by Mel Odom
Doyle ran his hand through his hair, thinking, putting the pieces together. Maybe he wasn’t a real detective, but a guy didn’t exactly have to be Sherlock Holmes to smell a rat here.
“Tell Mr. Yuan thanks,” Doyle said.
“All right, people, let’s get this in one. Action.”
Cordelia stood behind the barricade the stunt-man rescue squad had set up to run the gag. The stuntmen and women around her laughed and joked, sipping coffee or fruit drinks. It was another day of work for them. Cordelia felt as if she had a snake crawling through her stomach.
Whitney had no place on the set with everything that was going on. But Schend had insisted, partly because of Hollings’s interest and partly because in light of the murder, most of the entertainment news networks were out in full force. Sending in a double was out of the question.
At the north end of the two-block stretch of street, a stuntman splashed a chemical concoction across the front of a Trans Am that was supposed to try to run Honor Blaze down in the street. Whitney Tyler stood on the other end of the second block, on the side of the street across from the stunt barricade. She didn’t look nervous at all.
“Why are they going to set the car on fire?” Cordelia asked the rawboned stuntwoman standing next to her.
The woman shrugged. “The director or the writer. One of them decided it would look cool, a flaming car hurtling down on Whitney. So we burn it. Makes doing the gag easier because we don’t have to worry about doing cuts for the close-ups. With the flames blazing, no one will be able to see into the car. Mike can wear more protective gear.”
When the stuntman finished sloshing the liquid across the front of the Trans Am, he stepped back. “All ready.”
“Okay!” the director shouted back over the PA system that rolled thunder along the street. “We do it in one, people. Hit your marks. And . . . action!”
Whitney Tyler stepped out onto the street when the rigged lights turned green. At the same time a voice behind her demanded, “Bud, what the hell’s going on?”
Drawn by Mike Zohn’s voice, Cordelia turned.
The stuntman leader stood in front of the portable dressing trailer dressed only in a pair of boxers. A lump on the side of his left temple looked as big as a kiwi fruit.
“Hey,” Cordelia said, “you’re supposed to be driving that car out there.”
“I got news for you, sister,” Zohn growled. “I’m not driving that car.”
“Well, someone is,” a stuntwoman said. “And whoever it is has got your outfit on.”
“Somebody knocked me out in the dressing room,” Zohn complained. “Big guy.”
Cordelia turned and glanced out at the street. Whitney Tyler was halfway across. “Whitney!” she shouted. “It’s one of those fruitcakes after Whitney!” She dashed from behind the barricade.
At the end of the block the gaffer lit the liquid. The clinging, incendiary film caught in a rush of blue and yellow flames that quickly shifted more toward violent red. Rubber shrilled when the car shot forward, snarling like some homicidal beast.
Cordelia saw instantly that neither she nor the stunt crew was going to reach Whitney before the car roared over her. She shouted at the actress, waving her back.
Then Whitney saw them. She stood frozen for a moment, her gaze torn between the stunt crew and the Trans Am hurtling at her while wreathed in flames. At the last moment, she leaped aside. Cordelia would have sworn the wind-spun flames must have licked across her body.
Just as Cordelia was starting to relax, thinking the driver would attempt to escape, the car brakes shrilled. Incredibly, the Trans Am slewed around in a tight one-eighty, losing ground for a moment like a cat on ice. Then the tires found traction, and the car shot forward.
Cordelia watched as the vehicle closed on Whitney. The actress was only now getting to her feet. There was no way she could avoid being run down. The car raced at her, the fire clinging to the front of it and looking like a gaping mouth below the wide-lensed eye of the windshield.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The flaming car roared at Whitney Tyler. The actress stood frozen, like a deer caught in the sudden glare of headlights.
Just before she turned away so she wouldn’t have to see the impact, Cordelia spotted a figure dressed in black in her peripheral vision. “Angel,” she whispered, feeling more hopeful. Then she remembered the flames wrapped around the Trans Am could kill him, too.
Angel ran faster than anything human, his arms swinging at his sides as he drove his feet against the ground. His long duster trailed out behind him. Without breaking stride, he slowed only enough to shove Whitney out of the way of the speeding car, but he didn’t have time to get clear himself.
Cordelia watched, certain she was about to witness Angel’s death. Only this time there wouldn’t be any coming back.
Incredibly, Angel didn’t try to turn away from the approaching car. Still in motion, he leaped onto the flaming car hood. As soon as his feet touched down, they were yanked out from under him by the speeding car.
Even though she’d seen Angel and Buffy pull off incredible moves before, Cordelia still watched in awe as Angel spun over the speeding car. He landed on his feet on the street and almost kept his balance, but gravity won out over vampiric strength, speed, and skill. He fell to one side, sprawling ungracefully across the street.
The man driving the Trans Am tried to pull the vehicle around again, but the fire had spread to the tires. They exploded only a heartbeat apart in sudden rushes. Black smoke roiled from the charring rubber. Sparks shot out from the pavement as the rims ate through the weakened treads and scraped.
Out of control, the car slammed into the front of Hannigan’s. Glass emptied from the bar’s windows, showering down on the vehicle. The flames leaped up from the car to sink hungry fangs into the awning above.
“Go!” Zohn ordered.
The stunt team raced forward with fire extinguishers.
“Cordelia!”
Turning, Cordelia spotted Angel helping Whitney to her feet. Cordelia ran across the street and took the actress’s other hand, draping her arm across her shoulders.
“Can you handle her?” Angel asked.
“Yeah.”
“Don’t let her out of your sight,” Angel said.
“I won’t,” Cordelia replied. “I was trained for this. Sort of. And how hard is it to lose a person?”
Angel’s face showed a momentary flicker of past pain. “Too easy.” In the next instant he was gone, sprinting toward the wrecked car where the driver was trying to start the engine.
Cordelia looked at Whitney, noting the dazed look in her eyes. Maybe it’s a concussion. At Sunnydale High everyone had gotten a crash course in becoming a triage. Dead or alive? Gonna live or gonna die? Regular blood flow or arterial?
Scanning her quickly, Cordelia didn’t find any wounds that immediately needed attention. Twin holes in the neck were always the first on the list. Sucking chest wounds a close second. But Whitney did have scratches on the side of her neck and one of her arms. None of the scratches was very deep.
Taking the woman’s waist, Cordelia helped her limp toward the sidewalk. “You’re going to be okay,” she said. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
“Angel Investigations. We help the helpless. If that’s you, leave a message at the beep.” The answering machine in the office beeped. Doyle liked listening to Cordelia’s voice. Sometimes in the middle of the night when he was in his apartment, he’d call just to listen to her. He told himself that wasn’t pathetic or abnormal.
He stood at the pay phone just inside Winkle’s, his head stuck out the door so he could watch Gunnar Schend’s Hummer parked in front of the Chinese laundry. “Look, it’s me,” he told the answering machine. “I think I’m on to something here. I’m at Winkle’s, the bar next to the Chinese laundry. While I was there paying my respects — and other stuff — to Yuan, guess who I happened to run into?”
The answering machine hissed se
dately in his ear for a moment, not guessing at all.
“Well, okay, don’t guess,” Doyle went on. “If Gunnar Schend happens to cross your mind while you’re listening to this, you win. I’m going to tag along behind him. You see, it occurs to me that only Whitney and Gunnar knew where she was last night. And the security guards. But I don’t think the one would have chosen to get himself killed. Of course, that’s me just thinking out loud here. And the other guard looked scared spitless.”
The cab Doyle had put on standby idled at the curb.
“It stands to reason that if these guys didn’t just get lucky and find her, someone had to tell them where she was. And if they’re that lucky, I’m grabbing one of them and taking them Off Track Betting before the police lock them up and throw away the key. By the way, the group that we’re after — the ones who belong to the symbol — are called the Blood Cadre. They’re a band of demon hunters who’ve been around for about the last five hundred years. The way I hear it, they’re not a bunch you want mad at you.”
Gunner Schend emerged from the laundry and walked quickly to his Hummer. Must have gone well, Doyle thought. He’s not limping. The locking mechanism warbled and the interior lights flashed on.
“Well, we’re on the move,” Doyle said. “I’ll try to call you from wherever it is we land. But I’m betting after this meeting with Yuan, Schend may need a cash fix.” He cradled the phone and walked out to the cab.
“That the guy?” the driver asked as Doyle slid into the cab’s rear seat.
“Yeah,” Doyle replied. Like there were a dozen other Hummers parked in front of the Chinese laundry. “Don’t lose him.”
The heat of the burning car washed over Angel. Men and women carrying fire extinguishers were on his heels. White foam fire retardant sprayed from the funnel mouths, hosing the car.
Clad in a Nomex fireproof mask with goggle lenses and a black Nomex bodysuit, the driver looked alien. The goggles focused on Angel, but he didn’t stop trying to start the car. The starter ground like claws scraping concrete. The flames spreading across the car stood up against the fire extinguisher assault.
“Get back!” one of the men commanded. “We’re losing the car! When those flames hit the gas tank, it’s going to blow!”
The firefighters dodged back.
“Mickey, Bob! Get the people in the bar away from the front of the building!”
Angel grabbed the car door handle. Heat seared his palm, but he kept his grip. He put a foot against the car body and ripped the door out of the frame. Then he reached in and hauled the driver out.
The man tried to fight, but Angel gave him no chance at all. He backhanded the man, sending him stumbling a couple steps backward till he tripped.
Angel was on the man before he could get up. The Nomex suit smoked and felt almost hot enough to burn when Angel gripped the chest in one fist. He ripped the goggle-eyed mask off with his other hand.
The man was in his early twenties, sporting cold eyes and a hard, brittle mouth. His hair was as red as blood in the firelight. He hacked and coughed from the smoke in his lungs.
“Give Gannon a message for me,” Angel said.
Unable to speak, the man shook his head violently. Red and blue lights added to the mix, whirling over the crowd of television people.
“Tell Gannon to stay away from the woman,” Angel ordered. “Tell him to keep all of you people back.”
“We can’t,” the man replied. “She’s our responsibility.”
“No,” Angel stated coldly. “She’s my responsibility. You tell that to Gannon. And you tell him I said I know that.”
Two uniformed police officers approached Angel with drawn weapons. “Back off, pal,” one of them said. “We’ve got him now.”
Reluctantly, feeling powerless to stop what he felt certain was coming, Angel released the man and stepped back. He turned away as the police officers rolled the man over and handcuffed him. Angel peered down the street, spotting Cordelia standing next to Whitney.
“You don’t know what she is!” the man shouted after him. “You don’t know what she’s capable of!”
Angel ignored the man and joined Cordelia and Whitney, who were surrounded by television crew members. Politely but firmly, Angel forced his way through the crowd to Whitney’s side.
“We need to get out of here,” he told her.
Whitney had her arms wrapped around herself. Her face was ashen gray. “But you caught him.”
“There are more,” Angel said, taking her by the arm.
The television crew pressed in around them, asking question after question.
“We’re leaving,” Angel said. “We’re taking Whitney somewhere safe. If she needs any of you, she’ll be in touch.”
“That’s right,” Cordelia added. “Angel Investigations is on the case. We help the helpless. If that’s you, give us a call.”
Angel took the lead again, walking over to the private parking lot that had been rented by the studio for the day. He guided Whitney to his car parked at the curb.
“Wait,” Whitney said in a dulled voice. “My car’s over there. I need some things out of it. Sleeping in one of your shirts the last time might have been okay, but I want some of my things this time.” She looked at Angel, noticing the hesitation in him.
More than anything, Angel wanted to go. There was too much attention, too many people, and more things that could go wrong than he could handle.
“Please,” Whitney said. “These people have taken my life away. Don’t let them take everything.”
Angel nodded, knowing he didn’t want either Cordelia or Whitney out of his sight. Gannon’s people were finding Whitney Tyler way too easily. “Okay. But we’re going together. Where’s your car?”
Whitney pointed. “Gunnar got a driver for me who was supposed to stay with it.”
Two security guards stood at the checkpoint onto the lot. “What’s going on over there?” one of the men asked.
The fire from the burning car had lit up the streets, throwing smoke high into the sky. Red and blue flashing slights strobed without pause from the police cruisers.
“They’re shooting a television show,” Cordelia answered.
The older man shook his head. “They didn’t say anything about a fire that big.”
“Supposed to be a surprise,” Cordelia said. “Are you surprised?”
“Yeah.” Neither of the security guards appeared happy about it.
Whitney took a key from her pocket as they neared the Mercedes sedan. She pressed the clicker, and the horn bleated as the interior light came on, revealing the man slumped in the driver’s seat.
Whitney had her hand on the rear door handle when Angel saw the blood covering the driver’s chest. He bent low and peered inside.
“Wait,” he whispered, taking her hand in his.
The driver’s head lay to the side, the angle suggesting that the skull had been separated from the spine. One of his eyes stared sightlessly through the windshield; the other lay on his cheek, gouged from the socket. His throat had been ripped out deep enough to expose the spine at the back. A card with the strange symbol and the word atonement written on it was stuck to the corpse’s bloody chest.
“What is it?” Whitney asked. Then she looked at the driver. Her hand formed a fist inside Angel’s.
“Is he passed out drunk or something?” Cordelia asked from behind them.
Angel turned to her. “He’s dead.” He took the keys from Whitney’s hand and locked the car again. The interior light followed them for a moment as they retreated to his car. He watched the shadows in the parking lot, wondering if whatever had killed the driver was still there. Then the car’s interior light winked out.
“You folks find everything okay?” one of the guards asked.
“Yeah, thanks,” Angel said. He lowered his voice. “Don’t stop moving.” He watched as the two guards talked, then one of them walked toward the Mercedes and took out his flashlight.
“M
aybe we should walk a little faster,” Cordelia suggested.
Angel held the door open for both women. He was rounding the back of his car when the guard checking the car cursed loudly and backed away from the Mercedes. Angel stepped onto the back bumper of his car and leaped into the driver’s seat. The last thing he wanted was a chat session with the LAPD.
Putting his foot down hard on the accelerator, Angel shot through the city, trying to figure out what he was going to do next, hoping he was wrong about the dark suspicion that had taken root in his mind.
“This is close enough,” Doyle told the cab driver. He peered across the nearly empty motor court of the run-down motel.
The tail lights on Gunnar Schend’s Hummer flared briefly, then extinguished as the television producer got out. He hesitated briefly, studying the numbers on the door. Then he knocked.
Doyle didn’t recognize the gray-haired man who answered the door, but he could tell from Schend’s body language that the television producer wasn’t totally relaxed with the encounter.
And if he’s not relaxed, this deal probably isn’t very kosher. Doyle opened the door and stepped out. “Give me a minute here,” he told the driver, handing over a ten. “I want to chat with the manager really quick. If the guy in the Hummer decides to leave, wheel over and pick me up at the office.”
The driver took the ten and nodded.
Doyle crossed over to the office set up as the first section of the U-shaped motel court. The wrinkled old guy behind the scarred desk and thick plexiglas was watching Letterman, laughing as Dave went through his opening monologue. He glanced up at Doyle.
Taking a twenty dollar bill from his pocket, Doyle spread the paper across the counter just within reach under the plexiglass slot.
The clerk glanced at the twenty and licked his lips, but he didn’t get up from his chair. “Something I can do for you?”
“I’d like to know the name of a guest you’ve got staying here.”
The old man shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
Doyle added another twenty, glancing out quickly to see that the cab was in the same place. He took it as a sign that Schend hadn’t moved yet. “It’s kind of important to me.”
