At the far end: a couple of chairs, a desk, and a large figure hanging a painting on the wall. As they approached, Finch recognized the painting as a reproduction. It showed the Kalif of another age demanding fealty from a defiant Stockton king. Back when Stockton had kings. Hunting dogs stood in the foreground, but fiendish, with forked tongues and jowls curling back to reveal metal daggers. The composition more surreal than photographic. All of it the echo of a time lost to the present.
The large man nodded to them even as he kept moving the painting. Trying to catch it on the nails in a wall covered with bullet holes and dark bloodstains. Splatter had swept across the divide between wall and floor.
Finch noticed now the dark sheets in the farthest corner. Roughly man-sized.
“You found Bosun, I see,” the man said. A deep voice. “Or he found you. Either way, you’re here. Finally.” The painting caught on the nails. Held. “There.”
The man turned toward them. “You can call me Stark.”
Stark made a tall space look small. A height that warranted a girth that could have been muscle or fat. Or both. The truth of it hidden by a trench coat. Frankwrithe & Lewden army issue. With old medals from the Kalif’s empire pinned there: black glint with a hint of gold against the steep gray of the trench coat. A hawk face, with dark pupils swimming in too much white. A strong nose and a chin that jutted: two halves of the same beak. A knife in his left boot sheathed in a silver scabbard that shone as if polished every hour. Finch mistrusted that knife immediately. Reminded him of the squeaky floors at 239 Manzikert Avenue. Look at the knife while the blow comes from somewhere else. What else did the trench coat hide? A sword?
Stark didn’t come forward. Didn’t offer his hand. Just stood there. The painting behind him. Now Finch saw that Stark hadn’t been trying to hide the bullet holes, the blood. Instead, the painting had been placed between them.
“Sit,” Bosun growled, shoving Finch forward into a chair. Stark sat down behind the desk. Bosun stood to the side, reaching for a piece of dark wood on the desk. One of many. Started carving. Quick, accurate cuts. So fast his hands were a blur.
“Where’s Wyte?” Finch asked.
Stark pursed his lips, ignored him, and said, “What did you think would happen? I’m curious. You thought you two would just walk in here, into my place, and you’d take me away to your shitty little station for questioning? Come back with an army if you want that, and come in shooting.”
Finch, pressing: “What have you done with Wyte?”
Stark stared to the side, exhaled loudly. He seemed to breathe through his mouth. “John Finch. Why do you think people are so stupid?”
“Are they? Stupid?” Finch said, too aware of his bare feet. The floor was cold.
“Take my predecessors,” Stark said. “They knew I was coming. They knew their superiors weren’t pleased with them. Yet they took no precautions. They were still here when I arrived. I think they deserved what they got, don’t you?”
Anger rising. “If you’ve hurt my partner…”
Stark dismissed his concern with a wave of his hand. “Don’t start making threats you can’t back up. Wyte is fine. You’ll see him soon enough. But he’s a tad too … fungal … for my liking. Or yours, from what I’ve heard.”
“What about my gun?”
Stark smiled, revealing teeth stained red. Finch recognized the signs of addiction to a stimulant found in the bark from a tree that grew in both Ambergris and Stockton.
“You can join your gun,” Stark said, “or you can shut up about it. I’m not here to talk to you about guns.” The stained teeth made Stark resemble one of the shambly dogs latching on to its prey in the painting behind him. But the way he stared at Finch wasn’t doglike. It reminded him of the older men in the Hoegbotton Irregulars. They too had looked crazy. Like a black flame burned within them.
“Taking my weapon might lead to strong actions by my superiors.” Hated Stark for forcing him to use the gray caps as a shield.
Bosun dropped a carving of a cat onto the desk, stepped back. It looked like Feral to Finch. Made him obscurely worried again. Behind him, the sounds of knife on wood again.
Ignoring Bosun, Stark said, “We all know what superiors you mean, Finch. You mean those fey, gray-hatted, walking talking shit-stalks. But the fact is I don’t care. I haven’t cared since I came here, and I will continue not to care until I leave. With as much of Ambergris smoldering behind me as I can manage. So here’s a question for you: Why do you work for them? I mean, really? Why? Besides fear, of course. Besides a leaky roof over your head and a plate of mashed-up mushrooms on your kitchen table. Do you like working for them?”
Finch had never answered that question. Asked: “Why did you leave Ethan Bliss alive?”
Stark nodded in appreciation. “My question is better than yours, but, still—good for you, changing the subject. I took out his team because I don’t like surprises, and Bliss seems full of them. Why’d I leave him alive? Well, maybe I thought Bliss made enticing bait. Maybe I wanted to see who would come creeping around if I left him alive … and here you are.”
The smile was a little too painted on, the comment too blunt.
“What did Bliss promise you? And where can I find him?”
Stark sighed. “You’re not getting it, Finch. Bliss reminds me of a toy I once had. A mechanical toy. By the time I got it, who could tell what the hell it was or what it was supposed to do. Its uniform or fur or whatever it had wasn’t there anymore. It had no eyes, just eyeholes. Mostly it mumbled and marched in place when you wound it up. Who knows what Bliss started out as. I doubt he even remembers. So, where is he? It doesn’t matter to me. And if you take my advice you won’t let it matter to you, either.”
Sudden anger burned in Finch’s chest, kindling for pride. “I’m not here to ask your advice.”
“Oh, but you are, Detective. You want to question me about that nasty double murder you’re investigating. You want to know things only I can tell you. What is that but asking advice?” The black flame lit up his eyes. Lent his speech a subdued yet incandescent fury.
Finch leaned forward, into the teeth of Stark’s strength. “What do you know about the murders?”
Stark chuckled. “Finchy—that’s what Wyte calls you, I think. Finchy, I’ve been here two months. Why would you think I’d know anything about the murders, except that they occurred? Why, I’m just an immigrant, still getting my land legs. Imagine how many questions I have for you.”
Finch reached a decision. Slowly pulled the photo of the dead man from his jacket pocket. Slid it across the desk.
“Do you know this man?” The more questions Finch asked the fewer he’d have to answer. Or so he hoped.
Stark made a show of examining the photo, waved it at Bosun, who said, “Already saw it,” and went back to his whittling. Stark returned the photo to Finch.
“No. I don’t know him. But he looks peculiar. Like he’s having a very bad day, and it might get worse. Like he’s also sick of this freak show you call a city. Like he might just have decided to hang it all up and go on vacation.”
“Is that so?” Finch said, staring at the painting on the wall. “Maybe you should leave with him.” The blood. The bullet holes. Did Stark actually know anything? Tried to set aside his irritation. Knew he was just sick of Stark insulting his city.