Near Enemy (9 page)

Elevator to the penthouse.

Doors open straight into the apartment. Penthouse is dark, save for the city view, which is panoramic, painted in pointillist light.

Yes, despite what Persephone thinks, I do sometimes make it out to a museum. Tag along behind a tour group. Pick up a phrase or two.

Pointillist, for example.

Nurse and I step inside. I live in a pretty nice loft in Hoboken, a luxury place that was abandoned by hotshot finance types who fled, and Langland’s place makes mine look like the servant’s quarters.

Elevator doors slide shut behind us. Nurse turns and locks the place up with a code on a keypad.

Then turns back to me. Fingers to her lips. Says in a shushed voice.

So we won’t be disturbed.

In the center of the room sits a high-end bed, now empty. Looks like a leather cocoon that’s recently been shed. Shreds of yellow police caution tape hang from the bed halfheartedly, like banners from an election campaign that’s already left town. I’m guessing the investigation was brief and the cops closed the case quickly. Old man dead in the night. Not exactly a whodunit. Not at first glance, anyway.

Nurse motions toward the bedroom, then swipes her hand over a wall plate. Doors whisper open. She giggles and quiets me again with that raised finger to her lips, even though we’re the only ones here. Then she grabs my wrist and tugs me toward the bed, like we’re two teens who’ve been listening for her parents to pull out of the driveway, and only now just heard them drive away.

King-size bed. Bigger, maybe. Emperor-size, if that’s a size.

Looks out over another knockout view.

Nurse climbs aboard. Bounces on the mattress. Then beckons.

I pause.

She sours.

What’s wrong?

I shrug.

Seems a waste. Such a huge bed. Barely even got used.

She lies back. Makes a snow-angel shape on the ivory-colored bedspread. Giggles. Then leans up on her elbows.

Pats the mattress.

Mr Spademan, I couldn’t agree with you more.

The next problem that presents itself is the location of the zipper.

Nurse’s whites. Sized to fit tightly.

Oddly sexy, in the right light.

Doorman told us he’d give us twenty minutes, tops.

We take forty.

Then forty more.

Then we kind of leave it open-ended.

First fast. Then more deliberate. No rush, but with some urgency. As for me, it’s been a while. Not sure about her, though she’s definitely not out of practice. And, for a Canadian, she’s certainly not polite.

Wonder if the doorman’s even noticing the time. Don’t know what she promised him to let us come up here, but at this rate, she may have to deliver it twice.

And suddenly I decide that I don’t much like that doorman.

May have to have a word with him.

Renegotiate.

Afterward, we lie awhile. Watch the city flicker on the far side of the darkened glass. From up here, the city doesn’t look so sick, which I guess is the whole point of living up here.

Then I check the clock. Three thirty. Tell Nurse.

I don’t think you’re going to make it back to Fort Tryon tonight.

She nuzzles her head into my chest.

Don’t worry, I doubt my boss will complain if I’m tardy today.

Her boss. Her job. The banker. That’s right. Langland.

To be honest, for a long rare happy moment, I’d forgotten that’s the reason why I’m here.

Next morning. Sun comes knocking.

Check the clock again. Six a.m.

I sit up. Bed’s empty. Nurse is dressing in the doorway. Tugs her crepe-soled shoe on, over white stockings.

Morning, Spademan. You hungry?

I find my shirt. Tell Nurse.

I am. I know a place. You like waffles?

She gives me a funny look.

Who doesn’t like waffles?

I have to admit, I’m really starting to warm up to this Nurse.

We dodge the morning doorman and duck out of the condo lobby and head east. Nurse clings to my arm like we’re a longtime couple going window shopping on a lazy weekend afternoon.

Don’t mind. Kind of like it.

There’s not much action around in the East Village at six in the morning, but we pass a pair of elderly women handing out paper tracts. Dressed like they’re maybe heading to church later, except it’s Monday, so they’ve got a long wait.

One woman hands me a pamphlet, which I accept out of politeness.

Crumple it up once we pass out of earshot.

Nurse stops me. Uncrumples the brochure. One word, printed in block letters, across the top.

AWAKE!

Nurse holds it out to me and asks.

What’s this? Some kind of religion?

Not exactly. They’re Wakers. Wackos, really. Anti-limn movement that started once the beds took off. They’re committed to wakefulness, so they say. You’ve never seen them before?

Nurse shrugs.

Sure. I see them all the time on my way to work. I’ve just never taken the brochure.

She opens the pamphlet. Scans it.

I don’t know. Sounds kind of appealing, Spademan. I mean, look at Langland. All the riches in the world, best life money can buy, but it wasn’t good enough. He needed something more. Tried to find it in the limn. Which only took him further away from anything that really matters.

Trust me, Nurse. You’re preaching to the choir.

I point to the tract.

If you’re interested, looks like there’s a Wakers meeting this weekend up around where you live. In that old Cloisters museum in Fort Tryon Park.

She pockets the tract.

Maybe I’ll check it out.

You want an escort? You know, to make sure you don’t get brainwashed?

She squeezes my arm.

Let’s see how the waffles go first.

The place is called the Waffle Hole, which is a terrible name, and it’s tucked out of sight below street level, down a half flight of dingy stairs and through a door where you have to stoop to get inside. Only four tables in the place, but we’re the only customers anyway. Chef’s name is Horace, and he’s also the owner, the waiter, and the maître d’, which means he stands over a sizzling
griddle in the back and points you toward an empty table with his dripping spatula. You seat yourself then yell out your order, which is not a problem, because the menu’s easy to remember.

Waffles.

I wave to Horace, order two of the usual, then Nurse and I take our seats. She looks around.

Nice spot. So there are still hidden gems left in New York.

If they ever close this place, I’ll be happy to let the whole city sink into the Hudson, and stay on my side of the river for good.

Nurse laughs.

They don’t have waffles in Hoboken?

I nod toward Horace, who’s approaching with two plates.

Not like these.

Nurse digs in. Chews slowly. Remarks with her mouth full.

Well, you did not lie.

There’s a question I really want to ask Nurse, but I know I shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t, Spademan. You really shouldn’t. You—

I ask Nurse.

So what did you promise that doorman last night? To get him to let us up?

Why? Jealous?

Interested.

I didn’t promise him anything. I just told him if he didn’t let us up I might have to mention to building management about the time I walked in on him in the Media Room. He was—how shall I put it—entertaining himself.

You don’t say.

To be fair, no one ever uses the Media Room anymore.

And what were you planning to do in there, Nurse?

Entertain myself.

I’m pretty sure she’s joking. I like her a lot, either way.

She swipes the last bite in a tide pool of syrup.

Spademan, I was thinking about what you asked me last night, about the night that Langland died.

Okay.

You asked if I saw anything unusual. It was nagging at me, so this morning, when you were still asleep, I double-checked the monitor logs. We monitor brain function for every client who’s tapped in, mostly just to look for reception patterns, maybe something that will ensure a smoother tap next time. But on second inspection, I did spot something weird. Something small. Very small. But weird.

Which was—?

I don’t know—some glitch. In his functioning.

Like his brain was acting up in the limn?

More like the limn was acting up in his brain. Like it was sending something more than stimuli. Just for a second, though. Just a blip. I don’t—

Phone in my pocket rings. I pause Nurse.

Excuse me—

Pat my pockets and pull the phone free. Nurse sees it and laughs.

You use a flip phone?

What? They’re disposable.

And you don’t mind that?

I prefer it.

I flip open the phone and answer it. It’s Mark Ray and I can hardly hear him. Cellular service is no one’s top priority anymore, especially not in New York. Plus he’s calling from upstate, so I’m surprised he could even get a signal.

Hey Spademan—

Crackle crackle.

—it’s Mark, just calling to check in. I think I’m going to head back to the city later today.

Okay.

And I wanted to make sure you remembered to return the minivan.

Shit. But I don’t say that to Mark, of course. What I say is.

Sure.

Then hope the minivan’s still parked where I left it in Chinatown.

Great. I also wanted to let you know that the A/C you ordered is finally here. I’ll stay and help Persephone set it up this morning before I go, but then I’m heading back to the city.

I say sure. Of course. The A/C. The one I ordered for Persephone. The one they put on back-order at the store where they wanted her address for delivery. Which I never gave them.

I ask Mark.

Wait. Tell me again. Who’s there?

The A/C guys. They’re just pulling up.

I tell Mark.

Get her out of there now.

Later, Persephone tells me what happened.

Her version. Right before she stops speaking to me.

Mark Ray never gets a chance to tell me his version of what happened.

Because, by that point, he can’t speak to anyone anymore.

Persephone’s version:

Pickup truck inched forward, pitching slightly, rocking over the rutted road, then pulled to a stop behind the cabin.

Engine stills.

Two men in the front seat. One riding in the pickup bed in back.

Woods silent.

Both doors swing open. Two men in the front disembark. Both burly. But one’s burlier. Wear matching gray coveralls and work boots. With gloves on. Despite the heat.

Number three, same outfit, hops out of the truck’s bed and joins them.

They don’t speak.

Just get to work.

Work boots crackle over last fall’s dead leaves as the second man circles at a jog around the back of the cabin. Not being particularly stealthy. No real need to be.

The third man heads for a window on the side of the cabin. Cups his gloved hands on the glass to peer inside.

Cabin’s dark. Looks empty.

The first man, the burly one, walks straight up the porch to the front door and knocks.

No answer.

Knocks again.

Still nothing.

So he tries the knob.

Door gives.

And in he goes.

Mark’s waiting in the dark, revealed now in a broad square of bright sun as the door swings wide, and he steadies himself, grips the shovel handle tighter, takes a breath, then unleashes his best home-run swing.

Burly guy parries with a forearm easily.

Wrests the shovel free.

One punch.

Mark’s out.

Second man’s already circled round back of the cabin and slipped through the rear screen door into the kitchen. Scans the room.

Empty.

Emerges into the livingroom. Signals all-clear to the first man, who’s standing over Mark.

Third man joins them and takes his post, on watch at the front door while the other two sweep the house. Only one floor, so this won’t take long. First the guest room. Then the bedroom. Then the bathroom.

Find nothing.

The first man, the burly one, stops and pulls his gloves off. Rolls his sleeves up. Absentmindedly rubs his forearm, where he took the shovel hit.

Takes a moment to think.

No way they could have missed her. Maybe she slipped out the back door into the woods.

Running. With a kid.

Won’t get far.

Then the second man whistles. Waves the burly one over. Leads him back into the kitchen.

Points to a cupboard. Recently repositioned.

All the plates and mugs jostled.

Together they silently lift the cupboard and place it gingerly to one side.

Then take a look at the wall behind where the cupboard was.

Find what was hidden there.

Cellar door.

Second man swings the cellar door open and heads without hesitation straight down into the darkness, taking the steps two at a time.

The first man, the burly one, hustles quickly back out through the livingroom past the third man and out the cabin’s front door. To cover any exits. Figures there might be a storm door leading up from the cellar around back.