Near Enemy

by Adam Sternbergh

  Thinks a moment. Recalls it.

  Ah yes.

  Then he says it.

  See you on the other side.

  And he swipes his own blade cleanly across his neck, opening his throat, quick and steady and without hesitation, and the blood comes suddenly, and he stands for a moment, blade in his hand, bleeding, like he’s both the priest and the sacrifice being offered, and then the knife falls from his hand, and his body drops.

  39.

  Hoboken.

  Puchs glides forward into the apartment, pistol drawn, silent, sighting targets, moving quickly, without hesitation. He’s been sitting in that squad car too long, coiled up, waiting all week for this part. Boonce promised him that this is how they would end it. That they would get to do this, if they just waited patiently.

  The living room’s empty, so Puchs signals all-clear to Luckner, who’s still standing in the apartment doorway. Then Puchs turns and looks toward the bedroom door, which is open.

  Sees Persephone standing in the doorway.

  Just behind the doorway, actually.

  Just out of sight.

  Glock leveled.

  Persephone doesn’t wait.

  Doesn’t really aim either.

  Just unloads.

  She left Hannah in her crib, in the closet, in the dark, with all the blankets she could grab draped over the top of the crib, hoping they would muffle the sound, hoping they would hide her, protect her, a little bit at least.

  Then she positioned herself a foot back in the doorway, just enough so she couldn’t be seen from the sightlines of the apartment’s front door. Stood right where Simon showed her to stand, before he left, in case there was any trouble. Told her to wait until whoever came in was dead in her sights. Told her how to hold the Glock. Showed her how to pull the trigger if the time came.

  The waiting will be the hardest part, he told her.

  They’ll buzz up, and when they do, you should let them in, Simon said. Then stand right here, just back from the doorway, just out of sight, and wait.

  So she buzzed them up.

  Stood in the doorway.

  Gripped the gun.

  Elbows loose, not locked.

  Finger gentle on the trigger.

  And waited.

  Until now.

  Persephone unloads.

  Not sure how many times she hit the guy, but enough that the guy is down.

  Felt easy.

  Automatic.

  Just like Simon said it would.

  That’s two times Simon’s saved her now.

  Just be a machine, he told her. Just breathe, stay calm, and be a machine.

  She can do that, she thought. Be just like her baby.

  A machine for staying alive.

  Simon and Mark stand ready in the train car as Boonce strides toward them, the dropped mound of Do-Best lying behind him on the floor.

  Joseph Boonce. Still standing. Still alive. In the limn, at least.

  Simon looks him up and down and says to Boonce.

  Why are you red, Boonce? You look like a baboon’s ass.

  Boonce smirks.

  I like you, Simon. So I apologize in advance for this.

  Puts his hand lightly on Simon’s forehead like a faith healer.

  Simon drops.

  Slumps to the floor without a word.

  Mark raises his sword, which bursts into flame with a soft, barely audible pop like a gas burner catching.

  As he does this, Boonce says.

  You’re a pastor, Mark, right? So you know your scripture. Well, here’s a favorite of mine.

  His voice like a hive of insects. A sound that swarms into Mark’s ears and seems to devour his eardrums.

  Boonce says.

  He that killeth with the sword must be killed with the sword—

  Boonce says.

  —and something something something I forget the rest—

  And then Boonce unhinges his red jaw, opening it wide like a snake, so that his mouth drops wide, and he reaches a red fist deep down into his own throat, and from his throat pulls a long sword from within himself, impossibly, but he does it, because he can now do anything, or so it seems.

  Just a dream, Mark thinks. Just a dream.

  And Mark raises his own flaming sword but his sword is suddenly lighter, it takes barely any strength to heft at all, and he realizes that, faster than Mark could follow, Boonce used his own blade to cut through Mark’s sword in three quick strokes, leaving his sword in flaming sections on the subway floor, each of which now quickly sputters out, and Mark’s left holding only the hilt.

  Then Boonce raises his long thin impossible sword with both hands and readies the killing blow.

  But Mark’s disappeared.

  Boonce’s sword simply slices the air where Mark stood.

  So in a rage Boonce swings the sword again and plunges it into Simon’s body, again and again, which shudders on the subway floor, then stills, and the train roars on.

  Hoboken.

  Luckner in the doorway fires three shots toward the bedroom, but she doesn’t have the angle. Just splinters doorframe.

  Doesn’t matter. She counted at least twelve shots, and with the way that woman was firing, just unloading wildly, no way that clip isn’t empty, or very close.

  Amateur mistake.

  Luckner adjusts her sunglasses. Steps into the apartment.

  Behind Persephone, Hannah is bawling now. Even in the closet, even under all those blankets, Persephone can hear her, wailing, all alone.

  Persephone knows the gun is empty because she heard the click-click-click the last few times she squeezed the trigger, but her finger kept pulling and she couldn’t stop herself. A machine to stay alive.

  Squeeze squeeze squeeze squeeze squeeze click click click shit.

  It won’t end like this, she thinks, then starts to cry, finally, because she knows it very well could end like this. After the cabin. After today. After the camps in Central Park. After the van in Red Hook. After what she saw in her father’s heaven.

  After her father.

  After everyone left her here alone, again, with Hannah, in Hoboken.

  I’m sorry, Hannah, she thinks. I promise I will hold you and you won’t feel pain. I promise—

  Luckner appears in the doorway. Gun drawn.

  Spots Persephone. Sights her slowly. Hint of a grin.

  Persephone backs up until she’s standing in front of the closet door. Shuts her eyes.

  Does what she used to do once as a habit. As a reflex. As a refuge.

  She prays.

  If ever You loved me, save Hannah. Take me but save Hannah at least. Save Hannah—

  Persephone’s still praying when she hears a single shot and startles.

  Opens her eyes just in time to see Luckner fall.

  Brain matter on the doorjamb.

  Luckner slumped in the doorway.

  Sunglasses askew.

  Then Persephone hears a voice from the livingroom.

  Hello? Are you okay in there?

  A long man pokes his long face around the corner. Gives her a long look. Then stows his snub-nose in a shoulder holster.

  I’m sorry if I frightened the baby, ma’am. My name’s Dandy. Detective James Dandy. NYPD.

  It takes her a minute. She’s about to say it but he cuts her off.

  —I prefer James. I’m looking for a Mr Spade Man?

  He’s not here.

  Okay, well, could you tell him I stopped by? And let him know I decided to run a check on those two cops that Boonce had watching you. Good thing I did. Turns out they’re no good.

  He glances down at Luckner’s body.

  But I guess you figured that out.

  Persephone opens the closet and pulls Hannah from her crib. Clutches her close. Calms her. Whispers to her.

  Let’s go home.

  Then turns to the detective.

  I’m sorry. What did you say your name was again?

  Dandy. Detective Dand
y.

  Well, Detective Dandy, would you please come in here and help us get packed?

  40.

  One Times Square.

  I run.

  Down the hall. Past the Teuton.

  Away from Boonce’s body.

  Jam elevator buttons.

  Then I plummet toward the earth like the New Year’s ball.

  Ten.

  Nine.

  Left Boonce’s body bleeding out. Boonce is dead. So I assume.

  Eight.

  Seven.

  Saw his blood swallowed up by the gray wall-to-wall carpet. Soak it through.

  Six.

  Five.

  But I know it’s not over. I don’t know what he’s doing, but I do know that.

  Four.

  Three.

  He said he writes stories. Writes endings. And this story hasn’t ended. Not yet.

  Two.

  Hit the ground floor.

  One.

  Run.

  Through Times Square. Down Broadway. The long blocks south toward the safe perimeter. Where the first of the craziest cabbies might be foolhardy enough to nibble for a fare. Forty-First.

  Fortieth.

  Keep running.

  Thirty-Ninth.

  No cabs. And little time.

  Thirty-Eighth.

  So I do something strange.

  Thirty-Seventh.

  I pray.

  Please—

  Never done this before.

  —if you can hear me—

  Thirty-Sixth.

  —I know I never—

  Then I spot it.

  Blocks away.

  Dab of yellow against the ashtray gray of the streetscape. Lone cab prowling.

  Whisper thank you. To Whoever.

  Then flag it.

  Cab slows.

  I climb inside. Tell the driver.

  Atlantic Avenue. In Brooklyn.

  He waves a hand frantically.

  No no no no no no no Atlantic Avenue no Brooklyn—

  He’s brave enough to trawl Times Square, but he’s not that brave, apparently.

  I consider hijacking the cab. Another cab. Like I’m collecting them.

  But then I remember something.

  Check my pocket. Find the box-cutter. And still there, next to the box-cutter.

  Van keys.

  So I pull out the last of my wad of cash. Toss it into the front seat.

  Tell the driver.

  Take me to Chinatown instead.

  In the cab, I call Persephone’s cellphone.

  Hope she’ll answer.

  Curse myself while the phone rings and rings. And rings.

  Then finally.

  She picks up. No hello. Her voice cold.

  Don’t worry. We’re safe. Both of us. And we’re already gone. Don’t come after us, Spademan. Tell Simon to join us when he can. Tell him we’re all going home.

  Then Persephone hangs up on me.

  Cab pulls up to the Kakumu Lounge.

  Inside, the flop-shop is dark and smells of sweat and vomit and panic. It takes my eyes a minute to adjust, and when they do, I’m greeted by this tableau.

  Mina, pale and spent.

  Mark sitting up in his bed, tubes half-detached, shirt soaked through thoroughly, faintly dazed and silent but tapped out.

  Nurse hovering at Simon’s bedside, hand clutched over her mouth.

  Simon in his bed. Not moving.

  I ask Mark, though I know the answer.

  You find Lesser?

  He shakes his head. Tries to speak. Forgets his jaw’s still broken out here. Then he grabs a scrap of paper. Scribbles quickly.

  A TRAP. JUST BOONCE. MINA YANKED ME OUT.

  Boonce is dead.

  Mark looks up at me. Scribbles again.

  NO HE’S NOT.

  Mark, I just saw it with my own eyes. He’s dead. I watched him die. Ten minutes ago in Times Square.

  Mark scribbles.

  NOT DEAD.

  Scribbles again.

  NOT IN THERE.

  This I did not expect. I look to Mina and she seems about to speak, then realizes she has nothing to add, so she tends instead to Mark’s last few sensors, pulling them free.

  So I say to Mark.

  But that’s not possible. Maybe who you saw wasn’t Boonce.

  Mark scribbles.

  MAYBE.

  But Mark knows. And I know too.

  Meanwhile Simon still hasn’t moved.

  I ask Nurse.

  Why haven’t you tapped him out?

  She pulls her hand from in front of her mouth, where it’s been hovering, helpless.

  I’m afraid to.

  Why?

  I don’t know if he’ll make it.

  What do you mean?

  Whatever they did, whatever Boonce did to him, in there, Simon’s not responding. He’s completely shut down. I can’t—I’ve never seen this, Spademan. But his vitals are all so marginal, it’s like—it’s like he’s only still alive in there. So if I tap him out—I don’t know—

  Well, you have to tap him out.

  I don’t know—

  What other choice do we have?

  She has nothing more to say. I nod to Simon.

  All right. Watch over him. I have to get to Brooklyn.

  Then I say to Mark.

  Stay here. Watch these three. Wait for my call.

  He nods.

  Then I say to Mina.

  Lock up. Don’t let anyone in. Not anyone. You have a basement?

  She nods.

  Then everyone who can, get in the basement.

  Nurse asks.

  What about you?

  I need to get to Brooklyn. Atlantic Avenue. Quickly.

  Why? What’s at Atlantic—

  Boonce’s final act.

  You don’t think he’s coming here for us?

  I say to Nurse.

  No. Not us.

  Fingers on triggers.

  Waiting to pull.

  I head out to the street in Chinatown.

  Canal Street.

  Where Puchs first picked me up.

  Head down an alleyway.

  Air still thrumming. Air’s alive.

  Buzzing, like a swarm is coming.

  Just like in Times Square.

  Figure I have maybe twenty minutes, tops.

  Think about what Mark just told me. About Boonce.

  Think about the only answer that makes sense.

  What Lesser found. What Lesser had. It wasn’t a way to kill someone in the limn. Not exactly.

  It was a way to live in the limn. Regardless of what happens to your body out here.

  To live forever in the limn, detached from any body.

  When I was talking to Boonce, he was in the limn too. In both worlds. Without a bed, without sensors, without sedatives, without tubes. Without needing to tap in.

  That was Lesser’s secret. That’s what Lesser had found.

  Who needs to live at all in this world when you can live forever in that one?

  Mark knew it too. He wouldn’t say it. But he knew it.

  Boonce is alive.

  Just not out here.

  Head down the alleyway.

  Turn left.

  Say another prayer. What the hell? First one worked.

  Hello. It’s me again—

  Turn another corner. Hope it’s still here.

  It’s still here.

  Rental minivan is covered from stem to stern in graffiti and a window’s broken, but at least it’s not up on blocks. Still has tires. So it’s drivable. In theory.

  And when I beep-beep the rental fob the doors unlock.

  I climb in and the van starts on the first twist too.

  Magic wagon.

  Hit the wipers, which smear fresh graffiti just enough that I can see. Back out of the alley, U-turn, then head toward the Brooklyn Bridge.

  Hope it’s open.

  Because I’ve got maybe five minutes left.
/>   On the side panel of the minivan, the name of the rental company’s all but covered by the handiwork of vandals. Barely visible, though. If you squint.

  Check-Off’s minivan. Waiting in the wings.

  I flatten the pedal and drive.

  Hit the bridge. No traffic.

  Sail over unimpeded.

  Then I spot them. Over the East River.

  Four of them.

  Flying in formation.

  Noses down. For extra speed.

  Rotors set the air to thrumming. Sound like a thousand hoof beats. Thundering toward Brooklyn.

  Toward Atlantic Avenue.

  Toward Shaban.

  Attack copters.

  Military. Look like well-armed wasps.

  The pilots’ faces just barely visible in the windows of the choppers’ wide glass. Heading for their target.

  Fingers on their triggers.

  Waiting to pull.

  Floor the magic wagon.

  Exit the bridge.

  Squeal past what few cars sit with startled drivers as I speed by.

  Hit Atlantic.

  Spin the wheel left.

  Tires keening.

  Keep the pedal jammed.

  Crunch the brakes.

  Pull up to the scent shop, van halfway up the curb.

  Spot the Closed sign swinging on the locked door.

  Jump out.

  Shout and pound the glass.

  In the silence of the street, the call to prayer is heard.

  Sounded by the nearby mosque, newly reopened.

  I’m standing, pounding on the glass door, shouting, sure that no one inside can hear me. From inside, I’m sure, I look like a crazy man, no sound, just fists pummeling and my mouth moving wildly.

  And outside, the call to prayer is deafening, a low drone that rolls out and blankets Atlantic Avenue and muffles every other street noise.

  Keep pounding.

  One of the clerks finally appears inside, behind the counter.

  I scream through the locked door.

  Shaban!

  Clerk looks startled. Walks slowly toward the door. Looks like he’s wondering whether he should bring the shotgun with him. This crazy man, outside, drumming on the glass.

  Then behind him, Shaban appears, and he knows.

  Behind me.

  In the air.

  Hoof beats. Rising louder. Getting closer.

  Not hoof beats.

  Helicopters.

  The roar of the rotor blades shreds the morning air.

  All but drowning out the call to prayer.

  I motion to Shaban, who’s in some kind of long robe, like he’s probably on his way out to the mosque, hooking his wire-rimmed glasses around his ears so he can see better who’s at the door. And he walks up and unlocks the door and opens it and is about to ask me something but whatever look is on my face at that moment answers all his questions.