Buffy turned the paper over and scanned it. Salma had written, in a neat, legible hand, a list of names, addresses, and phone numbers. All the friends of her brother whom she knew about, and where they could usually be found. Buffy didn’t recognize any of the names, but that wasn’t surprising. Until yesterday, she didn’t even know Salma existed. She passed the list over to Willow, who sat in the chair next to her.
“I love your place,” Buffy said as Willow read.
“Thank you,” Salma replied graciously. “My parents did not want me to live in student housing. This building has security downstairs, and it’s comfortable.”
“I’ll say.”
So she doesn’t want to talk about being rich, Buffy thought. That’s okay. She let the subject drop.
Willow looked up from the paper. “No bells,” she said.
“But it’s a good starting point,” Buffy added. “We’ll talk to these people, see if we can get a line on Nicky.”
“Just like detectives,” Willow offered.
“Exactly like that,” Buffy agreed. “Except, no badges.”
Willow moved into helpful mode. “We could get badges.”
Buffy wrinkled her nose. “I don’t know that badges are strictly necessary.”
“I’m only saying,” Willow insisted, “if we wanted badges, I know where we could get some.”
“Let’s do without the badges,” Buffy said.
“Okay. Badgeless detectives for hire.” Willow glanced at Salma. “I mean, not really hire. We don’t want to be paid or anything.”
“Oh. I could—” Salma started to say. Buffy cut her off.
“Not necessary. We’re doing this because you’re a friend. Of Willow’s, I mean. Strictly a favor. Okay?”
“Okay,” Salma said. She smiled that nice smile again. She seemed a little more relaxed today, even though Nicky was still missing.
Probably because someone’s finally going to make an effort.
Salma had described her trip to the police station to report her brother as a missing person. They hadn’t sounded very encouraging, trying to sell her on the irresponsible teenager theory of his disappearance.
“Well, we’ll get started on the list,” Buffy said. “Call us if you think of anything else. Or if you hear from Nicky.”
“I will,” Salma agreed.
Everyone rose, and she walked them to the door. As they said good-bye, Buffy thought Salma’s calm facade was slipping a little. Her lower lip might have trembled a bit.
When Salma closed the door behind them, she was pretty sure she heard the girl start crying.
“We have to help her.”
Willow nodded. “We really, really do.”
“I’ll go check out the park,” Riley said. To Giles, he added, “I’ll let you know what the crime scene looks like.”
He, Xander, Giles, and Anya had stayed at Giles’s place after Buffy and Willow left to see Willow’s friend Salma. They’d discussed their strategy and floated some theories as to what the shadow monster might really be. But none of the theories really rang true, and Riley ultimately decided that he had to check out a known location where the thing had been. Maybe there was some kind of physical evidence there, a footprint, a bit of skin. Anything would give them more to go on than they had now, which was a big fat goose egg.
“Right,” Giles said. “We’ll be here working.”
“I’ll keep you posted,” Riley said. Part of him hoped he walked right into the thing, though he doubted it would be out in broad daylight, and it was still hours until dark.
“If you see anyone having sex in the park, you should warn them that it’s not safe,” Anya added.
Xander just closed his eyes.
“Got it,” Riley said.
“Some people like to do it in public,” she continued. “In fact, once Xander and I—”
“Ann,” Xander interrupted wearily.
Riley chuckled and headed for the door.
Which was when Willow’s girlfriend, Tara, walked in.
“Oh, Tara. Hi,” he said, stepping back to let her in.
“Hello, Tara,” Giles echoed.
Xander and Anya added their greetings.
Tara was a sweet girl, dressing up a bit more since she and Willow had started hanging out; also, some glittery new makeup. She had no cause for the shyness and insecurity she often exhibited, as far as Riley knew, but he was very new to the world of complex emotions and unspoken agendas. A soldier’s life was black and white.
Or should be, he thought, bitterly remembering Maggie Walsh’s exploitation of him.
“Hi,” Tara said. She was wearing a long, feltlike skirt much like one Willow owned. She had a black jet choker around her neck and an Indian-print shirt with jet beads on the front.
She looped her hair around her ear. “Willow left a message. On my machine? She said something about a meeting . . .”
“Sort of,” Riley said. “Broke up a while ago, really.”
“What’s up?” she asked, gazing at all the faces.
Riley wasn’t sure how far he trusted Tara yet. Sure, she had proven to be an invaluable ally on that horrible last night of the Initiative. And her bond with Willow seemed very real. But she was still a bit new to the group, relatively unknown. And Maggie Walsh’s motto, drilled into him throughout his Initiative training, was “Trust no one.”
He wanted to trust her, for Willow’s sake, if nothing else.
But it was something he’d have to work at.
“Giles can fill you in,” he finally said, maintaining his pleasant tone. “I have to get going.”
She ducked her head. “Okay, see you.”
Riley left.
He doesn’t trust me, Tara thought as he went out the door. He thinks I can’t tell. But I know he thinks I’m hiding something.
Which I am. But anyway, that doesn’t seem to bother anyone else.
Not that they know about it, but still . . .
“Something’s going on?” she asked the room at large.
“Monsters,” Anya reported, yawning. “Tearing people’s guts out and spreading them around the park.”
“Just another day in paradise,” Xander said blithely.
“Y-yes, well, umm . . .” Giles gestured to the group as a whole. “Anya has summed it up rather succinctly, I think. In her own inimitable fashion.”
Tara bobbed her head. “So you guys had a meeting about it.”
“Right,” Xander said. “At the crack of dawn.”
Anya elbowed him. “It was noon. And that was hours ago.”
“Well, it felt like dawn,” he insisted.
“Then I guess you need to go to bed earlier at night.”
And I was at the magick shop and missed the call, Tara thought. Willow and I should work on our communication.
“You’re sad that you weren’t home to get Willow’s call,” Anya announced. “And you feel like she should know how to reach you.” Tara looked at her in surprise. She hadn’t thought that reading minds was one of Anya’s tricks, even when she had been a demon.
“No, I can’t read your mind,” Anya continued. “But it’s all over your face.”
“Anya, do we need to have the sensitivity talk again?” Xander asked.
“Well, look at her,” Anya insisted. “Any idiot could see—”
“She’s right,” Tara said. “I think I can be of help, that’s all.”
“I’m sure you can, Tara,” Giles said, looking contrite. “We’ve seen ample evidence of your abilities. I suspect we’re just still not quite accustomed to including you when there’s a general alert.”
She felt a little better because of his assurances. She’d done all kinds of things with the gang—cleansed Riley’s frat house, helped with the Gentlemen—but she still felt like she wasn’t one of the in-Scoobs.
“I will try to do better,” Giles promised, inclining his head. “Your assistance is truly valued.”
“Thanks.” She smiled at him. The others smiled at her
. Much with the smiling.
“Anything I can do to help now?” she asked hopefully.
Giles thought a moment, his gaze cast toward the ceiling.
“Donuts?” Xander suggested. Tara looked at him. He looked away. “Never mind. Guess that’s still my job.”
“Riley is checking on the scene at Weatherly Park,” Giles told her. “Buffy and Willow have gone to see if they can help find Salma’s brother. Anya, Xander and I are going to do some reading, to see if we can determine what manner of creatures these are. You’re welcome to join us.”
“Salma?” Tara asked uneasily.
“She’s not a friend like you,” Anya assured her. “Not a shark-bait friend. She only started being friends with Willow to get her to help find her brother.”
Tara flooded with embarrassment. She realized how jealous she had just sounded. Also, how petulant, like a little girl stamping her foot because she had not received an invitation to the party.
She would feel claustrophobic in here, right now, with these people, she knew. She needed to be outside, in the fresh air and the space.
“Maybe later,” she said. “I think I’ll have a look around town, see if I can l-learn anything.”
“Be very careful,” Giles warned. “We don’t know what we’re dealing with.”
“I always am,” Tara assured him. “Careful.”
She glanced Anya’s way. Anya said, “Shark-bait friend, because Giles was talking about wild dogs, or maybe sharks, and you and Willow—”
Xander cleared his throat.
Anya huffed. “I thought people in this country believed in speaking their minds.”
“No, no. That’s your rude countries,” Xander said. “Here, we believe in liberty and politeness for all.”
“I’m sure that’s not true.” Anya frowned. “Although it does sound familiar.”
Tara bade them good-bye and headed out the door.
Chapter 3
Los Angeles
NIGHTFALL.
Angel could move around more freely. He and Wesley drove to the address Cordelia had given him. Crickets were scraping and in the distance, someone’s stereo was up way too loud, the bass a heavy boom-boom-boom like thunder.
“How shall we approach it?” Wesley asked. “Good cop, bad cop? Starsky and Hutch? Crockett and Tubbs?”
“What about if we knock on the door?” Angel replied.
The house was a stucco bungalow with peeling green paint and a yard that had seen better days. The patches of grass were neatly mowed, but browning from insufficient water and the summer sun. A series of flagstones cut across the yard from the sidewalk out front to the three creaky steps leading to the front door; they gave under Angel’s weight as he climbed them and looked for a bell. The porch light glowed behind a cracked and foggy glass globe, which was nevertheless very clean.
He pulled open a torn screen and knocked on the door, then let the screen swing closed on rusty hinges. He waited. He glanced at Wesley, who shrugged. No one came to the door. He repeated the process. Stood, looking out at the quiet street. South Pembroke dead-ended at the end of this block, so there was no through traffic.
The houses all had a certain similarity—postwar construction, thrown up fast and cheap to meet the needs of the rapidly growing suburban population. Then the city grew, swallowing this neighborhood, so those who could afford it moved to different suburbs, farther out. It was the kind of neighborhood populated by people on their way up or on their way down, or simply stuck in houses they couldn’t afford to get out of.
From somewhere in the bowels of the house he heard a loud crash, and a scream.
Angel yanked the screen open, tried the knob on the main door. Locked. He reared back and kicked it, right at the lock. It swung open.
And he stood there, unable to enter.
Wesley pushed past him. “I’ll check it out,” he said.
“Be careful,” Angel called to Wesley’s departing form. But if Wesley replied, he couldn’t hear.
“Hello!” he called. “Anyone here?”
He waited again, straining to hear anything besides Wesley’s footfalls in the quiet house. As he waited he studied the living room, visible from the doorway. Wesley had dashed through this room and out a door at the far end that Angel guessed would lead into a kitchen. He could see clean hardwood floors, a few chairs with lace doilies on the arms, a coffee table with a large family Bible on it. The walls were empty except for a crucifix on one of them, and an arrangement of family photos on another. Everything was spotless, well cared for.
After another couple of moments, a door opened and a woman appeared in the doorway with a laundry basket in her hands. She seemed startled to see Angel standing at the door.
“Hi,” Angel said. “I heard a scream. And a crash. And my friend—”
Wesley returned from the kitchen just then. “Nothing in there,” he started to say. But seeing the woman, he stopped in his tracks.
“What are you doing in here?” she demanded, face clouding with anger. “Who are you?”
“Well, we heard the noise,” Wesley explained. “It sounded like, if you’ll forgive the expression, all hell had broken loose.”
“Oh, it was nothing,” the woman replied, trying to sound casual and failing miserably. She looked exhausted, with ash-colored circles under her eyes. She was in her late thirties, maybe, black hair pulled into a short ponytail with escaping wisps, and large gold hoop earrings. A chain disappeared into the top of her T-shirt, but Angel could almost feel the crucifix dangling against her chest. Despite her haggard appearance, her arms, holding the laundry basket, looked strong, and though she was at least a foot shorter than he, she carried herself like someone who knew how to take care of herself, even around a tall, mysterious stranger.
Her dark eyes examined him carefully, her gaze alternating between him and Wesley. “I dropped something.”
“We came to see Carlos Flores,” Angel said, not believing her. “Are you his mother?”
She looked surprised all over again. “Yes, I am. Who are you?”
Wesley stepped forward. “His name’s Angel,” Wesley explained. “I’m Wesley Wyndam-Pryce. We understand that he’s in some kind of trouble. I know this is very odd, but Angel might be able to help. He’s really very good at that kind of thing.” He puffed himself up a bit. “And I’m not so bad myself.”
She was cautious, suspicious. “I don’t see how you could help. Are you lawyers? Or millionaires?”
“Well, no,” Wesley replied.
“May I see Carlos?” Angel asked.
“Are you a social worker? Because he’s been going to school, and we’re fine.” She lifted her chin. “We have nothing to be ashamed of.”
She talked like a woman under siege, and Angel wished he was better at this part, trying to put people at ease, help them through the first initial, awkward meeting with him. It had been easier when Angel Investigations had an office, and he could wait—at least occasionally—for clients to come through his door. But Wesley seemed to have some skill at it, a nonthreatening persona he could project when necessary—or, most of the time, as it turned out.
“Mrs. Flores,” Wesley said imploringly, “please believe me. We want to help your family.”
She slumped. “We don’t have money, if that’s why you’re doing this to us. We can’t pay blackmail.”
“We’re not here to threaten you,” he assured her.
Taking a breath, she added, “We’re legal. We have green cards. We have a right to be in this country.”
“We’re not from the INS.”
Tears welled and she averted her gaze, wiping them away.
“I can help you.” Angel promised, his voice soft.
She nodded and opened the screen door. “I have no one to trust,” she murmured, “and I have prayed day and night for help.”
Still he hesitated. She almost smiled and gestured for him to enter. “Come in.”
With the invitation made,
Angel could cross the threshold. He stepped inside and offered his hand. The creaky screen door swung shut behind him. “I’m Angel,” he said again. “I’m a private detective.”
“And I’m, well, you already know that,” Wesley said with a halfhearted chuckle. “Wesley.”
Mrs. Flores put the laundry basket down on the clean floor. The clothes within it were worn but neatly folded. She took Angel’s hand and gave it a firm shake, then followed suit with Wesley.
“Isabel Flores,” she said. “You must be from Mr. Preston’s office.”
Angel remained silent, and let her think so. Wesley started to say something but he noticed Angel’s silence and took the cue.
“Where is he? Carlos?” he prodded gently.
She turned back toward the door to the downstairs from which she had emerged. “He’s been staying down there a lot,” she said. “Since his father . . . well, you know.”
“I’m afraid that there’s a lot we don’t know,” Angel suggested.
She gave him a look that he couldn’t quite read—an appraising stare, as if she were wondering just why she had allowed him into her house. But before she could speak, there was another loud noise from downstairs. Their eyes locked.
“You didn’t drop that,” Angel pointed out.
She pulled open the door and ran down the stairs, and he followed. At the bottom, she came to a sudden stop, taking in a sharp gasp of breath.
“Oh, my word,” Wesley uttered.
The main room down here was a utility room. A furnace and an old washer and dryer hulked together in one corner. An ironing board stood nearby. On the other side of the room was a futon couch that faced a color television.
But what was remarkable about the room was that the iron had apparently abandoned the ironing board of its own free will. It flew around the space in a dizzyingly tight circle, its cord trailing behind it, narrowly missing the walls with each circuit.
Sitting on the floor, watching it with curiosity and what looked like barely contained terror, was a boy who could only be Carlos.
Poltergeist, Angel thought. He had some experience with the phenomenon—Cordelia, after all, shared her apartment with a ghost named Dennis, who had exhibited some of this same kind of behavior.