Finch by Jeff VanderMeer (26 page)

"Can I come by tonight?"

Lump in the throat. "Sure," he said. "I just called to hear your
voice. Tough day."

"Finch," she said. "Is everything really all right?"

"No," he said. Made a decision, leapt out into the abyss. "Not really.
I'm about to go into a dangerous situation near the Religious Quarter.
There's an address we're supposed to check out."

"Then don't go. Just don't go."

"I have to. I don't have a choice." Not with Wyte out there with only
Dapple for backup.

"You're scaring me, Finch," Sintra said.

"I'm going to hang up now," Finch said. "See you soon. Be safe." A
click as the phone cut out. Didn't know if she'd heard him or not.

The woman watched him without saying anything. Even as he told
her thanks. Even as he left a gray cap food voucher on the counter.
Even as he backed out into the corridor.

Relax your guard in this city and you were dead.

n hour later, Finch stood on the ridge and stared down. Far below,
.the dull blue snake of a canal. Two detectives in a boat. Slowly
making their way northeast. Finch was about three hundred feet above
them. Wyte was a large shadow with a white face, the boat a floating
coffin. Dapple had been reduced to a kind of question mark. Not a good
place to be. Anyone could've been on the ridge, looking down. Lucky for
them it was just him.

A steep hillside below Finch. Made of garbage. Stone. Metal.
Bricks. The petrified snout of a tank or two. Ripped apart treads. Collapsed
train cars pitted with scars and holes. Ragged, dry scraps of clothing that
might've been people once.

A dry smell hung over it all. Cut through at times by the stench
of something dead but lingering. He'd been here before, when it had
just been a grassy slope. A nice place. A place couples might go to have a
picnic. Couldn't imagine it ever returning to that state.

The weather had gotten surly. Grayish. A strange hot wind dashed
itself against the street rubble. Blew up into his face. Off to the northeast:
the Religious Quarter. A still-distant series of broken towers, steeples,
and domes. Wrapped in a haze of contrasting, layered shades of green.
Looking light as mist. Like something out of a dream from afar. Up
close, Finch knew, it reflected only hints of the Ambergris from before,
the place once ruled by an opera composer, shaped by the colors red
and green.

The canal led into the Religious Quarter, but Wyte and Dapple
would have to disembark much earlier. Their objective lay just outside
the quarter.

Finch's gaze traveled back down the canal, toward civilization.
Zeroed in on a series of swift-moving dots some two hundred feet behind the boat. Dark. Lanky. Angular. Using the bramble on the far
side of the canal as cover. Partials. Trailing Wyte.

Stared down at the story unfolding below him with a kind of absurd
disbelief. Swore under his breath. Took the measure of the Partials
down the barrel of his Lewden Special. But it was a long shot. Literally.
He lowered the gun.

Maybe Wyte knew about the Partials? What if they were providing
support? No. Blakely would've mentioned that. Blakely would've
told him about Partials. Probably sent to make sure Wyte did as he'd
been told. Was the Partial with them, or was he back at the apartment
guarding a dead man?

For a moment, Finch just stood on the ridge, under the gray sky.
Watched with envy the wheeling arc of a vulture like a dark blade
through the air.

Easy to turn away. Heretic didn't expect him to be there. Wyte didn't
know where he'd gone. Finch could say he'd been investigating some
other lead. Could go back to the station. Forget he'd seen any of this.
Wait for them to get back. If they came back.

Bliss: "It isn't what you find out that's going to keep you alive. It's where
you're standing . . . You shouldn't be worried about me, or what I was
doing. You should be worried about yourself."

Bone-weary. Hungry. Bliss's words still in his thoughts. The long fall
through the door still devouring him. Finch looked back the way he'd
come. Looked down at Wyte and Dapple. Remembered Dapple calm once,
at his desk, stealing a moment to write a few lines of poetry. Remembered
Wyte training him as a courier for Hoegbotton. His patience and his good
humor. Long nights in their home, laughing and joking not just with Wyte
but with Emily. Back before the end of history.

Now he was standing on top of a mountain of garbage, trying to
figure out how he'd gotten there.

"Fuck," he said to the vulture. To the false light of the Religious
Quarter. "Fuck you all."

Then he was descending the ridge at an angle. Trying to put enough
shadow, enough debris, in front of him and the canal that the Partials
couldn't see him.

This was going to get worse before it got better.

Finch caught up to them as they were mooring the boat to a rickety
dock under a stand of willow trees. Shadowed by a lichen-choked,
half-drowned stone archway that led nowhere now. The canal had a
metallic blue sheen to it. Nothing rippled across its surface. The
gray boat had that mottled, doughy look Finch hated. Like it was
made of flesh.

He said nothing. Just came out of the shadow of the trees and leaned
against the arch. Waiting for Wyte to see him.

Looping one last length of rope round a pole, Wyte did a double
take.

"Finch?" he said. "Finch." A slow, hesitant smile broke across his
troubling face. A sincere relief that softened the sternness of his features.
"It's good to see you."

Dapple jumped off the boat. "How'd you know where to find us?" he
demanded. The anger of a desperate man.

"Relax. Blakely told me," Finch said. "I was already on this side of
the bay."

But Dapple's face darkened at the mention of Blakely. He looked
more nervous than usual. The body language of a mouse or rat.
Twitching. Had two guns. Both gray cap issue. One drawn. One stuck
through his belt. He wore a mottled green shirt too big for him and
black trousers shoved into brown boots. Like a doll dressed for war.

As ever, Wyte hid himself in a bulky, tightly buttoned overcoat. An
angry red splotch had drifted down his forehead. Had colonized half
of one eye. Cheek. Chin. The splotch had elongated and widened
his face. Made his head more like a porous marble bust. He wore
black gloves over his hands. Red and white threads had emerged
from his sleeves. Wandered of their own accord.

As Wyte trod heavily closer, he extended his hand. Gave Finch a
thankful look as they shook. Wyte's grip was strong but gave. Like the
glove was full of moist bread. Finch suppressed a shudder from the
sense of things moving inside each finger.

"Where were you this morning?" Wyte asked. Dapple stood behind
him, eclipsed.

"I'll tell you later."

"Why not tell me now." Finch heard the fear in Wyte's voice.

"No," Finch said, laying the word down hard.

Wyte considered that for a moment. Like it was a wall between
them. Looked back toward the boat as if thinking about getting back
on it. "Did Blakely tell you our mission?"

"I told Wyte we should just. Should just run," Dapple said, breaking
in. "That this is going to. Going to get us killed." Sometimes Dapple
stopped in mid-sentence. Like an actor trying to perfect a line.

"Listen, Wyte," Finch said, ignoring Dapple. "I came down off the
ridge. There are Partials following you. A few hundred feet behind.
They're probably watching us now."

Or they've got a spy on you, Wyte, and they don't need to watch us.

Wyte grimaced. Dapple stared at the water like he expected
something to erupt out of it.

"What do we do." Dapple asked. Didn't seem to expect an answer.

"Shut up, Dapple," Wyte whispered.

"Carry out our mission. Come home alive. Like always." Finch putting
emphasis on our. An ache in his throat. Knew Wyte would understand
that Finch wouldn't have come down the ridge for anyone else.

No matter that you're not always the Wyte I remember.

A sudden spark in Wyte's eyes. Something that glittered. Began to
fade almost as soon as it had passed through.

"Like old times," Wyte said. A wry grin. "Like when I taught you
how to deal with ship captains down at the docks." His voice was
crumbling like a ruined wall. The edges of words worn away.

Finch was too tired to take the brunt of that. "We should get
moving."

He wanted action so he wouldn't have to think.

About any of it.

he haze of the Religious Quarter came closer and closer. A fake fairy
tale city-within-a-city above them. Of those following, no sight.
Just the sound of gravel once, dislodged. A distant muttered curse.

After a climb, the ground leveled out. They came to a long, tall wall
parallel to a rough road. Ahead, the wall ran on into the distance, buckled
and cracked in places. Like it was having trouble restraining what it
had been made to hold back. Coming over the wall: the lime scent,
the rich greens of the Religious Quarter. Fungus and trees wedded in a
vast alliance. Looked like nothing more or less than a fiery explosion,
frozen in time. Bullet holes in the wall, in dozens of places. The blackish
spray of old blood where someone had gotten unlucky. Under it all, a
latticework of fungus. Faintly visible. Faintly green-glowing.

,,This is Scarp Lane," Wyte said. "I was here before the Rising. Treelined. Nice homes. Bars and restaurants and dance halls. Little alcoves for
people to put up offerings to their gods. You could indulge in your favorite
vice and then walk right over and pray it away. Between the wars, it used
to be a nice row of wrought-iron streetlamps and sidewalk vendors."

Finch frowned. Used to be. Wyte didn't usually indulge in used to be.

Nothing for it but to follow the wall.

People began to appear in doorways. Leaning against rusting lampposts.
On balconies. Dark in complexion. Wore strange hats. Stared you in
the eye. Challenged silently why you were here. Sometimes as many
as six or seven. Loitering on a street corner. Any time Finch saw more
than four people gathered in one place, he figured the gray caps had
used their resources elsewhere.

"Put your badges away," Finch said, suddenly.

Dapple had been holding his badge so anyone could see it. Protested,
even after Wyte made his own disappear.

"Seen any Partials here?" Finch asked.

"No."

"Seen anyone who would give a shit about your badge?"

Dapple didn't respond.

"And you won't, either," Finch continued. "Not this close to the
wall. Except for the ones following us."

They'd be heavily armed. Probably with fungal weapons. Moving in
a tight formation. If they were doing more than shadowing Wyte and
Dapple, gray caps might be following, too.

From below.

The chapel at 1829 Northwest Scarp Lane pushed out from the wall. It
had once been a modest two-story church topped by a silver metal
dome. Now that dome was spackled and overgrown with rich burnished
copper-bronze-amber mold that met a sea of mixed sea greens and blues
creeping up. Little rounded windows in the dome. Perfect firing lines.