2

At the station, Blakely had barricaded the door with a couple of filing cabinets and an empty desk. Finch slid through a narrow gap that Gustat quickly closed behind him. Blakely had the smell of whiskey on his breath, masked by coffee. The flushed face of someone trying desperately to get drunk for a long time. Behind him, Gustat was fiddling with his radio, with no luck. No sign of Wyte. Or Albin or Skinner.

“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 whiskey 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 platelike 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.