Finch by Jeff VanderMeer (35 page)

When they released Finch back into the crowd at the black market
party, everything was different. The sound soared over him at first.
Then it was as if he couldn't hear it anymore. Looked for Sintra but
didn't see her. Looked for Bosun but didn't see him, either. Didn't
know how much time had passed. But the band was taking a break.

An urgency to the night, but he'd brought it with him. Couldn't get
the image of the Lady in Blue out of his head. On a hill. In a boat. At
the wall of the fortress. The images stabbed at him, threatened madness.
What didn't she tell me?

Finch crossed the room on unsteady legs. Wary of Bosun. But still
no Bosun. Felt for his Lewden Special. Relief. It had been returned
to him.

Made his way through corridors. Gaze unfocused. Seeing nothing.
Out into the rain. The towers a steamy green above the tops of
buildings. The street nearly empty.

Two steps onto the street and he met an immovable force. Bosun,
appearing out of darkness. Pulling his right arm behind him. Inexorable, the man all muscle. Felt Bosun's other hand looking for his gun. Felt it
taken. Again.

Bosun's hot breath at his ear as Finch was marched toward a side
alley. Helpless as a child.

"Find my carving?" Bosun muttered.

Against the discomfort, twisting, "For Truff's sake, you don't have
to break my arm."

"So you didn't find it." Bosun seemed disappointed.

"What carving?" Grunting. Contorting to try to get relief.

"Stop moving. In your apartment. Left it there while we took the
place apart. Would've done in your cat if he hadn't hidden."

Another mystery solved. One that didn't even matter anymore.

"Fuck you. Your breath smells like shit."

Bosun just laughed. "Be lucky if yours doesn't begin to smell like
blood."

In the alley: Stark. With five other men. Bosun shoved Finch
forward, releasing him.

"Finch, what a surprise!" Stark said. "I know you're just coming from
a party, but we're having our own little party out here. Glad you could
make it."

Bosun punched him in the gut before he could react. Fists like stone.
Sent him slumped over onto the ground. Begging for air.

Got to his feet slowly, not sure if he should. Could've used Wyte
coming out of the darkness in that moment.

Stark's face was a vicious half-moon in the dimness. Hard to believe
Bosun was his brother.

"Where'd you go, Finch? Where'd you go for an hour and a half?
Bosun says you were there and then you weren't."

The question so much smaller than the answer. Contempt for the
interrogator. What kind of spymaster came in person for this kind of
ambush? Only someone who'd never gotten past the simple art of the
shakedown. Came in hard and fast and thought that was enough.

Not here it isn't.

Secret knowledge gave him strength. "Just enjoying the party."

Stark circled him. "I'll bet you were. Saw your exotic girl leave.
She looked well satisfied. Did you give her a good time in there? You should be glad I'm a man of such refinement, Finch, or we might've
given her a better one."

"Is that all you came here to say?" Finch asked.

Bosun nodded and two of his men wrenched Finch's arms back.
Painfully.

"No, not really. We've some more serious matters to discuss. Like,
did you know there's a bounty on the head of the Lady in Blue?" Stark
came close, looked him in the eye. "I think you do know that. It
applies to anyone who associates with her-on my side or yours."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Stark nodded. Bosun punched him in the stomach again. Grunted.
Fought through the pain. The thugs held him up.

"I think you do, Finch. I think you do. At least, those two thought
so. Show him, boys."

They dragged him closer to the wall. Saw four pale feet, the rest of
the bodies hidden by shadows.

"The two morons that Bosun saw spirit you away. They didn't say
much before they died. But they said enough."

Finch didn't think they'd said anything at all. "I don't even know
who they are."

"Of course you don't, Finch," Stark said with disgust. "You never
saw their faces. Let alone their feet. So, again, where did you
disappear off to?"

"Nowhere."

Stark looked at him a second. "Nowhere? Nowhere. Next you'll be
saying you've made no progress on the case."

"There is no progress, Stark."

"Even after I gave you that juicy transcript? I think you're lying."

Finch, reckless: "I think you fed us that address in the transcript. It
almost got us killed. For nothing. And I wasted a day. So I've got nothing
for you, either."

Stark pulled back a second, as if to get a better look at Finch. "Are
you serious, Finch? Because that's not what I heard. I heard Wyte blew
it for you. Your man transforms into some huge fucking monster and
charges the stage. That's what I'm told. Not exactly proper procedure.
Not exactly what you'd expect from a detective. Or maybe it is. Maybe it's the old quick-change comic theater routine. Maybe that
goes over big in this shit hole. What is Wyte, anyway? Some kind of
secret weapon?"

"He's sick," Finch said.

"Any sicker than Duncan Shriek?" Stark asked, with a knowing
leer. "Because I hear Mr. Shriek is dead. And holed up in a certain
apartment on Manzikert Avenue. Writing his ghost memoirs." Stark's
refinement was slipping. A rougher voice, with a gutter accent.

"Why not go look for yourself," Finch said. "Maybe you'll turn up
some clues."

Stark kneed Finch in the groin. Finch groaned. Couldn't fall
down, held by the two men. "Think you're funny? I know that's a
kill zone. You don't get me, Finch. Do you think I give a fuck about
this sewer of a city?" Stark whispered in his ear. "I don't give a fuck
about this dump. I don't care if it all goes up in pillars of flame. It's
not my fucking town. But I don't like being lied to. And I don't
like people getting in the way of what I want."

Apparently no one did. Not Stark. Not the Lady in Blue. Not
Heretic. Finch was tired of it.

Stark wrenched Finch's head back by his hair. "They're working
all night on the towers, Finchy. All night. Like there's a deadline
suddenly. Driving people past their limits. Until they're dying. Until
they're falling from the scaffolding. Why are they doing that, Finch?
Why are the towers so important? And what's it got to do with that
apartment, Finchy? And what's that got to do with the rebel safe
house, Finchy? And how is all of this going to benefit me?"

With every question, Stark seemed smaller. More brutish.

A wash of stars. An underground sea. A thousand green lights out in
the desert.

"You're the professional spy, Stark. Why don't you figure it out?" Made
professional sound small.

Somehow that made Stark laugh. "I'm trying, Finch. Believe me,
I'm trying. But people like you make it so difficult." Stark nodded.

They let him fall to the ground. Bosun tossed his gun back to him.

Stark leaned down. "There are no professionals here, Finchy. We're
all amateurs. That's what makes us dangerous. Now, you'd better start getting results. You'd better start thinking about your future. What's
left of it. Or all the lovely people around you are going to suffer.
Starting sooner than you think. And if that doesn't work, we'll just
come for you. There's not much time left. This is your last warning."

Had the feel of a well-worn speech.

Stark stalked off, the rest behind him. Leaving Finch beside the two
corpses.

Above them all: the towers. Finch saw that the blackness between
them was different than to either side. Showed no stars. Blurred,
with the vague impression of shadowy nighttime scenes sliding
across. Fast.

Now he knew why.

Back in the hotel. Near midnight. Didn't know for sure. Approached
the landing below the seventh floor. Heard Feral hissing at something.
Saw a flickering, golden light that projected a circle of fire. Elongated
and slanted down the hallway. Distorted further by the fungus on the
walls. A rank smell, like too-strong perfume.

Bliss? The Partial?

Already had his Lewden out. Slowly walked up the steps. Saw
Feral, fur puffed out, standing a few feet from his door. Staring up
the source of the light. The thing had attached itself to the door. It
looked like a golden brooch with filigree detail extending out in wavy
branches or tendrils. From that angle, he could see the transparent
cilia underneath. Almost looked like a larger cousin of the starfish
he'd seen in the underground cavern.

Came closer, gun aimed at it. Arms shaking a little.

Feral saw him and scurried over to stand next to him. Now a low
growl came from the cat's throat.

From ten feet away, the front of the organism had the look of pure
gold. A rough flower pattern. In the middle, a closed aperture divided
into four parts.

A beam of light flashed out from the thing. Blinded him for a
moment. Withdrew.

"Finch!" Heretic's voice. A ghostly quaver.

Finch lowered his gun. Didn't know whether to be relieved or angry.
"Not worth your time, Feral." A message from Heretic. A little more
dramatic than usual.

The aperture dilated. Out leapt the skery. Finch screamed.
Stumbled back. The skery reached its full length an inch from his
face. Receded. Bobbed there, long and black. Curling downward.
Until he could see it wasn't the skery at all. Just a sick joke. In
another second, it broke off and fell to the floor.

Feral came forward. Hissed at it, smacked at it with his claws.
Jumping back even as he did so.

No one stirred in the apartments to either side. Finch didn't blame
them.

The oval in the middle widened. An approximation of Heretic's
face appeared. He looked almost jolly. As if he'd known how horrified
Finch would be of the skery.

"Finch," Heretic rasped, "you've been gone a long time. Almost
long enough for me to suspect you had left us. I thought you'd run.
Until you appeared again shadowing Wyte-"

But most of the rest was lost. Whatever it was supposed to be.
Reverting to a series of clicks and whistles and moist suppurations.
The garglings of a monster. As if Heretic didn't care anymore whether
Finch had orders or not. Or something had gone wrong when recording
the message. Or everything was falling apart.

Finch listened to the obscene chatter for a minute. Then he put a
couple of bullets in Heretic's face. With a sigh the golden organism
slid slowly to the hallway floor. Began to curl in on itself.

Picked up Feral, opened the door, locked it behind him, and went
to bed.

I: When did you first realize how deeply you were involved?

F: I didn't. I mean, it wasn't clear. I mean, I never did.

I: That is a lie. You're hiding things again.

F: Then kill me and use a memory bulb to find out the truth.
Bastard.

I: We can only kill you once. And once you are dead, all we would
have is your bulb. They're unreliable.

F: Then trust me.

I: People lie. They lie and they keep lying. Eventually, they can't
remember the truth. Is that your problem, Finch?

F: I'm not really a detective. That's why I can't answer your
questions.

I: Once they made you a detective, you were a detective. Why did you
never understand that?

he bed shuddered beneath Finch, almost seemed to gasp. He
reached for his gun as a deep thudding vibration shook the hotel.
An after-sound like shredding or tearing. Timbers settling and creaking
like an old ship. Thought for one sleep-muddled moment it was his
damaged shoulder.

Took a moment to realize the impact came from outside the building.
He pulled on pants. Ran to the kitchen window as another shuddering
thud struck. Looked down through the smudged pane. Nothing on the
street below, just a few people running. Checked from the bathroom.
No one in the courtyard.

A commotion outside. People on the stairs. All he could think was:
fire? Or, worse, Partials rounding up people. Wished Wyte were there
with him.

Threw on and buttoned a shirt, put on shoes without socks. Feral
meowing round his feet. Agitated. A burning smell in the air now. Or
was he imagining it? Shoved his gun into his waistband. Went out the
door fast.

Stumbled over the remains of Heretic's message, curled up like
a husk. Residents were shoving their way up the stairs to the roof.
While his neighbor, the old man, stood watching them from the hall.
Framed by a rough stain of blue-gray fungus on the wall.

"What's happening?" Finch asked.

"The towers!" The man spat out the words. "The towers are starting
a war. Everybody wants to go watch. Idiots! I'm staying right here."

On the roof the burnt smell was stronger. A cloudless sky. Searing
blue. More hotel residents in one place than he'd ever seen before. Black market vendors. Clinic workers. Camp guards. Scavengers.
Druggies. All holding on to their gas masks. Just in case. All looking
out toward the bay.