Finch by Jeff VanderMeer (25 page)

"You already said it was a door, Bliss. Tell me something new."

Bliss's head drooped toward his chest. Finch slapped him lightly.

"Stay with me, Bliss," Finch said. Released his grip on Bliss's collar.
"Here." Handed him his handkerchief. "Keep it."

"Thanks," Bliss said, with more than a hint of something deadly
behind the words. He held the handkerchief to his face, the graywhite soon soaked with red.

"If you tell me enough I'll let you go," Finch said. Tried to sound
reasonable. As reasonable as he could while he kept the gun trained
on Bliss. Truth was, he didn't know what he was going to do with
Bliss. Or to him.

After a moment, Bliss said in a dull tone, "We went through a door
to another part of the city. Across a kind of bridge."

"That's how you escaped the first time. There was no hidden exit."

"No, there wasn't," Bliss said.

"It was night just a few minutes ago." Couldn't keep the confusion
from his voice.

"From the position of the sun, I'd say it's noon now. Maybe it's the
next day."

"The next day?"

"Yes. If we're lucky. You surprised me. I didn't have time to be ...
specific."

Impossible. Like a story told about the gray caps to frighten
children. Fought the urge to bring the gun smashing down on Bliss's
face again.

Focus on what makes sense. Ignore the rest.

He was in a courtyard, the tiles warm and rough beneath the shitty
shoes Wyte had lent him. There was a breeze. The sun was out. These
things were real.

"What were you doing in my apartment?"

Bliss put more energy behind his words suddenly. "Finch, listen to
me: you don't want to know. It isn't what you find out that's going to
keep you alive. It's where you're standing. You're in the middle of things
you can't control. It's too big for you. You shouldn't be worried about
me, or what I was doing. You should be worried about yourself."

"Answer the question."

Bliss must have caught the returning menace in Finch's voice. He
tried to smile sheepishly, as if embarrassed. Said in his polished but
shopworn voice, "I was looking for information on you."

"What did you find?"

"Nothing. I didn't have time to find anything."

"Who do you work for?"

"I work for Morrow," Bliss said.

"I don't believe you." He didn't. Not really.

"My answer won't change no matter how you rough me up."

Finch doubted that. Bliss's face was covered in blood. But more
damage could be done.

"Let's go back to what I asked you after we took you down off
that wall. Why were you in the dead man's memories?" Bliss looked
genuinely surprised. By the question? Or being asked it? "I ate the
dead man's memory bulb. I saw you. I saw you near a desert fortress."

A kind of mirror. An eye. Pulling back to see a figure that seemed oddly
familiar, and then a name: Ethan Bliss. Then a circle of stone, a door,
covered with gray cap symbols. And, finally, jumping out into the desert
air, toward a door hovering in the middle of the sky, pursued by the gray
cap, before the world went dark.

"Memory bulbs are unreliable. You know that. You can see almost
anything in them."

Finch would never be able to tell when Bliss was lying.

"What do the two towers have to do with all of this?"

"Who says they do?"

"Stark."

Bliss made a dismissive spitting sound. "Stark's a thug. He's nothing.
Knows nothing."

"Yet he killed all of your men and nailed you to a wall."

Bliss grimaced, like he'd swallowed a mouthful of dirt. "That was
beginner's luck. His days are numbered. In this city you adapt or
you die."

Finch still didn't believe him.

"Like you've adapted? Gone from Frankwrithe spymaster to
politician to something else?" Then, on an impulse: "What were you
doing during the war with the Kalif? Working for F&L and Morrow?
For Hoegbotton?"

Bliss smiled, though his eyes were cold. "I was doing my duty for
my city."

"Which city?"

"Like I said, you adapt or you die."

"What did you promise to Stark to save your life?"

"Nothing. Stark's a smooth-talking thug. Anything he got I gave
him because I wanted him to have it. Because nothing I have would've
stopped him from killing me if he got it into his head to kill me."

"Then what did you want him to have?"

Bliss just shook his head.

"How do you travel between doors?"

"Maybe there are some things I'm never going to tell you."

The sunlight, the fact it shouldn't be sunlight, kept getting into
Finch's head. Disrupting his thoughts.

"Let's talk about the towers again, then."

Bliss's expression had gone neutral. No one, looking at the spy's
face, could've known what he was thinking. "The towers are close to
completion. And the gray caps are putting all of their resources into
those towers. Ignoring everything else. Even their Partials. But, still,
they have an intense interest in this case. Curious, isn't it?"

"Any theories?"

"You already know more than you should. Enough to get you
killed."

A weariness came over Finch. His skin still felt wrong. What would
happen if he faded away with Bliss still there? Where would he wake
up? The nausea was getting worse.

"Here's a theory. It just came to me. I might as well try it out on you. I
think my murder victim saw you, Bliss. I think he saw you because you
were somehow involved with his murder. Maybe you took him through
a door like the one you took me through. Maybe the door closed on the
gray cap. But you led the victim to his death. The only thing is: I don't
know why you would do it."

But Bliss was done. He lowered the handkerchief from his cheek.
"Are you going to try to take me to the station now? Or just start
hitting me again?" Defiant. Almost smug.

For one terrible moment Finch had the sense he hadn't been hurting
Bliss at all. That it was all an act. A light shone in Bliss's eyes that
seemed shielded from the moment.

Finch let out a deep breath. Lowered the gun. Shoved Bliss away
from him. "Go. Get the fuck out of here."

Bliss looked surprised. "Just like that?"

Finch gave a tired smile. "Just like that. I've run out of questions. And
you'd just jump through a door before I got you back across the bay." He
was going to be sick in a second. Didn't know how much control he'd
have then.

"Letting me go doesn't make me forget what you've done to my face,
Finch."

"I could've done worse. Don't come near my apartment again,
Bliss, or I'll kill you." Don't come near Sintra. Don't come near
Rathven. No one.

The spy's voice went cold, condemning. "When you see me again, it
will be because I want you to see me. And not before."

Finch turned around. He really didn't want to see Bliss leave.

Bliss said, "You could escape, you know. You could just disappear."

"I tried that once," Finch said. "It didn't work. I'm still here."

A pause. Then a sound like darkness imploding on itself, a brief
flash of green-gold light.

Bliss was gone. The scent of limes hung in the air.

Cursed and shuddered as he realized something: Bliss's hands hadn't
been bandaged. They'd looked good as new. Who healed that fast, even with
fungal help?

Bent over. Threw up his guts onto the courtyard tiles.

When he'd recovered, he sat down heavily on the edge of the
fountain. Bone-tired.

Wondering what day it was.

Ten doors knocked on. Three doors that actually opened for him.
Only the last one had a working telephone inside. An apartment a
few blocks from the courtyard. He flashed his badge. An emaciated
woman in a flower pattern dress let him in, checking first to make sure
none of her neighbors on the ground floor saw her do it. Eyes large
and bloodshot. Anywhere from forty to sixty. A purple growth on her
left shoulder like a huge birthmark.

Inside, a bald man in socks but no shoes sat in a wicker chair facing
the wall in a spare living room. Staring at a crappy painting of a beach
in the Southern Isles. Wore a stained white undershirt and brown
shorts.

The woman went to stand beside the man, protective hand on his
shoulder, while Finch leaned on the kitchen counter.

Dialed the station. Wyte's number. Listened to it ring once, twice,
ten times. His mouth was still dry, vision a little blurry. Jacket dirty. His
hair full of grit. Wyte's extra pair of shoes scuffed from kicking Bliss. A
sound in his ears he couldn't identify. Tired because he hadn't slept? Or
because of stress?

A click, and someone said through the crackling, "Wyte's desk."

"Who's this?" Finch asked.

"Blakely. Who's this?"

"Blakely? It's Finch. Where's Wyte?"

"Finch. Where the hell have you been?"

Now he'd find out. "Have I been gone that long?"

"Just the whole damn morning." Blakely sounded rattled, and a little
drunk.

Perverse relief. He'd only lost a half-day, maybe less.

"I had to follow up on a lead. Can you pass me over to Wyte?"

"Wyte's not here. Heretic came in. Smoldering mad about your case.
He ordered Wyte to go investigate an address. It related to something
in your report, I think. Wyte was told to take Dapple with him. Poor
bastard."

"Crap." Consequences of being honest with Heretic. "How long ago
did they leave?"

"An hour. Maybe a little more." That meant he could still catch up
with them. He was already on the right side of the bay.

"By boat?"

"Yes. Western canal."

What experience did Wyte and Dapple have investigating rebel safe
houses? Partials and their snitches usually followed up on those kinds
of leads. A spark of anger and guilt. Anger at Stark for giving them
the information. Guilt at himself for putting it in the report.

"Remind me of the address?"

"1829 Northwest Scarp Lane. Wyte made sure I wrote it down."

"Right," Finch said.

The edge of the Religious Quarter. Dogghe-controlled territory. A
low-grade war still going on between the native insurgency and the gray
caps. The war they'd all forgotten. Either the gray caps no longer saw that
insurgency as a threat, or the towers took up all of their time now. Or
Finch just wasn't in the loop.

"Putting Dapple and Wyte together. That's like a suicide mission."

"No shit, Finch. But Heretic wanted it done, said Wyte knew
the area."

"Only because he was a shipping manager for Hoegbotton, Blakely."
Twelve years ago. More.

"I wasn't the one who sent them out there," Blakely said, irritated.

The crackling became a roar, flooding the phone, then subsided
after a minute.

"Blakely? You still there?"

"Barely. Listen, there were two messages for you. One from someone
called Rathven. Another from a woman who just left her name as `S'."

"What'd they say?"

"Just to call them. You should get back here. Soon. People are
saying strange things, like the towers will be finished this week.
We're all on edge."

Didn't know you cared.

"I've got to find Wyte first."

"You're an idiot," Blakely said, hanging up.

The woman stirred. An accusing stare. Hand still on the man's
shoulder. "Are you going to go now?" she asked. It didn't take much
effort to realize the gray caps or the Partials had done something to
her husband. No stretch at all to blame the stranger with the badge.

"One more call and I'll leave," he said.

She held his gaze for a second. Then turned to the painting as if it
were a window.

Finch dialed the number Sintra had given him. Rathven could wait.

A voice answered after a moment. Finch wasn't sure it was her.

"Sintra?"

"Finch?"

"Yes."

"Finch." Relief in that single word, but also something that he
couldn't identify. "I was worried. I went by your apartment. Your door
was open. You weren't there. Are you okay?"

More than they'd said to each other in person sometimes.

"I'm fine." An ache rose in his throat. His hand on the receiver
shook. No, he wasn't fine. Exhausted. Starving. Still trying to process
losing twelve hours in a blink of an eye. Holding it together because
he had no one to hold it together for him.

"Are you back home? I came by, and when I saw the door open I
locked it."

"Thanks for that."

"Where are you, Finch?"

Where was he? Clinging to a lifeline. He'd meant to warn her to
be careful. But, somehow, talking now, it felt like he was talking to a
stranger. A voice in his head told him he should be careful. How had
Stark found out about Sintra? What if Sintra had told Stark? About
him? Was that possible?

"I'm working on a case."

"But why was your door open? Things were knocked over, as if
there'd been a struggle."

"I'll tell you later."