"I'll tell you later."
"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.
2
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.