“No . . . uh-uh. No offense to Sunday school, but spare us the lecture,” I

shoot back. “Just tell us why it’s important.”

“Cal, this guy tried to kill you. Both of you,” Roosevelt says as my father

shoots me a look. “Dontcha wanna hear why?”

On the highway, the car plows over a flat sheet of ice. We don’t go flying or

spinning out of control, but for a full two or three seconds, I turn into the skid

and know — as we glide in perfect, soundless silence across the ice — that

I’m not in control. Since the moment I found my father, that’s my life.

“Just listen to him,” my dad insists, sounding like a dad.

I hold tight to the steering wheel, and the tires again gain traction.

“So back to brother Cain,” Roosevelt says through the speaker. “God created

Adam and Eve — making Cain the first human ever born. First killer. First

human villain, correct?”

“Depends what you want to believe: the Bible . . . ” I say, “or every single

carbon-dated archaeological dig of the last hundred years that proves people

existed fifty thousand years before Adam and Eve ever supposedly went on

their apple rampage.”

“Here — exit here,” Serena calls out from the backseat, and I tug the wheel

and veer toward the sign for I-90 East. Behind us, the Jeep with no lights

does the same. I slow down, giving it a chance to pass, but it doesn’t.

“The Bible ain’t just a bunch of stories about dead people, Cal. It’s the

greatest and oldest book of human civilization — a book that people through

the centuries have given their lives for. But that doesn’t mean there aren’t

problems of translation. It’s like Adam and Eve and the apple, right? Like you

mentioned, one of the Bible’s most famous tales, except for the problem that

there was no apple.”

“Says who?” my father asks.

“Look at the text, sir: The word apple never appears in the Bible. It ain’t

there. Eve ate a fruit — probably a fig — but in ancient Greece, when the Old

Testament was translated from Hebrew, the scribes put in the word apple

because at the time, apples were the big symbols of desire and destruction.

And those slight editorial changes — over time, they start affecting how we

think about the Bible, even though they’re not even in the original text.”

“But now, thanks to the wonders of Bible college, you’ll reveal the far more

interesting alternate history that’ll surprise us all,” I say.

“Cal, this ain’t about what you believe. It’s about what Ellis believes. And

right now, you gotta understand that he’s coming at you with what he

perceives is the power of God on his side.”

We all fall silent. Serena scootches up in her seat and scratches my dad’s

shoulder. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath through his nose.

“So to understand the tattoo, we need to understand Cain,” I say as Serena

points to the right, signaling for us to get off at the next exit. In the rearview,

the Jeep with no lights is barely two car lengths back. I tap on the brakes and

slow down to get a better look. Annoyed, the Jeep pulls around us and passes

on our right. I get my first good look at the driver: a pissed-off mom with

three kids in the back.

“It all goes back to how we view him,” Roosevelt says. “Cain’s the ruthless

brother-killer, right? For thousands of years, he’s the symbol of our worst sins

— the bad man who makes us feel better about ourselves. But when you

check out the earliest theories — like those geniza fragments they found in

Cairo centuries ago — those fragments are as close as we get to the earliest

copies of the Bible, and in there, they question the entire premise,” he adds

with a brand-new seriousness in his voice. “Or to put it more bluntly: Instead

of thinkin’ Cain’s the ultimate villain, what if he’s the good guy in the tale?”

“Yeah, except for that part in act one where he kills his own brother,” I point

out.

“Forget your Sunday school, Cal. Sure, over the years, we all demonized

Cain. But the Bible doesn’t.”

“That’s not true,” I say. “When Cain asks, ‘Am I my brother’s keeper?’ —

those’re hardly the words of a saint.”

“And that’s fine. But the story of Cain and Abel isn’t just about fratricide. It’s

about what happens after Abel’s death. God’s reaction. Punishment versus

redemption.”

“So now the Mark of Cain is God’s way of rewarding Cain?”

“Again, look at the translation. According to most modern Bibles, Cain thinks

God’s punishment is too much — ‘My punishment is greater than I can bear,’

is what the text says — which is why Cain is seen as such a remorseless

monster. But when you go back to the original text — like in the geniza

fragments — that same passage can just as easily be translated as ‘My sin is

too great to forgive.’ See the difference there? In this version, Cain feels so

awful . . . so sorry . . . for what he’s done to poor Abel, he tells God he should

never be forgiven. That’s a pretty different view of Cain, no?” Roo-sevelt

asks, letting it all sink in. “Of course, most religions prefer the vicious Cain. A

little threat of evil is always the far better way to fill the seats. But sometimes

the monsters aren’t who we think they are.”

In the backseat, Serena has long forgotten the map. My dad stares down at

the phone. “So God forgave Cain?” he asks.

“Think about it: What if that’s the whole point of the story? The Mark of Cain

wasn’t a punishment. It was God’s reward: to show Divine mercy — to teach

us that those who repent get forgiveness.”

“So the Mark of Cain could be something good?” Serena asks.

“This is a gift straight from God,” Roosevelt replies, his southern accent

lingering on the final word. “So, yeah, I’d wager ‘good’ covers it.”

“C’mon, you’re telling me that the whole reason we’re running around — the

reason my dad got shot—”

“I think he got shot for the address,” Serena interrupts. When I glance in the

rearview, she adds, “From the comic. It’s just a feeling, but it’s the only thing

that makes sense. You said there’re other copies of the comic. But the

address . . . That’s the new piece of information, right? Maybe that’s their

meeting place. Or their storage place.”

“Or their hiding place,” my dad says without turning back to either of us.

“Whatever it is, they wanted that address on the comic,” Serena points out.

“They thought your dad had it. Maybe . . . I don’t know . . . you think that’s

why Mitchell Siegel got shot eighty years ago, too?”

“Perfect, just perfect,” I continue. “So what Timothy and Ellis and everyone

else — what they’re really all after is the long-lost, barely believable Mark of

Cain, which is somehow on a Superman comic from some crappy

neighborhood in Cleveland?”

“I’m not saying it exists,” Roosevelt’s voice goes on as we reach the exit for

Martin Luther King Jr. Drive. “You asked about Ellis’s tattoo; I’m telling you

what it stands for. And when you look at what the Bible says about the Mark

— ‘The Lord set a mark upon Cain, that whoever found him should not kill

him.’ Look at the last part there — ‘should not kill him.’ The images in Ellis’s

tattoo, those are God’s gifts to Cain: things that’re gonna protect him from all

the wild beasts in the wilderness.”

“Y’mean like weapons?” my dad asks.

“Or a dog,” Roosevelt says. “Named Benoni.”

Everyone is silent as I tug the wheel to the right, and we all sway to the left,

curving around the exit. At the red light, it’s no different from the Martin

Luther King Jr. street at home: Even with the darkness, it’s clear we’re in a

rough neighborhood. Within a few quick turns, nearly all the businesses are

either burnt out or boarded up. On each corner, there’s some kid in a thick

winter coat bouncing in place to find some warmth. Not one of them gets on

the passing buses. I work in these neighborhoods every day. I know drug

dealers when I see them.

“You still there?” Roosevelt asks.

“You were saying about the dog,” I reply as Serena and my dad glance out

their respective windows. Both of them sit up straight. Like they know we’re

close. “That from Bible college, too?”

“Nah, that was Google,” Roosevelt says. “Benoni was apparently Abel’s dog,

then when Abel got killed, God supposedly gave the dog to Cain as

protection.”

“Okay, so Ellis renamed his dog,” I say. “Big deal.”

“Maybe it ain’t just the dog,” Roosevelt says. “Most people are taught Cain

wandered through the Land of Nod for seven generations. But another

interpretation says that God’s gift — that no one should kill Cain — was

literal. That God let him live forever.”

“You mean Ellis thinks he’s Cain?” Serena asks.

Next to me, my dad’s now mesmerized by our surroundings, staring out the

window. “I think it’s the next right,” he blurts. When I look at him, he adds, “I

saw it on the map.”

“It’s only been a few hours. I gotta do more research,” Roosevelt says. “But

for a book like the Bible, where nearly every major figure’s death is pointed

out — Noah lived for X years; Moses lived for Y — the Bible is completely, and

almost strangely, silent about the death of Cain.”

“This is it — Kimberly Avenue,” my dad blurts as I turn onto the narrow

block that’s lined with small, beaten two-story houses and barely any cars.

It’s one thing to be in a bad neighborhood; it’s another to be in an abandoned

one.

“Do people live here?” Serena asks as the car bangs through one of the

street’s ice-filled potholes. On both sides of the block, the sidewalks are

barely plowed. I check the windows and front porches of every house we

pass. It’s only four-thirty. There’s not a person in sight.

“Roosevelt, can we deal with the rest of the nutty Cain stuff later?” I ask.

“You’re missing what I said, Cal. Ellis thinks he has God on his side. Take it

from the former pastor: The true believers are the ones who’ll burn you the

worst,” he says. “Though what all this has to do with an address on a comic

book, now you’re out of my biblical league.”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m worried about,” I say as we reach the middle of the

block and pull up to the peeling blue two-story house with the even more

peeling red trim. Unreal. The whole house, including the front steps: bright

blue and red. Like Superman.

From my backpack, I pull out the old 1938 comic and its protective wax

paper.

If found, please return to:

10622 Kimberly Ave. Cleveland

I scan the alleys on both sides of the house (dark but empty), then doublecheck

the numbers on the front porch: 10622. This is it. The address from the

coffin.

Before I can even stop, my father’s out of the car.