There are no definitive conclusions to be drawn in this murder case. I have found no information on the identity of the dead gray cap. The man may be related to a fringe historian, Duncan Shriek, who lived in the apartment more than a hundred years ago, but this appears to be a coincidence. Two names came up repeatedly in investigating the case: Ethan Bliss, an operative for Morrow, and “Stark,” the alias of a spy working for Stockton. Their relationship to the case is oblique at best, but both appear convinced that the man carried a weapon created by the rebels for use against Fanaarcensitii. I remain convinced that the man fell from a great height and was moved to the apartment—that he died elsewhere. Both Bliss and Stark may know more, but they remain fugitives, and we have not been given the resources to track them down. If the dead man was part of a rebel conspiracy, then it appears to have failed. I would suggest that the Fanaarcensitii put all of their resources into tracking down Bliss and Stark. Interrogations of both parties might provide more information. All other intelligence can be found in the attached notes and prior reports.

—Detective John Finch

Short. Protective of those it needed to protect. Giving up those who were asking for it.

Cowardly. Masking death, despair, destruction.

Put it aside.

Typed, pushing the keys down hard:

EVENTS ARE MOVING BEYOND YOU. THERE’S NOTHING YOU CAN DO. YOU’RE NOT EVEN THE CRAFTIEST BASTARDS IN THE ROOM. YOU’LL ALL GO DOWN WONDERING HOW IT HAPPENED. I’LL NEVER UNDERSTAND YOU, BUT YOU’LL NEVER UNDERSTAND US, EITHER.

Felt like a child. Took that message, too, and walked back to his desk. Pondered both of them, lying there like some kind of judgment on his integrity.

A few minutes later, still thinking, the phone rang.

“Finch.” Wyte. The voice barely recognizable. As human. “You’ve got to help me.”

“When the time comes, right, Finch?” “Sure, Wyte. When the time comes.”

“Finch. Are you there?”

“Yes.”

“It’s time.”

Every memory of Wyte invincible the day before cracked into pieces. Finch’s throat tightened. The world around him spun, lost focus. Blakely hunched over his desk. To the left was a splotch of ruddy white. The windows seemed to contract.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Okay, Wyte. Okay.”

“And, Finch, I don’t think I’m going quietly. Not like Richard Dorn.”

The voice, once so deep and gravelly, had changed since they’d first met.

Become soft and liquid, lighter yet thicker.

“Where are you?”

“At my apartment.”

“You’ll know what to do.” “I’ll know what to do.”

“I’m coming,” Finch said.

Wyte hung up.

Sat there a moment. Leaned forward a little over his desk. Elbows digging into the wood. Marshaling his strength.

You can do this. You have to do this. You promised him.