Finch

by Jeff VanderMeer

Finch wished he had a club. A knife. Anything. The fungal guns didn’t work against gray caps. Thought again about the sword. About bringing it across Heretic’s rubbery neck. He drove the image away as irrational. Heretic had asked him to be here. If Heretic ever wanted him dead, he’d send a present to his apartment. Or dissolve him into a puff of spores in front of the other detectives. Five times he’d stayed after hours. Survived each encounter. But talking to a single gray cap during the day was different from being among many of them after dusk. It brought back memories of the war. It reminded him of night duty in the trenches, the crude defenses House Hoegbotton had created for its soldiers. Sighting through the scope at some pile of rubble opposite. Hoping not to see anything. Feeling the sweat and fear of the others to each side. The flinch and intake of breath at the slightest movement.

A figure beside the chairs. In a long, dark robe. Graying hair lifted slightly by the wind. The Lady in Blue. Unmistakable. Finch just stared at her. Disbelieving. Forgot his captors shoving him from behind. Forgot the danger he was in. He had never seen her before, and now he was seeing her by starlight. On a hill under a strange night sky. Surrounded by some kind of dead city. In the Hoegbotton Irregulars, the promise of meeting her had been held out like a guarantee of better times. As they lay in the trenches. As they went from house to house, rooting out insurgents. As they ate hard, stale bread and molding fruit. Made soup from glue, water, and salt.

The stars swirled into a circle, then a haze. The world disappeared all over again. * * * James Crossley had been callow, self-absorbed, impatient, a ladies’ man. Finch was none of those things. Finch was direct, brusque, had a dark sense of humor. Crossley had been, for a while, finicky about food. Finch had cured him of the last of that during the worst times, with stew made from leather belts, made from dogs and rats. Crossley never swore. Finch had trained himself to swear to fit in. To break up the rhythm of his normal speech patterns. Crossley liked the river. Finch kept waiting for something to leap out of it. Both liked cigars and whiskey. Both were as dependable as they could be, indifferent to music, and hated small talk. Although Crossley had had more chances to hate it than Finch. Crossley had been part of his father’s network as a youth, something he’d only known later. Even if he’d had an inkling. His father passed information on Frankwrithe to Hoegbotton, and information on Hoegbotton to Frankwrithe. Built things for Hoegbotton only to give Frankwrithe the intel to blow them up. Used the contacts to feed Hoegbotton sensitive information on troop movements from supposed “sources.” Neither side having any sense of the level of betrayal until they came together to fight the gray caps. After which it became clear John Crossley had been given his orders by someone working for the Kalif. Creating chaos while providing the Kalif’s secret service with an inside look...

“How are you going to protect me?” “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.

“Do you know who I am, back in Stockton? Do you know what happens to you if you hurt me?” Stark’s lower lip was quivering. “No, I don’t know. Because you won’t tell me who you are. Open your mouth.” Stark’s stare in that moment contained a kind of limitless, unhinged hatred. A kind of poison that willed itself to close the distance. To enter Finch. He grabbed the bulb from Finch. Crunched down on it with a kind of arrogant defiance. Finch realized Stark thought he could survive it. That he was bigger than whatever might happen to him. A minute for the bulb to take effect. Finch placed the gun’s muzzle against Stark’s face. “Any last words before you don’t remember who you are?” Stark gave out a little crumpled laugh. A kind of regal contempt. “Not a one for you, Finchy. Except you’ll pay for this, one way or the other. I’m the crown prince incognito. I’m an enchanted frog. Somebody will come after you.” The man’s hostility began to fade as the memory bulb took effect. Finch looked into his eyes. Found nothing there. Nothing worth saving. Just an outsider who’d decided he wanted to profit off of the city’s misery. A thug who thought he was tougher. Playing a game where his only strategy was to keep turning the screws. Finch didn’t care who he was anymore. Just wanted him gone. Wondered without interest what Bosun would do now. Stark’s pupils had begun to dilate. Eyelids flickering like hummingbird wings. Said, as if from a faraway place, “No, I won’t. I don’t want to.” Fell...