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?
6.
When I first met Persephone, a year or so ago, she was pregnant and on the run. From her father, or so she told me. Also told me he was the one who’d put her in a family way.
Funny phrase. Family way.
Turned out to be a lie. She was pregnant, but not by her father. I forgave her the lie, though, because the truth about her father turned out to be much worse.
Her father was a preacher. His name was T. K. Harrow. And he’d collected an extensive catalogue of sins in his life. A few of them ancient and familiar. A few of them impressively inventive.
For starters, he’d hired me to kill his own daughter.
But that didn’t work out so well for him.
T. K. Harrow was a famous evangelist and head of a megachurch called Crystal Corral, nationally known, widely influential, and completely corrupt. He’s now enjoying his eternal rest in a quiet graveyard in Vermont.
Knife through the heart at the hands of his daughter.
Twist ending.
He never saw it coming.
Okay, I confess.
I helped.
Railroad spike. Through the forehead. In his bed. While he was tapped in.
So she stabbed him in the limn while I killed him for real out here. Which means I killed him in the way that counted. But we had to kill him in both places, at the exact same moment. Only way to trap him in the loop.
The loop was Persephone’s idea, actually. There’s a theory that if you’re killed out here while you’re tapped into the limn, then your very last moment in the limnosphere loops. Your consciousness persists as a last burst of electricity, living that last moment in the limn forever. Seems unlikely to me, but then again, in Harrow’s case, it didn’t much matter.
See, for him, the best-case scenario is that he’s dead and buried out here.
That’s the best-case scenario.
Worst case is that he’s dead and buried out here, while in there he’s stuck forever, the last electrical spasms of his expiring brain dying in the limn, over and over again, at his daughter’s hand.
Either way, it’s an outcome I can live with.
Official cause of death was a heart attack.
Funny diagnosis, given the spike wound. But they needed something to tell CNN.
So that’s what his church announced, and all the news channels ran with it. The official story was that T. K. Harrow died peacefully in his sleep after a lifetime of saintly service and has now gone on to his heavenly reward.
That was the official story. Though that version took a hit when the first of his victims came forward.
See, Harrow ran an operation on the side called Paved With Gold. Big initiative. Lots of converts. Pitched as heaven, right now, in the limnosphere. The idea was to create a glorious afterlife, here on Earth, that overeager converts could tap into today, without having to wait until after their actual lives.
Why wait?
That was the pitch, anyway.
Harrow promised his flock a sneak peek at heaven.
Delivered something different.
If he liked you, he tapped you into a dream. Not your dream, though. The dream of one of the church’s richest donors. Then Harrow trapped you there. As the donor’s plaything.
A creep named Milgram, Harrow’s right-hand man, worked out all the technical details.
Milgram’s also passed on to his eternal reward, by the way.
Box-cutter to the windpipe. No family plot or tidy burial. Met his end in an incinerator.
Just flames, which is all he deserved.
And Paved With Gold’s been shuttered now. The compound down South has been razed to the ground, and the Crystal Corral church, the one Harrow left behind, underwent an extensive purge under interim leadership. The whole Paved With Gold endeavor was denounced as a rogue operation, blame laid squarely at the feet of Milgram, which was convenient, since he’s dead, so he can’t protest too loudly.
All the victims of Paved With Gold, and there were many, dozens of them, spent a few weeks as national cable-news curiosities. Trotted out for tearful interviews. Consoled by outraged pundits who’d pound their fists on shaky stage-scenery desks and wonder what this country was coming to. A group of the victims even banded together and launched a class-action suit against Crystal Corral.
Settled quietly. Fat damages in exchange for nondisclosures.
Victims went silent. News story went dormant.
Some of the survivors got shuttled off to therapy.
A handful hanged themselves.
But just a handful.
May God, or Whoever, rest their souls.
And Crystal Corral survives. Somehow.
Even prospers.
No thanks to Simon the Magician.
Simon was Harrow’s other lieutenant, his head of security. Calls himself Simon the Magician after a real-life biblical-era charlatan. And like his namesake, Simon the Magician is a man of flexible ethics. He betrayed Harrow, and had a hand in Harrow’s end, then made his own play for power. Nasty fellow, with a sadistic streak.
Also, Simon is the father of Persephone’s child.
Twist number two. The one I didn’t see coming.
After all that, Simon and I don’t really get along.
Thankfully, Simon’s not around much these days. Last I heard, he’s too busy angling to ascend to Harrow’s throne. Though I also heard he’s having some trouble making the sale. As it turns out, many of the Crystal Corral’s devoted followers, goodhearted folk though they may be, aren’t quite ready to be led to the Promised Land by a man of color.
Which must be driving Simon the Magician crazy.
Since every man ever mentioned in the Bible was a man of color.
As for Persephone, after her father’s death, she stayed near New York City.
Hoboken, to be specific. My place.
I slept on the couch for months.
While Persephone got bigger. Then bigger.
Then popped.
Gave birth to a beautiful baby girl.
New York native. Manhattan-born. I’d pushed for Jersey but got outvoted. So when the time came, I ferried pregnant Persephone across the river to St Luke’s. Escorted her to Emergency.
Afterward, in the hospital room, Persephone held her newborn girl, swaddled in blankets, and cried. Then laughed. Then announced she was naming her Hannah.
Another Bible story. Hannah, the woman who prayed to God to let her have a child. Which He did.
A miracle, they say.
Hannah.
Translates as God has favored me.
Plus, it’s a palindrome. Same backwards and forwards. Persephone likes that. Thinks it’s lucky.
And it turns out Hannah has another meaning too, Mark Ray told me later. In this case, it seemed especially appropriate.
Persephone’s given name is Grace Chastity Harrow.
Persephone’s just her chosen name.
Now
her daughter’s given name is Hannah.
Which also translates as Grace.
Grace Junior.
At that point, I figured we’d all part ways.
Keep in touch. Swap hugs. Promise postcards. Once Persephone got back on her feet.
I’d get my bedroom back. Go back to the day job.
Back to being a bullet.
Killing people.
Simple.
Once I knew Persephone and Hannah were safe somewhere.
After all, New York’s no place to raise a child. And the rest of America’s still big. And still functional. For the most part.
Amber waves of grain and purple mountains, etcetera.
But Persephone decided she wanted to stay. Her and Hannah. Make a go of it.
Can’t say I understood, but it’s her family.
Tried to set her up in Hoboken. Except we found out there were complicating factors.
See, Harrow may be gone, but Harrow still has plenty of followers. And his flock heard that Harrow’s eldest daughter, the runaway, was still alive. And that she’d had a child.
Turns out a few in the flock blame Persephone for orchestrating Harrow’s downfall. And a few of them consider her to be the rightful heir to his church. And a few of them even seem to believe her child is some kind of chosen one, destined to deliver the world from, well, take your pick.
All of them are crazy, by the way.
A few of the crazies found their way north in the weeks after Hannah was born.
Tracked her down. Tracked them both down, mother and child, to my apartment in Hoboken.
These were the members of the flock who saw Hannah as some kind of usurper.
Usurper.
Interesting word. Had to look it up.
Apparently it means you think you have good reason to kill a baby.
Either way, these followers showed up in Hoboken.
Half dozen of them. Well armed. With bad intentions.
Unlucky for them, I happened to be home at the time.
Which is how Persephone wound up here, outside Beacon, stashed in the woods. Safe at her safe house. For the time being, at least.
As for what comes later, I don’t know yet. We’re still figuring that part out. In the meantime, Mark and I drive out every week to visit. Keep her company. Bring her groceries.
See Hannah.
I confess. I’m biased.
But best I can tell, she is the perfect child.
Cherub’s face. Rascal’s laugh. Eyes that don’t miss anything.
Tangle of toffee-colored curls. Like her mother. Like her father. Got her curls coming and going.
Persephone’s white. Simon’s black.
Hannah’s both.
Little Einstein too. That’s already obvious.
And stubborn. Just like her mother.
Hannah’s just over a year old, so she doesn’t talk much yet. Kid of few words. Which I can respect.
Mostly babble, though I could have sworn I heard her say Spademan once.
Persephone calls me her uncle.
Uncle Spademan.
Have to admit.
Has a certain ring.
7.
We sit out on the porch and eat pie.
Hannah’s in the corner, playing in her playpen. Mark’s sprawled out in a wicker chair, china dish balanced on his lap. Only crumbs left on the dish.
Me and Persephone share a porchswing.
Truth is, porchswings never factored into any life I ever pictured for myself.
Porchswings and box-cutters. Strange marriage.
But I sit on the porchswing with this makeshift family and watch the peaceful woods. Listen to the soothing sounds of crickets and tree frogs and Persephone complaining loudly once again.
Like all families, we squabble.
Maybe more than most.
Persephone slumps and pouts. Kicks her feet. Rocks the porchswing. Makes the same plea all over again.
Two hours from the city and we can’t even go in for a visit? Can’t even take a grocery run into town? Spademan, staying out here was supposed to be temporary.
It is temporary.
What the fuck? We’ve been out here almost a year. That’s not temporary. That’s penitentiary.
Hey.
What?
I nod toward Hannah.
Language.
Persephone smirks. Stage whispers.
Fuck you.
She has a point. I pay Margo, my old nurse friend from Hackensack, to drive out a few days a week and check in on Hannah. Provide some company. Play cards with Persephone.
Crazy Eights. Old Maid.
Somehow I don’t think that’s helping.
Peresephone sits up straight on the swing and lists off her grievances.
There are still museums open in New York, Spademan. You know that, right? You’ve heard of those? Museums?
Like what?
I don’t know. The big ones. The Frick. Maybe MoMA. Look, I know it’s not really your thing, but museums are good for kids. Hannah needs stimulation. She needs friends. Eventually she’ll need school. God, I need friends. I need something. I’m nineteen, but out here I feel like I’m ninety. You know what I did the other day? I started quilting a fucking quilt, Spademan.
Quilting is a lost art.
She slugs my arm. Porchswing sways. Then she pulls out a pack of cigarettes.
I frown.
Since when did you start smoking?
She taps one loose.
Helps pass the time.
I nod toward the baby again. Persephone scowls.
It’s fine, Spademan. We’re on the porch.
She digs out a matchpack. Tries to strike one, but the damp matchheads won’t spark. She chucks the matchpack in the underbrush, then growls.
This fucking humidity is killing me.
I pull out a Zippo, spark it, and she dips her cigarette in the flame. Then I hand her the lighter.
Keep it. I have plenty. And it might come in handy.
She shrugs and pockets the Zippo, then takes a long pull and exhales like a forlorn sigh. Watching her smoking reminds me of being nineteen, restless and invincible, which for me is about twenty years ago.
Correction. Fifteen years ago.
Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.
She takes another drag. Exhales slowly. Then spills it.
So I heard from Simon.
Really.
Yep. Called my cell. I could barely hear him. You know how hard it is to get a signal up here?
Why did he call you?
Spademan, it’s his daughter too. If he can’t visit, at least he can check in.
What did he say?
He told me once he deals with the situation at Crystal Corral, he can come out here and rescue me. Sweep me off my feet. Take me away from all this.
I don’t want him near you.
She takes another pull.
I don’t particularly want him near us either, but I’m going fucking crazy up here.
Look on the bright side.
What bright side?
Hold my fork up. Tines licked clean.
You’re getting really good at making pie.
She sneers, slugs my arm again, harder this time, not smiling, then she flings her pie-smeared china plate like a Frisbee off the porch and into the woods.
Stay the night at least. There’s a guest room.
I have got to get back. I have someone I need to see.
Persephone, disappointed.
Sure. Of course.
Mark pipes up.
I can stay. As long as you remember to return the minivan. Tosses me the keys. I tell him thanks, because I know, despite his protests, that it’s a burden for him to be away from the beds. Even a few days hurts.
I tell Persephone.
See? Now you’ve got some company. You can teach Mark to play Go Fish.
One last hug. Then I’m off.
Hoist Hannah.
Pleasing he
ft.
Tell her.
Be good for your mother.
She giggles. Of course.
Plays me for a chump every time.
On the way out of town, I stop in Beacon, at a hardware store. Ask about an A/C unit. Not surprisingly, they’re sold out. Clerk tells me there’s a heat wave coming. They’re expecting a shipment, so he says he’ll put one aside for me once they come in. Asks for a delivery address, which I’m not about to give him. So I pay up, then tell him to hold the unit when it arrives and I’ll have a friend drive in and pick it up.
Make a mental note to call Mark about it.
After all, it is summer.
And I’m not a monster.
Not all the time anyway.
There’s one other reason I stashed Persephone near Beacon. Before everything ended with Harrow and Milgram, they dangled a bit of information, hoping to buy me off. Information about a seventh man involved in the Times Square bombing.
A motorman.
Subway driver who may have helped in the attack on the train that exploded about an hour before Times Square. Milgram thought I might be interested.
Since my wife was on that train.
And while I didn’t take his bait, I was definitely listening.
The clue-gathering part of my job is not the part I’ve ever been good at. The Colonel Mustard in the Library with the Candlestick part.
I played that game as a kid exactly once, by the way, with my dad, back when he was still alive. I was maybe ten, sitting at the kitchen table. My mom was half playing, half finishing the dishes.
About forty minutes into it, my father finally got fed up, tore open the little envelope, and read all the cards out loud: Mrs Peacock in the Kitchen with the Wrench. Then he tossed the cards on the table and said, If anyone needs me, I’ll be the Father in the TV Room with the Beer.
In his defense, it’s a stupid game.
And I never did get much better at it.
Still, I did a little digging on the motorman.
Found a lead.
Thin lead.
But a lead.
Just a name. A few details. And an address.
Guess where.
So on my way through Beacon, I plan a detour past his house.
Just want to talk to the guy.
Just talk.
Nothing untoward.
Not really.
Near Enemy Page 3
