The Book of Lies (7 page)

But as Lloyd tugged the wide steering wheel, a lightning bolt of pain knifed his side. He told himself it was the bullet wound, but he knew the truth: just seeing Cal tonight—seeing the white hair and the heartbroken eyes—just like the ones that burned through him nineteen years ago. Tonight’s bullet wound was nothing. The sharpest pains in life come from our own swords. Lloyd had spent the past two decades building his shield, but this was one blade he couldn’t stop.

“I’m here for GATH 601174-7,” Lloyd called out his window as he read the container number from the yellow sheet.

Across the open lot, an older black man was sitting on a pyramid of three boxes as he read yesterday’s newspaper. He didn’t bother looking up.

“Excuse me . . . sir . . .” Lloyd began.

“I ain’t deaf. My shift don’t start till four.”

Lloyd glanced at the digital clock on his dash: 3:58. Typical union.

“Okay, whatcha need?” the black man called out two minutes later, approaching Lloyd’s truck and reaching up for the paperwork. “Lemme guess: Startin’ this early—y’r trynna make Virginia by nightfall.”

“Something like that,” Lloyd replied.

From there, it didn’t take long for the man to find the rust-colored forty-foot container with
601174-7
painted on the outside or to climb on his forklift and load it onto the back of Lloyd’s tractor trailer. To be safe, Lloyd came out to check the numbers for himself. And the seal they put on the back to make sure the container hadn’t been opened during transit.

As he was about to climb back in his cab, he took a quick glance around the metal towers of the container yard. No one in sight. Back in the driver’s seat, he checked again, peering in his rearview as he shifted the truck through the first few gears and headed for the exit. And he checked again as he drove toward the final security checkpoint—a three-story-tall radiation portal monitor that looked like an enormous upside-down letter U. The detector was new, designed to catch smuggled nuclear devices. Everyone who left the port had to drive through it. For a moment, Lloyd edged his foot toward the brakes.

He held his breath as he approached the detector. The truck bounced slightly. Slowly rolling forward, he kept his eye on the red and green bulbs that were embedded in the roof of the detector. Once again, a bolt of pain burned at his side. But when the green light blinked, he smiled, slammed the gas, and never looked back.

And that’s why, as the eighteen-wheeler climbed and lumbered over the bridge toward Miami . . . and as he stared into the darkness, searching for the coming sunrise . . . Lloyd Harper didn’t notice the white, unmarked Crown Vic that was trailing a few hundred feet behind him.

“Think he knows what he’s hauling in back?” Timothy asked.

“I don’t really care,” Cal replied from the passenger seat, never taking his eyes off his father’s truck. “But we’re about to find out.”

12

G
uns or drugs—
gotta be,
” Timothy says as my dad’s eighteen-wheeler makes a slow, sharp left toward the entrance for I-95. We’re at least three football fields behind him, with our lights still off. But at four-thirty in the morning, with only a few cars between us, he’s impossible to miss.

“Maybe your dad’s container—”

“Maybe it’s not my dad’s. For all I know, he’s just another feeb doing a pickup.”

“But if you thought that, would you really have shown up at three in the morning? Or would he have shown up at four, fresh from his new bullet wound? I know you can’t bring yourself to say it—and I know it was just a random hold—but you
should
be worried about him,” Timothy says. “Don’t apologize, Cal. I got twin teenage girls—and no matter how much they hate me, only monsters would let their father take a beating. In fact, it’s not that different from Deirdre—”

“Can we just focus on what’s in the shipment? Please.”

To his credit, Timothy lets it go. And I try my best to ignore my crooked pinkies.

According to the bill of lading, GATH 601174-7 is a refrigerated container that’s (supposedly) carrying 3,850 pounds of frozen shrimp coming (supposedly) from Panama. My dad definitely gets credit for that. In the world of smuggling—drugs or anything else—you never know when you’ll be inspected. But if you want to improve your odds, pick a quiet, seafood-producing country (like Panama), fill the container with one of its top exports (like shrimp), and make sure it’s refrigerated (because once it’s listed as “perishable,” it’ll move twice as fast through inspection).

This isn’t just about some really good shrimp.

“Turn for the worse,” Timothy says, motioning to the truck.

The shipment was scheduled to be delivered to a warehouse in Coral Gables. That’s south of here. Which is why I’m surprised to see him heading for the on-ramp of I-95 North.

“Maybe he’s smuggling people,” Timothy says.

“It’s not people,” I tell him, surprised by my own defensiveness. “You said the shipment checked out fine. No buzzers ringing; no dogs barking. If he were smuggling people, audio would’ve picked up the heartbeats.”

“Then what? Plastic nuclear triggers? F-14 parts? Stolen Picassos? What can you possibly hide amidst four thousand pounds of frozen shrimp?”

I don’t bother answering. During our first year as agents, Timothy and I ripped open a suspicious crate and found two hundred snakes with their anuses sewed shut, their stomachs filled with diamonds they’d been forced to swallow. There’s no end to what people will try to hide.

Next to us on the highway, an orange taxi blows by us, then races past my dad and disappears in the horizon of night. “So you never looked him up?” Timothy asks.

“Pardon?”

“Your dad. All those years at ICE—you had access to computers that could find the addresses, phone numbers, and birthmarks of every known felon in the country. You never took a glance to see where your missing dad was living or what he was up to?”

I stare at the outline of my father’s truck in the distance and can’t help but picture our client Alberto whispering to his father’s ashes in that rusted old RC Cola can. “No,” I say. “Never did.”

Timothy turns my way and studies me as I fidget with the stray wires that run down from the blue lights on his dash. There’s no end to what people will try to hide.

Twenty minutes later, the sky’s still black, my dad’s still ahead, and the highway—as we blow past the exits of Fort Lauderdale—is dotted with the first batch of early risers.

“You think he sees us?” Timothy asks as my dad veers toward the exit that sends us west on I-595.

“If he saw us, he’d try to lose us. Or at least slow down to get a better look.”

It’s a fair point. But as my dad once again clicks his blinker, I realize we’ve got a brand-new problem. The exit and highway signs say
I-75
, but every local knows the thin stretch of road known as Alligator Alley.

“Why am I not surprised?” Timothy asks as we follow the exit and no other cars follow behind us. “Cal, I need to call for backup.”

“And where do you plan on hiding me?” I ask as the grass and trees on the side of the road give way to miles of muddy swampland.

Connecting Florida’s east and west coasts, the narrow and mostly abandoned lanes of Alligator Alley plow straight through the mosquito marshes known as the Everglades. To protect the land, the road has no gas stations, though it
is
lined with metal fences to keep the ample alligator population from getting hit by cars and . . . well . . . eating people.

“There’s no way you’re leaving me out here,” I tell Timothy.

He doesn’t argue. He’s too busy realizing that at barely five a.m., with the December sky as black as the road in front of us, there’s no one on Alligator Alley but us. It’s like driving full speed through a cave.

“Cal, I have to put the lights on.”

“Don’t!” I shout as he reaches for the switch. My dad’s truck is still a good half mile in front of us—two faint red dragon’s eyes staring back from the depths of the cave. But with no other cars to hide behind . . . “He’ll see us.”

“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

T
imothy 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.”