Finch by Jeff VanderMeer (13 page)

Not much of a conversation. Wyte stuck his gun up against the
lookout's cheek. Convinced her it would be better just to lead them
in. The hardened men and women they surprised, lantern-lit and
reaching for knives or guns, thought better of it, too. But they had
a hard time restraining the roosters. One fire-red, the other a muted
orange. Razor talons moving like pistons.

A heavily muscled man in his twenties who had done some piecework
for Bliss gave him up, quick. Called Bliss a slang word for foreign.
Even though the muscled man looked foreign himself. Seemed to dare
any of the others to argue with him. They didn't.

Wyte and Finch receded into the gloom. Shoved the lookout
inside. Barricaded the door from the outside with a couple of heavy
rusted barrels. Hoped there wasn't a second entrance. But knew
there always was. Got the hell out before anyone could start thinking
about an ambush.

"Fuck, but I hate this job!" Wyte exclaimed, as their boots kicked
up water pooling between rows of bolted-down chairs alongside the
abandoned track.

Said he hated it, but looked a lot happier than at the station.

The address turned out to be a modest-looking two-story apartment
building west of the Religious District. Shoved up against more of the
same, with the billowing dome of the northernmost camp beyond.

Finch recognized it as a former Frankwrithe & Lewden neighborhood.
It had retained some sense of order. Of discipline. A few men with
red armbands stood on the sidewalk like guards. While people
traded goods.

Finch was nervous. Always worried when they went to F&L places
that someone would tag him as an ex-Hoegbotton Irregular. Maybe want
to put a bullet through his brain. He would've liked to have told the
detectives in this sector what they were doing, but the gray caps frowned
on cooperation. They liked to keep the stations as separate as possible.
Make themselves the conduit.

It began to drizzle. Had been damp and warm all day. A mist gathered
around Finch. Moistened his hair, his face. Green sweat had darkened
the armpits of Wyte's shirt and now leaked through his overcoat.

Would Wyte hold up? Truff, please let him hold up.

Inside. Down the hall. Gun drawn. Leaking.

Wyte always went first now. He'd accepted that role voluntarily. It
only made sense.

At the green-gold-purple splotched door of Bliss's apartment on the
first floor, Wyte signaled his intent. The door didn't look that strong.
Wyte would batter it down. Finch would storm through behind him.

A strange mewling whine came from inside. Just strange enough to
make Finch shiver.

Finch mimed, Wait.

Took out his handkerchief, turned the knob.

The door opened.

Wyte was through before Finch could stop him, yelling, "Detectives!
Hands up! Weapons down!"

Finch followed. Heart like a hammer. Gun squirting out a little
between his hands in his hard double grip.

The first four rooms: empty, trashed. Someone had destroyed or
ransacked everything. Tables, couches overturned. Books shredded.
Torn pages everywhere. A smell of shit or rot or both. And blood.
Lots of blood. Sprayed. Pooling. But no bodies. From the looks of the
furniture, the arrangement had always been meant to be temporary.
Or at least, it was now.

In the back bedroom they found the source of the mewling.

"Oh fuck," said Finch.

"Is that him?" Wyte asked.

"Yes."

Ethan Bliss had been nailed alive against the far wall, above a bed.
His face was crusted with blood. White shirt red. Blood welling from
his punctured extremities. His hands and feet still twitching as he
tried to pull free of the green nails that looked like hard mushrooms.
Whimpering and looking down at them through eyes crusted by
something purple and brittle.

The eyes through the crust registered Finch, Wyte. A bright red
mushroom had been rammed into his mouth. But he'd managed to
get most of it out.

In a muffled roar: "Don't just stand there like a couple of fucking
idiots. Get me down!"

Bliss began to weep.

Finch held Bliss while Wyte worked at the hands and feet. Too close.
Sweat. Funk. Some underlying sweetness that was worse. For a sixtyyear-old man, Bliss was wiry and muscular. Odd. To be here with
someone who had been so well-known. Nailed to a wall. Blood all
over the place. Would've been a scandal before the Rising. Now it was
just another day on the job.

It took ten minutes to get him down. They tried to wipe the crust
from his eyes. Managed to smear his face with green residue from his
wounds. Looked like pollen dusted over the blood.

Wyte muttered, "Should we take him back to the station?"

Finch shook his head. "No. Let's do it here."

They took him to the couch in the living room. Pulled the couch
upright. Wyte pushed the glass off of it using his sleeve. Finch found
towels in the kitchen, brought them back and offered them to Bliss.

Bliss angrily waved Finch off.

"No, not yet," he said.

"For Truff's sake, aren't you glad to be alive?" Wyte said.

Finch gave Wyte a hard look. "He's probably in shock."

"Shock's overrated," Bliss said. "Hand me that red mushroom. The
one they stuffed in my mouth."

It had fallen onto the bed. Finch went back and got it. Wondering if Bliss
would recognize him. Probably not. Finch had changed his appearance
completely, and Bliss had last seen him about twenty years ago.

Bliss smeared the remains of the fungus, soft cheese consistency, all
over his hands and feet. Glistening. Already he had stopped bleeding.

"Now the towels," he said, taking them from Finch. He glared at
Wyte, then Finch. "Who are you anyway? How did you find me? What
do you want?" Even in anger, he had a youthful face. One of those
faces that got more rigid as it aged. But you could still see the boyish
features under the wrinkles. Under the neatly trimmed moustache.

Finch stood in front of Bliss. Wyte to the side, tapping his foot.
Restless. Disturbed by something.

"I'm Finch. This is Wyte." Finch showed Bliss his badge. "You don't
look happy. Should we put you back up there?"

"I wasn't dying," Bliss snapped. "Someone would have come along."
Emphasis on someone made Finch think Bliss knew exactly who.

Bliss at the old desert fortress, turning slowly at his approach. A sound of
metal locking into place. A kind of mirror. An eye. Then a circle of stone,
a door, covered with gray cap symbols.

"Who did this, Bliss?" Wyte asked, kicking a broken chair out of the
way. "Whose blood is all over the floor? Who'd you piss off?"

Bliss appeared not to hear this question. He stared instead at Finch.
Measuring him. Like a light had clicked on behind his eyes. That
weathered face had hardened remarkably, even as it managed a good
imitation of a smile. Said to Finch, "You look familiar to me, detective.
Do I know you? You obviously know me."

Wyte barged in, to Finch's relief: "Shut up. We're asking the questions."

Bliss registered Wyte as if for the first time. Said in a smooth voice that
drove in the barb. "Why don't you find who did that to you, instead of
wasting your time with me?"

"I said, shut up!" Wyte slapped Bliss across the cheek. Hard.

Finch had never seen Wyte hit a suspect who hadn't tried to hit him first.

Bliss took it quietly. Cursed. Put a hand to the mark. Like it had
happened before. Or like pain was just an inconvenience to him. "What
do you think happened, detective? They surprised us, lit us up, and didn't
leave much behind. Ten of my best men."

Finch, supporting Wyte: "Answer the question, Bliss. Who did this
to you?"

An exasperated sigh that seemed to signal a decision.

"A new man, from the Spit. He asked a lot of questions about gray
caps. About the towers."

"What's his name?"

"He kept telling it to me over and over so I wouldn't forget. Even
while they butchered my men. Stark."

"Just Stark? What's his full name?"

Wyte broke in. "I know about Stark. He's only been here eight weeks.
He's from Stockton. New blood. He's been liquidating the opposition
the past few weeks." Wyte was the station's Stockton expert. Ran a few
snitches in that organization.

"And we've been letting him?"

Wyte shrugged. "Makes our job easier, doesn't it?"

Finch gave him a look that said we'll talk more about this later. Found
it odd that Wyte knew something he didn't.

He turned to Bliss. "Why the hell did he leave you alive?"

Bliss shrugged. "Maybe he wanted to send a message."

I don't believe you.

"What kind of message? To who?" Wyte asked.

Silence.

"Take a guess about what he wanted, Bliss," Finch said.

"Part of what he wanted to do was to hurt me. He enjoyed that
a little too much. I think he would have done it even if he hadn't
wanted information."

"Anyone with him?"

"Just his god-awful muscle. His second in command goes by the name
of Bosun, like on a ship. He's built like a kind of wiry circus strongman
with a bullet bald head. Once you see him, you recognize him forever.
He's the one who lifted me to the wall with one hand and drove the
nails in with the other while Stark watched. All this before they asked
me any questions."

"What questions, Bliss?" Wyte asked.

No response.

Finch showed Bliss the photograph of the dead man. "Do you
know him?"

Bliss stiffened, glanced up at Finch. "Again, it would be nice to
know why you're here?"

"Look at the photo, Bliss." Bliss looked.

"This man is dead."

"Yes, but do you know him?" Finch asked again.

Bliss shook his head. "I've never seen him before."

Lying? Or truly confused?

"What about these words?" Finch took out a piece of paper on
which he'd written bellum omnium contra omnes.

Saw the surprise on Bliss's face. Saw that surprise change to something
vaguely cat-like and unreadable. Knew whatever Bliss told him would
be truth diseased with lie.

"Stark asked about something similar," Bliss said, gaze distant. "But
I wouldn't know anything about that."

Wyte made an exasperated sound. "Let's finish this at the station.
Interrogate him there." To Bliss: "If you cooperate, maybe it won't come
down to a bullet and a memory bulb."

Most men would've gone a little pale. Bliss just sat there staring
daggers at them. A defiant little man who had once run half the city.

Finch pushed. "Maybe you're right, Wyte. I'd like to know what
deal you made with Stark for your life. You don't mind a trip to the
station, do you, Bliss? You've got nothing to hide, right?"

Bliss erupted up off of the couch like a man twice his size, flung
the lamp at Wyte, knocking his gun away. Completed the motion
by slamming Finch on the side of the head with surprising strength. Dazed, Finch fell over a low table, banging his knees. Bliss bolted for
the kitchen while Wyte was still scrambling for his gun.

"Fuck! Finch, stop him!"

Finch got up off the floor, drew his gun, stumbled toward the kitchen.
Wyte was two steps behind.

Beyond the kitchen: a flight of stairs leading down. Finch could hear
running footsteps but couldn't see Bliss. Had no choice but to charge
down the stairs, only to be greeted by another hallway. Then a quick,
tight corner. Wyte had caught up, and they barreled around like a couple
of slapstick comedians, sliding into each other.

Caught a glimpse of Bliss's white shirt through darkness.

"Bliss! I'll shoot! Don't think I won't!" Could Bliss even hear him?

He lost Bliss in the shadows again, but got off a round or two. Hit
nothing but wall. Cursing himself for not having checked the rest of
the apartment. Collided with Wyte taking a second corner. Wyte was
already breathing hard.

They collected themselves. Opened the door that greeted them.
Another long corridor, with a door at the end.

"Fuck! How big is this place?"

They sidled up to the door. Finch got down low on his haunches, put
his hand on the knob. Now he was breathing hard, but not because
he was winded.

"Cover me high," he said, glancing up at Wyte. Blood singing in his
ears, fingers a little numb.

Wyte nodded, face impossibly long and thick from that angle, chin
jutting, expression priest-solemn. Finch turned the knob and pushed
the door open. Slowly rose, knees already aching.

"Goddamn it."

An empty room ten feet square, the walls made of cinder blocks
painted white. A single bulb for light. No windows. No other door.

They kept circling it with guns drawn, like Bliss would appear out
of nowhere.

Never lost.

Except now he was.

'here had Bliss gone? The question haunted Finch as they left
the apartment. Didn't know if anyone had heard the shots. Or
if Bliss still had people who might be watching. "Secret door?" Wyte
had suggested, almost as if it didn't bother him. But they'd found
nothing. They'd have had to tear the place apart. Brick by brick. Didn't
have the tools or time for that.