“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
Silence 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.
No gun. No shoes. Just what was left in his pockets, because Bosun didn’t want it.
Stark: “I’m here to fucking clean house.”
Heretic: “A skery is not as bad for you as what I could bring with me.”
Bliss: “You look familiar to me, Detective. Do I know you?”
And the dead man laughing at all of them.
Beside Finch’s head, Wyte’s feet. In black boots dirty with algae-like fungus. A tiny community. A miniature of the city. Finch imagined he could see creatures there. Creatures who lived out their unaware lives in a state of naive happiness. A sharp smell, like petrol mixed with pepper. The friction of their discourse on that slick black hillside.
He turned his attention back to the sky. Ignored the three crimson tendrils coming out from under Wyte’s overcoat. The weariness wasn’t from confronting Stark. The weariness was from continually being threatened.
“Wyte. Just so we’re clear—you’re not thinking about making a deal with Stark. To replace Davies and your other Stockton contacts?”
“No.” Didn’t sound convincing.
“You’re so full of shit, Wyte.” Exasperated because back in the day Wyte was the one lecturing him about being naive. Telling him not to trust the ship captains at the docks when what was in their hold didn’t match the invoice. Always warning him about getting fooled.
“I’m not going to make any deals!”
Pressing: “What did Stark’s people talk to you about then, Wyte? Scratch that—who are Stark’s people?”
“Nobody! No one,” Wyte protested. “They didn’t talk to me. I had a hood over my head. I never even saw them. And how do I know you didn’t decide to trade information with Stark?”
“Because I didn’t, Wyte. You know why? Because he’s not like your Stockton contacts from before. You can’t really deal with someone like Stark. He’ll cheerfully sell you a knife and then slit your throat with it before you’ve even given him the money.”
“I know that. Tend to your own house.”
“Fair enough.”
A silence that spread and spread until it reached the sky. Not really mad at Wyte. Mad at Stark for making him powerless. For humiliating him.
Thick stalks of green appeared at the left edge of his vision. He turned his head. It was the underside of the two towers. The cross-section of scaffolding and support. It seemed alive. Made of vines wrapped around sinews that convulsively wove and rewove themselves together. Thought he saw a dead fox in there. Thought he saw a face.
Then they were past, and it was just the gray again.
* * *
Everyone has a theory about the two towers. Finch has heard them all, mostly at the detectives’ nameless refuge. When they first decided on the location, they’d had to take the bell out of the bell tower to make more space. A grunting, straining ordeal. To get it down. To shove it out of the one window without destroying the place. It had sunk slowly. Much to their mutual amusement. “It should’ve sunk like the stone it is,” Blakely had said. “Something about the clapper,” Wyte had said. “The air trapped inside?” Finch: “Bullshit. It’s just being difficult.” Could still see it in the water below. Dark and rippling. A shape like the bullet head of some monstrous fish.
Talk of one tower had led to talk of the others.
Skinner: “I hear the towers are being built over the ruins of the old gray cap library. For some ritual.”
Wyte: “I heard it’s a power source for more electricity. When it’s done, the whole city will be lit up again. They’re nothing if not practical.”
Gustat, snorting his disdain, “Lit up for sure, because it’s a weapon. Why else out in the bay? From there, it looks over the whole city. It’ll shoot out some kind of energy. Another way to control all of us. First thing they’ll do is destroy the Spit.”
Blakely: “You’re full of shit. It’s a huge statue to their god. Or a memorial. Whatever, those are just its legs.”
The “island” around their refuge is just floating debris that has matted round. Encouraged by them. Camouflage. Stability. Someday, the whole thing is going to rot. They’ll have to go elsewhere. Or maybe by then the city will be theirs again and they’ll have their pick of pubs. Won’t have to be part of the same chain gang, the same galley crew.
One day they might even get around to building a bridge. But for now, the detectives have built a place to moor a boat, and used the boat to bring across an amazing amount of booze. Salvage from every murder scene. Every call of domestic abuse. A history of Ambergris in alcohol, from Smashing Todd’s to Randy Robert’s. A smell like sweat and beer. Better than the smell of the station. No electricity, but they’ve hidden an icebox in the waters below the rotting floorboards at the far end of the main room. Keeps cold enough. They bring food as they have it. Stock the place with gray cap rations too. Tastes like crap, but the food—if that’s what it is—never goes bad.
Gustat: “What god? They don’t worship a god. They’re too practical, like Wyte says.”
Albin: “Too practical? By what measure? This is just them working up to another Silence. Better hope the rebels get to it first.”
Dapple, uncertainly: “Not true. They can kill us all now if they want to. They don’t need more help.”
Albin: “Not enough of them for that.”
Blakely again: “Some people think it’s some kind of gate. They swear late at night you can see things moving through it. That you can see strange stars.”
The detectives never talk about work. But, rumor? Rumor is like news from some far distant, more exciting place. Especially about the two towers.
Once, Finch offered his opinion. “They’ve got limits, first of all. You can see that already. They couldn’t control the effects of the HFZ. They need help from the camps to build the towers. When the towers go faster, they put up fewer other buildings. The electricity goes out. Or their radio station goes silent. They have limits.”