Finch by Jeff VanderMeer Page 13

  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 onto 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 q
uestions 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 had 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?”

  Finch by Jeff VanderMeer

  4

  ilence 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.