Back on the roof of the hotel. Where Finch could see it all from on high. See it clean and remote. Banish pointless images of ripping out Stark’s throat. Shooting him dead in the street. If Heretic doubted Finch, killing Stark wouldn’t help anything. He’d filed his report before he left. Stuffed it down the memory hole with misgivings. Would it be enough?

Wanted clarity before he saw Rathven, knew he wasn’t going to get it.

The sun was going down. Watched the orange-yellow shimmer. Tried to ignore the towers, but that was impossible. The light made them a fuzzy green, as if dusted with pollen. The glare hurt his eyes.

The Photographer would be coming up soon. Finch had knocked on his door on the way up. Thin shadow through slit of door. Pale face rising from someplace submerged to meet his request. Told him that what he wanted would take thirty, forty minutes.

Too restless to sit. Hands in the pockets of his jacket. Left hand clenched around a piece of paper, a time line:

Stark arrives—disappearing door—gray cap tortured—two murders—strange phrase on scrap of paper—Bliss—men murdered—Bliss disappears—two towers near completion—Stark gives us information—Heretic presses re the case …

How much of it was really connected?

Agent #2: For the record, the Subject drew a symbol on the table. In some sort of golden dust. Kind of a half circle then a circle then a line with another line across it. Then two more half circles at the end. I’ll draw it later.

Now he had to reconsider the gray symbol on the torn piece of paper. Had preferred the case when it all seemed to be about Bliss.

Within the hour, he’d know the identity of the dead man. Part of him wanted to know. Part of him thought he wasn’t going to like the answer.

He’d included almost everything in the report for Heretic except the tortured gray cap. Put some heat on Stark. And nothing about Rathven. After all, Finch hadn’t even spoken to her yet. But he’d had to mention the words on the piece of paper. Called it a possible password.

Wyte had returned before Finch had filed the report, with nothing to add but a bad mood. Looking like shit again. His informant had found nothing at the address, because the building had burned to the ground. No witnesses. “Nothing except this.” Wyte had tossed a carving onto Finch’s desk. Crudely like a gray cap. Along with some information from his informant: Bosun was Stark’s younger brother. Known in Stockton as a brawler and boozer. Interesting, but what to do with it? Stark was still a question mark.