Finch by Jeff VanderMeer (39 page)

After a few moments, they headed off down the street, away from
Finch. With as much stealth as possible, he followed. Erring on the
side of too much distance between them rather than too little. Until
the streets around them began to get more crowded. Mostly former
camp prisoners. Still wearing their uniforms. Some had crutches.
A few bandaged around the head or arms. Most with that pinched,
withdrawn look around the eyes from hunger, stress, or worse.
Birthmarks they'd picked up in the camps shone mossy and bright.

They made it much easier. Buried. Following.

As he walked, Finch saw hints of Wyte in the faces of passersby. It
sustained his anger, and his grief. Living against the odds.

tark was using a mushroom house as his headquarters. Off of
Aquelus Street. About a half-mile from Albumuth Boulevard.
About a mile from Wyte's apartment. Maybe a little more back to the
station. Positioned so Stark would also have a straight shot, as straight
as he'd get, back down to the Spit. A route that meant nothing now.

Using a mushroom house hinted at a rough genius in Stark, and a
kind of insanity. It was three stories high. Light green with striations
of metallic blue that gave it an ethereal sheen. Except for the tendency
of the walls to curl and curve, the windows to flutter without a breeze,
it shared a close resemblance to the normal houses on either side.

Finch stood on the opposite side of the street. Four houses down.
Hidden by the stoop behind him and in front by a few high bushes
with leaves shaped like shovels. An F&L neighborhood before the war.
Protected from the worst predations of the wars. A quiet street. Little
foot traffic. The mushroom house had probably scared people off. Or
Stark's people had done it.

The men he'd followed had gone in. A few minutes later, Stark and
Bosun had come from the opposite direction. They stood for a moment
on the steps in front of the house. He couldn't hear what they were
saying, but it sounded violent, like flames or swords. Then they went
inside. He'd been waiting ever since. Going through the options. No
way he could storm the house by himself. There were no guards at the
front door, but that would've drawn too much attention. They'd even
left garbage and debris out front. Let the fungus overgrow everything
in sight.

He could just see the shadow of two men sitting back from the
windows on the third floor. More men inside, of course. Possibly in the
house opposite, on Finch's side of the street. Watching. Finch didn't particularly care. You could defend whatever position you wanted, but if
the enemy hit you somewhere else, you were still fucked. He cared more
that most of Stark's men would be muscle bought after he'd arrived. Take
care of Stark somehow and many of them wouldn't be too keen to hunt
Finch down. Too busy looking after their own interests.

An hour later, Stark and Bosun emerged from the house. With the
short man who'd gone into Wyte's apartment. The tall man who'd
come out the back. Headed his way, on the other side of the street.

"You never gave me up, Wyte. I'll never forget that."

"I can't control myself anymore. There's not much of me left. The rest
might fight back. But I don't mean it if I do."

Quick and neat is how he wanted it. But that's not quite how it went
down.

They passed by his position. He ran out firing, the sound so loud
it shocked him. Put the bodyguards down. One shot in the chest,
crumpling into oblivion. The other from a leg wound, blood spurting
out. Screaming. Spasming.

Bosun turned at the same time as Stark, in time to get clipped in the
shoulder. Registered extreme surprise, but recovered. Took off running,
hunched over, cursing.

Bad luck. Finch didn't have time for another shot. Stark had about
gotten his gun out. Finch smashed into Stark, twisted the gun out of
his hand. Then hit Stark across the face. Saw the pain and anger as
Stark bent to one knee.

"Bosun!" Stark shouting it like an order.

Slammed Stark against the side of the head. Started to drag him
away as the other two lay on the ground. Grunted with the strain of
Stark's bulk. Stark muttering, trying to get his senses back. Couldn't
see where Bosun had gotten to. Had to get off the street quick.

A bullet kicked up dirt near his feet. Turned with Stark partially
shielding him, the weight more awkward than he anticipated.

Bosun was across the street. Using a lamppost and a pile of junk
for cover.

"Let him go and I won't kill you!" Bosun shouted. Had a gun in each
hand. And not shitty knockoffs. Looked like custom-made revolvers.

Stark, muttering: "Go ahead, Bosun. Take the chance now."

Finch pulled Stark up. Shoved his Lewden Special against Stark's
head. Other arm around Stark's waist. The man was still dazed.

"I'll kill him," Finch shouted back. "I'll kill him right here."

"You'll kill him anyway!" Bosun, anguished.

Backtracking toward the alley. Hoping nothing nasty waited there.
Stark's weight awkward, hard to control. Didn't want to fall during this
crude shuffle. Bosun would be on him in an instant.

Bosun fired off a couple of shots over his head. "You're a dead man
if you hurt him."

Could already hear a commotion coming from the mushroom
house. It had all happened in a couple of seconds. But Stark's men
were good.

"Come after me, and I've got bullets enough for both of you, you
bastard!" Finch shouted back.

Made it to the alley. Got off a couple of rounds to keep Bosun back.

The alley split into three directions just a hundred feet back. Hustled
Stark around a corner. Pulled Stark's left arm behind his back. To
the point of breaking as Stark groaned. Shoved the muzzle of his gun
under the taller man's chin.

"Just keep going. Keep walking." Didn't want to talk. Didn't want
to hear.

Guided Stark through a welter of back streets as confusing as any
number of doorways on the Spit. Until they were far enough away
that Finch felt comfortable stopping. Bosun didn't know Ambergris
as well as Finch. And he'd know he had to be careful looking for his
brother.

Finch released Stark face-first against a plain brick wall on a tiny
side street. Windowless walls of fire-scarred buildings, rectangular and
unimaginative. Crowding out the light from above. Stairwells running
up their sides like rusting spines. Water on the pavement. A leering
shelf of pink fungus jutting from the wall a couple inches from the
ground. Stark's boots had cut into that ridge, the fungus staining the
leather.

Stark started to talk. Finch came at him from the side. Punched
him in the kidneys. Stark crumpled forward, air driven from his lungs.
Wobbled, regained his balance. Breathing heavy.

"If you've killed Bosun, I swear ..." The verbosity had left him for
the moment. As if he'd been playing a role.

"Your brother was coming after me the last I saw. With just a nick in
his shoulder. But you've got worse problems."

"So do you, Finch, unless you let me go."

But Finch was past that point. "If you just hadn't kept pushing, Stark.
If you hadn't kept at it, maybe you wouldn't be here now. Take off your
shoes."

"What?" A kind of pulsing rage threatened to make Stark's face
unrecognizable.

Finch put the gun up against Stark's temple. "Now!"

With a show of repugnance and disdain, Stark removed first one
shoe, then the other.

"Empty your pockets."

?
"Why?"

"Just do it." Realized he was shouting. Realized his hair was still
clotted with Wyte's blood.

Stark spat as he pulled out his pockets. He didn't have much. Some
money. A photograph of an old woman. A few keys.

"I don't like to be weighed down," Stark said.

Nothing there to tell Finch anything more about Stark.

Finch took a memory bulb out of his packet pocket. "Do you know
who this is?"

A kind of savage, jaded amusement at seeing the bulb. Which
faded. Quickly. Replaced by something Finch hadn't seen in Stark
before. Uncertainty.

"It's from Wyte. Wyte's memory bulb. Now why do you think I
made it?"

"Fuck you," Stark snarled. "Fuck you. Why don't you eat it, Finch.
Eat it and be damned."

"You wanted information. You wanted me to help you. So I'm going
to help you. You're going to live inside of Wyte's head for awhile."

"I won't eat it," Stark said. He'd gone pale. The eyes flickered from
side to side. Looking for a way out.

"Why didn't you kill Bliss, Stark? What did the two of you talk
about?" Still curious.

"We talked about petunias, Finch," Stark said. "We talked about
art and literature and what the weather was going to be like. What
the fuck do you think we talked about? We talked about why I
shouldn't kill him."

"And how'd he convince you?"

"Said he'd get me information, money, influence. Gave me the
address of that rebel outpost for starters. He was going to help me
clean out the whole area. But I haven't seen him since, the bastard."

Regarded Stark for a moment. Looked him in the eye. Believed
what he found there. Or believed if it wasn't the truth he'd never get
it out of Stark anyway.

"On your knees."

"No."

Finch pressed the gun up against Stark's cheek. "Guests get to choose.
You're new here, so you're a guest. Bulb or bullet? Bullet or bulb?"

Slowly, Stark sank to his knees. Tried again. "I can make you a rich
man, Finch. I can even get you out of Ambergris. There are still a lot
of choices here."

"Do you think so? I don't."

"Do you know who I am, back in Stockton? Do you know what
happens to you if you hurt me?" Stark's lower lip was quivering.

"No, I don't know. Because you won't tell me who you are. Open
your mouth."

Stark's stare in that moment contained a kind of limitless, unhinged
hatred. A kind of poison that willed itself to close the distance. To
enter Finch. He grabbed the bulb from Finch. Crunched down on
it with a kind of arrogant defiance. Finch realized Stark thought he
could survive it. That he was bigger than whatever might happen
to him.

A minute for the bulb to take effect. Finch placed the gun's muzzle
against Stark's face. "Any last words before you don't remember who
you are?"

Stark gave out a little crumpled laugh. A kind of regal contempt. "Not
a one for you, Finchy. Except you'll pay for this, one way or the other.
I'm the crown prince incognito. I'm an enchanted frog. Somebody will
come after you."

The man's hostility began to fade as the memory bulb took effect.
Finch looked into his eyes. Found nothing there. Nothing worth
saving. Just an outsider who'd decided he wanted to profit off of the
city's misery. A thug who thought he was tougher. Playing a game
where his only strategy was to keep turning the screws. Finch didn't
care who he was anymore. Just wanted him gone. Wondered without
interest what Bosun would do now.

Stark's pupils had begun to dilate. Eyelids flickering like hummingbird
wings. Said, as if from a faraway place, "No, I won't. I don't want to."
Fell back on his heels. Arms slack.

Finch came close. Held Stark's head back. Took out another pouch.
Poured preservation powder all over Stark's tongue. Like sand. Held his
mouth shut even as Stark struggled, lethargically. Made him swallow.
Once. Twice.

Released him. Stood back. Both times Finch had seen Heretic force
a bulb and the powder on a prisoner, they'd died within an hour.

Stark convulsed, smashed his head back against the wall. So hard he
left blood and hair on the brick. His eyes rolled back. Fell over on his
side. Began to thrash. Blood poured out of his nostrils. Began to talk
in a low voice. Very fast. No distance between sentences.

Then Stark began to laugh. Quietly at first. Almost like a gasping
whisper. But rising in volume, until he was shrieking. Rolling around
on the ground guffawing his brains out. With blood still looping out
from his nostrils. Arms tight around himself. Mouth in a half-moon of
involuntary mirth. It didn't really sound like laughter anymore. It sounded
like screaming. Someone screaming as they were cut apart by knives.

A voice drowning as it spoke. Awash in strange tides.

What did Stark see? Was it Wyte? Wyte's memories? Distorted
further by the powder? Or something else entirely?

Finch stepped back, in a firing stance. But he could not fire. All the
rage in him had left. The madness.

Finally, lowered the gun. Left Stark there. Writhing in the mud and
water. Boots kicking. Fighting with himself. The laughter raw and
rasping. Like something had gone wrong in his throat.

Stark would not come back from this. And before the end he'd be in
a kind of hell, like the hell Wyte had experienced. Like the hell Finch was in now. Would Bosun come after him? Didn't know. Didn't care
at the moment.