Finch by Jeff VanderMeer

by Jeff VanderMeer

  “What the fuck is going on?”

  Blakely: “You've seen what's happening. We'll be targets. We're thinking we might fortify the bell tower. If things don't get better.”

  Finch just stared at him. “Fortify the tower?” Make one last stand. Wait out the siege in a pathetic excuse for a tree fort, a few dozen bottles of whisky and beer for comfort. Had a flash of Blakely as a bullying, pimply faced child, strong-arming his way into the local clubhouse.

  “You have a better idea?” Blakely asked.

  Saw the fear in his face now.

  “There are no better ideas,” Finch muttered.

  But Blakely had a point. The mood on the streets had been fearful, murderous. He'd kept his detective's badge in his hand the whole time. Other hand on his gun. Hating the way the sky made everything so clear, so clean-looking. Hating the weight in his pocket of the thing the Photographer had given him. Partials had been rounding up anyone still in a camp uniform. Bashing in heads. But no statement had been made by the gray caps. By a stroke of bad luck, it was also another drug mushroom day. Everyone wanted them now, to stock up against disaster.

  Finch walked toward his desk. Bodies had been stacked in the holding cell. On top: a man of about thirty-five in a lacerated brown suit and a woman in her twenties, wearing a fancy red dress. A plate-like lavender lichen had begun to cover up their faces. A dozen others under them. All dead. Thought he recognized one or two from the chapel.

  “What's this about?” he demanded.

  No response for the longest time. Then Blakely spoke up. “Heretic said they were traitors. With the rebels. Brought them here last night. They had to be liquidated, Heretic said.”

  Gustat wouldn't look at Blakely. Wouldn't look anywhere.

  “So Heretic was here?” Finch asked.

  “Yes, he was. Last night.”

  “And you just plan on leaving the bodies here?” Failing to hide his disgust. At them? At the situation?

  “He told us to.”

  Gustat spoke up. “There's talk of the gray caps getting ready to cleanse whole neighborhoods with spore clouds. They've closed off the streets nearest the bay and the towers. The towers will be done in the next day or two.” The words said with a mixture of awe and dread.

  “They're pretty well done already,” Finch said. “They took out the whole fucking Spit this morning if you hadn't noticed. Where are the others?”

  “Told to go work on the towers, so I guess they aren't done,” Blakely said.

  Finch sat down at his desk. Anger building in him. For having to go through the motions. At the casual cruelty of his position.

  New case notes on his desk. In Blakely's hand. A domestic dispute. A mugging. Someone had stolen someone else's food. Someone's dog had gone missing and the owner had filed a missing person's report. Amazing how the mundane shit never ended. While the world went to hell. Again tried to chart the sequence of events that had led him to this moment. Couldn't.

  “Heard anything from Wyte?” he asked, to distract himself.

  “He's alive?” Gustat seemed shocked.

  “Yes, he's fucking well alive.” Then realized he hadn't called in to the station after the shoot-out. Need to call Wyte. “Dapple's dead, though. We had a shoot-out with rebels and Partials.” The words came out so matter- of-factly. So easily.

  “Dapple's dead,” Gustat said, hand still on the radio tuner. A blank stare into the distance. Began to cry. As if Dapple had been his best friend, instead of just tolerated.

  Harsh laugh from Blakely. “Sorry we didn't have a chance to catch up on your exploits before now. But last night we were too busy sticking it out here in the station next to a pile of corpses.”

  “It happens, Gustat,” Finch said. With a toughness he didn't feel. Ignoring Blakely. Hadn't expected Gustat's tears. Hadn't expected a lot of things. Wondered how much longer he could endure it. When would whatever kept him going run out?

  “Look in your memory hole, Finch,” Blakely said.

  A message? He leaned down. Pulled the pod out uneasily, with the other two watching. Went through the ritual of opening it. Just a note. From Heretic.

  PLANS HAVE CHANGED. FILE A FINAL REPORT ON YOUR CASE. THEN REPORT WITH WYTE TO THE TOWERS FOR WORK DETAIL.

  A vast improvement over the last message.

  Blakely's face held fear and smugness all at once. “You're off the case. He told us before he left. The case is over.”

  Incredulous: “Who is taking it over, then?”

  “No one. Working on the towers is punishment for what happened at the safe house. If you ask me, you got off light. He was in a good mood. Calm. Almost happy. Even when he put them to sleep.” A tilt of the head toward the holding cage.

  “You've got to work on the towers,” Gustat said, still messing with his radio. An odd look on his face, halfway between a frown and a smile.

  “Thanks for the reminder,” Finch said. “Now fuck off.”

  “Cheer up,” Blakely said. “I don't think Heretic's coming back. I don't think anyone's coming back.”

  The clock ticked. The phone on Finch's desk rang a few times. Mostly people scared because of the destruction of the Spit. Even though the towers had done nothing since. Some of the people who called even had some small hope he could help them. But they were living in the grip of memories of the old days. A past that had never really existed.

  Finch worked on his final report. Going through the motions. Sticking to routine. Waiting for someone to tap him on the shoulder and tell him the rest of the plan. He would call Wyte soon, too. Just working up the nerve.

  Started out with pen and paper. Wrote drivel. Fuck you . . . Am I just the bait? . . . There's nothing here you can use . . . You're monstrous .. .

  Paralyzed for a moment by the thought of the look on Sintra's face as she walked away from him for the last time. Clinging now to what she'd told him even as he'd told her to stop before. “My mother had gotten better, but my father had lost his arm to a fungal bullet. He couldn't work for a long time he was so depressed. He'd been a journalist.”

  Threw away his pointless notes. Went to the typewriter. Soon had a real report that while bland made a kind of sense. Was it good enough to satisfy Heretic while he completed his mission? Had no idea. Read it over one last time.

  There are no definitive conclusions to be drawn in this murder case. I have found no information on the identity of the dead gray cap. The man may be related to a fringe historian, Duncan Shriek, who lived in the apartment more than a hundred years ago, but this appears to be a coincidence. Two names came up repeatedly in investigating the case: Ethan Bliss, an operative for Morrow, and “Stark,” the alias of a spy working for Stockton. Their relationship to the case is oblique at best, but both appear convinced that the man carried a weapon created by the rebels for use against Fanaarcensitii. I remain convinced that the man fell from a great height and was moved to the apartment-that he died elsewhere. Both Bliss and Stark may know more, but they remain fugitives, and we have not been given the resources to track them down. If the dead man was part of a rebel conspiracy, then it appears to have failed. I would suggest that the Fanaarcensitii put all of their resources into tracking down Bliss and Stark. Interrogations of both parties might provide more information. All other intelligence can be found in the attached notes and prior reports.

  --Detective John Finch

  Short. Protective of those it needed to protect. Giving up those who were asking for it.

  Cowardly. Masking death, despair, destruction.

  Put it aside.

  Typed, pushing the keys down hard:

  EVENTS ARE MOVING BEYOND YOU. THERE'S NOTHING YOU CAN DO. YOU'RE NOT EVEN THE CRAFTIEST BASTARDS IN THE ROOM. YOU'LL ALL GO DOWN WONDERING HOW IT HAPPENED. I'LL NEVER UNDERSTAND YOU, BUT YOU'LL NEVER UNDERSTAND US, EITHER.

  Felt like a child. Took that message, too, and walked back to his desk. Pondered both of them, lying there like some kind of judgment on his integrity.

&nbs
p; A few minutes later, still thinking, the phone rang.

  “Finch.” Wyte. The voice barely recognizable. As human. “You've got to help me.”

  “When the time comes, right, Finch?” “Sure, Wyte. When the time comes.”

  “Finch. Are you there?”

  “Yes.”

  “It's time.”

  Every memory of Wyte invincible the day before cracked into pieces. Finch's throat tightened. The world around him spun, lost focus. Blakely hunched over his desk. To the left was a splotch of ruddy white. The windows seemed to contract.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I'm sure.”

  “Okay, Wyte. Okay.”

  “And, Finch, I don't think I'm going quietly. Not like Richard Dom.”

  The voice, once so deep and gravelly, had changed since they'd first met. Become soft and liquid, lighter yet thicker.

  “Where are you?”

  “At my apartment.”

  “You'll know what to do.” “I'll know what to do.”

  “I'm coming,” Finch said.

  Wyte hung up.

  Sat there a moment. Leaned forward a little over his desk. Elbows digging into the wood. Marshaling his strength.

  You can do this. You have to do this. You promised him.

  Finch raised his arm. Smashed his fist into the desk. Just to feel the pain shoot up through his shoulder. Stood. Swept everything off of his desk. Made a sound almost like a roar. Almost like a moan. While Blakely and Gustat, standing now, just stared at him.

  Tonsure's bones in the little house by the underground sea. Strange stars. Falling with Bliss into darkness. Emerging into light. Heretic's skery crawling up his leg. Sintra disappearing into darkness.

  “What the fuck are you looking at?” Finch snarled. He began to break everything on the floor into pieces small enough to feed into the memory hole. Bits of pencil. Torn paper. The gaping jaw of a stapler. Shoved them into it. The hole rasped and protested.

  Then tore up his report and his pathetic message. Put them both down the hole as well.

  “Do you like that, Heretic? Do you?” Might have been screaming it. Didn't care.

  Blakely pulled him away, hand on his shoulder. Finch shrugged it off. Whirled on him. Looked at Blakely like he didn't know him. Saw Blakely had his gun out. Controlled himself, arms outstretched, palms down.

  “It's okay, Blakely.” But it wasn't okay. How much else could fall apart? What was left? “I just need some things from my desk and then I'm gone.”

  The Photographer had said they'd be watching him. Now they'd have to watch him deal with Wyte.

  Blakely backed away. Didn't put down his gun. “You're crazy, Finch,” he said. “You're crazy.” Gustat stood there, mouth open.

  Finch reached under the desk. Pulled the ceremonial scimitar in its scabbard from its hiding place.

  Blakely backed even farther away. “What the hell is that?”

  “It's my sword,” Finch said. Brought the belt with the scabbard around his waist. “Never seen a sword before, Blakely?” Already had his gun. Didn't really need anything else. Never would again.

  At the door, he planned to turn and say something. What, he didn't know. But there was nothing to say. Instead, he just pushed the filing cabinet aside.

  Left Blakely and Gustat standing there, looking like two lost boys in a room suddenly grown huge.

  Finch by Jeff VanderMeer

  3

  yte's door had a sagging “17” on it. Half shadowed, half in sunlight from the decorative stone wall running parallel to all the apartments. The blue paint had a rust-like stain running through it. An old bullet hole decorated the upper left-hand corner. A faded, torn welcome mat. Sweat and mold and the fading stench of piss. It depressed Finch. He'd only visited Wyte there a few times. Late-night drinking sessions. Bold statements about escape or joining the rebels that nobody remembered in the mornings. Commiserating with Wyte over his estranged wife. His far distant children.

  Finch had taken the long route, trying to shake any watchers.

  Knocked once. Twice. Gun in one hand. Sword in the other.

  Nothing.

  Knocked again.

  Heard a sound this time. Like a voice. A voice drowning as it spoke. Awash in strange tides. Might've said, “Come in, Finch.”

  Inside: cracked yellow wallpaper. A photo of Wyte's wife on a rickety table. A short hallway leading to the galley-style kitchen. A couple of crooked paintings showed faded watercolor scenes of Hoegbotton ships hunting the king squid. Fables of a bygone era.

  Then the living room. Almost no furniture. As if Wyte were already gone.

  But he wasn't. He lay in the comer of the living room, the weak light of an old lamp dribbling across his body. The lamp had come all the way from the Southern Isles, brought by Wyte's grandmother. Shells were still glued into the base.

  Wyte dwarfed the lamp. Slumped there. Monstrous. Huge. Spilling out in peculiar ways. As if a mossy hill had been dropped into the room. Wandering tendrils as outliers. Above, looking down at Finch, the face within the face. The tiny eyes. White against the encroaching dark. Staring out.

  Who'd laid the trap for Wyte? In the beginning? He'd laid it for himself, in a sense. By falling into it.

  Wyte spoke. Guttural. Wet. Dissolving. “Thanks for coming, James.” Like everything were normal. Four days ago we were tracking down Bliss.

  “It's going to be okay, Wyte.”

  “You don't have to lie to me. It's not going to be okay. It's not. I know that. Even if Otto doesn't.” A gruff, coughing laugh.

  “You're among friends, Wyte.”

  A kind of seismic shift from the thing in the corner. Laughter?

  “It's nice to call you James again. That might've been the hardest thing. Remembering to call you Finch. Or John.”

  “You didn't give me up, Wyte. I'll never forget that.”

  A shambling shrug from the mound in the corner. From the thing with Wyte's eyes.

  "Tell Emily. Tell her. .

  “She knows. I know, Wyte. No one needs to be told anything.” Finch didn't even know where Emily lived anymore.

  Creature. Monster. Other.

  Finch's hands were shaking. Could he do this? Searching himself. Both Crossley and Finch. Can either of us do this? Kept thinking of Wyte behind the desk at Hoegbotton's so long ago. Showing Finch the ropes. Patiently explaining the job.

  A world extinguished as thoroughly as a spent match in the gutter.

  “James?”

  “Yes?”

  “Like I said on the phone, I can't control myself anymore. There's not much of me left. The rest might fight back. But you have to know that's not me.”

  Telling Finch in a candid moment months ago, “I don't want to hurt anybody. I don't want to lose control but still be there, knowing what I am doing.”

  “I know, Wyte,” Finch said. Grinding his teeth. Biting his cheek until the blood came. A soundless scream building inside of him. “It's going to be okay.”

  But it wasn't.

  Finch closed the door behind him.

  Drew his sword, tears streaming down his face.

  What it took to kill a man transformed that way was almost what it took to kill a gray cap. Finch had killed a gray cap once. Before the Rising. When he was James Crossley. When it was just House Hoegbotton against House Frankwrithe & Lewden. Just poorly trained Irregulars patrolling neighborhoods. Making sure the enemy didn't take hold in the cracks. Weeding them out from derelict, firebombed houses. Abandoned theaters. Courtyards that still held memories of massacres. Official Hoegbotton policy called gray caps “noncombatants” unless a unit felt under threat. Unofficial policy encouraged patrols to engage and drive off, “damage,” or kill. Back then, the gray caps supplied arms and ammo to Frankwrithe & Lewden.

  Crossley was in charge of the patrol that night. They'd emerged from a warren of streets into a junkyard, surrounded by burnt-out buildings, that had once been a playground. Right after detaining and t
hen releasing three youths without papers. The three had done enough to convince Crossley they belonged. Or enough for him to not want to arrest them and have them wind up in a holding cell where they might not last until morning.

  They had only the light of a half-moon and the reluctant streetlamps burning a hundred feet away. But Crossley caught sight of something moving herky-jerky through the junkyard.

  Seven in the patrol. Exposed. He wasn't sure what he was seeing at first, because gray caps rarely came out into the open. It was like seeing a dolphin in a public pond. So he'd given the signal to spread out without knowing what they faced. Circle round. Converge.

  He crept up, over broken girders and garbage, to find: a gray cap. Wandering in a circle. Talking to itself. No obvious injury. But something wrong. Like it was drunk.

  When the gray cap saw them, it broke off its wandering dance. Tried to escape. But they had it hemmed in by then. Its teeth, needle sharp. Claws on its fingers. It expelled a fungal mist, but they were already wearing gas masks.

  Crossley was the first to shoot it. It lurched. Righted itself. Ran toward another point of the compass. Two bullets. Another lurch. But absorbed. A cry. A leap like a dancer, then. As if finally realizing the danger. Crossley-Finch would never forget. It whirled past one man and then another. But instead of escaping, it turned to close the distance. As if enraged. Or sick. The light in its eyes green and everlasting. Tore into one man with its claws, slapping away his rifle. Took another bullet for its efforts, but scooped out the Irregular's throat. The man crumpled to the ground. Crossley, scrambling to aim and fire, thought he saw a glint of a smile from the creature.

  Darted. Flitted. Was gone. Then back again. Far then close. Each of them struggling to keep up with that speed. Grunting and cursing and sweating, as if it were something normal. Like digging a ditch or a grave. Too invested now. Knowing they couldn't retreat, and that the gray cap had decided to fight.

  Wherever the thing stepped, a golden dust rose up from its tread. Clouds of red-and-green spores radiated out from it like steam. Their gas masks protected them.