Would the resurrection of Duncan Shriek be the opposite of this? Better or worse?
The phone rang inside Wyte’s apartment as Finch was leaving. He hesitated. Went back inside. Closed the door. Locked it.
The phone was in the kitchen. He avoided looking in the corner. The stillness was oppressive. The smell thick, physical. Had to pull his shirt collar to his nose.
Picked up the phone with his bloody hand. Waited.
“Hello. Finch?” Stark. Almost cheery.
“What do you want?”
“You sound a little shaky. What’s wrong?”
“What do you want?”
Realized then that Stark’s people had followed him there. Told Stark where he was. And that Stark knew Wyte’s phone number.
“It’s not what I want,” Stark said. “It’s what you want. And, apparently, you want me to keep hurting you. Apparently if I keep hurting you more and more, I’ll get what I want.”
A barking laugh from Finch. “The city’s fucked. The Spit’s destroyed. The towers are almost done. Whatever you want won’t matter in a day or two.”
“My dear Finch, that’s exactly my point. You need to tell me everything you know—by the end of today. Otherwise, don’t waste your breath lecturing me about the state of this shitty city,” Stark said in a silky voice. “Because what you should be worried about is: we could’ve gotten to Sintra easily enough. If you don’t reveal all by nightfall, she’s dead.”
The same Sintra who betrayed me to the rebels. The one who is still in my head, fucking up my thoughts. Giving me this pain in my chest.
“But you didn’t get to Sintra yet,” Finch said. “Which means you don’t know where Sintra is.” Any more than I do. Finch’s voice had risen to a shout. The back of his throat hurt. Every part of him hurt. How had Stark known Wyte’s number?
A long, low laugh. “Finchy, I want whatever’s in that apartment with Shriek. Today. So make it happen. Or Sintra’s next. Or Rathven. I don’t care which. Look what we did to Wyte. True, he was almost there already. We just gave him that final push. Want to know how? Look around before you leave. Maybe on the counter, maybe in the sink. Just take a look. Get a sense for just how desperate your friend really was. And who you’re up against.”
“There’s nothing in that apartment but Shriek,” Finch said.
“Then bring me Shriek,” Stark said.
Finch hung up.
Hated himself for looking, for taking Stark’s suggestion. Found nothing on the counter. Nothing in the sink. In the garbage under the sink, though, he found a small white envelope and a note.
In an embellished script, the note read, “Take these, Wyte. They’ll help. As promised. Love, Stark.” Inside the envelope, the crumbly remains of something fungal. Something that hadn’t helped Wyte at all.
Forced himself to imagine it. Wyte. Terrified by the quickening change. Making a deal to trade information, even though Finch had warned him against it. Wyte maybe thinking that giving Stark some of what he wanted would take the pressure off Finch.
Then Stark had given Wyte some kind of mushroom he knew would drive Wyte over the edge. The note was dated two days earlier, so that meant Wyte had come back to his apartment two straight nights. Looked at Stark’s note, the possible solution. Trusting it. Not trusting it. Desperate for something that might save him for a time. Driven to it by the gun battle. Driven to it by every careless, cruel comment by his supposed friends, Finch included. Wyte, too embarrassed, too ashamed, to tell Finch what he’d done. How stupid he’d been. Even at the end. Especially at the end.
For a moment, Finch’s self-disdain was boundless. Threatened to bring the ground crashing in on him.
The phone was ringing again. Finch ignored it.
Blood dripped down from his hairline into his eyes. His blood. A claw must’ve caught him in the scalp as Wyte was shifting from shape to shape near the end. Wiped it away. Went back to what remained of Wyte. Wasn’t much. Already beginning to rot. But he rummaged in his jacket pocket. One last thing he had to do now. It wouldn’t change anything. Not really. But it might, in the end, satisfy his sense of justice.
Now it was time to take care of Stark.
Ambergris Rules. Take out the immediate threat.
* * *
Two hours later, Finch was done. He pulled the curtain back a sliver. Looked out with one eye shut against the glare. Dazzling sunlight. The grainy gray of the wall and a curving narrow strip of archway. Showing the street beyond. Weeds between sidewalk tiles. A row of dank, rotting warehouses on the other side. A lone tree. Crooked and bare of leaves.
If he had watchers, they’d be impatient by now. They’d have to come in closer. Especially if they had another reason.
Took out his gun. Fired a single shot into the room behind him. Lodged in the wall next to the kitchen. The sound was loud, like the others had been. Now they’d heard him with Wyte. Seen him come out, then go back in. Heard the shot. Followed by silence.
That might be enough to bring them.
Thirty seconds passed. Then two men came into view on the sidewalk. Dark clothes. The bulge of weapons under their jackets. Tallish. If Stark had a team on him, say four, they’d split up. Two would keep watch outside. Another one would walk up to the door, with the fourth covering him from the wall. Or they’d have one on the back window. Except Finch had checked the back, and there was no cover. Just a long, narrow alley filled with parts from motored vehicles. No one watching from what he could see poking his head out. Too dangerous. They probably didn’t know the area, either. Might not even realize there was a back window. Beyond the narrow alley lay a taller building, more apartments.
They’d be coming right about now. Imagined he could hear footsteps. He went into the bathroom. Stood on the toilet. Hoisted himself up and through the window, ignoring the ache in his shoulder. Dropped into a crouch in the alley. Surrounded by worn tires and metal viscera. Everything but the motored vehicles themselves. Smell of rubber. Distant smell of oil. The long, tall wall of the building next door close enough to reach out and touch. No one watching. Unless they waited out of sight.
Gun drawn, heart beating fast, he made for the far end. The slice of blue sky above. The dull gray-brown of the buildings beyond. Made it, peeked around the corner. No one. Ran parallel to Wyte’s apartment complex, into the streets beyond. Doubled back until he was looking around a corner at the wall of archways that hid Wyte’s apartment.
Just in time to see, in glimpses, broken up by the wall, a man come out the front, walk down the corridor. Short. Muscular. Looked oddly burnt. Then another man came out from around back, where Finch had just been. Taller, thinner, bald. Weapon out. Finch drew back into the shadow of a stoop until the man was safely past a line of sight where he could see Finch.
The shorter man was now clutching at the front of the taller man’s jacket. But the taller man gave way, and suddenly the shorter man was down on his knees, being sick into the ruins of the garden. Wyte had made an impact.
A hand signal from the taller man brought the two lookouts to their side. A quick conference. A few nervous gestures. A head bowed in exasperation or pain or some emotion Finch couldn’t interpret. Either way, they’d lost their man and now had to report their failure back to Stark.