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 hot-footing 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 hear 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.
ack 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 timeline:
Stark arrives-disappearing door-gray cap tortured-two murdersstrange phrase on scrap of paper-Bliss-men murdered-Bliss disappears-two towers near completion-Stark gives us informationHeretic 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.”
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