Finch by Jeff VanderMeer (22 page)

inch stared at his desk for awhile 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 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.