Knew Wyte was thinking about his wife, his kids, the little house they’d shared together so long ago.
Finch didn’t want that in his head, shot a glance up toward the ridge. Anyone could pick them off. Anyone. “Stay at home. I’ll figure it out. Call you.”
Wyte nodded again, almost slumped over in his seat. A kind of glow had begun to suffuse his features. Green-golden.
Or you’ll call me. Suppressed a shudder.
Finch’s vision blurred. Too many things to keep inside. Every time he thought he’d tamped down one thing, another came rushing up.
A long silence. A complex smile played across Wyte’s blurring lips. Finally said, “You know, Finch, I think we’re a lot closer to solving this case.”
A double take from Finch. A stifled smile. “Yeah, Wyte. Sure you do. Rest now. Sleep. I’ll keep watch.”
Wyte nodded. Closed his eyes.
A flake of something floated onto Finch’s shoulder. Then another and another. He looked up to see that it was snowing. It was snowing in Ambergris.
As the white flakes drifted down, Finch on a hunch looked back. The white dome of the farthest camp had disappeared, replaced by an impression of billowing whiteness. An outline of what had once been. Realized that bits of fungus were raining down on them.
Raindrops followed, thick but sparse. Finch blinking them away. He laughed then. A wide laugh. Showing his teeth.
The “snow” still coming down. Falling onto Wyte’s slack face. Melting away. Into him.
5
By the time Finch made it back to the hotel, he was almost asleep on his feet. Keeping him awake: left shoulder on fire. A bullet hole through the right arm of his jacket. Would’ve nicked him if he’d been a fatter man. A sharp pain in his ankle when he climbed the steps to the lobby. Stomach empty and complaining. Even after he bought some sad-looking plums. On credit. With a threat. From a woman who’d set them out on her stoop like a row of Bosun’s carvings. Ate them on the way back to the hotel. Slowly.
Passed the Photographer inside. Grunted a hello. The Photographer just stared at him.
Lots of love to you, too.
He turned left in the courtyard, descended. Stopped at Rathven’s door. Knocked.
A slow, reluctant opening. Long wedge of light. When Rathven looked up at Finch he thought he saw the secret knowledge they shared shining through her eyes.
A frown hardened her face. “What do you want?” She had one arm behind her back, hiding something. Wore severe pants and a shirt that almost made her look like an Irregular.
“You called me. Remember?”
She seemed to consider that. Almost as if she couldn’t tell if he was lying. That she couldn’t remember making the call.
“Can I come in?” Finch said, pressing.
“No. I mean, not now. You look like a wreck. What happened to you?”
Felt exposed there, in the hallway.
“Just let me in,” he said, pushing at the door. Seeing if it would give. Seeing if she would give. “Of course I look rough. It’s been a rough day.”
“Stay where you are,” Rathven said. She was stronger than she looked. The door hadn’t even trembled. Or she’d wedged something behind it. “Are you drunk?” she asked.
Brought up short by the question, he shook his head. “No, of course not. At least tell me why you called.” Felt like he had stone blocks attached to his legs. His vision was swimming. The words he said came both fast and slow. Didn’t wait for her hesitation, said, “Don’t tell me it was nothing. Something’s obviously wrong. You’re not yourself.”
A fire in her hazel eyes. A kind of scorn in the set of her mouth. Her rigid stance. “Do you blame me?” she spat out. “And you—you’re not ‘yourself’ either. I don’t know who you are. You work for the gray caps but you help me get someone out of the camps. You help people in this building but then you go off and do Truff knows what during the day. For them. For them. You’re in a good humor. You’re in a bad mood. Sullen. Distant. Suddenly friendly. You like coffee, then suddenly you like tea. Why wouldn’t I be wary?”
The words hit him like a blow to the head. Felt the corridor swirling.
“I have to sit down,” he said. “If I have to, I’ll sit down right here.” The nausea had come back. Kept seeing Bliss and the tunnel they’d fallen through. Holding on to Bliss’s shoulders had made it real, hard to shake off.
Rathven, continuing: “You bring me these lists. These lists of dead people. And you say research them, and it turns out you’re investigating the murder of someone who couldn’t possibly have been alive. It’s a burden knowing that. Thinking that maybe you’re not even working on a murder case. That maybe you’re just crazy.”
Each word like a length of rope Finch tried to hold on to as he fell. Slipping away under his grasp. Burning his palms.
He saw the floor coming up on him, then the ceiling above as he managed to land on his back. Shoulder feeling crunchy, like ground-up glass. Hand scraping against the floor. Crumpled into darkness. But, thankfully, not Bliss’s darkness. Weightless. No nausea here. No thoughts.
Except the original one: What was Duncan Shriek doing in that apartment?
* * *
Ghosts of light pearling across the uneven surface of ceiling beams. Came to his senses in his own apartment, on the couch. A lamp on the stand by his head. Rathven leaning forward to stare at him. Her gun on the table between them. A battered old revolver. Heavy. The kind of thing that at close range would take your heart out, throw you across the room. Not what Finch would’ve expected from her. Curled up next to it, Heretic’s list, returned, along with Shriek: An Afterword and Cinsorium & Other Historical Fables.
With an effort, he pulled himself into a sitting position.
“How long was I out?”
“Just a few minutes.” Rathven wasn’t smiling.
A sudden, suspicious thought. “How’d you get me in here?” Reached for his own gun. Found it still there. Tried to make a graceful motion away from it. Too late. Looked up to see Rathven frowning again.
“What are you afraid of?” she asked. “That I’m really strong or that I had an accomplice? Or that I’m going to shoot you?”
“No, I meant—”
“My brother helped bring you in here.”
Finch nodded, ran a hand across his face. His hand felt like lizard skin. In his head a sound like waves.
Slowly realized the apartment didn’t look the same. Thought it was him at first, vision blurry. But no: books tossed on the floor. Paintings smashed or askew on the walls. His other furniture knocked over. The kitchen trashed, too. Winced from pain in his shoulder.
“Shit, Rathven. What happened?”
“I don’t know. It was this way when we came up. There’ve been too many strangers in the hotel lately. Why do you think I’m carrying a gun now?”
“You didn’t before?” Ignored the look she gave him. “I’ve got to get cleaned up,” he said.
“I’ll wait.”
He checked the table in his bedroom, with the maps on it. On the floor. The overlay was torn and had a boot print on it. Of the Partial? The one he hated? Much as he’d hoped during Wyte’s mad charge, he hadn’t seen the man.