In the decade that followed, Finch’s father rose to become a strangely neutral figure. As the divide between Hoegbotton and Frankwrithe became narrower, as the city devolved into regions and factions and neighborhoods, he found himself working in government as a former war hero. For bridges. For reconstruction of roads. For anything that could bring back, even for just a month or a year, stability to a district or side.

“It was like fighting a guerilla war of engineering,” he told Finch once. “I’d rebuild it. Someone else would smash it.”

Finch believes that being found out was a kind of relief for his father. To give up the exhaustion of playing sides against each other. Of having to find work. Of having to be so secretive. Being a fugitive didn’t weigh on him as heavily.

Thinks about this as he struggles with the mystery that is Duncan Shriek.

Is Duncan Shriek the dust, coming down across a century, that will kill him?

8

Could be a twin. Could be a great-great-grandson. But wasn’t.

Finch walked up the stairs to his apartment, holding the two books. Rath had tried to get him to stay longer. As if she didn’t want to be alone with what she’d found out. But he had to be alone with it.

Still at a loss. You could plod along for years thinking you were holding on, that you were doing okay. That you might even be doing a little good. Then something happened and you realized you didn’t understand anything. A sudden shuddering impulse for Sintra that he understood was reflexive. Wasn’t real. Was about forgetting. Even though he needed to remember.

The stairs seemed to go on forever. Like a throat swallowing him up.

Finch had shielded Rath from his confusion. Asked her to do more investigative work. Suggested there was a rational explanation. Even though he didn’t believe it. Even intimated he knew something he couldn’t share.

How long until Heretic knows? Maybe he already knows.

He came to the seventh floor. Saw that his apartment door was open a crack. Which drove Duncan Shriek from his mind and brought Stark back. Stark and Bosun. Unless it was Sintra?

Would she have left the door open?

Strange, how calm he felt. Had he played out the scenario of intruder in his mind too often to be surprised?

Finch placed the two books on the floor. Took out his Lewden Special and released the safety. Nudged the door wider. Saw the gray and black silhouettes of his living room furniture, the kitchen beyond, and the window directly ahead of him. A hazy green-white light came from outside.

No one there.

No sign of anyone having been there.

Maybe they’d already left.

Maybe he’d forgotten to close the door. Not likely.