UNSEEN: THE BURNING

by Nancy Holder

  As close to the madding crowd as possible, Riley instructed Tara to stay back, out of danger, and climbed out of his car. He remembered a time, not that long ago, when he had had the authority to commandeer any situation in Sunnydale, underscore any. As a government special operative, he had outranked all local civilian law enforcement as well as FBI agents. Now he was simply Riley Finn, no rank, no serial number . . . and no legal rights to do half the things he did before.

  Still, old habits died hard; as he strode toward the front lines, the first two police officers he approached recognized him and took on a deferential stance, answering all his questions. Not that useful: neither had the slightest idea what had happened.

  Next he approached the fire captain on the scene, a rotund old boy who resembled Police Chief Wiggins from the Simpsons, down to his porcine features. How a man could retain a position as a firefighter when he was as heavy as this man gave Riley pause, but he didn’t spare much time worrying about it.

  “I see you’ve deployed your units in a flying-V formation,” Riley said. “Good call.”

  The captain tossed him a quick, working-here smile and looked away.

  “Any idea of a cause?” Riley pressed.

  “We’re thinking arson,” the fire captain told him, after giving him the now-familiar I-know-who-you-are-but-I-can’t-quite-place-you look. “The way she went up, the way she’s burning . . .”

  The captain shrugged knowledgeably, allowing a supposed peer to fill in the blanks.

  “But who’d set an entire oil field on fire?” Riley asked skeptically. “And why?”

  “I’m thinking environmental whackos,” the captain replied, looping his thumbs over his belt. “Those solar-power types. Greenpeace, one of them, you know?”

  Riley—who was a card-carrying member of not one, but several, environmental groups—raised his brows. “Why bother with an oil field in a small town like Sunnydale?” He crossed his arms, unconsciously moving into questioning mode. “Isn’t this field owned by a private individual? Could someone have something against him, not his oil?”

  The captain loved the idea. “Class envy? Of course. Del DeSola owns all this. He’s an okay guy, though. Paid for the new softball diamond after the last one collapsed. Sinkhole.”

  Doubtful, Riley thought, seeing the work of the city council’s PR team all over what must’ve been something demonic. Have to remember to ask Buffy about that one. I wonder how they’ll spin this. Stray cigarette butt tossed from a car?

  The captain shook his head. “But I’m still thinking somebody with a ‘cause.’ ” He uttered the word as if it were a juicy, dirty swearword.

  Tara sidled up and joined the conversation. “Why?”

  “This was a suicide mission, guaranteed.” The captain watched the blaze with a proprietary air. Teams of firefighters stood by, hoses at the ready, watering down the surrounding landscape to keep the blaze contained. An oil field fire, Riley knew, required special equipment and techniques, and sometimes they just needed to burn themselves out. They’d be bringing in specialists for this one. “No way anybody could survive that.”

  Tara and Riley traded glances. Supernatural forces could have survived, Riley knew. There was still no indication that anything like that was at play here, but in Sunnydale it was safest not to assume that they weren’t. Riley was beginning to wish he had a face mask—his lungs were starting to burn from inhaling the thick, acrid smoke.

  “Have any bodies been located?” Riley asked.

  Just then a firefighter in full gear—protective suit, hood, and breathing apparatus—approached the captain. The captain waved at the figure and moved toward it. Over his shoulder, he said, “Not so far. There was a rent-a-cop, but he’s been accounted for. Thing is, that fire’s so hot, I doubt there’d be much of anything left. We’d be lucky to find dental work.”

  “Right.” Riley held up his hand in a gesture of appreciation for the time. Then he noticed that Tara had wandered off while the two men were talking. She was crouching over something, her hands gathered into her sweatshirt. As Riley grew near, she looked up, then gestured with her hand.

  “The glint caught my eye,” she told him. “I didn’t know if it was okay to pick it up. It was a little hot.”

  It was a gold cross on a chain. Riley picked it up, only to discover that a portion of the chain had melted away.

  “What we may have here,” Riley said, imitating Strother Martin in Cool Hand Luke, “is a piece of evidence.” He pointed to an engraving on the back. A crude rendition of a cobra, rearing up as if to bite someone, with the initials “L.C.” beneath it. On the clip side, the initials “R.L.”

  “The Latin Cobras,” Riley informed her.

  “Local gang,” he told her.

  “I’ve heard of them. Willow told me Nicky de la Natividad might be involved with them.”

  “Hmm.” He looked down at the cross, then over at the fire captain. “In which case, do I keep it or turn it over to Chief Wiggins?”

  Tara smiled faintly. “I thought that, too, about him.” The smile faded. “I think we should hold onto it,” she told him. “We’ve already disturbed the crime scene. And if the police get involved . . .”

  “More difficult all around,” he agreed. “All right.” He put it in the kangaroo pouch of his sweatshirt. “Now I’m definitely taking you home.”

  Disappointed, she looped her hair around her ears and stood. She had sort of been hoping to be included in his snake hunting. “When Willow calls, I’ll tell her about this, okay?”

  “Oh?” Riley’s eyes lit up. “When is she checking in with you?” He had expected to hear from Buffy by now.

  “No special t-time,” Tara stammered.

  Riley had noticed that her speech hesitation had a lot to do with when she was upset or otherwise stressed. He wondered if everything was okay with the two Wiccas in the relationship department. But nice Midwest guys did not meddle in others’ personal business.

  “Do you have Salma’s L.A. number?” he asked.

  “Yes.” Tara looked bashful. “I didn’t want to intrude. Bother them.”

  “This is worth bothering them about,” Riley said. “The Cobras are connected in L.A. Let’s give them a call.”

  She brightened up considerably. Riley was touched by her obvious affection for Willow. He’d been there for the reappearance of Oz, and he would have put money on Oz winning Willow back.

  Just goes to show you, life rarely turns out the way you imagine.

  Look at me, dating a gal who’s not only a demon hunter, but has prophecy dreams and all kinds of weird connections with dimensions I can’t even imagine.

  “Giles’s house is closer,” Tara said. “And he’ll want to hear about the fire.”

  They walked back to Riley’s car, climbed in, and watched the fire.

  “I think we might be thinking the same thing,” Riley said slowly.

  Tara eyed the flames. “That Nicky de la Natividad might have died in this fire?” she asked bluntly.

  Riley nodded. “If a bunch of Cobras snuck in to start it for some reason.”

  “A prank?” she said.

  “Those lowlifes aren’t into pranks,” Riley bit off. “They’re into intimidation, and bullying, and killing.” He frowned at her. “I had a soldier under my command who tangled with them, came back with a knife wound that reached from his left shoulder to his right hip. He almost lost a kidney.”

  Tara’s face was ashen.

  She’s worried, Riley thought.

  So am I.

  They drove for a while, and then Tara pointed to a figure stumbling down the side of the road, wearing a familiar black leather jacket. “Hey, that’s Spike.”

  Riley pulled over. Tara opened the door and poked out her head.

  “Spike?”

  The vampire scowled at her. “What do you want?”

  “Where are you going?” she asked him.

  “Why is it your business?” he flung at her. “I can’t
do anything, all right? I haven’t hurt anyone. I haven’t bitten anyone.” He staggered to the right, nearly falling over, and burst into tears.

  “Cheryce!” he wailed. He held up a nearly empty bottle of tequila and poured it down his throat.

  “Woman trouble. As usual,” Riley said to Tara.

  She nodded, but only asked the vampire, “Spike, do you want a ride somewhere?”

  He fell to the ground on his knees. “People, offering me rides,” he moaned. “You should be running in terror from me, not offering to be my sodding taxi service.” He wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket.

  “She’s just like all the rest. Women are just so evil.” He looked pitifully at Tara. “Don’t you think?”

  Before she could answer, he whirled in a half turn and opened his arms. “I’m doin’ it,” he announced. “I’m standing right here until the sun rises, and I’m going out in flames.”

  “Spike, get in the car,” Tara said patiently.

  “ ‘Spike, get in the car,’ ” he imitated, sneering at her. “Don’t you hate being so good? Doesn’t it just wear on you, day after day? Oh, God, I’m so miserable!”

  “You know you get like this when you drink,” Tara said.

  “So bleedin’ what.” He lobbed the bottle at the street. It didn’t break. “Look a’ that! Look!” he sobbed. “Nothing’s going right.

  “Oh, Dru.” He wiped his eyes. “Even that bimbo Harmony can bite people. Not me! Not William the Bloody, the scourge of Europe!”

  Tara looked at Riley. “What should we do?”

  “Hope the sun comes up early,” Riley muttered. He leaned across the seat. “We’ll take you home, Spike. Otherwise, you’re on your own.”

  Spike’s shoulders jerked a few times. “She threw me out. Says I’m only with her because of who she knows, because I want something. Well, pardon me! Of course I want something! Doesn’t everyone?”

  Finally he nodded.

  “Take me home,” he said.

  Then he passed out cold.

  Los Angeles

  Buffy stalked the hallways of the de la Natividad house, accompanied by Elfredo.

  There had been one more broken window incident in the last few minutes.

  But why? she wondered. The fact that the thing, whatever it is, is breaking windows means it has some kind of solid form. But if it does, why isn’t it coming inside? Why just keep breaking windows? What does it have to gain?

  No easy answers occurred to her. The vampire similarity presented itself again, but this clearly wasn’t a vampire. Still, was that a common syndrome in the demonic world?

  No answers.

  Only more questions.

  Is it just mischievous? Or is truly dangerous?

  The maid who was seemingly attacked—was that only an accident? Did she faint after having been cut by flying glass, or was there something more sinister to that?

  Having nothing to fight made her edgy, keyed up.

  Elfredo looked like he felt the same way. His brown eyes were narrowed to slits. He moved like a coiled spring, ready to strike at any moment. His handsome face was shadowed with worry.

  After a long stretch of no activity, she decided to go outside again.

  The thing wasn’t coming in. It could smash windows but couldn’t pass through them.

  So she had to fight it on its own turf if they were ever to leave the house again.

  She stopped in mid-pace and turned to Elfredo. “I’m going back out there.”

  He nodded, understanding. Probably he’d reached the same conclusion. After looking her up and down for a moment, he smiled at her. “You’re not just some college chick, are you?”

  She smiled. “Not even close.”

  “What I thought.”

  “You coming with me or staying in here?”

  “I’d just be in the way out there, wouldn’t I?” he asked.

  “I’m glad you see it my way. I’m going to talk to Willow for a sec, and then I’m going out. If I’m not back in thirty minutes, then you can start to worry.”

  “If you’re not back in thirty minutes,” Elfredo echoed, “I figure none of us will last forty-five.”

  “You could have a point,” Buffy said. She left him in the hall and headed for the kitchen.

  Sunnydale

  Word travels fast in the criminal underground, and the Echo Park Band had ordered the Latin Cobras to escort Nicky to L.A. They wanted to talk to him about how he had survived the fire. A trick like that could prove very useful.

  He had gone to Rosalie’s to shower while the guys found some clothes for him. With a brown bandana on his head and a long-sleeved shirt and baggy jeans, he looked much more like a Cobra than when he’d gone in to start the fire.

  He was one of them now, no doubt about it. He had risked his life for the gang, and nobody would ever dare to question his loyalty again.

  Unless, of course, he forgot who his friends were.

  None of the Cobras wanted to go home after Nicky, Enrique, and Paco left for L.A. At first, all the talk centered around Nicky, and how the hell he had survived the fire. Rosalie threw back tequila with the cholos and fantasized about being Nicky’s woman when he came back. She was glad she’d been nice to him. Now that he had done this amazing thing, the other girls would be after him, too.

  After a lot of drinking, they straggled down to the beach, in lowrider cars and souped-up trucks. Little King built a bonfire and the gang kicked back, drinking beer and just daring the wimpy Sunnydale cops to tell them they had to disperse. Just as at any other Latin Cobra gathering, food began appearing almost by magic, and more alcohol.

  Rosalie started dancing by herself, then was joined by Luisa, who started asking a lot of questions about Nicky.

  “Keep away from him,” Rosalie snapped.

  Luisa laughed. “You ain’t got no claim, Rosa,” she sneered. “It’s not like he married you or anything.”

  Rosalie ignored her taunts.

  It was as she was reaching for another Dos Equis that she remembered the crucifix she had given to Nicky to wear during his mission.

  He had been wearing it when he walked, naked, from the flames.

  But he had not been wearing it when he climbed back into the SUV.

  It must have fallen off in the dirt.

  “Ay, Dios,” she murmured.

  Her throat tight with fear, she surveyed the drunken crowd. What would they do to her if they found out that her necklace had been left at the scene of the crime?

  “Hey, Rosa. I saw you with Nicky,” Little King slurred, staggering toward her. “He your new guy?” He slugged back some beer and wiped his mouth. He winked at her. “You could do better, honey.”

  He’d been after her for a while, ever since her old boyfriend, Nando, had been sent to jail for armed robbery. She’d been friendly but distant. Little King frightened her. He was as big as a Samoan, and he had a terrible temper.

  He also has a car.

  He’d driven it down to the beach.

  She took a breath. “Maybe I could do better, maybe not,” she retorted. She didn’t retreat as he advanced, only raised her face to meet his. His nose had been broken so many times it resembled an accordion. The few teeth he had left were brown. Plus, he liked to chew tobacco, which she found disgusting.

  But he likes me, she thought. Her heart was racing. Her hands were shaking.

  Enough to help me?

  “Oye, mamacita,” he said, frowning, “what’s wrong with you? Miss your boyfriend already?”

  Rosalie felt faint. If Dom found out, or Jose . . . They were the majordomos of the gang. They maintained discipline and made sure everybody toed the line.

  “What’s up, Rosita?” He took her hand and led her to a beach chair someone had just vacated. The smell of roasting hot dogs revolted her. She was afraid she was going to throw up.

  “Oh, God,” she whispered. She put her head between her knees and took deep breaths.

  “Do you need a
ride home?” he asked.

  Yes! She nodded. “Please. I’m really sick.”

  “Sure. Don’t worry. Hey, Dom,” he called. Then he stood and walked over to Dom, who was tall and stocky, carrying a little extra weight around his middle.

  Dom talked to him for a few minutes; then Little King nodded and gave Rosalie a wave. Completely numb, she got up out of the chair and lurched toward Little King, who didn’t seem to notice that she was having trouble walking.

  He reached down into one of the coolers and promoted a six-pack, smiling at her.

  “You’ll feel better after another beer,” he advised her as they climbed into his ride.

  As soon as they got on the road, he turned to her and said, “You gonna have a baby or something?”

  She swallowed hard, about to take the biggest chance she’d taken in years, other than driving the getaway car in the heist that had sent Nando to prison. She’d hadn’t even been implicated. So maybe she was a lucky kind of person.

  “Little King,” she said, “you’ve got to help me.” His brows shot up. “I mean, please help me.”

  He was waiting. Hopefully, she touched his arm.

  “I gave Nicky my crucifix to wear when he went to fix DeSola,” she began. “And it fell off him or something. I saw it on him when he came back, you know? But not when he got in the SUV with us.”

  It took him a moment to put together what she’d said. Then he cocked his head at her and said, “Does it have anything on it that can trace it to us?”

  She swallowed hard. “My initials,” she admitted. “On the back. It was from Nando.”

  “Your initials are what, R.L.? Rosalie Lopez? Who’s gonna figure that out? Don’t worry. Nothin’s gonna happen.” He peered at her. “Is that what this is about, this ‘I’m sick’ stuff?”

  She nodded. “Little King,” she continued, her mouth dry, “Nando had a little cobra engraved on the back, too. Like the tatts him and me got over on Western that one night. With the initials ‘L.C.’ below it.” She touched the right side of her pelvis.