Near Enemy (10 page)

Trots lightly down the porch steps, very nimble for a big man.

Then looks up and sees the headlights, bright even in daylight.

Highbeams.

Squints.

The pickup truck’s running.

Puts a hand up to shade his eyes.

Could swear he sees a woman at the wheel.

Persephone.

Foot.

Pedal.

Floor.

The airbag erupts in a cloud of white powder as her head ricochets and the truck slams the burly man hard enough to vault him bodily backward through the front window of the cabin, like an Old West outlaw thrown through a window in a barroom brawl, but played in reverse. The window’s gone now, as is half the cabin wall. Just shattered glass and splintered woodframe. Persephone’s foot still slamming the gas, so the pickup truck keeps climbing the porch with a gravelly roar, monster-truck tires spinning, belching black smoke, before the engine finally stalls and abruptly quiets.

And the truck’s horn, like an abandoned baby, starts to wail.

They left the keys to the truck in the ignition, for a quick getaway.

Lucky, she thought, when she found the keys there.

So very, very lucky.

Horn still wailing.

Persephone comes to with her head resting on the airbag like a throw pillow, like she just woke up from a catnap.

Airbag powder dusts her face like flour. Tastes sour in her mouth. Metallic. Like blood.

No, wait. That’s blood.

She lifts her head. Checks her face in the spider-cracked rearview. Forehead and cheeks smeared white and red. Nose bleeding. She blinks.

Sees stars.

Shakes her head to chase them off.

Thinks of Hannah.

She hated to leave Hannah inside but no way she’d trust a
lap belt. Not in this situation. So she left her. Just for a moment.

Hid her. In her playpen.

In the cellar.

Where she thought she’d be safe.

Persephone pauses. Finds her bearings.

Remembers.

There were three of them.

Three men.

Still two.

Goes to unlatch her seat belt.

Won’t unbuckle.

Horn still wailing.

She yanks at the buckle again.

Oh no oh no oh no oh no.

Two more men. And Hannah still hidden in the cellar.

She and Mark moved the cupboard to hide the cellar door.

And there’s two more men inside. Searching.

Persephone’s crying now. Feeling more frantic. More than frantic.

Clawing at that buckle.

Spies a third man also laid out in the living room, through the hole where the window once was.

Laid prone by the collision.

But stirring.

She didn’t want to leave Hannah inside but what choice did she have?

Claws at the belt.

Come on Persephone come on Persephone come on Persephone come on and pull yourself together.

Don’t scream her name.

Don’t scream her name.

Don’t scream her name.

She screams her name.

Palindrome echoes mournfully through the woods.

Seat belt gives.

Unbuckles.

She lets the belt zip smartly back and jumps out of the truck.

Stumbles. Woozy.

Wonders why the ground keeps lurching.

Hikes across the porch and through the new hole in the cabin wall.

Arms leaden. Legs jelly.

Reminds herself to stop and puke when she has a spare moment.

Spots Mark. Laid prone. Out cold.

And the first man, the burly one, the one she hit with the truck, is maybe dead and definitely sprawled out awkwardly, legs bent at angles that suggest they won’t be any use to him anytime soon.

Steps over him.

Eyes on that third man now.

Still stirring.

Now standing.

Between her and the cellar.

Her and Hannah.

The man shakes his head. Straightens up.

She moves sideways, slowly, cautiously, like someone who’s come home and stumbled in on a feral animal.

Circles toward the dining table. Trying to put the table between her and him. He mimics her movements, also circling, mirroring her. And he sneers when he realizes she thinks the table will be enough to hold him back.

He feints left and she spooks.

He feints right.

She doesn’t spook.

So they circle the table some more, like in some silly silent movie.

Just the table between them.

He inches forward. Figuring he might as well just go right over the top of the table. Only thing between her and him is some old-fashioned lamp. Easy to sweep aside.

Still no sign of the second man. The one who went down into the cellar.

Third man inches closer to the table. Just about ready to hurdle it. Probably figures he needs to move in just. Another. Inch.

He moves in another inch.

Close enough.

Persephone grabs the lace tablecloth with two fists and yanks it hard while also tugging it upward.

Kerosene lamp in the center of the tablecloth flips skyward.

Full somersault.

Then shatters. Splashes.

Kerosene everywhere.

And the third man looks down, stunned by the sudden stink of oil that’s sprayed all over his chest and arms, and he doesn’t even notice when Persephone pulls out the silver Zippo from her pocket and clumsily snaps her thumb across the wheel to get it to catch, once, twice, again, come on, again, before it finally sparks, and then she tosses it awkwardly, like some insect she’s shooing away from herself, and the lighter tumbles, flame fluttering, toward the man in the suddenly soaked coveralls.

Tablecloth goes up.

Table too.

Man too.

She leaves all three to burn.

Staggers off toward the cellar door.

There were three men.

Then two.

Now one.

Still one.

As she limps toward the kitchen she looks left and right for something sharp.

A shard, maybe.

But nothing presents itself.

Except the cellar door, which is waiting, wide-open.

She stops and lingers for a long terrible second at the mouth of the stairs, hoping to hear something from below.

Too scared even to call out her name.

Just listens. For some sign from Hannah. Something. Anything.

Nothing.

Persephone descends.

Feels the urge to puke again.

Persephone has her own sickening history with cellar stairs.

Heads downward. Lurching slightly.

Too dark to see where the bottom of the stairs is but then she feels her foot hit the cold cement floor and she stops.

Palms the wall for the light switch.

Please God just this once. Please God I’ll do anything. Please God take me instead. Please God.

And if Hannah’s not here then just take me then too. Take me too. Take us all.

Because I can’t God. If she’s not here. I can’t. If she’s not here. Or worse.

Finally finds the switch with her fingers.

Please God.

Click.

She’d left Hannah in her playpen, hastily. Kissed her forehead. Then set her down in the dark.

Told her to be quiet.

Be a good girl.

Mama will be back soon.

Then sobbed while she and Mark shoved that cupboard in the kitchen into place.

Bare bulb brightens.

Takes a second for her eyes to adjust.

She knows this may well be the last moment of her life. Accepts it almost calmly. Feels weirdly resigned to it.

Because she won’t go on. Not without her. She just won’t.

Not without Hannah.

Her eyes adjust.

And for the rest of her life, Persephone will never be able to quite find the words to describe this moment, even alone, even to herself. She feels at the same time completely empty and completely full, as if something forceful is rushing into her chest while something equally forceful rushes out.

Because Hannah’s here.

And she’s safe.

Sitting patiently in the middle of the concrete floor, all by herself.

Being quiet. In the dark.

A good girl.

And Persephone understands that there are no words yet invented for how this feeling feels.

Scoops her up.

Sweeps Hannah’s curls aside, to keep them clear of the blood and tears and snot that all now trickle freely down Persephone’s face.

Kisses every part of Hannah’s head.

Don’t let anything touch you. Don’t let anything. Ever.

Hugs her closer. Whispers.

Mama’s here.

Then promises. Aloud. To her baby. To herself.

I will never let that happen again.

She’s so overcome that she almost forgets.

Almost turns out the light again and hikes back up the stairs before she remembers she never found that other man.

Or the playpen she left Hannah in.

So she turns back. Holding Hannah.

Checks the darkened corners.

Finds both.

Third man’s slumped in the playpen, like he’s enjoying a siesta.

Head droops at a gruesome angle. Choked and his neck’s broken. Arms tied behind his back with plastic riot cuffs.

Persephone stands alone, holding Hannah. Trying to make sense of what she sees.

She looks around. Still clutching Hannah.

Hannah seems happy. Giggling. And babbling.

Just nonsense.

Until she says one word.

Persephone nearly misses it.

Hannah speaks so rarely that every word comes as a surprise.

But this one’s especially surprising.

Persephone leans in and listens hard in the dark to make sure she heard it right.

Whispers.

What’s that, sweet girl? What did you say?

Hannah says it again.

She heard it right.

A single word. That makes no sense.

Hannah says it again.

Dada.

Simon.

In my home in Hoboken. Sitting on my sofa. Smiling.

Simon the Magician.

Hannah’s dada.

Ta-da.

The last time I saw Simon the Magician was at my social club in Hoboken. We were shaking hands.

Deal with the devil.

Regret it ever since.

Simon agreed to betray his old boss, Harrow, in order to take over Harrow’s empire.

Apparently, that isn’t working out so well for him.

So now he’s here. On my sofa.

Holding Hannah.

Hello Spademan.

Everyone’s back in Hoboken now.

My broken, makeshift family. Safe and sound. That’s what counts.

Or so I keep telling myself.

Persephone’s sitting on a windowsill, smoking, still angry, still shaken, and not really speaking to me. Waves the smoke out the open window like she’s bidding it good-bye.

Mark’s sitting at the dining table, nursing a broken jaw,
which was wired shut at the local ER, paid for in cash, to skip all the questions. Ugly bruise the size and shade of an eggplant now spreading over his cheeks. He’s destined for a diet of milkshakes and mumbling, probably for a good six weeks at least.

Hannah’s happy. Hannah’s sitting on her daddy’s lap. Smiling.

Simon’s beaming too. Having played the role of the cavalry. Swept in. Saved his daughter.

And then there’s me.

After I hung up with Mark at the waffle place, Nurse took a rain check, understandably. And not knowing what else to do, I came here to Hoboken. To stew. To feel useless. Wait for word.

All the while thinking.

I should have been there. I should have stayed. It should have been me who saved them.

I should have camped out in a rocking chair on the front porch with my box-cutter in my fist.

Instead I came back here to the city so I could chase down some renegade hopper. Eat oyster bisque with a bureaucrat. Spend the night in a rich man’s bed.

I left.

And Simon saved them.

I should have stayed. But I didn’t.

I left them.

That’s what I did.

Now here we are.

Hello Spademan.

Hello Simon.

He scratches at his curly black beard. A little bushier than when I last saw him. Hair’s bushier too. Like a man who’s been on the road awhile. Let his grooming lapse.