Near Enemy (3 page)

Mark’s a former youth pastor, hails from Minnesota, with a moptop of unruly blond curls, so he looks like the heartthrob lead singer for some ’60s surfer band, the guy all the girls would swoon over. Sadly for them, girls aren’t his preference. Misplaced guilt over that is what drove him out of the ministry. Away from the church. Toward New York and full-time bed-rest.

Good heart, though. Good person. Probably the best one I know, though that might be faint praise, given the kind of people I know. And he would probably take issue at the compliment. Mark’s hard on himself that way.

Grips the steering wheel with two tattooed hands, DAMN written across the knuckles of one fist, ABLE across the other.

DAMN and ABLE.

DAMNABLE.

Pretty much sums up Mark’s life philosophy.

He slows the van as we get closer to the Holland Tunnel, inching us past the rows of cops keeping watch. Finally one waves us through and we speed up and plunge into the shiny swallowing brightness of the tunnel. We could easily just drive straight north through Jersey, hook up with the Thruway once we’re far from the city, since we’re headed to upstate New York. But like a proud Manhattanite, Mark wants to show off the rebuilt Holland, fully restored and back to full capacity, ribbon cut just a few weeks ago. The Holland Tunnel spent most of the years since Times Square half-closed and under construction, ever since a Times Square copycat barreled a wood-paneled station wagon packed with homemade explosives down the tunnel’s windpipe, got halfway to Manhattan, then blew the car up.

Took out a tour bus, two taxis, and a tiny chunk of the tunnel’s ceiling.

But when you’re a tunnel buried under a hundred feet of water, a tiny chunk of the ceiling is enough.

Tunnel flooded. Then lay abandoned for a long while, waiting for federal funds that weren’t forthcoming. Then the city finally pumped it out and patched it and reopened it at half capacity, the occasional cars braving the darkness with fingers crossed and highbeams on.

Cars full of people packed up and leaving New York.

Then this year the mayor made a big deal of restoring it. A more cynical mind might suggest the mayor’s newfound interest in infrastructure has something to do with his reelection campaign. Or the fact that, for the first time since Times Square, he’s facing a real fight this fall. Supercop named Robert Bellarmine. Tabloids dubbed him
Top Cop
. He’s head of the city’s antiterrorism task force, appointed after Times Square to try and stop the bleeding. Return a few punches, which he did. Not sure how many of those punches landed on actual terrorists, but they definitely sent a message.

Now Robert Bellarmine’s back with a new message.

As we exit the tunnel into Manhattan, we pass a huge billboard that reads
BELLARMINE FOR MAYOR
.

Serious scowl under a bristling black mustache and, below that, a campaign slogan that looms two stories high.

VOTE BELLARMINE. SLEEP TIGHT
.

Every Sunday Mark and I take the same drive upstate. Mark picks me up in Jersey, then we head north out of New York. Always rents the same car for us too. Big white minivan, even though it’s just the two of us. Says he likes the legroom. Rents it from this discount place, one of the last few that still bother to operate in the city. None of the national chains stuck around, so you settle for dicey mom-and-pops like this one.

Check-Off Rentals. Slogan stenciled on the side of the minivan.

CHECK-OFF: ONE LESS THING TO DO ON YOUR TO-DO LIST
.

Personally, I’d prefer to splurge on something sporty, but Mark likes his minivan. Likes to call it a magic wagon. I told him no one ever calls them that anymore.

Not true, he said. I do.

So every Sunday, we head upstate in our magic wagon. Usually we don’t talk much. Enjoy the scenery. But today I have questions. I lay out the rest of Lesser’s scenario.

Mark shakes his head.

Like I said. Not possible.

But I’ve seen you bust into constructs before.

Sure. That woman crashing someone else’s construct is not the issue. Killing that someone is the issue. I mean, you can slice and dice a person all you like in the limn, that doesn’t mean he’s got a scratch on him out here. You sure this guy she attacked is even dead?

I’m not even sure who he is. Some banker with perversions.

Mark laughs.

That hardly narrows it down. Look, you can’t kill someone through the limn. Period. So your banker probably woke up somewhere in a high-end bed with a nasty headache and a few second thoughts. Unhappy, but unharmed.

Mark’s right. I’ve done enough tapping to know, way back when I used to tap in. You can punch me in the limn, and I’ll feel the punch, and the pain, might even taste the blood, but it’s not real, it’s all in my mind, sensations piped directly to my brain. Chances are your body and my body are miles away from each other out here, in the real-time world, strapped into our respective beds. And no amount of damage in there is actually going to kill me out here. Limn won’t allow it. It will spit me out first.

So I ask Mark.

What if I pull out an ax and chop your head off? In the limn?

Won’t kill me.

You just run around without a head?

Sure. For a while.

What if I toss you into a wood chipper? Like in that old movie?

Doesn’t matter. Construct just ejects me eventually, Spademan, once the scenario is no longer viable. You’d still be there but I’d disappear. Wake up in my bed.

And what about those tricks you do?

What tricks?

Like with the wings.

Mark smiles.

Look, if you tap in enough, you get good at stuff like that. Conjuring things. You can’t alter the basic construct but you can alter your presence in the construct. Choose your appearance. Give yourself different attributes. Like wings, for example. That part is baked into the limn, like an added feature. I once saw a guy reattach an arm that had been sliced off in a sword fight, just through sheer force of will. I have to admit, it was impressive.

And who sliced his arm off?

Mark shrugs.

He got cheeky.

Explain one last thing to me, Mark.

What’s that?

If all that’s true, then what exactly did Lesser see?

Mark frowns. Watches the road. Frowns deeper. Then says.

I don’t know.

Because Lesser’s seen a lot. My guess is he’s not easily spooked.

I know. That I can’t explain. I mean, Lesser knows his stuff. He’s a special kid, Spademan.

Why? Because he knows how to peep in on other people’s dreams?

Mark looks at me. Like he’s surprised I don’t know this part.

Spademan, Lesser’s not just some random bed-hopper. Lesser’s the one who found the glitch in the limn that makes bed-hopping possible.

We drop the conversation, continue north, watch the city shrink in the rearview. Manhattan gives way to the Bronx gives way to Westchester gives way to the woods. All of it more or less empty now.

Woods are prettier, though.

As we drive, Mark finally asks me the question I know he’s been itching to ask me.

Why in the world were you talking to Lesser anyway?

We just ran into each other.

Mark’s skeptical. Understandably.

He’s a good kid, Spademan. He doesn’t deserve whatever you had in store for him.

This time I frown.

Who does?

After that, we drive in silence. Then Mark spots our exit, turns off the freeway, and takes us deeper into the woods.

The whole time, Mark’s lost in thought. Seems puzzled. Definitely troubled. For all his self-diagnosed faults, he’s a choirboy at heart. Doesn’t drink. Doesn’t smoke. Rarely curses. So maybe that’s why I find it alarming when he finally pipes up.

Bottom line, you can’t die in the limn, Spademan. Lesser must have been wrong. He must have misunderstood.

Mutters this last part to himself, almost like a plaintive prayer.

Or at least I really fucking hope he did.

Ever since Times Square, upstate is thriving.

Village of Beacon.

Case in point.

Beacon’s a onetime whistle-stop town with an optimistic name that more or less died when all the factories closed down. Sat fallow for a long while. Eventually cheap rents attracted artistic types. Then came Times Square. Then the big New York exodus.

Upstate towns started swelling again.

Beacon most of all.

Suddenly it’s a boomtown. Which is also a funny phrase.

Boomtown.

Different context, same name could apply to New York.

Lots of back-to-the-land types live in Beacon now. People who figured, Fuck the toxic city—let’s move to Green Acres and start again. Found a farm. Take up needlepoint. Loose the kids to run around barefoot. Make public declarations to live limnosphere-free. A whole village unplugged. Communal rules tacked to the town-hall door, decided by a show of hands. Hippie paradise, or what used to be called hippies anyway. These types are more clean-cut. Better funded. Drive hybrids. Still wear overalls, but bespoke.

Happy hamlet on a river, more or less cut off from the wired-up world. Not much to not like. And a great place to relocate.

Or, in our case, to relocate a friend.

We skip Main Street.

Drive straight through town without stopping.

After a few more miles, find a side road that no one would ever think to notice. Follow that road for a bit to a dirt turn-off that’s little more than tire tracks in the soil. Not listed on any maps, and fuck GPS. We turn right and head down a passage choked by dead limbs. A few good-sized rocks in the mud ruts to ward off the curious.

It’s another bumpy twenty minutes before we even see the house.

Cedar cottage, tucked into a hidden pocket of the woods. You’d never spot it unless you knew to look.

Mark turns in the long dirt driveway, inching forward, branches scratching like beggars at the windows, then pulls the van around back to park.

She’s already in the doorway by the time we mount the porch.

What happened? You guys decide to stop in town for souvenirs?

Wipes her hands on her flower-print skirt. Leaves flour prints. Sees our skeptical faces. Smiles.

Yes, I’m baking a pie.

Raises one flour-dusted finger.

And if either of you says a word about it, you won’t get a fucking slice.

Wild curls hogtied in some mockery of a ponytail.

Hard to tame.

Just like her.

Persephone.

Exiled in her backwoods hideaway.

Inside, the cabin smells of cabin. Knotted rugs and rocking chairs. Drop-leaf table with a frail lace tablecloth and an honest-to-God
kerosene lamp in the center, kept in case of blackout. Power’s spotty this far out from the civilized world.

Lamp’s not exactly childproof, though. I’ll have to mention that.

Look at me. Babyproofing.

Place is small but cozy. Turns out Persephone’s got a homesteader streak. Bakes a pie every so often. Even embroidered a sampler. As she’ll be the first to tell you, these days she’s got plenty of time on her hands.

Sampler’s hung over the door. Her favorite Bible verse.

2 Thessalonians, chapter 3, verse 3.

The Lord is faithful. He will establish you and protect you against the evil one
.

Verse edged in needlepoint flowers and thorned ivy. Persephone’s touch. A deft stitch. She notices me noticing. So I ask her.

And who’s the evil one?

She folds her arms across her chest.

I don’t know yet. I just hope I do by the time he darkens my door.

It’s a good verse.

Yeah, I liked it as a girl. Last year I actually thought about getting it as a tattoo. Right here.

Traces her finger along the inside of her right forearm.

So why didn’t you?

She shrugs.

Not safe to get a tattoo while you’re pregnant.

So why not now?

She looks over at her daughter. Smiling baby, sitting up on a blanket, playing in the corner. Beautiful girl. Light of the world.

I have to set a good example, right?