Unfinished business. Loose ends. Needed to know his back was secure.
* * *
Stood in front of Rathven’s door in the basement shadows. A sudden need for his father to be alive, to be counseling him, canceled out an impulse to smash in that door. To pound on it until his fist was raw.
Tried to wipe the crusted blood from his face. Held the gun behind his back. The sword safely at his side. He knocked, gently.
No answer.
Knocked again. Smiled into the peephole. Knew it might come off as a crazed leer.
Finally, muffled: “What do you want?”
“Just to talk.” Just a quiet talk. With my sword and my gun, if it comes down to that. Then, “Wyte’s dead.” Investing his voice with a grief that he didn’t feel. It had already shot through him and left him numb. Wyte charging the Partials like some immortal hero. Wyte huddled in the corner of his apartment, scared shitless. The truth somewhere between.
The door opened. Finch resisted the urge to shove it open. The urge to hit her. To hit someone.
Rathven looked paler than he’d ever seen her. She was aiming that heavy revolver at him. Fought to steady it as the gun dipped and wavered slightly in her two-handed grip. Sudden flash of insight based on nothing real: Rath as a girl, an awkward tomboy with a sense of humor, who couldn’t laugh at herself. Uncomfortable in a skirt. Smart. Hopeful. Easily disappointed.
“Your ‘brother’ sell you that relic?” Contemptuously brushed past her, the image of her as a girl dulling his anger a bit. Brought his gun forward, into the shelter of his body. Holstered it. Found a seat by the table. Facing the door. Didn’t like the tunnel behind him, but liked the sound of the water. Figured he’d hear someone long before they came creeping up out of it.
Still holding the gun, she turned to him. In the flickering light. The cavern lit up in faint cascades of green. Made him think of the Lady in Blue. In a boat. Crossing an underground sea. Ethereal. A faraway kingdom, too delicate to exist in the real world.
“Wyte’s dead,” Finch said. Each time he said it, it seemed more remote. Then came back to him fast and unbearable. Like something rising suddenly out of the dark that was both friend and foe.
“You said that.” Rathven knew Wyte as someone Finch had talked about. Maybe half a dozen times. Had kept Wyte from her. Why? “What happened to you. You’re covered in blood.”
“Sit down, Rathven,” Finch said. “Try to relax.” Talking to himself.
“What happened?”
“Stark gave Wyte a mushroom that put him over the edge. I had to take care of Wyte.” Said as calmly as he could manage. Give her something to think about.
It surprised Finch when she lowered the gun. Some part of him had thought she would shoot him.
Rathven sat down opposite him. Rested the gun on her knee.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Why?” Finch asked. “You had nothing to do with it, right?”
A fire in her eyes. “No, of course not.”
A feeling of hurt came over Finch. A sense of betrayal. It fascinated him. Worried at it like a piece of gristle between his teeth.
“You should’ve been a detective,” Finch said. “Down here with all of your books. With that tunnel as an escape route.”
“I should have been,” she said, dutifully. But there was nothing playful in her expression. “What do you want from me, Finch? The city is falling apart. They’ve even disbanded the camps.” Said it with a mix of regret and wonder. “I might have to—”
“What? Leave? Like your ‘brother’?”
She had the grace to look away. “I’m in a different place than you. You never went to the camps. You don’t really know what they were like. It was a white lie. You wouldn’t have helped him otherwise. He was still a friend.”
“You mean, if I knew he worked for the rebels.”
“Everyone works for the rebels,” she snapped.
“Even Sintra?” Even me?
“Sintra I know nothing about,” Rathven said. “Nothing. Except what I told you.”
“Who else do you work for?” Finch asked.
“No one. Everyone. You. Myself.” Wriggling in the trap. She softened her tone. A kind of misdirection: “I did check out those aliases for you. The Bliss aliases.”
“Find anything?”
“Just that ‘Dar Sardice’ might not be an alias.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, if you go through some of the books about the wars, and the books I have about it from the Morrow/Frankwrithe side, you don’t find Ethan Bliss’s name anywhere until after the first mention of ‘Dar Sardice.’”
“Do you mean that Dar Sardice is his real name?”
“Either that,” Rathven said, “or he killed Dar Sardice and took his name. And then his real name isn’t Bliss or Sardice. Or, my sources aren’t complete enough.”
Bliss pointing him toward Stark. Bliss bringing him into the next day while Bosun trashed his apartment. Bliss throwing him off the scent.
“How about Stark?”
Thought he sensed a hesitation before she said, “No.”
“That’s funny, because when I mentioned Stark before you didn’t even stop to ask me who he was. Like you knew.”
“I thought you’d tell me soon enough,” she said. “For Truff’s sake, you were telling me your friend was dead!”
“A lot of people come to you down here in the basement, don’t they?” Finch said.
“You knew that already. Don’t do this, Finch,” Rathven said. Almost convincing him. But the ache was too great.
“A lot of people the gray caps wouldn’t approve of,” he said, pressing on.
“You’re tired, you’re grieving,” she said.
“People who want things from you,” he continued.
She changed tactics, said, “Am I under arrest?” Was it disdain or an echo of hurt he saw on her face? Were they insulting each other or wounding each other?
“No,” he said. “Where would I take you? The station was bombed today. It’s gone. Matchsticks and stones. Everybody’s gone.”
She had no answer to that, must’ve known “I’m sorry” would just set him off.
“Wyte’s dead,” Finch said, “because Stark took him over the edge. Stark got hold of certain information to try to make me help him. How did he get it?”
For a moment, Wyte sat beside him, saying, “How far are you going to take this?”
“Finch.” Pleading. For what, though? For him to trust her? To stop questioning her? To keep things the way they’d always been?
Finch leaned forward, reached out, and pulled her chin up when she tried to look away. She let him do it. “Listen carefully. Stark knew about Sintra. You told him. He found out about you from his predecessors, the Stockton agents he liquidated once he got here. He came, or he sent Bosun. They either threatened you or paid you, or both. And you told them about Sintra. About me. Maybe you tried to protect me, and that’s all you gave them. You might even think you helped me. But you gave them something. I know you did. You’re the only one who could. If I’m wrong, tell me. Tell me I’m wrong. Right now. But don’t lie to me.”