"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 f**king 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 br**sts. 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?"
4
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.
Finch felt the smooth glide of the boat through thickish water. The way the deck gave a little under his weight. Like he was lying on top of another body.