Finch by Jeff VanderMeer (19 page)

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 questions 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?"

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.