“She’s not even your sister, is she?”

“Goodbye, Finch,” the Photographer said, and stuck out his hand. A stronger grip than he’d imagined, and more final.

He wasn’t coming back.

“What about your photographs?”

“You can have them if you want them. I don’t need them anymore.”

Then he was gone, walking down the stairs.

In the bay, the towers had fallen silent. There was just the heavy wall of black smoke from the southeast shore. Already he could hear the sound of angry voices from below. Could see, at intersections far below, crowds gathering.

Finch stood there awhile. Looking out over the city. Not sure whether to believe he held its future in his hands.

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.