“We can’t protect you. But we can make sure you don’t get caught.”
“You mean you can kill me.” Feeling ill. Realized that in some ways the Lady in Blue was no different than Stark. Apply pressure. Squeeze. Get what you want.
The Lady in Blue looked somehow both stern and compassionate. In a quiet voice, she said, “I mean you know too much, John Finch. Sometimes we have to take the cards we’re dealt and make the most of them. You can’t throw away the cards now—you’ve already looked at them.”
There it was. Stated directly. Somehow Finch admired her more for it. A bitter laugh of appreciation as he stood there, facing her down. “So I have no choice.”
“If it’s any consolation, maybe you never had a choice. Maybe there was never a point at which you could have turned back.” She had the good grace to look away as she said, “Our man will be in touch when the time comes.”
Finch anticipated the needle a second before it entered his neck.
* * *
When they released Finch back into the crowd at the black market party, everything was different. The sound soared over him at first. Then it was as if he couldn’t hear it anymore. Looked for Sintra but didn’t see her. Looked for Bosun but didn’t see him, either. Didn’t know how much time had passed. But the band was taking a break.
An urgency to the night, but he’d brought it with him. Couldn’t get the image of the Lady in Blue out of his head. On a hill. In a boat. At the wall of the fortress. The images stabbed at him, threatened madness. What didn’t she tell me?
Finch crossed the room on unsteady legs. Wary of Bosun. But still no Bosun. Felt for his Lewden Special. Relief. It had been returned to him.
Made his way through corridors. Gaze unfocused. Seeing nothing. Out into the rain. The towers a steamy green above the tops of buildings. The street nearly empty.
Two steps onto the street and he met an immovable force. Bosun, appearing out of darkness. Pulling his right arm behind him. Inexorable, the man all muscle. Felt Bosun’s other hand looking for his gun. Felt it taken. Again.
Bosun’s hot breath at his ear as Finch was marched toward a side alley. Helpless as a child.
“Find my carving?” Bosun muttered.
Against the discomfort, twisting, “For Truff’s sake, you don’t have to break my arm.”
“So you didn’t find it.” Bosun seemed disappointed.
“What carving?” Grunting. Contorting to try to get relief.
“Stop moving. In your apartment. Left it there while we took the place apart. Would’ve done in your cat if he hadn’t hidden.”
Another mystery solved. One that didn’t even matter anymore.
“Fuck you. Your breath smells like shit.”
Bosun just laughed. “Be lucky if yours doesn’t begin to smell like blood.”
In the alley: Stark. With five other men. Bosun shoved Finch forward, releasing him.
“Finch, what a surprise!” Stark said. “I know you’re just coming from a party, but we’re having our own little party out here. Glad you could make it.”
Bosun punched him in the gut before he could react. Fists like stone. Sent him slumped over onto the ground. Begging for air.
Got to his feet slowly, not sure if he should. Could’ve used Wyte coming out of the darkness in that moment.
Stark’s face was a vicious half-moon in the dimness. Hard to believe Bosun was his brother.
“Where’d you go, Finch? Where’d you go for an hour and a half? Bosun says you were there and then you weren’t.”
The question so much smaller than the answer. Contempt for the interrogator. What kind of spymaster came in person for this kind of ambush? Only someone who’d never gotten past the simple art of the shakedown. Came in hard and fast and thought that was enough.
Not here it isn’t.
Secret knowledge gave him strength. “Just enjoying the party.”
Stark circled him. “I’ll bet you were. Saw your exotic girl leave. She looked well satisfied. Did you give her a good time in there? You should be glad I’m a man of such refinement, Finch, or we might’ve given her a better one.”
“Is that all you came here to say?” Finch asked.
Bosun nodded and two of his men wrenched Finch’s arms back. Painfully.
“No, not really. We’ve some more serious matters to discuss. Like, did you know there’s a bounty on the head of the Lady in Blue?” Stark came close, looked him in the eye. “I think you do know that. It applies to anyone who associates with her—on my side or yours.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Stark nodded. Bosun punched him in the stomach again. Grunted. Fought through the pain. The thugs held him up.
“I think you do, Finch. I think you do. At least, those two thought so. Show him, boys.”
They dragged him closer to the wall. Saw four pale feet, the rest of the bodies hidden by shadows.
“The two morons that Bosun saw spirit you away. They didn’t say much before they died. But they said enough.”
Finch didn’t think they’d said anything at all. “I don’t even know who they are.”
“Of course you don’t, Finch,” Stark said with disgust. “You never saw their faces. Let alone their feet. So, again, where did you disappear off to?”
“Nowhere.”
Stark looked at him a second. “Nowhere? Nowhere. Next you’ll be saying you’ve made no progress on the case.”
“There is no progress, Stark.”
“Even after I gave you that juicy transcript? I think you’re lying.”
Finch, reckless: “I think you fed us that address in the transcript. It almost got us killed. For nothing. And I wasted a day. So I’ve got nothing for you, either.”
Stark pulled back a second, as if to get a better look at Finch. “Are you serious, Finch? Because that’s not what I heard. I heard Wyte blew it for you. Your man transforms into some huge fucking monster and charges the stage. That’s what I’m told. Not exactly proper procedure. Not exactly what you’d expect from a detective. Or maybe it is. Maybe it’s the old quick-change comic theater routine. Maybe that goes over big in this shit hole. What is Wyte, anyway? Some kind of secret weapon?”
“He’s sick,” Finch said.
“Any sicker than Duncan Shriek?” Stark asked, with a knowing leer. “Because I hear Mr. Shriek is dead. And holed up in a certain apartment on Manzikert Avenue. Writing his ghost memoirs.” Stark’s refinement was slipping. A rougher voice, with a gutter accent.
“Why not go look for yourself,” Finch said. “Maybe you’ll turn up some clues.”
Stark kneed Finch in the groin. Finch groaned. Couldn’t fall down, held by the two men. “Think you’re funny? I know that’s a kill zone. You don’t get me, Finch. Do you think I give a fuck about this sewer of a city?” Stark whispered in his ear. “I don’t give a fuck about this dump. I don’t care if it all goes up in pillars of flame. It’s not my fucking town. But I don’t like being lied to. And I don’t like people getting in the way of what I want.”
Apparently no one did. Not Stark. Not the Lady in Blue. Not Heretic. Finch was tired of it.