Near Enemy (31 page)

Then we shake hands and he pats the bed and says.

You’re ready to go.

I thank him and hand him an overstuffed envelope, then give them whatever loose cash I have left in my pocket as a tip.

It’s a few bills. He takes it happily.

In any case, I won’t be needing the cash.

Not where I’m going.

Once the delivery guys leave, Shaban gives the bed a once-over. Makes a couple of adjustments. A few modifications. Fine-tunes. Then steps back. Says.

This will do.

I look at Shaban and Nurse and think, It’s funny that this is my support team. A Muslim fugitive hacker prodigy who found religion and swore off the limn, and a nurse who’s part of some secret sisterhood sworn to spread the holy truth of wakefulness. And me, a former tap-in junkie.

A terrorist, a nurse, and a garbageman.

I’ve never had a bed in my own home before. Never once. Not even close.

Could never afford it, for starters, but I didn’t want one either.
Not in my own home. I was always happy to head out and haunt Chinatown. Live that part of my life out there, try to live some other life back home.

Back in the days when I was on the tap, daily.

Back before my Stella died. Before Times Square. Back when I’d sneak off to deep-dive for an hour at a flop-shop, as just the easiest way to escape all the garbage in this world.

And then after my Stella. After Times Square.

When I’d go and just tap into nothing.

One full hour.

Start the clock.

Oblivion.

Nothingness.

Bought my sessions in bulk.

Until eventually I spent my money on a box-cutter instead and gave up the limn for good.

I lie back.

Still have that box-cutter.

Stashed in my pants pocket.

Just for luck.

I figure it’s like how they used to put pennies on the eyes of dead men before they put them in the tomb.

Just in case you might need it on the other side.

Nurse looms over me.

Holds the needle.

All the sensors already attached.

She’s about to slide it in, then she pauses. Says nothing.

So I answer the questions I know she wants to ask but won’t ask.

Yes, I’m sure. And yes, I’ll be back soon.

The first part I am sure about. The second, not so much. But I make them both sound convincing, just for her.

She smiles, but it’s a smile that has no acquaintance with happiness.

Then she kisses my forehead.

Then she slides the needle in.

Boonce went looking for a secret he could steal. He thought the secret was a way to kill someone through the limn, but he was wrong.

The secret was better.

To live in the limn.

And he stole it.

Fucked with me. Chased away what passed for my family. Not to mention his part in Times Square.

Took everything from me, then kept on taking.

He did all that, then laughed about it, then loosed chaos in the real-time world.

Then disappeared.

All while I stood and watched him do it.

Watched him slip away.

Scot-free.

Now Boonce could be anywhere.

In there.

In the limn.

In any construct.

Any dream.

Even yours.

As best I know, the rule still stands.

First rule.

You can’t kill someone in the limn.

Cannot be broken.

But then again, why not try?

Because as someone once told me, there are no rules or laws in the limn. Not really.

No rules.

No laws.

Just problems to be solved.

Fair enough.

Let’s find out.

I tap in.

Only after you write a book do you understand just how many people it takes to make one. Thank you to my agent, David McCormick, to Molly Stern at Crown, and to my indispensable editor, Zachary Wagman, without whom there would be no second Spademan novel. Thank you to Sarah Bedingfield, Sarah Breivogel, Kayleigh George, Rachelle Mandik, and the team at Crown, without whom this book would not be in your hands. Thank you to Mark Leyner and Professor Peter Ohlin. Thank you to Megan Abbott, Toby Barlow, Lauren Beukes, Kelly Braffet, Austin Grossman, Lev Grossman, Nick Harkaway, Roger Hobbs, and Ian Rankin. Many books influenced this novel in many ways, but three should be mentioned by name:
Securing the City
by Christopher Dickey,
God’s Jury
by Cullen Murphy, and
The Looming Tower
by Lawrence Wright. Thank you to my parents, again and always. And thank you to Julia, my treasured collaborator in all things, to whom I say: I confess. I’m biased. But best I can tell, she is the perfect child.

B \ D \ W \ Y
AVAILABLE WHEREVER BOOKS ARE SOLD