters and—”
“No,” I insist. I lost my father once. Now that he’s back, I need to know why. “I’m fine,” I tell him.
“I didn’t ask that, Cal.”
“Just stay with him,” I add, squinting into the night and never losing sight of the dragon’s eyes.
For the next few miles, we chase him deeper down the desolate road, which I swear narrows with each mile marker. By the time we hit mile marker twenty-two, we’re so deep in the Everglades, the black sky presses down like a circus tent after they’ve yanked the main pole.
“This was stupid of us,” Timothy says. “What if this was the whole point: to lead us out where there’re no witnesses, no one to protect us, and only one way to get in or out?”
I’ve known Timothy a long time. He rarely lets a hair get out of place. But as he grips the steering wheel, I see a clump of them matted by sweat on his forehead. “Listen, Timothy, if this were an ambush—”
Out in the darkness, halfway between us and my dad, two other red dragon’s eyes pop open.
“Cal—”
“I see it.”
We both lean forward, tightening our squints. It’s another car. Parked on the side of the road from the looks of it.
Without a word, Timothy pumps the brakes and shuts the lights. I assume he’s trying to use the darkness to hide us—but in the distance, the new dragon’s eyes shake and rumble . . . then shrink away from us. This new car—it’s got no interest in us. It takes off, chasing my dad.
“Maybe that’s his buyer. Or his girlfriend.”
A burst of blue light explodes from the new car. I blink once, then again, making sure I see it right. Damn.
“Cops,” Timothy agrees. “State troopers, I bet. They love Alligator Alley as a speed trap.”
Sure enough, the new car zips forward, a blazing blue firefly zigzagging toward my dad’s truck. The dragon’s eyes on the eighteen-wheeler go bright red as my dad hits the brakes. But it’s not until they both slow down and pull off onto the shoulder of the road that we finally get our first good look.
“You sure that’s a cop car?” Timothy asks.
I lean forward in the passenger seat, my fingertips touching the dash and my forehead almost touching the front windshield. That’s not a car. It’s a van. And not a police van. No, the siren’s not on top. The blue light pulses from within, lighting up the two back windows where the tint is peeling.
I lean in closer. My forehead taps the windshield.
There’s a swarm of rust along the back.
My tongue swells in my mouth, and I can barely breathe.
What the hell’s my van doing out here?
13
Timothy rides the brakes, keeping his distance. “Cal, maybe we should wait back and—”
“That’s my— Someone stole my van from the parking lot. Get us up there!”
We’re barely a few hundred feet away as a uniformed cop approaches the driver’s-side door of my father’s truck. My dad rolls down his window . . . a few words go back and forth . . .
“Looks like he’s giving him a ticket,” Timothy says as we slow down and veer toward the shoulder of the road. The cop looks our way, shielding his eyes as we flick on our headlights. I’m too busy rechecking the license plate: M34 DZP. That’s ours.
“How’d he even get it?” Timothy asks.
Thankful that Roosevelt’s safe at home, I open Timothy’s glove box. “You still have your—? Ah.” Toward the back of the glove box, his metal telescoping baton sits among the mess of maps and fast-food napkins.
“What’re you doing?” Timothy asks as I pull it out and slide it up my sleeve.
“Being smart for once,” I say, kicking open the car door even though we’re still moving.
“Cal . . . don’t—!”
It’s not until my door smashes into a concrete barrier that I realize what he’s warning me about. The car jerks to the left and rumbles over what feels like a speed bump. I was so busy looking at the van, I didn’t even see that we were passing over a small canal, one of the hundreds that run underneath Alligator Alley.
Just beyond the short overpass, Timothy pulls back onto the shoulder of the road, flicks on his own blue lights, and stops nearly fifty feet behind the van. He knows what happens when you surprise a cop.
“Hands!” the cop yells, pulling his gun as we both get out of the car.
“Federal agent! ICE!” Timothy shouts, flashing his credentials and sounding plenty annoyed.
He’s not the only one. “What the hell’re you doing with my van!?” I shout, racing forward without even thinking.
“W-Was I speeding?” my dad asks, panicking through his open window and not seeing us yet.
The cop smiles to himself and raises his gun toward my father. “Please step out of the truck, Mr. Harper.”
“I—I don’t—”
“I’m not counting to three,” the cop warns as the hammer cocks on his gun.
My father opens his door and climbs down from the cab, his face lit by the pulsing blue lights. “Cal? What’re you doing here?” he stutters.
Behind me, Timothy freezes.
On my right, just as I pass the open door of my van, there’s a low roar that rumbles like thunder. I turn just in time to see a snarling brown dog with pointy black ears and pale yellow teeth.
“Stay, Benoni,” the cop warns, never lowering his gun. With his free hand, he shoves my dad toward me. The movement’s too much for my father, who bends forward, holding his side.
As the cop finally turns and points his gun at all of us, we get our first good look at him. The headlights of the van ricochet off his grown-out copper red hair and thick eyebrows. But what lights up most is the prominent tattoo between his thumb and pointer finger. “Nice to finally meet you, Cal. You should call me Ellis.”
14
Wait— Okay, wait— Why would—?” I look around at my dad and Timothy, at this guy Ellis and his gun, and at the attack dog that’s perched in the front seat of my van. “What the crap is going on here?”
“Ask your father,” Ellis says. “Though good luck in getting the truth.”
“Me?” my dad asks, fighting to stand up straight but still holding his side. “I don’t even know who you—”
“My father was a liar, too,” Ellis says, pointing his gun at my dad. “He lied like you, Lloyd. Easily. Without even a thought.”
“Cal, I swear on my life, I’ve never seen this man.”
“That part’s true. You can tell the way his left hand’s shaking,” Ellis agrees as my dad grips his own left wrist. “But I saw you tonight, Mr. Harper. The way your son came to your aid, taking you to the hospital: He needs to rescue, doesn’t he? That was pretty fortunate for—”
“Hold on,” I interrupt. “You saw us in the park?”
A chorus of crickets squeals from the Everglades, and my father draws himself up straight, blocking the headlights and casting a shadow across both Ellis’s badge and his face.
“Calvin had no hand in this,” my dad says.
“Really? Then why was he so quick to get rid of that hold notice on your shipment?” Ellis challenges, motioning with his gun. He has handsome, chiseled features and the ramrod posture of an officer, but from the perfect Windsor knot of his uniform’s tie to the shine on that expensive belt he’s wearing, he’s got his eye on something bigger. “It’s pretty convenient having a son who use
d to be an agent, isn’t it, Lloyd?”
As they continue to argue, my brain swirls, struggling to— It’s like trying to fill in a crossword without any clues. For Ellis to know we got rid of the hold notice . . . For him to steal my van from the port and bring it out here . . . That’s the part I keep playing over and over. When I pulled up to the port, I checked half a dozen times—whoever this guy Ellis is, no matter how good a cop he is—there’s no way he was trailing me. But if that’s the case, for him to get my van— Once again, I run through the mental reel. Roosevelt’s at home, which means there’s only one other person who knew where it was parked. The one person who picked me up there. And the only other member of law enforcement who hasn’t said a single word since I got out of his car.
There’s a metallic click behind me. The swirling blue lights stab at my senses, and my stomach sags like a hammock holding a bowling ball.
“Sorry, Cal,” Timothy says as he cocks his gun behind my ear. “Once the twins were born . . . Those braces aren’t gonna pay for themselves.”
15
Hundreds of People’s Choice Award–winning movies tell me this is when I’m supposed to shake a fist at the sky and yell, “Nooo! Timothy, how could you!?” But I know exactly how he could. His ethical apathy is why I approached him in the first place. And why I didn’t bat twice when he offered to sneak me inside the port instead of signing me in and getting a proper pass. I thought he was doing me a favor. All he was really doing was making sure nothing linked the two of us together. My heart constricts, like it’s being gripped by a fist. Dammit, when’d I get so blind? I glance at my dad and know the answer. The only good news is, I apparently wasn’t the only one Timothy was trying to keep hidden.
“Cal’s already seen it—you, me, all of it!” Timothy shouts at Ellis. “And what about the van!? What was your grand thinking there? Bring it out on the road and hope no one notices?”
“Watch your tone,” Ellis warns.
To my surprise, Timothy does, his shoulders shrinking just slightly.
“You said you just wanted the shipment,” Timothy adds through gritted teeth, fighting hard to stay calm. “Now you have far more than that.”
The pulsing blue lights pump like heartbeats from both sides. I’m tempted to run, but that won’t tell me what’s going on. On my right, in the front seat of the van, Ellis’s dog, protective of its master, growls at Timothy, whose gun is still trained on me. On my left, my father stares at Ellis, then Timothy, then back to Ellis.
Then he looks at me.
I see desperation every day. For the homeless, it overrides despair, depression, even fear. But when my dad’s wide eyes beg for help . . . I’ve seen that look before—all those years ago when the cops came and arrested him.
“I didn’t do anything wrong,” he blurts.
Across from us, Ellis pulls the cuff of his shirt out from the wrist of his uniform’s jacket, then flicks the safety on his gun. “I don’t care. We’ve waited over a century. I want my Book.”
Just behind me, my father puts a hand on my shoulder. There’s nothing tender about it. For the second time, I tell myself to run, but the way he’s gripping me—he needs the handhold to help him stand.
“All you had to do was leave the van downtown!” Timothy says to Ellis. “But with this— You know how much harder you just made this?” Timothy explodes, barely looking at us. This isn’t about me. Timothy is the same old Timothy. Just protecting his share. “Don’t you see? Now that he knows I’m working with— Sonuva—! You just wrecked my damn life!”
“He’s right,” I interrupt, knowing this isn’t a ride Timothy can afford to let me walk away from. Time to work the weak spots. “But if I disappear, they’ll go talk to all my friends, co-workers . . . even former co-workers,” I add, raising an eyebrow at Timothy. “You’ll get a call tomorrow morning.”
Timothy knows what I’m up to—he had the same hostage training with the same dumb tricks for getting the bad guys to fight among themselves—but that doesn’t mean it won’t work.
“You don’t even see it, do you?” Ellis asks, sounding far more comfortable than he should be. “I’ve already won.”
“Not if there’s a manhunt for Cal’s killer!” Timothy shoots back as the blue lights continue their assault. “You promised me no risk at all!”
“No, I promised you an easy reward.”
While they argue, I work the telescoping baton hidden in my sleeve toward the inside of my forearm. I’ve heard enough. Time to let actions speak louder than—
“Be very careful about your next move,” Ellis warns as he points his gun at my face. I freeze. He’s clearly planning to pull the trigger, but he’s not quite ready to do it yet. “I can see the baton, Calvin.”
Next to him, Timothy shakes his head, his anger now exploding. “This was so stupidly easy and— Dammit! How could you be so stupid!?”
The dog barks. But Ellis, who’s now close enough that I spot the odd red thimble-shaped nozzle on his gun, is calmer than ever. “It’ll work out fine,” he says.
“For who?” Timothy challenges. “For you?”
Ellis nods, raising his eyebrows. “You were right about the manhunt. But there’s no manhunt if I give them Cal’s killer.” Without another word, he points his gun at Timothy’s neck. I want to jump forward, but my body steps back.
“I have twins! For God’s sake!” Timothy says in horror.
Ellis grins. “It is for God’s sake.”
Fttt.
The dog barks again. A tiny fleck of blood hits my cheek. And Timothy falls to the ground.
Behind us, at least a mile or two up the road, a set of faint white eyes blink open. There’s a car back there. Coming right at us.
16
Ohnonono!” my father stutters, still clutching my shoulder as he stumbles and pulls us back.
Ellis stares over our shoulders at the car that’s coming our way.
“Hand me his gun,” Ellis says to us as he motions to Timothy, who’s flat on his back with what looks like a pinprick at his jugular. There’s no stream of blood as his body convulses like a snake and he continues to threaten and scream. First, Timothy’s left knee freezes awkwardly, cocked out to the side, then his torso stops moving. In less than a minute, he’s motionless on the pavement. He looks dead, his gun still clutched in his hand.
“I’m waiting,” Ellis adds, and for the first time, I see the new reality he’s building. If he shoots us with Timothy’s gun, then leaves my van here along with Timothy’s unmarked car—now the picture shifts: It’ll look like Timothy and I were having a late night get-together . . . two dirty feds arguing over a deal. My father was with me because, of course, we’re in on it together. Maybe a few words got exchanged, and both sides wound up dead. Best of all, with no one searching for the real killer, Ellis rides off in my father’s truck and whatever prize—he called it a book—he thinks is inside.
“I’d like that gun now,” Ellis says, his pistol now aimed at my dad’s face.
Panicking, my dad picks up the gun and tosses it to—
“Don’t!” I call out.
Ellis catches it with his free hand—a hand that I realize is covered by a plastic glove—but never takes his eyes off me. “You’re smarter than Timothy,” he says. “You understand why I’m here, Cal.”
Behind me, the car on the road is about a half mile away. But the way Ellis keeps staring at me—his amber eyes barely blinking even as the headlights grow brighter—it’s like he doesn’t even care the car’s coming. His uniform tells me he’s a cop, but that burning obsessed look . . . that odd tattoo on his hand and how he rubs it over and over . . . and especially the way he keeps glancing at his dog like it’s the Messiah. I don’t know what he meant when he said he’s been searching for a century. But I know a zealot when I see one.
“Easy, Benoni,” he murmurs as he finally notices the approaching car, about a city block away.
For a moment, I’m worried it’s someone he kno
ws. But as Ellis lowers his chin at the arriving lights and hides both guns behind his back, it’s clear this is a stranger. And potential witness. For at least the next thirty seconds, Ellis knows better than to pull the trigger, which means I still have a chance to—
“Don’t be this stupid,” Ellis tells me in a condescending tone.
But I’ve always been stupid. And stubborn. And lots of other things that look bad on a report card. Right now, that’s the only thing to keep me alive. Behind me, I hear my dad breathing heavily. Us alive. That’ll keep us alive.
The car’s fifty yards away. In this darkness, its lights barrel at my back like a freight train and mix with the swirling blue lights that I swear are pulsing at the exact same speed as my pulse.
“If you flag them down, their deaths will forever be on your conscience,” Ellis says, already starting to squint.
I believe him. But if I let them pass, “forever” is going to last about twenty more seconds.
“Calvin,” my dad pleads, tugging on my sleeve. As I turn around, I figure he’ll be pleading for help. He’s not. His brow furrows, and his eyebrows knit into an angry glare. He’s pissed. This is my fault, he says with a glance. Go. Leave. I consider it for a moment. But I’m not listening to him, either. Ellis has two guns. We have none. Once this car passes, those bullets are going in both our heads.
I take a step toward Ellis, who’s still too smart to raise his guns. But that doesn’t mean he’s out of options.
“Benoni, ready!” Ellis commands as the dog prepares to pounce.
I squat slightly, preparing to spring. The crickets squeal in every direction. The car’s so close, Ellis’s pupils shrink. This is it. On three . . .
One . . . two . . .
I leap as fast as I can. But not at Ellis. At his dog.
“Benoni, attack!” Ellis shouts just as the car blows past us, pelting us with an air pocket full of dust and gravel.
From the front seat, Benoni leaps like a wolf, all muscle and sharp teeth.
