by Ray Garton
As the girls walked away, Oz muttered to himself, “Looks like trouble.”
Buffy and Willow hurried for the covered sidewalk that went all the way around the motel’s parking lot. Buffy took the piece of paper from her jacket pocket and looked at it.
“Room 207,” Buffy said, speaking up to be heard above the rain. She nodded toward the covered balcony that covered the sidewalk. “Up there somewhere.”
They climbed the concrete stairs, walked along the balcony, and passed the orange doors until they came to 207.
“Let me do the talking,” Buffy said, “and just go along with whatever I say.”
Willow nodded as Buffy knocked on the door. When there was no response, Buffy knocked again, harder.
“I don’t think she’s here,” Willow said quietly.
“Maybe she’s in the shower.” Buffy pounded on the door with the side of her fist, so hard it made the door rattle in its frame.
“I guess we’ll have to come back later with Giles,” Willow said.
Buffy looked around quickly. There was no one on the balcony or below; no one in the front office could see them where they stood. She gripped the doorknob and tried to turn it. It wouldn’t move. “Darn,” she whispered. “I’d sure like to see what Miss Lovecraft’s got in that motel room.”
“Hey!” Willow exclaimed. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to try, and now would be like the perfect time for it!”
“What’s that?”
“S’cuse me.” Willow gently pushed Buffy away from the door. “Cover me,” she said with mock drama. She got down on one knee and cupped a hand over each side of the doorknob. Leaning forward, she whispered into the keyhole.
Frowning, Buffy tried to make out what she was saying, but the rain was too loud.
Something within the doorknob clicked. Willow stood and said, “Drumroll, please.” She turned the knob and pushed the door open.
“Quick, get inside!” Buffy said, pushing her. She closed the door behind them. “Cool!” she said, grinning at Willow.
Willow cocked her head cheerily. “With each passing day, I get better and better.”
“Have you shown that to Giles?”
Willow’s smile broke. “Uh, no. And don’t mention it to him. Okay?”
“Gotcha.”
The looked around the room. It was a mess. The bed was not only unmade, the blankets were on the floor. That probably meant Lovecraft had left instructions with housekeeping to stay out. There were several empty beer bottles on one of the nightstands and more on the desk by the television. Clothes and underwear had been thrown over the backs of the two chairs by the table as well as one end of the desk and the foot of the bed. More clothes hung in the open closet.
“Wait a second,” Buffy said, looking at the clothes. She picked up a shirt from the bed. “What’s wrong with this picture?”
Willow looked at the shirt Buffy held, at the pairs of pants on the bed, over at the undershorts and ties on the desk. “Men’s clothes,” she said.
“Congratulations. You get to go on to the bonus round.” Buffy tossed the shirt back onto the bed. “Either we’ve got the wrong room, or she’s staying here with someone.”
“Maybe we do have the wrong room.”
Buffy checked the paper again, put it back in her jacket pocket. “Nope. It says 207 here, and I don’t think she would have given Mom the wrong room. She was too anxious for Mom to say yes to her collection.” She went to the desk and opened a drawer. “If you were staying in this room, where would you put something if you didn’t want anyone to find it?” The drawer was empty.
“Well, if I had to go out, I wouldn’t leave it here.”
“Tell her what she’s won, Johnny.” All the desk drawers were empty except one, which held a Gideon Bible. “But the statue is being used. How much did you learn about the process of bringing Ravana back?”
“Not much. But it didn’t sound quick, and I don’t think it’s portable.”
Buffy nodded. “That’s what I thought. So the statuette’s not here, and she’s not carrying it with her.” She turned to the bed. “He sleeps on that side,” she said, pointing to the side of the bed with the beer bottles on the nightstand.
Willow went to the other nightstand, which had only a clock on it. She opened the drawer and removed a thick, dog-eared paperback book. On the cover, a shirtless, Fabio-like man held a beautiful, scantily clad woman in his arms. The title was written in shiny red embossed letters: Savage Passion. “She’s got four more in here,” Willow said.
“Now that I can believe. But a man . . .” Buffy shook her head slowly. “You should see this woman. I mean, she’s a born spinster. No wedding ring. No jewelry at all, in fact. She was so . . . I don’t know, awkward. Like she wasn’t comfortable in her own skin, not to mention that awful green dress she was wearing. I would’ve bet money she’d never been on a date. So who’s sleeping with her here?”
Willow put the romance novel back and closed the drawer. “Maybe that’s all they’re doing together. Sleeping, I mean.”
“But why not get two rooms?”
“Couldn’t afford it?”
“Giles said Benson Lovecraft was rich.”
“That doesn’t mean she is.”
“Let’s check out their luggage,” Buffy said. She went to the long open closet where six suitcases of various sizes were lined up against the wall. “They’ve got enough.” She got down on her knees and put one of the suitcases flat on the floor in front of her.
“Wait,” Willow said, standing beside her and looking pensively at the luggage. “It just kind of occurred to me that we’re, um . . . we’re sneaking around here and, you know, poking through people’s things, and it’s not like we know them, we weren’t even invited here, and, and I-I’m feeling kind of, um, kinda . . . guilty.”
“Oh. Yeah.” Buffy sat on the floor with her legs crossed. “Well, we both know we’re not the kind of people who going around doing this, right? I mean, not unless it’s absolutely necessary. But this is necessary, because if we don’t find that statuette and destroy it, more people are going to do to each other what we tried to do to each other, except they’ll succeed. And more people will be eaten. And Ravana will turn the whole world into his own perverted, evil playground.”
Willow stared down at Buffy for a long moment, undecided. Then she dropped to the floor and grabbed a suitcase, saying, “You take that one, I’ll take this one.”
Two of the suitcases were empty. In the other two, they found shoes, a stack of road maps, lots of breath mints of various brands and flavors, several scarves, some gloves.
“Oh, look,” Willow said. “More romance novels with Fabioids on the cover. She must be a big reader.”
Buffy shook her head. “Books like that don’t really count as reading.” She found a stack of opened envelopes bound tightly together by a fat rubber band. She thumbed through them and saw they each sported a canceled stamp in the top right corner. They were all addressed to Phyllis Lovecraft at a post office box in Mossrock, Washington. Buffy went through them again, but slowly, and found that not a single envelope carried a return address.
She slid one out of the rubber band, removed the letter, and unfolded it. There was only a single page of plain gray stationery, and the letter didn’t take up all of one side. The handwriting was very neat, but not at all feminine.
Dearest Phyl,
Seeing you again revived me. But our time together is so short. I look forward to seeing you again soon. In the meantime, I shall see your face in every crowd and feel your touch in every dream.
Have you started gathering together your grandfather’s Hindu collection yet? The pieces you showed me were exquisite. I am especially enamored of the Ravana statuette and the six accompanying pieces. The placement of the heads and arms on the Hindu demon is quite beautiful. I have no doubt that the gallery I have in mind will share my enthusiasm for that particular piece. But first you must pack it up so you’ll be read
y to go when I finish my business in New York.
I shall see you in two weeks, my love. We will take to the road together with your grandfather’s art. But the real art will be when we’re together, my sweet.
The letter was signed, “With all my love, Lloyd.”
“I think I’m going to hurl,” Buffy said.
“You feel sick?”
“No, I read this letter. It’s postmarked the nineteenth of last month. From a guy named Lloyd.” She put the first letter back in its envelope, then slid another out of the stack and opened it. Her eyes darted back and forth over the page for a while, then she took out another.
“And?” Willow asked, waiting for her to continue.
“He brings up the Ravana statuette,” Buffy said, scanning a fourth letter. “Her grandfather’s whole Hindu collection, really, but he brings up the statuette specifically.”
“And that makes you want to hurl?”
“No, all of his schmaltz is what makes me want to hurl. They’re all love letters with a little statuette talk thrown in. They sound like one of those books she reads.” She handed one of the letters to Willow.
“Eewww,” Willow said after reading it, wrinkling her nose. “Bring on the insulin.”
“He doesn’t mention Sunnydale in any of these letters, but he keeps talking about the gallery,” Buffy said. “It’s gotta be my mom’s.” She frowned as she quickly scanned one letter after another, carefully returning each to its envelope when she was done. “It looks like it was Lloyd’s idea to exhibit that collection in the gallery. And each time he mentions it, he specifically brings up the Ravana statuette.”
“Okay, that’s the part I still don’t understand,” Willow said. “What’s the deal with putting it on display if they’re gonna use it to resurrect Ravana?”
Buffy read silently for a moment, then said, “Listen to this: ‘Your grandfather’s collection is so vast, I am certain he would not miss something as comparatively insignificant as the Hindu collection, in spite of the value and significance of the Ravana statuette. Once we arrive, I promise to . . .’ Oh, um . . . oh.” She grimaced. “He goes on to promise he’ll suck on her toes.”
“Hmm. Actually, that’s kind of romantic.”
“Not if you’ve seen her, Willow, trust me.” She read the passage again silently. “The way Lloyd writes about him, Benson Lovecraft is still alive. ‘I am certain he would not miss something.’ Remember what Giles said about Lovecraft? That if he was still alive, he’d be well over a hundred years old?”
“Maybe Lloyd is referring to him figuratively,” Willow suggested. “You know, the way some people refer to the dead. Like, ‘I’m sure Grandpa would like that,’ that kinda thing. You think?”
Buffy shook her head. “I don’t think so. I think this guy’s still alive and living on that island.”
“He can’t be too alive at that age, you know? I mean, he’s gotta be, like, hooked up to a bunch of stuff. IVs, tubes, like that.”
“You’d think.” She read another letter and frowned. “Who is this Lloyd guy? Whoever he is, I just can’t imagine what he’d see in someone like Phyllis Lovecraft.” As her words grew farther apart, Buffy’s eyes widened, and she looked over at Willow.
Willow said, “I’m guessing some kind of realization has just dawned on you.”
“He doesn’t see anything in her,” Buffy said breathily. “There’s nothing to see in Phyllis Lovecraft. I don’t want to sound mean, Will, but she . . . well, this poor woman’s uglier than a jar of warts. And I really think there’s something wrong with her, you know, like she’s not hauling all her kids in one minivan, if you know what I mean. Lloyd’s just using her to get to the Ravana statuette! He, he . . . I don’t know, maybe he knows Benson Lovecraft has it, but there’s no way for Lloyd to get it from him. Until he finds out Lovecraft has a granddaughter and she’s not too bright and maybe she’s lonely and looking for love —”
“The kind of sappy love she reads about in those books.”
“Yes!” Buffy agreed enthusiastically. She began putting all the letters back together in their stack. “Lloyd wants to summon Ravana, but he can’t come right out and say that to Phyllis. So instead, he tells her all those Hindu pieces should be exhibited so people can see them and appreciate them.”
“But why would he want to bring them here? To Sunnydale? I-I mean, there are bigger museums in bigger cities.”
“If you were going to revive an ancient demon, you’d want to do it in a place where it would most likely work, wouldn’t you?”
Willow thought about that a moment, then her face brightened. “A Hellmouth!”
Buffy nodded. “This place is the supernatural demonic equivalent of Lourdes, so of course he’d want to do it here.”
“Okay, so . . . if they’re here, why is this woman still so desperate to get the stuff in the gallery? You said she’s still bothering your mom about it, right?”
“I . . . I don’t know,” she said with a shrug. She looked over at the messy bed. “I wonder if Lloyd is the one who gave her the black eye she had when she came to our door.”
“So much for romance,” Willow said.
Buffy put the rubber band around the letters and the letters back in the suitcase. She and Willow closed the suitcases they’d been looking through.
Willow started to say something more about the romance novels, but she swallowed her words when keys jangled outside the door. They stared at one another with expressions of shock frozen on their faces.
“What do we do?” Willow breathed.
Before she was finished asking the question, a key slid into the lock of the motel room door.
Chapter 19
ACTIVITY HAD INCREASED IN THE LIBRARY. STUDENTS were coming and going, some looking for books, others returning them. A few students were gathered around the computer. The quiet clatter of fingers on keyboards blended with the sound of whispered voices to create the library’s usual sound.
Giles sat at the front desk with books open before him, rapidly taking notes. They would have to talk to Phyllis Lovecraft later that day. With any luck, she would lead them to the Ravana statuette. But it had not occurred to Giles until about twenty minutes ago that once they found it, they hadn’t the first clue what to do with it. It would have to be destroyed, of course, along with the demon’s essence inside. But how? He was searching for answers to that question. When he next saw Willow, he planned to discuss it with her, as well; she had been doing some extensive reading lately in the area of spells, incantations, and potions, and perhaps she had come across something that might work.
A voice was speaking nearby, but in the intensity of Giles’s concentration, it sounded like it was coming from the bottom of a lake.
“. . . iles? Um . . . Giles? Giles?”
Giles jerked his eyed up and saw Xander leaning his folded arms on the countertop.
“Are you there?” Xander asked.
“Yes, I beg your pardon. I was rather involved in my reading. What can I do for you, Xander?”
“I was just wondering if you’ve seen Buffy. Or Willow.”
Giles shook his head. “No, why?”
Xander suddenly looked sheepish. “We were all going to meet back here and . . . uh . . . meet, study. You know, the book thing. And . . . they’re late.”
“Late? Xander,” Giles glanced at the clock, “the bell just rang.” Then his Watcher sense — or rather prolonged exposure to this group of Slayerettes — kicked in and he glared at Xander. “Good Lord, what have they done now?”
Buffy and Willow lay facedown under the bed in Phyllis Lovecraft’s motel room. The instant Buffy had heard the key slip into the lock, she’d used her foot to push the last suitcase back into place, then she’d crawled quickly over the floor and slid under the bed, with Willow right behind her.
The first thing Buffy noticed about Phyllis Lovecraft was her shoes; they were ugly. She also noticed that Phyllis was limping and crying. As she walked around the bed, sh
e favored her right side and cried quietly, sniffling occasionally, a small hitch of breath catching in her throat now and then.
Where’s Lloyd? Buffy wondered. Was she just with him? Maybe that’s why she’s crying. She remembered the black eye Phyllis had the day Buffy had come home to find her on the porch talking with her mom. Had Lloyd hit her? Buffy wouldn’t be surprised. He was, after all, just using her to get to a statuette that would allow him to rule over chaos at the right hand of an ancient demon. A guy like that was liable to do anything.
Although she could only see Phyllis’s feet, Buffy could tell what she was doing from the sounds she heard.
Phyllis slipped off her shoes and walked away from the bed. She ran water in the sink just outside the bathroom door, washed her hands. Still sniffling, she returned to the bed and sat on the edge. The sound of the telephone receiver being lifted, buttons on the base of the phone being pushed. Buffy could faintly hear the tone of each number being pushed and then the purring of a phone ringing at the other end of the line . . . a tiny, pinched voice.
“Hello, Seth. It’s Phyllis.” Her voice sounded thick from crying, as well as a little hoarse from weariness. “Oh, no, I’m fine, fine. Actually, I-I . . . yes, well, I was calling to see how Grandpa is doing.” She stretched out onto the bed, but only for a moment. She jumped up. “What? How did he —” She paced as far as the coiled cord would allow. “But I closed that. I put everything back just exactly as I found it. Seth, did you tell him?” Insistent chatter from the earpiece. When Phyllis spoke again, her voice was low and whispery. “Oh, Seth, you’re not serious.” She dropped onto the bed again, making Willow wince for fear of being crushed. “But he doesn’t know where I am! You didn’t tell him that, did you? Of course you didn’t, you don’t even know where I am.” She sounded like more tears were coming, as if she might break down soon. “Oh, his supernatural hoo-ha! Where did he say he was going? Sunnydale? Oh . . . oh.” She sniffled. “When did he leave? Oh . . . oh.”
She sounds pathetic, Buffy thought.
Phyllis released a long sigh, then said, “I have to go, Seth. I’ve got things to do. Yes, you do the same, Seth. ’Bye-bye.”
