Finch turned his back on them, phone on his lap. "Yes, I did. I did like it. So long as it's true. I would have liked to hear the conversation myself."
"Oh, I don't think so," Stark said. "I don't think you would've liked that at all. It's quite melodramatic. Practically bathetic. The kind of thing that would've lent itself to opera, back in the day."
Except then I'd know if you'd left anything out. Or put anything in.
"How about the Subject?" Finch asked. "Did the Subject get away?" Does Heretic know about any of this?
"Alas, the Subject didn't get far. A tragic case of smoking in bed. Happens all the time. After the Subject finished with our poor agents, the Subject went to sleep. A sound, sound sleep."
"I don't know what that means."
"Oh, you know what it means, Finch."
"What do you want, then?"
"What do I want? Nice of you to ask." Stark's tone had gotten colder. "I want lots of things. So many things it's hard to know where to begin. Money's always good. Especially gold. I could also use a weapon. You know, to defend myself against the rebels. Think you can deliver that? After all, I've delivered for you."
"What you've delivered are rumors," Finch said. "What you've delivered is information we don't know will lead to anything important."
A pause. Then, "I'm not sure I like your attitude, detective. Maybe I should be working with someone else. Maybe I should be working with your girlfriend. Or your friend Rathven. Or your partner, Wyte. Or even that madman who lives right outside of your hotel. Would you prefer that?"
Managed a calm tone. "No. I think the arrangement we have will be fine." Realized he'd curled his free hand into a fist. Knuckles white. Nails biting into his palm.
Laughter on the other end. "I thought you might say that. I thought you might see it my way. It's all on you now. Just remember: we'll be watching."
Hung up before Finch could reply.
ack on the roof of the hotel. Where Finch could see it all from on high. See it clean and remote. Banish pointless images of ripping out Stark's throat. Shooting him dead in the street. If Heretic doubted Finch, killing Stark wouldn't help anything. He'd filed his report before he left. Stuffed it down the memory hole with misgivings. Would it be enough?
Wanted clarity before he saw Rathven, knew he wasn't going to get it.
The sun was going down. Watched the orange-yellow shimmer. Tried to ignore the towers, but that was impossible. The light made them a fuzzy green, as if dusted with pollen. The glare hurt his eyes.
The Photographer would be coming up soon. Finch had knocked on his door on the way up. Thin shadow through slit of door. Pale face rising from someplace submerged to meet his request. Told him that what he wanted would take thirty, forty minutes.
Too restless to sit. Hands in the pockets of his jacket. Left hand clenched around a piece of paper, a timeline:
Stark arrives-disappearing door-gray cap tortured-two murdersstrange phrase on scrap of paper-Bliss-men murdered-Bliss disappears-two towers near completion-Stark gives us informationHeretic presses re the case ...
How much of it was really connected?
Agent #2: For the record, the Subject drew a symbol on the table. In some sort of golden dust. Kind of a half-circle then a circle then a line with another line across it. Then two more half-circles at the end. I'll draw it later.
Now he had to reconsider the gray symbol on the torn piece of paper. Had preferred the case when it all seemed to be about Bliss.
Within the hour, he'd know the identity of the dead man. Part of him wanted to know. Part of him thought he wasn't going to like the answer.
He'd included almost everything in the report for Heretic except the tortured gray cap. Put some heat on Stark. And nothing about Rathven. After all, Finch hadn't even spoken to her yet. But he'd had to mention the words on the piece of paper. Called it a possible password.
Wyte had returned before Finch had filed the report, with nothing to add but a bad mood. Looking like shit again. His informant had found nothing at the address, because the building had burned to the ground. No witnesses. "Nothing except this." Wyte had tossed a carving onto Finch's desk. Crudely like a gray cap. Along with some information from his informant: Bosun was Stark's younger brother. Known in Stockton as a brawler and boozer. Interesting, but what to do with it? Stark was still a question mark.
The hatch behind him opened. Out unfolded the gawky frame of the Photographer. Once upright, he walked across to Finch. Holding something that seemed to absorb the light in his long fingers. Compact. Functional. Deadly.
"Here, take it," the Photographer said. As if Finch needed prompting.
Finch loved the weight as his right hand closed over it. Had a cold, comforting heft. A Lewden Special: a vicious snub-nosed semiautomatic. He'd used one during the wars. Taken it off a dead man. Liked it. Liked it almost too much. Could reload quickly. Accurate fire. Used bullets that ended things. Bullets that exploded inside the body. Would cause even a gray cap an acute case of indigestion. Finch hadn't expected something this good.
Gave the Photographer a sly look. "What, exactly, did you do before the Rising?"
On the Photographer a smile looked grim. "I took photos." No other information was forthcoming.
Finch looked at him for a moment, then dropped it. "Ammo?"
"Yes," the Photographer said. Handed over ten clips. Twenty bullets in each.
Finch's eyebrows rose. He'd only asked for five clips. Looked at the Photographer as if to say What do you know that I don't?
"How much?"
"Nothing now. Maybe a favor, later."
"Just make sure to ask while I can still grant favors." Wry laugh.
"Or while I still need them." The Photographer's expression revealed neither humor nor the lack of it.
Listening with only one ear. Thoughts wandering back to the transcript. The two towers. A strange door. The rebels have a weapon.
Which rebels? came a question from a voice in his head. The ones in Ambergris or the ones in the HFZ?
They turned to watch the city at dusk. The unexpected phosphorescence in places. As if the sun's death throes. The now-dull green glow rippling from the bay. The towers were still being worked on nonstop. Finch could almost imagine them complete now.
"What do you think the towers are for?" Finch asked the Photographer.
A gleam of interest entered the Photographer's dead black eyes. "Sometimes I dream. I dream it's a giant camera. And it's taking pictures of places we can't see."
Rathven let him in without a word. She locked the door behind them quickly.