Finch pulled Wyte to the side. Against the faded brick wall. Who knew if it was safer. But it felt safer. Reminded him of when Wyte used to bring him out here and patiently explain how he’d screwed up back when he worked as a courier.
“Why don’t you tell me what you think.”
Wyte looked at him for a second as if to say “You really want my opinion?” Then, slowly, “Two Stockton agents kidnapped a gray cap who came out of a secret door. Maybe a door leading to the underground? One of the agents worked for Stockton before Stark arrived. The other probably came with him. There was a third agent outside as a precaution while they interrogated the gray cap.”
“Water torture,” Finch interjected. “Take note of that. Not something I’d’ve thought to use.” Thinking of his encounters during the war.
“So they interrogate the gray cap. Pretty brutally. And they ask him about the door, and the gray cap seems to make a connection between this door and the towers.”
Agent #2: For the record: Subject was intercepted and brought to this location after stepping out of a strange door. Like a secret panel or something. Closed up after him.
“And there’s another connection, Wyte. If you can appear out of a strange door that disappears, you can disappear out of a door that appears, perhaps.”
Wyte: “Bliss?”
Bliss or Dar Sardice. Warming to this task now. Relishing the idea of figuring it out. “Remember that Bliss knew exactly which mushrooms to use for his wounds.”
“True,” Wyte said, but he frowned, like he didn’t totally agree. “So then they talk about gold, but not real gold. The gray cap seemed to be taunting them a bit. And after that, they’re following up on information that led them to believe the gray caps know about some weapon the rebels have.”
Agent #1: Do you mean the door? Or do you mean real gold?
Agent #2: We’ll let you go if you just tell us—what is this weapon the rebels have?
“And there’s that mention of the two towers.” Finch searched through the pages, found it. “Here—‘been where you were not. But you’ll never read them. Not before we finish the towers.’ And then one agent asks about the door again. What does that mean?”
Wyte shook his head. “I don’t know.”
They stood there. Looking at each other. As if the answer might appear between them through sheer force of will.
What did Stark know? Maybe he didn’t know anything. Maybe he was flushing out information like he’d flushed out two detectives by messing with Bliss.
“A rebel weapon. Strange doors. Gold that isn’t gold. The two towers.” Finch laughed. “Fuck if I know what it means.” And he didn’t, not really, even though answers kept niggling at the edges of his thoughts.
“But maybe we know how Bliss escaped,” Wyte said.
Using magic. Using trapdoors. Maybe he turned into a door himself. Finch put that aside for later.
“Heretic is going to want another report. By tonight.” He’d promised not to leave anything out. Didn’t dare leave anything out. “At least we’ve got a couple of addresses.” Finch wondered if Wyte was as relieved as he was at the prospect of having real leads.
“Want me to check them out?”
Finch: “Just the one.”
Wyte: “Which one?”
“Where they tortured the gray cap.”
Where they both died because they didn’t finish the job properly. Searched for it in the transcript, pointed to it with his finger: “22 East Lake Street. But for Truff’s sake, use a proxy. Get one of your snitches to do it for you. Watch from down the street just in case. If the gray caps have the place under surveillance, you don’t want to just walk right up to it.”
“What about the other address?”
Lowering his voice as a Partial passed by on the other side of the street: “If it’s a real lead and not something Stark stuck into the transcript to fuck with us, it’s too dangerous. A rebel safe house? Not even clear the gray cap knew what they were talking about? Wyte, that’s a job for Partials. I’ll put that in my report to Heretic. But I have to leave out the part about a tortured gray cap, and where we got the information. Which means, we need to check out the torture address ourselves.”
“What am I looking for?”
“I don’t know.”
Wyte didn’t seem to care. “Shouldn’t take more than an hour or two there and back. Maybe a little more if I check in with some of my snitches along the way.” His expression had become tighter, more defined. As if Finch was filling him with purpose, the thing encroaching on Wyte beaten back. For now.
Finch clapped him on the shoulder as they went inside. Wyte grabbed his coat. Lumbered over to Skinner’s desk, swiped the key as Skinner watched. Went over to the supply cabinet. No longer caring what they thought. Got a gun, loaded it, and headed for the door with what almost looked like a skip in his step.
Blakely stared at the door Wyte had disappeared through: “What, you finally agreed to marry him?” With a leer.
Finch ignored him. Time to call Rath again.
* * *
Rath’s voice crackled and hissed through the bad connection. Sounded like she was buried deep in a watery cave.
“Finch,” she said. “I’ve got news. I think I’ve found out about—”
“What I wanted to know?” he said. Before she could say “the dead man.”
“Yes.”
A prickle of excitement. Along with a sobering wave of caution. He still didn’t know for sure who had given up Sintra to Stark.
Kept his voice calm. “I’ll come by after work.” Fought the urge to say he’d be right there.
“You don’t want to know now?” Disappointment in her voice.
“Busy. I’ll catch up with you later.” Hoping she’d understand. They’re listening.
Click. Either Rath had hung up or the line had gone out.
A sudden elation wouldn’t leave him. Made him give out a little laugh. Even though he knew it was premature. Usually you knew who the dead person was to begin with. The trail was three days cold by now.
How to frame it all for Heretic?
Finch thumbed through Stark’s report again. Thought about his encounter with Stark on the boat. Bliss’s disappearance. Bliss’s appearance in the memory bulb dream.
What could he tell Heretic?
Blakely, Skinner, and Gustat were working at their desks. Once upon a time, he might’ve consulted with them. But the Wyte situation made that impossible now. Sometimes he thought they even liked Wyte better than him. Wyte couldn’t help it. Finch could help it. Didn’t have to side with Wyte.
The phone rang. He stared at the receiver for a second. Sintra? Rathven?
Finch picked it up.
“Hello.”
“Finchy!” Stark’s voice. Strong and smooth. A shock hearing it on his station phone. “I see you’ve read the transcript of our little drama, since Wyte’s already hotfooting it over to where Number One and Number Two heroically sacrificed for the greater good.”
Finch leaned forward. Shielded the receiver with his hand. In a low voice: “How did you get this phone number? Don’t you know—”