The towers continued to pound the Spit. A white smoke had overtaken the black smoke. It looked now like the thick green spheres slamming into the Spit were dissolving into a cloud bank or a thick mist.
"I have something for you," the Photographer said. Put the pouch in Finch's hand. "It looks just like a memory bulb, but it isn't. Keep it with you at all times."
Finch stared at the pouch. Stared at the Photographer. Taken completely by surprise.
The Photographer said, "If you aren't caught, you'll need it for your mission. If you are caught, take a bite. Just one bite."
"And then what?"
The Photographer's face was as blank as the side of a wall. "There will be nothing left of you. Nothing they could trace. Nothing they could read."
Nothing left. No pain. No concealment. Nothing.
"We're changing, too, Finch. There's no one under my command who hasn't been altered in some way. The question is how much you change. Change too much and you're no different from Shriek, no different from a gray cap. And then even if we win, we lose."
Instinctively tried to give it back to the Photographer. The man stepped away, hands shoved in his jacket pockets.
"Don't talk about this in your apartment," the Photographer said, as if nothing had happened. "Don't write down anything while in your apartment."
"Why not?"
"The message last night left intruders. We can't run interference on them without leaving a trail."
Didn't even bother to examine that, turn it over in his mind. Just one more intrusion in a life littered with them. No anger left to shed.
The Photographer continued: "Later today someone else will approach you with the rest of what you need."
Assuming I'll do it. But standing there, pouch in hand, it seemed impossible he wouldn't do it. The only way out. To take control of the case before it imploded. Let it not be a case anymore. Let it be something else.
"I always thought it would be the madman out front," Finch said.
A thin smile from the Photographer. "He's just a madman."
"Do I need to stay here?"
"Follow your usual routine. You'll be followed. We'll know where you are no matter where you go."
After a pause: "Does Rathven know?"
"No," the Photographer said.
"She's not even your sister, is she?"
"Goodbye, Finch," the Photographer said, and stuck out his hand. A stronger grip than he'd imagined, and more final.
He wasn't coming back.
"What about your photographs?"
"You can have them if you want them. I don't need them anymore."
Then he was gone, walking down the stairs.
In the bay, the towers had fallen silent. There was just the heavy wall of black smoke from the southeast shore. Already he could hear the sound of angry voices from below. Could see, at intersections far below, crowds gathering.
Finch stood there awhile. Looking out over the city. Not sure whether to believe he held its future in his hands.
2
t the station, Blakely had barricaded the door with a couple of filing cabinets and an empty desk. Finch slid through a narrow gap that Gustat quickly closed behind him. Blakely had the smell of whisky on his breath, masked by coffee. The flushed face of someone trying desperately to get drunk for a long time. Behind him, Gustat was fiddling with his radio, with no luck. No sign of Wyte. Or Albin or Skinner.
"What the f**k is going on?"
Blakely: "You've seen what's happening. We'll be targets. We're thinking we might fortify the bell tower. If things don't get better."
Finch just stared at him. "Fortify the tower?" Make one last stand. Wait out the siege in a pathetic excuse for a tree fort, a few dozen bottles of whisky and beer for comfort. Had a flash of Blakely as a bullying, pimply faced child, strong-arming his way into the local clubhouse.
"You have a better idea?" Blakely asked.
Saw the fear in his face now.
"There are no better ideas," Finch muttered.
But Blakely had a point. The mood on the streets had been fearful, murderous. He'd kept his detective's badge in his hand the whole time. Other hand on his gun. Hating the way the sky made everything so clear, so clean-looking. Hating the weight in his pocket of the thing the Photographer had given him. Partials had been rounding up anyone still in a camp uniform. Bashing in heads. But no statement had been made by the gray caps. By a stroke of bad luck, it was also another drug mushroom day. Everyone wanted them now, to stock up against disaster.
Finch walked toward his desk. Bodies had been stacked in the holding cell. On top: a man of about thirty-five in a lacerated brown suit and a woman in her twenties, wearing a fancy red dress. A plate-like lavender lichen had begun to cover up their faces. A dozen others under them. All dead. Thought he recognized one or two from the chapel.
"What's this about?" he demanded.
No response for the longest time. Then Blakely spoke up. "Heretic said they were traitors. With the rebels. Brought them here last night. They had to be liquidated, Heretic said."
Gustat wouldn't look at Blakely. Wouldn't look anywhere.
"So Heretic was here?" Finch asked.
"Yes, he was. Last night."
"And you just plan on leaving the bodies here?" Failing to hide his disgust. At them? At the situation?
"He told us to."
Gustat spoke up. "There's talk of the gray caps getting ready to cleanse whole neighborhoods with spore clouds. They've closed off the streets nearest the bay and the towers. The towers will be done in the next day or two." The words said with a mixture of awe and dread.
"They're pretty well done already," Finch said. "They took out the whole f**king Spit this morning if you hadn't noticed. Where are the others?"
"Told to go work on the towers, so I guess they aren't done," Blakely said.
Finch sat down at his desk. Anger building in him. For having to go through the motions. At the casual cruelty of his position.
New case notes on his desk. In Blakely's hand. A domestic dispute. A mugging. Someone had stolen someone else's food. Someone's dog had gone missing and the owner had filed a missing person's report. Amazing how the mundane shit never ended. While the world went to hell. Again tried to chart the sequence of events that had led him to this moment. Couldn't.
"Heard anything from Wyte?" he asked, to distract himself.
"He's alive?" Gustat seemed shocked.
"Yes, he's f**king well alive." Then realized he hadn't called in to the station after the shoot-out. Need to call Wyte. "Dapple's dead, though. We had a shoot-out with rebels and Partials." The words came out so matter- of-factly. So easily.