by Nancy Holder
His younger brother, Mark, was hunched in a chair at his bedside. His face was streaked with tears.
When Buffy walked into the room, Mark jumped to his feet. He was a stereotypical nerd, skinny, with big glasses, the kind of kid bullies ached to punch out. He was fourteen but he looked like he was eleven.
Then he said, “Are you another doctor?”
She jerked slightly. “Hi. I’m Buffy. I go to school with you and your brother,” she said.
Floods of tears streamed down his face. “He killed Mom and Dad,” he said.
Buffy’s lips parted in shock.
“I wasn’t there. I couldn’t do anything. I wasn’t there,” he sobbed. He waved her away and sank back into his chair, wailing with grief.
Buffy’s heart thudded with the echo of his words.
I wasn’t there.
Chapter 3
“LOOK, XANDER, FREEDOM,” BUFFY SAID BRIGHTLY TO Xander as she opened the passenger-side door of Cordelia’s car with a flourish.
A sweet blue-haired Sunnydale Hospital Auxiliary volunteer helped Xander out of the wheelchair. “Freedom. Yang holy word. Do not speak it,” Xander growled as he stood up easily and climbed in.
Buffy didn’t know the pop-culture reference, but she smiled anyway. It was great to see Xander being Xander, all decked out in one of his signature too-big shirts and baggy trou, even if they had shaved part of his head to have a look-see at his concussion. In fact, the shaved-head part was kind of cool.
It was great because he was him, and Giles had returned fully to Gileshood.
But Willow, who was still in the hospital, was not shiny and new. She was very down, and very angry. She kept insisting she wasn’t pissed off at Buffy for showing late, but Buffy couldn’t believe her. Maybe because she was so furious with herself.
The same afternoon as the shootout, Oz’s van had been found in the middle of a bend in Route 17 with the front end smashed in. There were flecks of black paint in the dents — evidence that he’d crashed into another vehicle, or vice versa — but no other vehicle was at the scene. Just his van with the driver’s door open. And no Oz. No sign of Oz. No word from Oz, and it had been three days since he’d gone missing.
Buffy started looking for her salsa partner as soon as they found the van. What she discovered was that while Oz was well liked, he was something of a mystery to most of the people who knew him. No surprise there. When you had a deep, dark secret, it tended to put some distance between you and your nearest and dearest.
She talked to all the Dingoes, flaring when Devon told her about his “request” for Oz to get his act together or leave the band. Poor Oz. She couldn’t even defend him except to say a few things about pressure and friendship. For Oz’s sake, she’d stayed pleasant. Later, she took her frustrations out on a row of trash cans.
“You know, that’s vandalism,” Angel drawled as he leaned against the corner of an abandoned building on the other side of the alley. “And it’s been on the rise the last week or so. Wonder why.”
“This is my first trash can tantrum in a long time,” Buffy insisted, ramming the nearest can as hard as she could, then whirling around and giving it a savage side kick for good measure.
“And no way would you do graffiti,” he replied. “Which has also been increasing of late.”
“Angel, please.” She stopped, smoothing back her hair and catching her breath.
He shrugged. “Someone’s been spray painting the highways and byways. Their spelling is atrocious. I thought maybe you’d joined a tag team.”
“We so need a teen club in this town,” she said. “Sorry, my bad. We have the Bronze. The lovely, beautiful Bronze. Which I can spell, by the way.”
“No news about Oz?” he asked, dropping the banter.
Buffy said nothing. He sighed and picked up the lid to the trash can, laying it on top of a small tower of peanut shells. They were on the bad side of town, which was half a block from the good side, as Cordelia had once told Buffy.
The overhanging streetlight cast hollows on his face, hiding his eyes, reminding her of her first dream in the Evil Dwells Here series. She shivered, and reminded herself that that dream was so cliché. Seeing your face on the bad guy . . . how many grade Z movies used that as the big shocker?
“My next stop is the Alibi. Again. I can’t believe Willy doesn’t know something.”
Angel nodded. “I’ll come with you. Again.”
As usual, they caused a stir when they sauntered into the Alibi together. A few regulars discreetly moved farther away from the bar. Behind the bar, Willy himself also was less than happy to see them. That wasn’t cause to stop the presses; he never looked very happy to see them.
“Hi,” Buffy said brightly. “What’s the haps since yesterday?”
The scummy little creep frowned and made a big deal out of filling a glass with Diet Coke for Buffy, like he was really going all out to win her good graces. He looked questioningly at Angel, who shook his head. He wasn’t into social drinking this evening. Just in getting answers.
Angel looked around the seedy establishment, which was frequented by the less-than-savory — or-human — population of Sunnydale. No vamps tonight; no demons, no spookables, as Xander called them. Just some very sad-looking people who could use some good news or a decent night’s sleep. Or some methadone. The usual crowd for a place like this.
He crossed his boots at the ankles and leaned Over the bar in a friendly, conversational way. His duster draped just so over his hip; if he were a human, he might have hidden a shotgun there for protection. But he and the Slayer didn’t need any extra weaponry.
“You might have noticed an increase in petty crime recently. Tagging, overturned trash cans, that kind of nonsense. Do you know anything about that? Anyone new blow into town? A gang, maybe?”
Willy burst out with a laugh. “Right. A gang of leprechauns. They love to go in for that hard stuff. One-perCENTERs, down the line.”
“Excuse me?” Angel said, cocking his head. “Are you trying to be funny?”
“Especially since there have also been a lot of murders?” Buffy added.
Willy’s eyes darted left, right. “Nobody new,” he muttered guiltily. It was hard to decide if he was hiding something or not; he always sounded guilty, and with a guy like Willy, there was so much to hide you never knew if it was anything pertaining to you.
“You know, you should tell us if there is,” Angel continued. “It’s in your best interests.”
“Really?” Willy’s eyes gleamed. Angel almost laughed out loud; Willy actually thought they were going to offer him money.
“Really. What my colleague here is saying, is if you don’t spill your guts, we will,” Buffy chimed in pleasantly.
“My colleague puts it so well.” Angel flattened his hands on the bar, making Willy jump. “So, tell me, Willy, do you feel chatty today?”
“I’ve got nothin’.” His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. Angel noticed the vein on his neck pulsating just so. It occurred to Angel that he was hungry. But not that hungry.
He would never be that hungry.
“Absolutely nothin’,” Willy babbled on.
“And nothin’s plenty for you,” Buffy finished. She looked at Angel as if to say, Now what?
“You realize of course that if we find out you lied to us,” Angel said, then allowed his face to morph just slightly, and just so only Willy could see it, “if you lied, I’ll decide to pay you back for nearly getting me killed.”
Willy looked stricken. “I only gave you to Spike because that Slayer chick from Jamaica threatened me,” he insisted.
“Don’t start, Willy. It will only anger him,” Buffy said kindly. “And you’ve never seen Angel angry.”
“Yes, yes, I have,” Willy assured her.
“Not really angry,” Angel said. He made a fist and pounded the bar . . . very gently.
“You hear anything, you come clean,” Buffy said.“Oh, and thanks for the Coke.”
He was met in the hall.
He caught his breath and backed up a couple of steps.
“I didn’t say anything,” he said hoarsely. “I didn’t tell them anything.”
The beautiful dark woman only stared at him.
The blond man said, “Was that the Slayer?” He looked hard at the dark woman. “With Angelus?”
She inhaled sharply.
“Only we call him Angel,” Willy said.
The blond man’s face morphed. He was probably the scariest-looking vampire Willy had ever seen, and he’d seen his fair share. Then the man reached over to the men’s room door and hardly without moving, ripped it off the hinges.
The dark woman flinched and bit her lower lip.
“Leave us,” the vampire said. The dark vampire broad looked like she was about to wet herself.
“No problem.” Willy darted back into the bar and poured himself a shot of gin. Threw it back and had another.
He figured it would take four or five more shots to stop the trembling.
Buffy walked despondently down the alley. “What do you think?” she asked. Her voice cracked.
“That you’ve got to get a better class of informants.” He flashed her a wry smile. “I’m amazed no one’s taken him out yet.”
Buffy sighed and gave the nearest trash can a gentle nudge.
“The night’s still young,” Angel ventured. “Have you tried Restfield Cemetery?”
“Last night, yes. But not tonight.”
“Let’s go.”
“Thanks,” she said.
“I’m sorry he brought up Kendra,” Angel continued.
“It’s okay,” she said tightly. “I’ve dealt.”
“I know.”
On the outskirts of town, the rooms were dark in the Dellasandro house. After the bodies were carted away, and the investigative teams combed the house for evidence, police tape was draped across the entrance. The kids began to congregate once more in the dirt lots surrounding the building. Stories began to spring up of people groaning and moving from room to room. If you listened real hard — after two or three beers — you might hear the crack of a shotgun followed by a scream.
Never mind that Brian had not used a shotgun.
It became a cool thing to run up to the front door and touch the tape. Then it became a cool thing to climb over the fence and peek in the windows. By the time the police got around to posting a guard, some drunk football players lobbed a couple pieces of burning wood onto the shake roof. Despite the efforts of the fire department, the house burned to the ground in record time.
Because it was an evil house, the kids whispered to each other.
Then the calico cat that lived a few blocks away — Romeo Kitty — was found mutilated. And the dog farther on down the street; a poodle named Jewel, went missing. Her owner, an extremely obese woman named Mrs. Gibson — usually the butt of jokes and the recipient of many shouted insults whenever she called the cops to bust up the party — was so distraught that she tried to overdose. And no one, not even the biggest jerks in school, made fun of her ever again.
Jewel was discovered a week after Mrs. Gibson’s suicide attempt in the canyon that abutted her backyard. Not a pretty sight; not a natural death.
Not coyotes, as the authorities tried to claim.
Mrs. Gibson moved. Some said she went to Philadelphia to live with her sister. Others, that she was carted away to an insane asylum, calling for Jewel.
But her vacant house became a tempting target, and soon there were reports of a figure or figures moving around inside it late at night.
Angry ghosts, some kids decided. But others murmured, Mark Dellasandro.
Where there was one psycho in a family, why couldn’t there be two?
On Wednesday, Willow got out of the hospital, and Buffy went to see her. Oz had been missing for five days. Three to go until he changed.
Willow didn’t look good: hair kind of oily and just clipped out of the way, no makeup, and a sweater that had seen far better days.
“I’m sorry I don’t have some news,” Buffy told Willow.
“You’re not looking hard enough.” Willow didn’t even glance up from the monitor on her desk. Willow was in hack mode, running through the Sunnydale police reports and checking out all the nearby hospitals’ admitting records.
Buffy was stung. “Well, Will, I do spend a couple extra hours every night patrolling for Oz, and —”
“That’s just stupid,” Willow snapped, clearly exasperated. “It’s not like he’s in wolf mode, you know, where you can track him down.” She tapped her head. “Brains, Buffy. You have to use ’em or you lose ’em. Which is something I’m not sure has ever occurred to you.”
Willow’s scared, she reminded herself. But it was still a mean thing to say.
But I deserve it, she reminded herself. I more than way deserve it.
“By the way, Mrs. Gibson’s house has been purchased for below market value by someone named H. Ombra,” Willow went on. “If you care.”
“I noticed the For Sale sign was gone,” Buffy offered, her voice unsteady. “I was patrolling over there last night. Extra,” she added. “Searching.”
“If you’re so proud of yourself for all this extra patrolling, how come you haven’t found that Acuff girl, either?”
“Hey.” Buffy frowned at her. “I know you’re wigged, and I’m really sorry, Willow. I —”
“You’re the Slayer. You can take it,“Willow shot back, raising her chin.
Buffy cocked her head. “Are you okay? I mean . . .”
Willow’s mouth twisted into a sneer. “What are you talking about? There’s nothing wrong with me. You’re the screwup.”
“Willow.” Buffy dropped her hands. “Please.”
Willow glared at her. “Everyone who hangs with you dies, have you noticed that? Sooner or later. I guess it was just Oz’s turn.”
Deliberately she turned her back on Buffy and clicked on the screen with her mouse. There was a long silence, during which she went through several more maneuvers with her computer. Windows popped up and collapsed with startling speed.
Wounded, Buffy turned to go, but took her time gathering her bag. Willow — the Willow she knew and loved — would not let her leave like this.
But this Willow muttered, “Shut the door on your way out.”
Buffy swallowed hard and left with as much dignity as she could muster. In the hallway, she shut the door and leaned against it, listening, praying Willow would have a change of heart and call her back in. But there was nothing, just the click of Willow’s mouse and the tapping of her keyboard.
The next morning, Buffy tried to cheer up, and cleaned up the kitchen for her mom, who was rushing around like a maniac stuffing food in her mouth and kvetching about something at the gallery. A broken window or a lock or something.
Buffy even got to school early for a training session with Giles. Inside her Slayer’s bag was a CD he would prize, and she was determined to work out to it rather than the stuff he said made his brain dribble out his ears. Four Star Mary, now there was an awesome group. But the Bay City Rollers was what would make Giles dance with glee.
“Heya,” she said, sailing into the library. “Lookee here, Porter. I’ve got —”
She was drawn up short by the crash of something breaking in his office. Without a second’s hesitation, she sprinted for the door and was about to open it when he appeared in the doorway.
“Hello, Buffy,” he said shortly, looking less than thrilled to see her.
“Hi. What happened?” she asked, craning her neck to see past him. “Drop something?”
“Just a teacup. I’ll see to it.” He raised his brows. “What can I do for you?”
She wrinkled her nose at him. “Giles, wow, you are getting old.” She did a little chop-socky dance. “Training, remember?”
He sighed. “I’m sorry. I don’t have the time this morning.”
Without another word, he went back into his office and shut the door, leaving Buffy to gape after him.
“I brought the Bay City Rollers,” she called a little hopefully. “And I’ve got Shaun Cassidy and the Partridge Family on order. Giles?”
“Yes,” he said, and at first she thought he was speaking to her. But then he went on. “Yes, I’ll hold.”
She hesitated.
He said, “David.”
I probably shouldn’t listen, she told herself, then inched more closely to the door. First Willow was the anti-Willow, and now Giles was Jerk Man. And yet, this phone call may hold the key.
“Oh, my God, I’m so terribly sorry,” Giles said. “Is there . . . are you in a lot of pain? Dash it. No, I can’t. I’ve got this bloody bimbo I have to take care of. No, no, I’m rather like her guardian. Yes, she’s got a mum, but she’s a dithering idiot. Well, what do you expect, here in California?”
Buffy was goggle-eyed. She told herself it had to be an act, something he was putting on for the benefit of this David, whoever he was. But if it was, he should get an award at the next Watchers’ Follies.
“A transplant?” Giles said. “Good Lord.”
She moved away. No act there. She was a bloody bimbo and her mother was a dithering idiot.
Her face prickled as she crossed the library. She felt completely numb. Had she landed on another planet without realizing it? Crossed over into another dimension?
Just as she was about to push open the library doors, she heard the sound of something else crashing to the floor.
“Red alert,” she grumbled, “Giles has PMS.”
“But it was worse than that,” Buffy said to Cordelia as they sat together on the quad at lunch. Buffy had bought a burger and fries, and to Cordelia, the burger smelled like dog food. She thought she was going to throw up. “He called me a bloody bimbo.”
Cordelia rubbed her temples. Her head was throbbing so badly she could barely concentrate on what Buffy was saying. Okay, truth, she couldn’t concentrate on it at all. The world was blurring and her vision was going all kind of like a kaleidoscope. Whatever Buffy’s trauma was, it couldn’t be as bad as this.
