But Stark wasn’t finished: “For that reason, as much of a shit hole as this city is, I don’t look forward to going back to Stockton when this is all over. They put you through hell for decontamination. Weeks. Some spend months. So, to answer your question: you’ll get Wyte back soon enough. He won’t know where he was or what he saw. But he’ll be intact. Except for some skin scrapings. Just in case.”

Bosun placed a carving of a boat on the desk. “We get your boat, too,” he said.

“No, no, Bosun,” Stark said, irritably. He shoved the boat off the side of the desk. “That would be mean of us. Almost cruel. How will they get back to the station otherwise? Can you imagine how cut up their feet would be? How sick they’d be of squishing down on something soft and not knowing if it was a banana peel or something alive and deadly. Why, they might not make it back at all by land, going through that gauntlet with no guns, no shoes. No nothing.”

“Thanks,” Finch said. Making it sound as much like an echo of “fuck off” as possible. The sudden thought that he might have to kill Stark to be free of him.

“Time to leave now,” Stark said with a big neighborly smile. “Just know we’ll be watching you. Watching and checking in from time to time. I’ve given you information. You owe me information back.”

Almost against his will, biting on the inside of his cheek: “How do I contact you?”

“Oh, you don’t, Detective. I’m only here on the Spit to finish cleaning up. I’m not staying on the Spit. That would be suicide. I’ll be in touch. Or Bosun will.” Pointed with his head to the pile of bodies under blankets. “Poor Davies there, I’m sorry to say, did not clean up well. You might not want to tell Wyte about that, although I’m sure he can guess.”

As Bosun led him out, Stark said, in an uncharacteristic tone, like a wistful afterthought, “The towers will be done soon, Finch. Ever wondered about what that might mean for this miserable city?”

4

Silence as they took the boat back across the bay. Finch lay on the deck of the boat. Not giving a shit about how it breathed into him. Staring at the sky. Gray cloud ribbons, the rain now just mist. A hint of cold, something unexpected for the season. Wyte stood above Finch. Fuming. Livid. Jut-jawed about how easily they’d abducted him. Bruises on his face and hands long and narrow from that foreshortened angle.

Finch felt the smooth glide of the boat through thickish water. The way the deck gave a little under his weight. Like he was lying on top of another body.