I: When did you first decide to contact Stark? Before or after Bliss?
F: I was just investigating two deaths. Following orders.
I: And to you that meant scheming with all of the city’s enemies?
F: No, that’s not it at all. That you—
[screams, garbled recording]
F: Why did you do that? Why? I’m talking. I’m talking.
I: But you’re not saying anything.
On their way the next morning to track down Stark …
Wind and spray of rain against Finch’s face as they sped across the bay toward the Spit. Glad of the cool water soaking his hair. But he had a hard time keeping the filter-mask over eyes, nose, and mouth from clouding up. It itched, made him sweat. Made Wyte, as he turned toward Finch, look like something meant to frighten children. But better safe than dead. Even the gray caps didn’t know what lived in the air above the bay, the water corrupted by runoff from the HFZ. Tiny assassins. Cell disruptors and breath-stealers …
Finch stood at the prow of the gray cap boat, the only kind allowed out on the bay. Wyte beside him, skin on his arms green. Not from being seasick. The boat was big enough for eight or ten. Empty with just the two of them. Slight upward lurching push as it expelled water below the surface to propel them forward. Looked like any other boat from afar. Except it acts like it’s alive. Route preplanned by the gruff Partial who had met them on the shore. Who had shoved a mushroom into an orifice on the hull that looked uncannily like a memory hole. Somehow the boat knew where to go. How to return.
Finch’s shoes were sinking into the loamy sponge of the “planks.” Tried to remember to bend his knees to keep his balance. But balance was a precarious thing. Tongue dry, stomach aching. The skery had done something to his muscles. Made him feel like he’d wrestled a giant all night. Didn’t like that. Didn’t like being robbed of his natural river-legs. Finch had liked the water, once. With childhood friends, names now lost—Charlie? Sam?—he’d gone down to the docks to fish. Pushed a canoe out into the current. Later, working for Wyte, he’d gotten up close to the big ships docking to unload and take on board H&S goods.
Ghosts of early-morning conversations with Wyte ran through Finch’s head.
“Most of my informants have gone dark. Stark’s influence. Taking care of leaks and stirring up hornets.”
“You’ve got to know more about Stark than what you left on my desk, Wyte.”
“No. Not a thing. We don’t even know if that’s his real name.”
“Nobody’s real name is just Stark, Wyte.”
Wyte had arranged for a Stockton operative named Stephen Davies to act as a go-between with Stark. They’d approach the floating pontoons at the northeast edge of the Spit. Much safer than from the land side. A maze of ruins there. Ideal for ambush. No cover. No way to retreat.
Spies came into Ambergris simple and alone, first stop the Spit. Over the water. In the darkness, as if newly born. With nothing on them that the gray caps might want. Nothing that their masters wouldn’t want taken. They built up their resources over time. Using whatever money or influence they’d brought from Stockton, Morrow, or even more distant lands. Sometimes the Spit was the last stop, too.
“Truff love foreigners, trying to take advantage of our fucked-up city.”
“Stark’ll be no different. Where was Stockton during the Rising?”
“Waiting to pick the bones clean.”
Trying to pump themselves up. Convince themselves they were still loyal to Ambergris. Hated how the masks made their voices tinny.
“Davies seems in awe of Stark.”
“Sure it’s not fear? Though most of them are probably past fear or awe by now…”
Wyte just shrugged. Finch knew he didn’t want to think about that. Didn’t want to know what shit might be waiting on the Spit.
Hints of bobbing islands in the waves now. Some of them too close to ignore. Yet Finch ignored them. Corpse islands made from workers who had died in the camps. Reborn as floating compost for fruiting bodies. And far, far below them, the decaying docks, the drowned part of Albumuth Boulevard. All of the dead, still in the buildings where they had worked or lived, the onslaught of water so sudden. Slamming into them. For a time lit up by the strobing of the giant squid that had patrolled the bay. Long since gone, driven out by the pollution. Finch couldn’t take it. Not this morning.
“Water can behave like a person,” his father used to say. Treacherous. Tides and swirls and eddies. Sucking boats down with them.
The past didn’t seem like another world. The past seemed like it had never happened. Couldn’t have happened. The leap to this too hideous, too nightmarish. Better to have no past at all. Suddenly, he needed Sintra. Needed her badly. Could almost smell her perfume. Wanted to be back in his apartment, next to her.
“Where do you live?”
“A place with four walls, and a ceiling.”
“What are the neighbors like?”
“Noisy. Sad. Temporary…”
Resented Wyte irrationally for a moment. As if Sintra could’ve replaced him on the boat. Backed him up. Except she couldn’t.
“What can you hear from your window, Sintra?”
“The sound of detectives asking questions.”
“Finch.” Wyte made it sound like a warning, jolting him from his thoughts. “Over there.” Pointing, like he wanted a distraction, too.
Just behind them: another boat. Much larger, coming in from the southeast. Flat-bottomed. Lagging in the water.
Finch had brought his gun against his own better instincts. Drew it now. Then looked closer and holstered it.
“Just prisoners,” he said. Could as well be us.
Wyte took a second look, nodded.
Soon the boat slid past their prow, heading for the towers. It held about thirty people from the camps. Guarded by two gray caps and a Partial. The men and women dressed in the dull sack robes of their status. Some wearing old-fashioned masks that might or might not work. Heads bowed not from prayer but from hopelessness. Thin, with light-green skin. Shoulders slumped.
“During the day?” Wyte said, almost pleading to be told he was wrong.
“During the day,” Finch said, annoyed. Best just to be thankful not to be in the camps.
The Truffidian priest in the back of the boat caught Finch’s attention. In full regalia, down to the golden chains. The same priests had walked side by side with Ambergrisian infantry invading Kalif lands. The gray caps had broken them. Treated them almost like pets now. Their eyes locked, the older man bowing his head to avoid Finch’s stare. Noted the hooded look. The slight shake. He was on the gray caps’ drugs. Did this in return for his fix. Turncoat.
Wyte: “In the old days, he’d have died for that. And not quickly.”
And so would we.
“What?” Wyte said.
“Nothing.”
Against his will, pulled to it by the immensity, Finch’s gaze slid beyond the work camp boat. To the towers in mottled green, with darker blues writhing through. Protected by scaffolding, they seemed to flutter and be alive. Portions like lungs. Breathing. The tops, two hundred feet high or more, lost in clouds and rain and odd magenta shards of lightning. A wide pontoon bridge led out to the towers. A semi-permanent island at the base housed the workers. Several boats had docked there. Dozens of gray caps stood guard.
Past the towers, back the way they’d come, Finch could just make out the hunched group of buildings that included the apartment with the dead man and gray cap. Was the Partial there, staring out at him? Talking to Heretic? Hiding something from Heretic?
“When will they know the towers are finished?” Finch wondered aloud.
“Roofs, Finchy. When you see roofs on top. That means it’s done.”
Joking? Serious? Didn’t know anymore when Wyte was lucid and when not. Didn’t know what to encourage.
The wrongness of the railing at the prow suddenly got through to Finch. Should be grainy, splinters needling his hands. Instead: soft, fleshy. He took his hand away like the railing was boiling hot.
Through the rain, the Spit was revealing itself. Gone with surprising quickness from a brown line in the distance to something with substance and texture. Rows of boats moored side by side by side, twenty or thirty deep. Still floating, bobbing, even as they were falling apart and half-sinking. A leaky sovereignty. A chained-together legion of convicts treading water. All of it shoved up against the shore, against the remains of the Religious Quarter. If the gray caps ever decided they wanted to truly cut off citizen from citizen, they’d burn the Spit, place a wall between it and the Religious Quarter. They’d root out the Dogghe and Nimblytod from the Quarter like so many weeds. Shove them all into the HFZ and be done with it.
Limits to what they can do? Or to what they want to do?
The boat began to slow. Soon they bumped up against the docks, gently. Prow kissing wood. Finch jumped off the boat as it lay wallowing there, followed by Wyte. Took off their masks. Breathed in the metallic air. Tossed their masks back in the boat. The boat sighed, shutting down until their return. Didn’t know what would happen to anyone who tried to board it while they were gone. Knew it would be bad.
No sign of Davies. An avalanche of other boats before them, a scattering of tall buildings, natural and not, dull-glistening far beyond, through the rain. Buckets tied to the dock gurgled and filled, emptied. A blue dinghy. Oily water. Rotting planks.
“Got a plan if Davies doesn’t show up, Wyte?”
Wyte didn’t answer.
A bald man appeared at the edge of the empty docks, weapon holstered. Just appeared. Finch couldn’t tell where he’d come from. Wyte drew his gun for both of them.
Face like a boxer’s, the nose wide from repeated blows. Scar over the left eye, under the right eye. Same knife stroke? Barrel chest. Thick arms. Wearing a blood-red vest over a dark-green shirt. Black pants, blacker boots.
The man came forward with hands held in front of him. Like he wanted to be handcuffed. Something was in his hands, though. An offering?
He dropped what he’d been holding onto the ground. A wooden carving of a lizard caught in some kind of trap.
The man said, in some misbegotten blend of accents, “I’m Bosun. Davies couldn’t make it.”
Close enough now that his face was like a carved oval bone. Scrubbed clean of anything except directness. Some sort of spice on his breath. A smirk Finch didn’t like any more than the name.
Wyte gave Finch a glance. Knew Wyte was thinking the same thing. Bliss had named Bosun as Stark’s right-hand man. Someone who didn’t flinch from torture. Who seemed to enjoy it. Who’d helped wipe out Bliss’s whole team.
“What happened to Davies?” Wyte asked, stepping back to create a little space. Finch faded to the right, so he’d be out of Wyte’s line of fire. Kept his hand on his belt. Near his holster.
“Davies couldn’t make it,” Bosun repeated. “Stark’s waiting. Come. Now.”
Bosun started walking back toward the maze of gathered boats. Didn’t seem to care about Wyte’s gun. Finch wondered who might be watching from the row of dark glass windows that formed the first wall of boats.
“What guarantees do we have?” Finch called after Bosun. Wanted to ask, “What’s with the lizard, you fucking lunatic?”
Bosun, without looking back: “None, beyond this: We won’t hurt you unless you try to hurt us. And we won’t try to fuck you, either. Unless you try to fuck us.” A deep rasp similar to laughter. Him receding farther toward the maze while the two detectives stood there.
Finch stared at Wyte. Wyte stared at Finch.
“Are we really going to go in there?” Wyte asked.
Finch looked back across the bay, saw how far they’d come. Who on the Spit would risk angering the gray caps? Thought about the skery. About how easy it would’ve been for them both to go down in a hail of bullets if someone waited behind the windows of the first line of boats.
Shrugged. “Just think of him as Davies if it makes you feel better.” Hiding his own unease.
They stepped around the lizard carving like it might do harm. On impulse, Finch went back and stooped with a muttered curse. Picked it up. As Bosun had no doubt intended him to do from the beginning.
Followed Bosun into the darkness.
Once, Finch’s father had shown him an old tobacco pipe. “This pipe contains the world,” he said. Finch might’ve been fourteen, still running errands like a loyal son. His father was ten years removed from the campaigns against the Kalif, and rising fast within House Hoegbotton. They sat at his ornate desk in the study of the old house. Dad on his soft red silk chair. Finch on a stool to his left. Souvenirs his father had brought back from the desert served as grace notes. A rifle used by the Kalif’s men. The steering wheel from a tank. A scimitar that he had promised would one day be his son’s.
A sunny spring morning, mottled shadow coming into the room from the long bank of windows against the far wall. Faint honey smell from the tiny white flowers that came with the manicured bushes that lined the avenue in front of the house.
“A pipe?” Finch said. Incredulous. Expecting a trick. Maybe a magic trick.
His father pointed to a hole in the side of the pipe. “Look inside.”
Warily, Finch put the pipe to his eye. Gasped in delight. Because the glass magnified the image revealed through the hole. And the world did indeed exist there. A whole map of the known world. There was a dot for Ambergris. The line of the River Moth. The city of Morrow marked to the north, Stockton some fifty miles south, on the other side of the river. The Southern Isles down below the Moth Delta. The Kalif’s empire covering the whole west beyond the Moth. Exotic city after city marked in that vast desert, the plains and hills beyond. To the east, jungle and mountains that remained uncharted.
“There’s a hole on the other side, too,” his father said.
Finch turned the pipe around. Stared into another tiny piece of magnifying glass. Black-and-white photos of twelve men and women confronted him.
“Who are they?”
“Spies,” his father said. “The owner of this pipe ran a network of spies. The map on the other side is really a code. It tells the owner something about the spies whose pictures you’re looking at. Each one lives in a different city marked on the map. But you have to know the code to know which goes with which city. And what other information is being given to you.”
Finch took his eye away from the pipe to look at his dad. “How fun!” he said, because he didn’t know what to say.
“No,” his father said, frowning. “No, it’s not fun. Not really. It’s deadly serious.” A look like he was trying to tell Finch something Finch just couldn’t understand at the time.
Finch remembers that pipe when he’s working on his overlay. That tiny view of a huge world, which makes him realize the limitations of his map. That beyond it, beyond Ambergris, there’s something more. Though it’s easy to forget.
It’s the pipe he’s thinking about as he enters the Spit with Wyte. About those spies, who had led exciting, dangerous lives all across the world. But who were still, at the end of the day, captured inside a pipe.
Bound by rules.
Moved around a board against their will.
Or thought they were.
What’s the difference?
Through the doors of boats. Through many doors. Always with sudden water between them. Gray, blue, black, depending on the shifting clouds above. The distance wide enough to make them jump. Then narrow as a line of blue. As the boats rocked, lashed together by rope that groaned. A marsh smell. A fish smell. Mixed with the odd old-new smell of paint curled back in a snarl or crisply flat.
Into spaces seeping water from old wounds, the texture of warped planks beneath their feet weathered in a hundred ingenious ways. Across decks that announced them through the creak caused by their weight, wood singing a dull protest. Up or down steps always too deep or too shallow.
Following the wide back of their silent guide, Wyte the worse off for being taller, having to contort his frame into whatever shape awaited him. The doors got smaller then larger, then smaller again. Oval. Rectangular. Square. Inlaid with glass. Gone, leaving only a gaping doorway and a couple rusted hinges. Once, a flapping triangle of canvas with an eye painted on it in green and red that seemed to follow Finch’s stumbling progress.
And what in Truff’s name is this supposed to represent? The thought came to Finch more than once, looking down at the whittled wood from Bosun. The trap. The lizard caught in it. The carving brought his thoughts to Sidle, made him feel, absurdly, like Bosun had been inside his apartment. Who created such things? Who had the time?
Bosun stopped suddenly, turned back to look at them from just inside a doorway.
Wyte ran into Finch before he could stop himself. Lulled by the stilted rhythm of their progress. Finch just able to stop falling.
“What? Are we there already?” Wyte asked, peering over Finch’s shoulder. Could feel his breath, hot and thick.
Bosun smiled. A thin smile. Nothing humorous about it.
They stood precariously outside the doorway, on a tiny deck, backs to a cabin wall. A trough of water lapping between boats. A heron croaking through the slate-gray sky.
“Toss your guns,” Bosun said.
“Why should we?” Wyte asked.
“No guns allowed with Stark.”
“Too bad,” Wyte said.
Bosun said, “Drop them in the water. Or I’ll leave you here.”
Framed by the doorway, gray water shadows leaking all over him, Bosun didn’t look human. Didn’t look real. Seemed to be receding from them while all around the sounds of the Spit became stronger. Like a drumbeat that faded in one place, picked up with a different tempo in another.
Wyte said, “Again, why the fuck should we do that?”
“Because,” Finch said, “we don’t know where we are.” And if he’d wanted to kill us, he’d have done it already.
Bosun’s smile widened while Wyte cursed, said, “Do you know who we work for?”
We work for monsters. We work for ourselves.
As if in a dream, Finch watched himself toss his gun into the water. It entered like a diver, headfirst. The water parted for it. Disappeared without a splash. A kind of relief came over him. A kind of acceptance. The gun had been nothing but trouble. The gun had always caused problems.
Wyte gave Finch a look of betrayal. Hesitated. Bosun receded farther. Wyte could shoot Bosun. Then they’d be lost, in hostile territory. Or Wyte could miss and Bosun would be gone anyway. Or Wyte could get rid of his gun and Bosun would leave them. But Finch didn’t think that would happen.
He tugged the gun from Wyte’s reluctant hands. Threw it in the water as Wyte muttered, “A mistake, Finch. A mistake.”
Finch demanded it of Bosun: “Stark.”
“Stark,” Bosun said, nodding.
Then Bosun was just a wide back again, a kind of door himself. Leading them somewhere dangerous.
But a few minutes later, Bosun stopped again. This time inside an old tugboat. Finch right there beside him, back sore from stooping. Wyte behind them, still in the last, much larger boat. Exuding a muddled aura of defeat.
Then he was gone. Finch could sense it. Wyte there, behind him. Then not. A kind of wind or impact punching the air. A muffled shout. Cut off. Finch turned and saw just the outline of doorways receding in a ragged infinite number back the way they’d come. Nothing but shadow otherwise. Whirled around to Bosun, deck rising and falling beneath his feet.
Bosun stood there. Arms folded, watching.
Finch fought the urge to close the distance. To hurt Bosun. Fought it. Knew that self-control would save his life. Maybe save Wyte’s life. Knew now, too, that Stark didn’t give a shit about gray cap retaliation. Didn’t care that Heretic would be after him if he snuffed out two detectives.
“Where’s my partner? Where are you taking him?” Tried to keep his voice level.
If you hurt him …
Bosun shrugged, said, “Doesn’t want to see him. Just you. Wyte’s not safe. We don’t know where he’s been. You’ll see him later. Take off your shoes.”
“Take off my shoes?” It was unexpected enough to make Finch forget Wyte for a moment.
“Shoes and socks. Need to see your feet. That going to be a problem?”
“Why the fuck would I care about my shoes after giving up my gun?”
Over the side went Finch’s shoes and socks. Stood there, hopping, as he showed Bosun the bottom of first one foot, then the other. Wondering where this would end. Furious, worried, scared.
Another part of him looked down from a great height, puzzled. When did being a detective mean this? He was investigating a double murder. He was working for an occupying force that could make Stark disappear in a burst of dandelion-like spores. And he didn’t have his shoes. He didn’t have his socks. He didn’t have his gun.
“Are we done?” Finch asked. “Is this almost over?”
Impassive bullet of a head swiveling toward Finch. Dark eyes glinting. “Turn out your pockets.”
“Why?”
Bosun pulled out his gun. “No good reason.”
Finch raised his left arm, palm up. “I’ll do it. I’ll do it.”
There was a lot more than he’d thought. A copy of the photo of the murder victim. A folded up note from Sintra, the first and almost only thing she’d ever written to him. Dear Finch—I made you coffee. Thanks for a great night. Love, S. His current identity papers. A few semi-worthless paper bills from before the Rising. A strange coin, notched along the edges, that he’d kept for luck. A scrap of paper with nonsense words written on it, an odd symbol on the back.
In the end, Bosun returned all of it to him.
“Worthless.”
But he’d lingered on the scrap of paper. Far longer than necessary to read it.
Thirty minutes? Longer? Finch lost count of the doors. Lost count or didn’t care. His back throbbed from hunching over. From crawling, then climbing, Bosun’s form always ahead of him. They were in the heart of the Spit now. Bigger boats—almost ships—lay near the center, places where you could forget you were on the water. Masts rose up like barren trees. Warrens of rooms, through which Bosun walked sure-footed, never losing his bearings.
Passed through a bar of sorts, with homemade booze in reused bottles. Women flirted with dull, rumpled men with beards and strange black hats. A few loners with a calculated threadbare appearance. Beyond the bar, the sound of spirited bartering in back rooms for black market goods. Selling guns, food, maybe even information.
Where was Wyte now? How far behind or ahead? Still alive, or thrown over the side to follow their guns? Began to wonder if Wyte would wind up like Bliss or like Bliss’s men. Nailed to a wall? Bleeding fungal blood?
Even stranger ideas began to enter his head. That Rath in her basement, doling out information, was someone he’d made up out of convenience. That Sintra had no mysterious life beyond his own. That he’d written the words on the scrap of paper pried from the dead man’s hands. That the soreness around his neck came not from the skery but from sleeping in the wrong position. That he would wake up to find Sintra was his wife. The gray caps had never Risen. He still worked for Hoegbotton & Sons as a courier, but Wyte was an obedient wire-haired terrier he’d bought for Sintra. There was no Spit. No bay. No towers.
Instead, they reached Stark’s headquarters: through one last doorway, hinges splinters of wood, the door missing. Ripped apart? How long ago?
Bosun straightened up, Finch beside him. Stepped into a room aboard some kind of ferry. Passenger seats stripped out leaving the metal skeletons of chairs. The high, curving ceiling showed in faded paint a scene from an opera, people in balcony seats applauding. Below that hung a chandelier from which almost all the glass was gone.
A long wide space stretched out before them. Like a dance floor. Timbers stained with dark red swirls and smudges. The soft smell of soap couldn’t dull the sharp assault of the blood.
At the far end: a couple of chairs, a desk, and a large figure hanging a painting on the wall. As they approached, Finch recognized the painting as a reproduction. It showed the Kalif of another age demanding fealty from a defiant Stockton king. Back when Stockton had kings. Hunting dogs stood in the foreground, but fiendish, with forked tongues and jowls curling back to reveal metal daggers. The composition more surreal than photographic. All of it the echo of a time lost to the present.
The large man nodded to them even as he kept moving the painting. Trying to catch it on the nails in a wall covered with bullet holes and dark bloodstains. Splatter had swept across the divide between wall and floor.
Finch noticed now the dark sheets in the farthest corner. Roughly man-sized.
“You found Bosun, I see,” the man said. A deep voice. “Or he found you. Either way, you’re here. Finally.” The painting caught on the nails. Held. “There.”
The man turned toward them. “You can call me Stark.”
Stark made a tall space look small. A height that warranted a girth that could have been muscle or fat. Or both. The truth of it hidden by a trench coat. Frankwrithe & Lewden army issue. With old medals from the Kalif’s empire pinned there: black glint with a hint of gold against the steep gray of the trench coat. A hawk face, with dark pupils swimming in too much white. A strong nose and a chin that jutted: two halves of the same beak. A knife in his left boot sheathed in a silver scabbard that shone as if polished every hour. Finch mistrusted that knife immediately. Reminded him of the squeaky floors at 239 Manzikert Avenue. Look at the knife while the blow comes from somewhere else. What else did the trench coat hide? A sword?
Stark didn’t come forward. Didn’t offer his hand. Just stood there. The painting behind him. Now Finch saw that Stark hadn’t been trying to hide the bullet holes, the blood. Instead, the painting had been placed between them.
“Sit,” Bosun growled, shoving Finch forward into a chair. Stark sat down behind the desk. Bosun stood to the side, reaching for a piece of dark wood on the desk. One of many. Started carving. Quick, accurate cuts. So fast his hands were a blur.
“Where’s Wyte?” Finch asked.
Stark pursed his lips, ignored him, and said, “What did you think would happen? I’m curious. You thought you two would just walk in here, into my place, and you’d take me away to your shitty little station for questioning? Come back with an army if you want that, and come in shooting.”
Finch, pressing: “What have you done with Wyte?”
Stark stared to the side, exhaled loudly. He seemed to breathe through his mouth. “John Finch. Why do you think people are so stupid?”
“Are they? Stupid?” Finch said, too aware of his bare feet. The floor was cold.
“Take my predecessors,” Stark said. “They knew I was coming. They knew their superiors weren’t pleased with them. Yet they took no precautions. They were still here when I arrived. I think they deserved what they got, don’t you?”
Anger rising. “If you’ve hurt my partner…”
Stark dismissed his concern with a wave of his hand. “Don’t start making threats you can’t back up. Wyte is fine. You’ll see him soon enough. But he’s a tad too … fungal … for my liking. Or yours, from what I’ve heard.”
“What about my gun?”
Stark smiled, revealing teeth stained red. Finch recognized the signs of addiction to a stimulant found in the bark from a tree that grew in both Ambergris and Stockton.
“You can join your gun,” Stark said, “or you can shut up about it. I’m not here to talk to you about guns.” The stained teeth made Stark resemble one of the shambly dogs latching on to its prey in the painting behind him. But the way he stared at Finch wasn’t doglike. It reminded him of the older men in the Hoegbotton Irregulars. They too had looked crazy. Like a black flame burned within them.
“Taking my weapon might lead to strong actions by my superiors.” Hated Stark for forcing him to use the gray caps as a shield.
Bosun dropped a carving of a cat onto the desk, stepped back. It looked like Feral to Finch. Made him obscurely worried again. Behind him, the sounds of knife on wood again.
Ignoring Bosun, Stark said, “We all know what superiors you mean, Finch. You mean those fey, gray-hatted, walking talking shit-stalks. But the fact is I don’t care. I haven’t cared since I came here, and I will continue not to care until I leave. With as much of Ambergris smoldering behind me as I can manage. So here’s a question for you: Why do you work for them? I mean, really? Why? Besides fear, of course. Besides a leaky roof over your head and a plate of mashed-up mushrooms on your kitchen table. Do you like working for them?”
Finch had never answered that question. Asked: “Why did you leave Ethan Bliss alive?”
Stark nodded in appreciation. “My question is better than yours, but, still—good for you, changing the subject. I took out his team because I don’t like surprises, and Bliss seems full of them. Why’d I leave him alive? Well, maybe I thought Bliss made enticing bait. Maybe I wanted to see who would come creeping around if I left him alive … and here you are.”
The smile was a little too painted on, the comment too blunt.
“What did Bliss promise you? And where can I find him?”
Stark sighed. “You’re not getting it, Finch. Bliss reminds me of a toy I once had. A mechanical toy. By the time I got it, who could tell what the hell it was or what it was supposed to do. Its uniform or fur or whatever it had wasn’t there anymore. It had no eyes, just eyeholes. Mostly it mumbled and marched in place when you wound it up. Who knows what Bliss started out as. I doubt he even remembers. So, where is he? It doesn’t matter to me. And if you take my advice you won’t let it matter to you, either.”
Sudden anger burned in Finch’s chest, kindling for pride. “I’m not here to ask your advice.”
“Oh, but you are, Detective. You want to question me about that nasty double murder you’re investigating. You want to know things only I can tell you. What is that but asking advice?” The black flame lit up his eyes. Lent his speech a subdued yet incandescent fury.
Finch leaned forward, into the teeth of Stark’s strength. “What do you know about the murders?”
Stark chuckled. “Finchy—that’s what Wyte calls you, I think. Finchy, I’ve been here two months. Why would you think I’d know anything about the murders, except that they occurred? Why, I’m just an immigrant, still getting my land legs. Imagine how many questions I have for you.”
Finch reached a decision. Slowly pulled the photo of the dead man from his jacket pocket. Slid it across the desk.
“Do you know this man?” The more questions Finch asked the fewer he’d have to answer. Or so he hoped.
Stark made a show of examining the photo, waved it at Bosun, who said, “Already saw it,” and went back to his whittling. Stark returned the photo to Finch.
“No. I don’t know him. But he looks peculiar. Like he’s having a very bad day, and it might get worse. Like he’s also sick of this freak show you call a city. Like he might just have decided to hang it all up and go on vacation.”
“Is that so?” Finch said, staring at the painting on the wall. “Maybe you should leave with him.” The blood. The bullet holes. Did Stark actually know anything? Tried to set aside his irritation. Knew he was just sick of Stark insulting his city.
“Don’t try to be clever—it doesn’t suit you. Here comes another one,” Stark said, glaring over Finch’s shoulder.
Bosun had finished his next carving in record time. Set it on the desk with something akin to sincerity. A man with a mushroom head. Wyte?
“What about the words bellum omnium contra omnes?” Finch asked. “Why did you ask Bliss about them?” Bosun had already seen that, too.
“Bosun,” Stark said, “did you ask Bliss about that mouthful? Bella … bella … Finchy, a little help?”
“Bellum omnium contra omnes.”
“No,” Bosun said. “Don’t know what that means. Just nailed him to a wall. Didn’t ask him anything.”
“You’re lying.”
“I don’t lie,” Bosun said, smacking Finch across the back of the head.
Stark spread his hands in a cryptic gesture. “See, Detective? You really don’t understand who you’re dealing with at all. But now I’ve got a question: Why didn’t you arrest Bliss? Bosun says you and Wyte came out of his apartment empty-handed. When Bosun went back inside, Bliss wasn’t there. Where’d he go? Did you reach some kind of agreement with him? Except if you had, you wouldn’t be asking me where he’d hidden himself.”
Confirmation that Bosun had been following them.
“What would I arrest him for? He was the victim. He’d been tortured and his men liquidated.”
“Torture’s a strong word, Finch,” Stark said. “And you’re not telling me everything, I’d be willing to bet. You Ambergrisians are naturally clever. Like a fox is clever. Like a rat is clever.”
Ignored Stark. Changed tactics. Asked, “Why did you come here?”
“Vacation.”
“How long do you plan to stay?”
“As long as my vacation lasts.”
“Why did you target Bliss?”
“For fun.”
“Do you have any information about the double murder we’re investigating?”
“In the apartment on Manzikert Avenue? No.”
“Do you like the camps enough to live in them for the rest of your life?”
Stark rose suddenly, seeming to increase threefold in height. “Threats, Detective? Come on! You can do better than that. You have no other clues. You’re getting pressure to solve the case. Or maybe not. Maybe you just want to know what’s going on because it’s eating you alive, not understanding what you’re looking at. Such a big mystery, so many ways to disappoint your bosses, only one way to please them. But, then, I’m not here to guess at your motivations.”
“Again, then, why are you here?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Stark said, gesturing at the blood, the bullet holes. “I’m here to fucking clean house. Clean house and, along the way, maybe make my mark. Nothing wrong with a man turning a profit and helping his country at the same time.” Stark pulled a file out of a desk drawer, tossed it across to Finch. Then leaned forward, hands on the chair. “Here’s a little something to help us both.”
Finch picked up the file. “What’s this?”
“A transcript of a … conversation … two Stockton operatives had a couple of weeks ago. With a gray cap.”
That got through. Incredulous: “You interrogated a gray cap? Are you insane?”
Stark: “Sane as a lamppost, Finch. Sane as a lamppost. And come to think of it, the whole experience was a little like interrogating a lamppost. A lamppost with teeth.”
Some private joke passed between Stark and Bosun that made them both chuckle.
Bosun said, “Grays don’t like us much.”
Stark, smirking: “No, they don’t. Not that you’d ever find me in a room with one of those things. You don’t have to teach me, not old Stark. Bosun might be able to take one on, but there’s nothing subtle about his approach. It’s like a wolf ripping into a pheasant.
“Now, I’m giving you a copy of this transcript because whether you believe it or not, I like you … even if your name probably isn’t Finch any more than mine is Stark. And I especially like you because according to rumor you’ve killed a gray cap or two before. I imagine you haven’t forgotten how? So take a look. See what you think. Does it help with your murders? I can’t tell you what to think. But understand this: I’m doing you a favor. I’m bringing you closer to the truth. You might even have a chance of getting out of this alive if you do your job right. That should be valuable to both of us.”
Finch, through clenched teeth: “Why shouldn’t I give you up to the gray caps?”
Another carving. A woman. Reclining. Crudely made to emphasize her breasts. Didn’t want to know who it was meant to be.
“You could. But will I be here when they come? Maybe I won’t. Maybe I’ll be at your apartment. With a gun. Or maybe I’ll be over at Sintra’s place. You don’t know where she lives, do you? But maybe I do. Maybe I’ll be there. She’d be worth the trouble I think. She might even like it.”
Finch started to rise. To do what? Bosun just as quickly pushed him back down, shoving a gun hard into his ribs. Grinding pain. He stifled a grunt.
“Not smart,” Bosun said.
Stark hadn’t moved. “Just something to think about, Finch, that’s all.”
“Where’s Wyte?” Finch asked. Because if he didn’t ask that question he’d be screaming at Stark.
Stark’s smile faded. He ran both hands beneath his eyes, as if to clear cobwebs. “That’s such a dull question. Here’s a better one. Ever wonder why they let anyone stay? On this godforsaken ‘Spit’? Why they don’t just raid it and wipe us all out? No clue? Seriously? Well, I’ll tell you anyway. It’s because they want to send spies back with us, Finch. Little grimy bastards. Most of them too small to see with the naked eye. But luckily not small enough to escape a microscope. And they’re spying on everything. Even you. While you’re just trying to do your job. How about that, Finch? How does that make you feel?”
“Fuck off,” Finch managed, trying to stanch the torrent of words.
But Stark wasn’t finished: “For that reason, as much of a shit hole as this city is, I don’t look forward to going back to Stockton when this is all over. They put you through hell for decontamination. Weeks. Some spend months. So, to answer your question: you’ll get Wyte back soon enough. He won’t know where he was or what he saw. But he’ll be intact. Except for some skin scrapings. Just in case.”
Bosun placed a carving of a boat on the desk. “We get your boat, too,” he said.
“No, no, Bosun,” Stark said, irritably. He shoved the boat off the side of the desk. “That would be mean of us. Almost cruel. How will they get back to the station otherwise? Can you imagine how cut up their feet would be? How sick they’d be of squishing down on something soft and not knowing if it was a banana peel or something alive and deadly. Why, they might not make it back at all by land, going through that gauntlet with no guns, no shoes. No nothing.”
“Thanks,” Finch said. Making it sound as much like an echo of “fuck off” as possible. The sudden thought that he might have to kill Stark to be free of him.
“Time to leave now,” Stark said with a big neighborly smile. “Just know we’ll be watching you. Watching and checking in from time to time. I’ve given you information. You owe me information back.”
Almost against his will, biting on the inside of his cheek: “How do I contact you?”
“Oh, you don’t, Detective. I’m only here on the Spit to finish cleaning up. I’m not staying on the Spit. That would be suicide. I’ll be in touch. Or Bosun will.” Pointed with his head to the pile of bodies under blankets. “Poor Davies there, I’m sorry to say, did not clean up well. You might not want to tell Wyte about that, although I’m sure he can guess.”
As Bosun led him out, Stark said, in an uncharacteristic tone, like a wistful afterthought, “The towers will be done soon, Finch. Ever wondered about what that might mean for this miserable city?”
Silence as they took the boat back across the bay. Finch lay on the deck of the boat. Not giving a shit about how it breathed into him. Staring at the sky. Gray cloud ribbons, the rain now just mist. A hint of cold, something unexpected for the season. Wyte stood above Finch. Fuming. Livid. Jut-jawed about how easily they’d abducted him. Bruises on his face and hands long and narrow from that foreshortened angle.
Finch felt the smooth glide of the boat through thickish water. The way the deck gave a little under his weight. Like he was lying on top of another body.
No gun. No shoes. Just what was left in his pockets, because Bosun didn’t want it.
Stark: “I’m here to fucking clean house.”
Heretic: “A skery is not as bad for you as what I could bring with me.”
Bliss: “You look familiar to me, Detective. Do I know you?”
And the dead man laughing at all of them.
Beside Finch’s head, Wyte’s feet. In black boots dirty with algae-like fungus. A tiny community. A miniature of the city. Finch imagined he could see creatures there. Creatures who lived out their unaware lives in a state of naive happiness. A sharp smell, like petrol mixed with pepper. The friction of their discourse on that slick black hillside.
He turned his attention back to the sky. Ignored the three crimson tendrils coming out from under Wyte’s overcoat. The weariness wasn’t from confronting Stark. The weariness was from continually being threatened.
“Wyte. Just so we’re clear—you’re not thinking about making a deal with Stark. To replace Davies and your other Stockton contacts?”
“No.” Didn’t sound convincing.
“You’re so full of shit, Wyte.” Exasperated because back in the day Wyte was the one lecturing him about being naive. Telling him not to trust the ship captains at the docks when what was in their hold didn’t match the invoice. Always warning him about getting fooled.
“I’m not going to make any deals!”
Pressing: “What did Stark’s people talk to you about then, Wyte? Scratch that—who are Stark’s people?”
“Nobody! No one,” Wyte protested. “They didn’t talk to me. I had a hood over my head. I never even saw them. And how do I know you didn’t decide to trade information with Stark?”
“Because I didn’t, Wyte. You know why? Because he’s not like your Stockton contacts from before. You can’t really deal with someone like Stark. He’ll cheerfully sell you a knife and then slit your throat with it before you’ve even given him the money.”
“I know that. Tend to your own house.”
“Fair enough.”
A silence that spread and spread until it reached the sky. Not really mad at Wyte. Mad at Stark for making him powerless. For humiliating him.
Thick stalks of green appeared at the left edge of his vision. He turned his head. It was the underside of the two towers. The cross-section of scaffolding and support. It seemed alive. Made of vines wrapped around sinews that convulsively wove and rewove themselves together. Thought he saw a dead fox in there. Thought he saw a face.
Then they were past, and it was just the gray again.
Everyone has a theory about the two towers. Finch has heard them all, mostly at the detectives’ nameless refuge. When they first decided on the location, they’d had to take the bell out of the bell tower to make more space. A grunting, straining ordeal. To get it down. To shove it out of the one window without destroying the place. It had sunk slowly. Much to their mutual amusement. “It should’ve sunk like the stone it is,” Blakely had said. “Something about the clapper,” Wyte had said. “The air trapped inside?” Finch: “Bullshit. It’s just being difficult.” Could still see it in the water below. Dark and rippling. A shape like the bullet head of some monstrous fish.
Talk of one tower had led to talk of the others.
Skinner: “I hear the towers are being built over the ruins of the old gray cap library. For some ritual.”
Wyte: “I heard it’s a power source for more electricity. When it’s done, the whole city will be lit up again. They’re nothing if not practical.”
Gustat, snorting his disdain, “Lit up for sure, because it’s a weapon. Why else out in the bay? From there, it looks over the whole city. It’ll shoot out some kind of energy. Another way to control all of us. First thing they’ll do is destroy the Spit.”
Blakely: “You’re full of shit. It’s a huge statue to their god. Or a memorial. Whatever, those are just its legs.”
The “island” around their refuge is just floating debris that has matted round. Encouraged by them. Camouflage. Stability. Someday, the whole thing is going to rot. They’ll have to go elsewhere. Or maybe by then the city will be theirs again and they’ll have their pick of pubs. Won’t have to be part of the same chain gang, the same galley crew.
One day they might even get around to building a bridge. But for now, the detectives have built a place to moor a boat, and used the boat to bring across an amazing amount of booze. Salvage from every murder scene. Every call of domestic abuse. A history of Ambergris in alcohol, from Smashing Todd’s to Randy Robert’s. A smell like sweat and beer. Better than the smell of the station. No electricity, but they’ve hidden an icebox in the waters below the rotting floorboards at the far end of the main room. Keeps cold enough. They bring food as they have it. Stock the place with gray cap rations too. Tastes like crap, but the food—if that’s what it is—never goes bad.
Gustat: “What god? They don’t worship a god. They’re too practical, like Wyte says.”
Albin: “Too practical? By what measure? This is just them working up to another Silence. Better hope the rebels get to it first.”
Dapple, uncertainly: “Not true. They can kill us all now if they want to. They don’t need more help.”
Albin: “Not enough of them for that.”
Blakely again: “Some people think it’s some kind of gate. They swear late at night you can see things moving through it. That you can see strange stars.”
The detectives never talk about work. But, rumor? Rumor is like news from some far distant, more exciting place. Especially about the two towers.
Once, Finch offered his opinion. “They’ve got limits, first of all. You can see that already. They couldn’t control the effects of the HFZ. They need help from the camps to build the towers. When the towers go faster, they put up fewer other buildings. The electricity goes out. Or their radio station goes silent. They have limits.”
Blank looks. Not getting it. Much easier to think of the gray caps as some implacable force. Like the weather. Something that can’t be fought. Because the fact is: if the gray caps want, they can disappear your friends, your family. It doesn’t take unlimited resources to do that.
Wyte and Finch aren’t allowed at the hideout anymore. Once it became clear Wyte would never really get rid of his affliction. Ever since Finch decided to back him anyway.
Finch and Wyte returned to the station in time to witness the end of a rare fight. Blakely and Dapple had gone at it. Under the glow of spectral lamps, the gaze of the tiny windows. Not caring if the gray caps were watching.
Blakely faced them. Standing on the mottled green carpet right where it reached the desks. Nose bloodied. Dapple with his back to them. Hair rising in tufts like he’d been startled. Fists up, too. Albin watching from his desk. A peculiar look of interest and boredom on his face.
Back when it had mattered, Dapple had been a Hoegbotton man. Blakely had been with Frankwrithe & Lewden. Both stared at each other now across a battlefield of other people’s betrayal.
The other detectives gathered around.
“I won’t do it,” Dapple was saying.
“You’ve done it plenty of times before. Looked behind the curtain,” Blakely said with a kind of cruel confidence. “What’s different now?”
“I was forced to those other times. None of you did anything to help.”
Finch doubted the fight had started there. Or that either remembered what it had really been about. Blakely was famous for baiting others. Daring them to look behind that damned curtain. Enter the haunted house. Walk through the graveyard at night.
After Stark and Bosun, Finch felt like he was watching Blakely and Dapple from on high. Heard Wyte mutter from behind him, “Dumb fucks.”
Blakely saw them first. Lowered his hands. Tension losing out to puzzlement.
“What happened to your shoes, Finch?” Said with contempt.
Dapple turned, looked too. His eyes were red.
“Nothing as exciting as what was happening here,” Finch said, pushing through them, Wyte tightlipped behind him. Over his shoulder, “Whatever play you’re practicing for, I’m not paying to go see it.”
That got a laugh, though not from Blakely or Dapple. Spared Finch from having to talk about his shoes.
As he and Wyte sat down, Finch tossing Stark’s file onto his desk, they got plenty of stares. Looks that said you’ll get questions later. For now, though, the Blakely-Dapple spat was still more interesting. Skinner was already trying to get them going again, asking Dapple, “Are you just going to take that from him?”
On top of the clutter on Finch’s desk: a note to call Rathven. Felt a spark of excitement. Picked up the receiver. Dialed the number. Waited while it rang. Stomach growling. Didn’t think he could take more gray cap rations, though. Might wait to eat until he got home. Hunger focused his thoughts. Made him sharper. For a while.
Still ringing.
Wyte, searching through drawers: “I’ve got an extra pair of shoes somewhere. Too big, but…”
Still ringing. He’d try later.
“If you find them, I’ll take them,” Finch said. No hesitation. Didn’t want to take another step without something on his feet. Too easy to pick up something nasty. Sudden memory of his father kneeling to tie his shoelaces. Eight? Nine? Saying, “Mud between your toes in the river, no one cares. Set one foot outside this house onto the street, I’ll never hear the end of it.” Sounds of his grandparents in the background, arguing about something long forgotten. Father’s bristly face inches from his, mouth transformed by a smile. “Let’s go for a walk, shall we?” Never knew when that meant his father had to meet someone, or if it really was just a walk.
Finch called another number. A number Sintra had given him. None of the phones on their way back had worked. Felt a helpless need to tell her she might be in danger. That “a man named Stark” might be following her.
Experienced an odd relief when no one picked up. Because, really, how could he tell her? Without telling her too much?
All you have to do is play along with Stark and he won’t touch her.
How had Stark known about Sintra? Bosun casing the hotel? Then following her home? Along with the unworthy thought: Maybe that’s what you should do.
A perverse pang of jealousy.
A sound of triumph from Wyte, who had produced a scuffed old pair of shoes. “Socks still in them!”
Wyte tossed them at his feet. Wyte had left his fingerprints all over the socks. Blotches of red and black. With a grimace, Finch put on the socks, then the shoes. Too big, but they’d serve.
“Thanks.”
“Sure.” In a whisper: “Now we just have to get new guns. There might be some in the supply cabinet, but Skinner has the key on his desk.”
“Lost your guns, too?” Never live it down.
Finch shook his head. “No. I’m going to get a real gun. Something more reliable. I’m done with guns that leak.”
Wyte raised an eyebrow at that. “You sure that’s a good idea?”
“If I put a bullet in Stark, I want it to count.”
“If you put a bullet in Stark, make sure you’ve got a good reason. And that you’ve taken care of his men,” Wyte said.
Finch had no answer for that. He looked around. Blakely was by the coffee maker. Laughing at something Gustat had said. Dapple was hiding behind his desk, pretending to work. Trembling. Let the gray caps figure that one out from their surveillance. Skinner and Albin had disappeared for the moment. Good. No one except Wyte was watching.
Picked up the file. Opened it. Saw the Stockton logo. TOP SECRET stamped in red across the top. Scrawled note from Stark, in a spidery script: “My gift to you, Finch. Let me know when you crack the case. If it doesn’t crack you first.” Bastard.
“What is it?” Wyte asked.
“I don’t know.” And he didn’t. Not really.
He started to read, hesitated, then began handing pages to Wyte as he finished them. Wanted to say, “Don’t share this with anyone.” Instead said, “Remember, Wyte, you told me not to protect you…”
And, if you have made a deal with Stark, you’ll just be feeding back to him what he already knows …
REPORT 2A-ATC-001
Originating Agents: Classified, pending investigation
Interrogation location: 22 East Lake Street
Transcription: Classified
Details:
* 14.3 minutes of a damaged 60-minute tape.
* Breaks in the tape—of unknown length—are indicated in the transcript by “***.”
* Brackets around a word or phrase indicate poor sound quality and therefore doubts as to the actual word or phrase.
* There are three voices on the tape, labeled Agent #1, Agent #2, and Subject.
Agent #1: Is that thing turned on?
Agent #2: Of course it’s fucking well turned on. It might say something we need to remember.
Agent #1: Then remember it. Don’t put it on tape …
Agent #2: No. I want it all on the tape. So we don’t [forget] …
Agent #1: That Stark’s orders?
Agent #2: What the hell is that?
(Sounds of a struggle, followed by labored breathing. Tape turned off, then turned on again.)
Agent #2: Get … that thing away from me.
Agent #1: Goddamn it they’re tough bastards. Even I forget sometimes. Okay, put it on the tape. Doesn’t really matter, does it?
Agent #2: You want to ask it the questions?
Subject: I will [answer] no questions.
Agent #1 or #2: Shut up.
(Loud slap. Sound of a chair falling down?)
Agent #2: Be careful. Be careful. It hasn’t even started talking yet.
Subject: Long and painful for you … your insides will explode, your lips and cheeks split open. Your brains feed the birds.
Agent #1: Cheery fucker, isn’t he? And they’re all like that.
Subject: I do not know the answer to your questions. Your question sounds like a [question]. It does not sound like an answer. Do you have an answer?
Agent #1: What were you doing when we caught you? Simple question.
Agent #2: Oh, do it right. Do it right … For the record: Subject was intercepted and brought to this location after stepping out of a strange door. Like a secret panel or something, which closed up after him.
Agent #1: You stupid fucking mushroom. Answer the question. Answer now and save yourself.
Agent #2: For the record, the Subject drew a symbol on the table. In some sort of golden dust. Kind of a half circle then a circle then a line with another line across it. Then two more half circles at the end. I’ll draw it later.
Agent #1: More bullshit. Shove some more water into it. Only thing that works.
(A sound like water being poured from a jug. Splashes. Sounds of gasping. A cracking sound. A shriek. Silence for a long time, but no cut in the tape.)
Agent #1: Can you hear [me]? I know you can hear me.
Subject: I hear [you]. [You will] all die. I will myself see you afloat in the canal. Cultured. You are not—
Agent #1: Just more water then.
Agent #2: It’ll die.
Agent #1: Don’t care.
Agent #2: Don’t you think Stark should—
Agent #1: The hell with Stark. He’s been here, what? Three seconds?
Agent #2: Record shows [name redacted] authorized additional water torture on the Subject.
Agent #1: Shut the fuck up and help with this.
(A gurgling, thrashing sound. Spluttering. Silence.)
Agent #1: Now, once again, where’d that door come from?
Subject:… been where you were not. But you’ll never read them. Not before we finish the towers.
Agent #1: What is behind the door?
Subject: Nothing for you. Too late.
Agent #2: Now I’m getting impatient with this. Maybe this will help you. Remember.
(Long, prolonged scream. Not human.)
Subject: Don’t do that again. Don’t do that again. Don’t do that again. Don’t—
Agent #2: He doesn’t [know] what he means. I should just kill him now.
Agent #1: Not yet. Not yet. Tell me, mushie, about this gold. Where’d it come from?
(From here on, Subject’s words are more garbled, as if its mouth had been damaged. Accuracy of transcript compromised.)
Subject: Not a [filo] left. Not one. What [indecipherable] would take me like this?
Agent #2: What about the gold?
Subject: Yes, lots of gold there. Lots of gold other places, too. Gold is everywhere. Gold and green. The light, the water …
Agent #1: Do you mean the door? Or do you mean real gold?
Agent #2: Should we start on his legs? Fucking thing [smells] like shit. I think he’s rotting.
Agent #1: Other places? What do you mean, other places?
Subject: Someday we will move other places but you will still only be here.
Agent #2: Give it up. He’s hallucinating.
Agent #1: Just wait. Mushie—tell me just a little more, and maybe we’ll let you go. Back underground where it’s safe. Would you like that?
Subject: No place is safe. For you.
Subject: No more. No more. You, maybe if you [know] what it says there. Maybe you will not [indecipherable gray cap word].
Agent #2: We’ll let you go if you just tell us—what is this weapon the rebels have?
Subject: [stream of gray cap swear words]
Agent #1: What about this address, then? The chapel at 1829 Northwest Scarp Lane. This rebel safe house. Ring a bell? Has it got something to do with the weapon? Our sources say it has something to do with the weapon.
Subject: Make me sleep. Burn me. Take me back to where I was.
Agent #2: He doesn’t know anything about it. That much is clear.
Agent #1: Start on his legs.
(Prolonged screams.)
Agent #1 (panting): It’s done. It’s over.
Agent #2: Where do you think you’re going?
Agent #1: He’s not going to say anything else. If he is still alive—and I doubt that—kill him and throw him in a canal. No, wait, cut him up. Dump him somewhere they won’t find him for a while.
Agent #2: And what the fuck will you be doing while I’m doing [that]? That’s going to take me a long fucking time.
Agent #1: I’ve already got plans. And they don’t include waiting around here. We’ve gotten all we’re going to get.
Agent #2: You’re staying. Stark’s orders. I’m telling you—
(Sounds of something heavy falling over.)
Agent #2:… Not dead! It’s got a hand free.
Agent #1: Shit. Get that other light on. Get it on quick.
(Banging on the door. Calling out to some third agent.)
Agent #2: Open the fucking door! This isn’t funny. I don’t see it now. It was here just a second ago. Is it in the fireplace? Dammit, at least throw a gun back in here. And unlock the fucking door. I can’t see a fucking thing.
Subject: But I can.
(Screaming for three minutes, then tape cuts off.)
Finch stared at his desk for a while after he’d read the last page. A kind of primal horror rose even as he tried to tamp it down. Mixed up with a question: What does Stark want me to take from this? How does it help him for me to have this?
Wyte finished. Handed the pages back like they had been dipped in poison. “How’d they think they’d get away with that?” he said. Voice haggard. “Killing a—”
“Don’t say it.” Finch stood. “Let’s go for a walk.” Took the file with him. Wyte trailed behind. Down that emerald carpet, past the crumbling marble tables at the front that once served as cover for receptionists. Through the massive, worm-riddled double doors, gold leaf long since peeled off and sold. Along with the inlaid iron bars.
Walked out into the light. Onto Albumuth Boulevard. Above them rose a sharp finger of red bricks, jutting. Only sign the building had ever had five stories instead of two. Ahead, the rough stone barricades that discouraged suicide bombers. Lichen sensors in purple-and-green dotted their surface. Beyond that, the dirty street. Just a few people in gas masks walking past. Huge black insect eyes. Trench coats. Gloves. Hunched over. Not looking in their direction.
Finch pulled Wyte to the side. Against the faded brick wall. Who knew if it was safer. But it felt safer. Reminded him of when Wyte used to bring him out here and patiently explain how he’d screwed up back when he worked as a courier.
“Why don’t you tell me what you think.”
Wyte looked at him for a second as if to say “You really want my opinion?” Then, slowly, “Two Stockton agents kidnapped a gray cap who came out of a secret door. Maybe a door leading to the underground? One of the agents worked for Stockton before Stark arrived. The other probably came with him. There was a third agent outside as a precaution while they interrogated the gray cap.”
“Water torture,” Finch interjected. “Take note of that. Not something I’d’ve thought to use.” Thinking of his encounters during the war.
“So they interrogate the gray cap. Pretty brutally. And they ask him about the door, and the gray cap seems to make a connection between this door and the towers.”
Agent #2: For the record: Subject was intercepted and brought to this location after stepping out of a strange door. Like a secret panel or something. Closed up after him.
“And there’s another connection, Wyte. If you can appear out of a strange door that disappears, you can disappear out of a door that appears, perhaps.”
Wyte: “Bliss?”
Bliss or Dar Sardice. Warming to this task now. Relishing the idea of figuring it out. “Remember that Bliss knew exactly which mushrooms to use for his wounds.”
“True,” Wyte said, but he frowned, like he didn’t totally agree. “So then they talk about gold, but not real gold. The gray cap seemed to be taunting them a bit. And after that, they’re following up on information that led them to believe the gray caps know about some weapon the rebels have.”
Agent #1: Do you mean the door? Or do you mean real gold?
Agent #2: We’ll let you go if you just tell us—what is this weapon the rebels have?
“And there’s that mention of the two towers.” Finch searched through the pages, found it. “Here—‘been where you were not. But you’ll never read them. Not before we finish the towers.’ And then one agent asks about the door again. What does that mean?”
Wyte shook his head. “I don’t know.”
They stood there. Looking at each other. As if the answer might appear between them through sheer force of will.
What did Stark know? Maybe he didn’t know anything. Maybe he was flushing out information like he’d flushed out two detectives by messing with Bliss.
“A rebel weapon. Strange doors. Gold that isn’t gold. The two towers.” Finch laughed. “Fuck if I know what it means.” And he didn’t, not really, even though answers kept niggling at the edges of his thoughts.
“But maybe we know how Bliss escaped,” Wyte said.
Using magic. Using trapdoors. Maybe he turned into a door himself. Finch put that aside for later.
“Heretic is going to want another report. By tonight.” He’d promised not to leave anything out. Didn’t dare leave anything out. “At least we’ve got a couple of addresses.” Finch wondered if Wyte was as relieved as he was at the prospect of having real leads.
“Want me to check them out?”
Finch: “Just the one.”
Wyte: “Which one?”
“Where they tortured the gray cap.”
Where they both died because they didn’t finish the job properly. Searched for it in the transcript, pointed to it with his finger: “22 East Lake Street. But for Truff’s sake, use a proxy. Get one of your snitches to do it for you. Watch from down the street just in case. If the gray caps have the place under surveillance, you don’t want to just walk right up to it.”
“What about the other address?”
Lowering his voice as a Partial passed by on the other side of the street: “If it’s a real lead and not something Stark stuck into the transcript to fuck with us, it’s too dangerous. A rebel safe house? Not even clear the gray cap knew what they were talking about? Wyte, that’s a job for Partials. I’ll put that in my report to Heretic. But I have to leave out the part about a tortured gray cap, and where we got the information. Which means, we need to check out the torture address ourselves.”
“What am I looking for?”
“I don’t know.”
Wyte didn’t seem to care. “Shouldn’t take more than an hour or two there and back. Maybe a little more if I check in with some of my snitches along the way.” His expression had become tighter, more defined. As if Finch was filling him with purpose, the thing encroaching on Wyte beaten back. For now.
Finch clapped him on the shoulder as they went inside. Wyte grabbed his coat. Lumbered over to Skinner’s desk, swiped the key as Skinner watched. Went over to the supply cabinet. No longer caring what they thought. Got a gun, loaded it, and headed for the door with what almost looked like a skip in his step.
Blakely stared at the door Wyte had disappeared through: “What, you finally agreed to marry him?” With a leer.
Finch ignored him. Time to call Rath again.
Rath’s voice crackled and hissed through the bad connection. Sounded like she was buried deep in a watery cave.
“Finch,” she said. “I’ve got news. I think I’ve found out about—”
“What I wanted to know?” he said. Before she could say “the dead man.”
“Yes.”
A prickle of excitement. Along with a sobering wave of caution. He still didn’t know for sure who had given up Sintra to Stark.
Kept his voice calm. “I’ll come by after work.” Fought the urge to say he’d be right there.
“You don’t want to know now?” Disappointment in her voice.
“Busy. I’ll catch up with you later.” Hoping she’d understand. They’re listening.
Click. Either Rath had hung up or the line had gone out.
A sudden elation wouldn’t leave him. Made him give out a little laugh. Even though he knew it was premature. Usually you knew who the dead person was to begin with. The trail was three days cold by now.
How to frame it all for Heretic?
Finch thumbed through Stark’s report again. Thought about his encounter with Stark on the boat. Bliss’s disappearance. Bliss’s appearance in the memory bulb dream.
What could he tell Heretic?
Blakely, Skinner, and Gustat were working at their desks. Once upon a time, he might’ve consulted with them. But the Wyte situation made that impossible now. Sometimes he thought they even liked Wyte better than him. Wyte couldn’t help it. Finch could help it. Didn’t have to side with Wyte.
The phone rang. He stared at the receiver for a second. Sintra? Rathven?
Finch picked it up.
“Hello.”
“Finchy!” Stark’s voice. Strong and smooth. A shock hearing it on his station phone. “I see you’ve read the transcript of our little drama, since Wyte’s already hotfooting it over to where Number One and Number Two heroically sacrificed for the greater good.”
Finch leaned forward. Shielded the receiver with his hand. In a low voice: “How did you get this phone number? Don’t you know—”
“Don’t I know what, Finch? That I’m one of your informants, calling in as scheduled? To ask: Did you like what you read?” A mischievous lilt to the words. Blood behind it.
Play Stark’s game or just hang up? Blakely was giving him an odd look. Dapple too.
Finch turned his back on them, phone on his lap. “Yes, I did. I did like it. So long as it’s true. I would have liked to heard the conversation myself.”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Stark said. “I don’t think you would’ve liked that at all. It’s quite melodramatic. Practically bathetic. The kind of thing that would’ve lent itself to opera, back in the day.”
Except then I’d know if you’d left anything out. Or put anything in.
“How about the Subject?” Finch asked. “Did the Subject get away?” Does Heretic know about any of this?
“Alas, the Subject didn’t get far. A tragic case of smoking in bed. Happens all the time. After the Subject finished with our poor agents, the Subject went to sleep. A sound, sound sleep.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“Oh, you know what it means, Finch.”
“What do you want, then?”
“What do I want? Nice of you to ask.” Stark’s tone had gotten colder. “I want lots of things. So many things it’s hard to know where to begin. Money’s always good. Especially gold. I could also use a weapon. You know, to defend myself against the rebels. Think you can deliver that? After all, I’ve delivered for you.”
“What you’ve delivered are rumors,” Finch said. “What you’ve delivered is information we don’t know will lead to anything important.”
A pause. Then, “I’m not sure I like your attitude, Detective. Maybe I should be working with someone else. Maybe I should be working with your girlfriend. Or your friend Rathven. Or your partner, Wyte. Or even that madman who lives right outside of your hotel. Would you prefer that?”
Managed a calm tone. “No. I think the arrangement we have will be fine.” Realized he’d curled his free hand into a fist. Knuckles white. Nails biting into his palm.
Laughter on the other end. “I thought you might say that. I thought you might see it my way. It’s all on you now. Just remember: we’ll be watching.”
Hung up before Finch could reply.
Back on the roof of the hotel. Where Finch could see it all from on high. See it clean and remote. Banish pointless images of ripping out Stark’s throat. Shooting him dead in the street. If Heretic doubted Finch, killing Stark wouldn’t help anything. He’d filed his report before he left. Stuffed it down the memory hole with misgivings. Would it be enough?
Wanted clarity before he saw Rathven, knew he wasn’t going to get it.
The sun was going down. Watched the orange-yellow shimmer. Tried to ignore the towers, but that was impossible. The light made them a fuzzy green, as if dusted with pollen. The glare hurt his eyes.
The Photographer would be coming up soon. Finch had knocked on his door on the way up. Thin shadow through slit of door. Pale face rising from someplace submerged to meet his request. Told him that what he wanted would take thirty, forty minutes.
Too restless to sit. Hands in the pockets of his jacket. Left hand clenched around a piece of paper, a time line:
Stark arrives—disappearing door—gray cap tortured—two murders—strange phrase on scrap of paper—Bliss—men murdered—Bliss disappears—two towers near completion—Stark gives us information—Heretic presses re the case …
How much of it was really connected?
Agent #2: For the record, the Subject drew a symbol on the table. In some sort of golden dust. Kind of a half circle then a circle then a line with another line across it. Then two more half circles at the end. I’ll draw it later.
Now he had to reconsider the gray symbol on the torn piece of paper. Had preferred the case when it all seemed to be about Bliss.
Within the hour, he’d know the identity of the dead man. Part of him wanted to know. Part of him thought he wasn’t going to like the answer.
He’d included almost everything in the report for Heretic except the tortured gray cap. Put some heat on Stark. And nothing about Rathven. After all, Finch hadn’t even spoken to her yet. But he’d had to mention the words on the piece of paper. Called it a possible password.
Wyte had returned before Finch had filed the report, with nothing to add but a bad mood. Looking like shit again. His informant had found nothing at the address, because the building had burned to the ground. No witnesses. “Nothing except this.” Wyte had tossed a carving onto Finch’s desk. Crudely like a gray cap. Along with some information from his informant: Bosun was Stark’s younger brother. Known in Stockton as a brawler and boozer. Interesting, but what to do with it? Stark was still a question mark.
The hatch behind him opened. Out unfolded the gawky frame of the Photographer. Once upright, he walked across to Finch. Holding something that seemed to absorb the light in his long fingers. Compact. Functional. Deadly.
“Here, take it,” the Photographer said. As if Finch needed prompting.
Finch loved the weight as his right hand closed over it. Had a cold, comforting heft. A Lewden Special: a vicious snub-nosed semiautomatic. He’d used one during the wars. Taken it off a dead man. Liked it. Liked it almost too much. Could reload quickly. Accurate fire. Used bullets that ended things. Bullets that exploded inside the body. Would cause even a gray cap an acute case of indigestion. Finch hadn’t expected something this good.
Gave the Photographer a sly look. “What, exactly, did you do before the Rising?”
On the Photographer a smile looked grim. “I took photos.” No other information was forthcoming.
Finch looked at him for a moment, then dropped it. “Ammo?”
“Yes,” the Photographer said. Handed over ten clips. Twenty bullets in each.
Finch’s eyebrows rose. He’d only asked for five clips. Looked at the Photographer as if to say What do you know that I don’t?
“How much?”
“Nothing now. Maybe a favor, later.”
“Just make sure to ask while I can still grant favors.” Wry laugh.
“Or while I still need them.” The Photographer’s expression revealed neither humor nor the lack of it.
Listening with only one ear. Thoughts wandering back to the transcript. The two towers. A strange door. The rebels have a weapon.
Which rebels? came a question from a voice in his head. The ones in Ambergris or the ones in the HFZ?
They turned to watch the city at dusk. The unexpected phosphorescence in places. As if the sun’s death throes. The now-dull green glow rippling from the bay. The towers were still being worked on nonstop. Finch could almost imagine them complete now.
“What do you think the towers are for?” Finch asked the Photographer.
A gleam of interest entered the Photographer’s dead black eyes. “Sometimes I dream. I dream it’s a giant camera. And it’s taking pictures of places we can’t see.”
Rathven let him in without a word. She locked the door behind them quickly.
“There have been strangers in the building the last couple days,” she told him.
“I know,” he said. Some of them may even have been here to visit you. Glad of the weight of the gun in his jacket pocket. Trust wasn’t something Finch gave up lightly. But he was willing to give it up.
“Why do you think they’re here?”
“No idea.” Not entirely true.
The water had receded for the moment. Leaving odd marks on the floor and walls beyond the main room that gave evidence of tides and eddies. Remains of minerals. Remains of books that hadn’t survived. A broom leaning against the wall, used to sweep away water. The stacks and stacks of books. That odd darkness of a tunnel leading … where? And where did she sleep?
Rathven took two books from an old sofa chair. Put them on the table. An old oil lamp flickered across the books, which were tattered and stained. Mold and worms had been at them. A thick mustiness made Finch sneeze. The gray caps’ ridiculous list lay sprawled beneath the table.
She asked him to sit. He didn’t like that the chair was so comfortable. Felt like he could fall asleep in it. Wanted to ask, in a conversational way, “So, did a man named Bosun visit you? Maybe a man named Stark?” But didn’t. That conversation could wait. As for warning her, she had plenty of reasons to be careful already.
She pulled up an old wooden chair. Turned it around, leaning her arms against the back. Looking tense. Unsettled. The straight, unflinching stare she gave him undermined by quick glances toward the tunnel. Was she expecting someone to appear?
“Do you need tea or coffee?” she asked. He only liked tea now for some reason, but wanted neither at the moment.
“I’m tired, Rath. I’m not in the mood. What did you find out?”
Rathven winced. “Just the information, right?”
“What’s wrong?” he asked, feeling he’d insulted her. “Something’s wrong.”
She stared at him with those large hazel eyes. “You’re not going to like what I found out.”
Finch laughed. Until the tears came. Doubled over in the grip of the chair. “I’m not going to like what you found out? I’m not going to like it?”
Glanced over, wiping at his face with his sleeve. Saw her confusion.
“Rath, I haven’t learned anything I liked since Monday. There’s nothing about this case that I’ve found likable. Nothing. This morning I went out to interrogate a suspect and came back without my socks, my shoes, or my gun.”
That brought a curling half smile, but her eyes were still wary. As if the idea was both funny and horrible to her. “Your socks? Walking around in your bare feet? In Ambergris?”
He nodded. Sobered. “So, what did you find out?”
A deep breath from Rathven. She looked like a creature used to being in motion stopped in midstride. Asked a fundamental question about its own existence.
“Yesterday, I read all of the names on your list. That took a long time. Then I made a much shorter list of any names I recognized.”
“Like?”
“People with any historical significance. I didn’t recognize anyone I knew personally. But there were a few names from the past. A minor novelist. A sculptor. A woman who was a noted engineer. I thought I’d look them up in various histories. See if they had connections to anyone in the present.”
“A long shot.” But he admired her for having a process.
“Yes. At the same time, I also started checking names from the past thirty years with what city records still exist. But I didn’t get far.”
“Why?”
Rathven leaned forward, balancing on two chair legs. “Because I came across information about one of the names on the list. Someone who lived in that apartment a long time ago.”
“Who?”
Rathven said the name. It meant nothing to him, but rang in his head like a gunshot.
“Duncan Shriek,” he repeated. “Who was he?”
“Good question. It took some research, but I thought I’d heard the name before. Not sure where. I had to borrow a couple of books to find out.”
“And?”
She seemed reluctant to answer, which made Finch reluctant, too. As if he needed her to go slow to protect himself. From a feeling that had begun to creep up from his stomach.
Tightening his chest.
She sucked in her breath, continued: “And I did—I found out a lot about him. Shriek was a fringe historian. He had some radical ideas about the Silence. About the gray caps. They wouldn’t seem radical to us now. They’d seem mostly right. But by the time anyone would’ve been able to see that, he was gone. Disappeared. Over a hundred years ago.”
Suddenly, Finch felt disappointed in her.
“What’s the connection to the here and now? How does this help me?”
Rathven leaned back again. “Take a look at the two books on the table.”
The feeling in his stomach got worse. Finch looked at her. Looked at the table. Back at her. Straightened in the sofa chair. Picked up the books gently. Felt the dust on his hands.
Turned to the title page of the first. Shriek: An Afterword, written by Janice Shriek with Duncan Shriek.
“Janice? His wife?” A strange emotion was rising now, unconnected to the feeling of dread. A formless sadness. A watchfulness.
“No,” Rathven said in a flat tone. “No. His sister.”
“Is it fiction? Nonfiction?”
“A kind of memoir by Janice with comments by Duncan. She was an art gallery owner. A major sponsor of many artists back then. She went missing, and so did her brother. Both around the same time. But it’s the other one you really need to look at.”
Finch put down Shriek: An Afterword, picked up the other book. “Cinsorium & Other Historical Fables,” he read. “By Duncan Shriek.” Felt a twinge of irritation or resentment. Couldn’t she get to the point?
“Look at the inside back cover. Of the dust jacket,” Rathven said.
Turned to the back. Found the author’s photo staring out at him. A confusion overtook him that snuffed out rational thought.
The man could’ve been forty-five or fifty, with dark brown hair, dark eyebrows, and a beard that appeared to be made from tendrils of fungus.
“Fuck.”
The man laughed again. Blindingly, unbelievably bright, a light like the sun shot through the window. The night sky torn apart by it.
The photo was ancient. Stained. Falling apart. But it didn’t lie. The face in the back of the book matched the face of the dead man in the apartment.
Light-headed. Cold. He sat back in the chair, the books in his lap. Cinsorium closed so he didn’t have to look at the photo. Never lost.
“When did he live there? Show me the entry.”
Rathven reached down to get the list. “It’s already folded right to it.” Handed it to him.
SHRIEK, DUNCAN, OCCUPANCY 17 MONTHS, 5 DAYS, 15 HOURS, 4 MINUTES, 56 SECONDS—WRITER AND HISTORIAN; LEFT SUDDENLY, DISAPPEARED AND PRESUMED DEAD.
“That’s impossible,” Finch said, letting the list slither out of his hands to the floor. “That’s impossible.”
Felt exposed. Vulnerable like never before. The semiautomatic at his side was no protection at all. Stark, lips drawn back in a leer. Bosun and his psychotic carvings. Bliss as a young F&L agent staggering across the Kalif’s desert. A dead man talking to him, flanked by a cat and a lizard.
Rathven nodded. “It’s impossible. But it’s him.”
The books felt too heavy in his lap. “Or his twin. Or his great-great-grandson.”
“Do you really believe that, Finch?” Rathven asked.
“No.”
No, he really didn’t. Not in his gut.
Suddenly, the double murder had a sense of scale that expanded in his mind like Heretic’s list. A time line almost beyond comprehension.
How to escape this?
I am not a detective.
He understood Rathven’s look now.
Haunted.
Being haunted had started for his father during the war against the Kalif’s empire, in the engineering arm of the Hoegbotton army. Something had gotten into his lungs during that time. The doctors at the clinic, toward the end, still couldn’t find a solution. Something about dust. Different kinds of dust. Dust from the road to empire, thousands of years old. Dust from the retreat. Dust from trying to hold Ambergris together. Dust from betraying it.
Earlier on during the campaign there had been a feeling of optimism, a heady confidence. House Frankwrithe had been beaten back to Morrow. The gray caps seemed once again in decline, and because of the war effort Ambergris now had a powerful military.
As his father had said once, “They didn’t want it to go to waste. And they feared that the young officers might be too ambitious left at home. And there was this kind of claustrophobic restlessness hard to understand now, perhaps. People wanted to be part of Ambergris, but to be out of it at the same time. They felt cramped, hemmed in—and the eastern flank of the Kalif’s empire was so close, and the Kalif spread so thin, defending all of that territory. It was too tempting. Too easy.”
One of his father’s first tasks was to get the Hoegbotton army across the Moth in a way that allowed quick return. He accomplished this with boats, with floating bridges that could be taken apart and reused in other ways. From there, “the Fixer,” as he came to be called, participated in more than a dozen battles. Helping take defensive positions. Solving how to get across supposedly impassable mountains. Whenever they needed an engineer, he was there. And he had the photographs to prove it, the ones Finch had since consigned to the flames: his lean, clean-shaven figure posing in front of a canyon, a cityscape, a smoldering tank. If the posture seemed more stooped, more resigned, the smile a little more faded as time passed, it could have been the natural process of aging. If not for Finch knowing that, eventually, what his father had found there would kill him.
He’d told Finch one day that he’d imagined he would be able to quit the military, take on the civilian projects that he preferred. Saw, he said, a grand new age of architectural expansion, as in the days of Pejoran. A city reimagined and rebuilt in a way that meant more than just restoration or renovation. Mineral deposits that fueled a war effort could fuel a peace effort.
But it didn’t happen that way, as if the dust of empire that slowly changed his father had changed Ambergris, too. House Hoegbotton’s race to acquire territory in the name of Ambergris meant not engaging insurgents at its exposed flanks: holding cities but not holding land. Until, finally, a slow collapse back to the River Moth, leaving behind as evidence of their passage more than a few half-breed children, abandoned equipment, and all of Finch’s father’s engineering projects. His father had had photos of these, too. In a separate album. He used to thumb through it at night with Finch on his lap, as if to deny what had happened next.
Images from some other life. A few of a woman with the distinctive features of the west. Faded. Worn. Lost.
His father had returned to an Ambergris exhausted in some ways, with House Frankwrithe eager to resurrect itself in people’s hearts because House Hoegbotton neglected the home front to focus on the Kalif. Food shortages, electricity shortages.
In the decade that followed, Finch’s father rose to become a strangely neutral figure. As the divide between Hoegbotton and Frankwrithe became narrower, as the city devolved into regions and factions and neighborhoods, he found himself working in government as a former war hero. For bridges. For reconstruction of roads. For anything that could bring back, even for just a month or a year, stability to a district or side.
“It was like fighting a guerilla war of engineering,” he told Finch once. “I’d rebuild it. Someone else would smash it.”
Finch believes that being found out was a kind of relief for his father. To give up the exhaustion of playing sides against each other. Of having to find work. Of having to be so secretive. Being a fugitive didn’t weigh on him as heavily.
Thinks about this as he struggles with the mystery that is Duncan Shriek.
Is Duncan Shriek the dust, coming down across a century, that will kill him?
Could be a twin. Could be a great-great-grandson. But wasn’t.
Finch walked up the stairs to his apartment, holding the two books. Rath had tried to get him to stay longer. As if she didn’t want to be alone with what she’d found out. But he had to be alone with it.
Still at a loss. You could plod along for years thinking you were holding on, that you were doing okay. That you might even be doing a little good. Then something happened and you realized you didn’t understand anything. A sudden shuddering impulse for Sintra that he understood was reflexive. Wasn’t real. Was about forgetting. Even though he needed to remember.
The stairs seemed to go on forever. Like a throat swallowing him up.
Finch had shielded Rath from his confusion. Asked her to do more investigative work. Suggested there was a rational explanation. Even though he didn’t believe it. Even intimated he knew something he couldn’t share.
How long until Heretic knows? Maybe he already knows.
He came to the seventh floor. Saw that his apartment door was open a crack. Which drove Duncan Shriek from his mind and brought Stark back. Stark and Bosun. Unless it was Sintra?
Would she have left the door open?
Strange, how calm he felt. Had he played out the scenario of intruder in his mind too often to be surprised?
Finch placed the two books on the floor. Took out his Lewden Special and released the safety. Nudged the door wider. Saw the gray and black silhouettes of his living room furniture, the kitchen beyond, and the window directly ahead of him. A hazy green-white light came from outside.
No one there.
No sign of anyone having been there.
Maybe they’d already left.
Maybe he’d forgotten to close the door. Not likely.
Slowly, Finch entered, sighting along the gun’s barrel. Still felt like ice water ran through his veins. Saw even the darkness in preternatural detail.
Stood to the left of the window. In the shadow of bookcases. Listening. Heard someone breathing in the next room. Someone moving around. What if it is Sintra?
Decided to wait there. Let whoever it was come out into the living room. Now, finally, his heart pounded. Images of mistakes flashed through his head. Of Sintra with a bullet hole through her forehead. Or Wyte.
The bedroom door opened. Out came a shadow. Finch couldn’t see the face. Couldn’t see a weapon, either.
“I’ve got a gun. Stay where you are, or I’ll shoot,” Finch said.
The shadow stopped, quick glance toward him. Then ran for the window.
The window?
Already moving forward, Finch squeezed the trigger. The roar of the Lewden Special. A thick splintering sound from the bookcase opposite. He’d missed.
The figure leapt. Closing the distance, Finch leapt with him. A circle of green light had appeared. Rimmed with fiery gold. Shot through the middle with purest black. The figure went through the circle—and Finch went too, slamming into the shadow’s back. Grabbing hold of the shoulders. Gun still in his hand.
The blackness extended. Past the floor.
Gasped, screamed. Overcome by the sense of falling. Held on to the figure, which was trying to throw him off. Finch’s face felt like it was burning. The blackness was absolute.
Falling into the throat of a skery. Falling into nothing. Falling through the window. To their deaths. His stomach kept dropping and dropping. He kept screaming and screaming.
And still they fell.
Nothing lost.
All lost.