Ghoul Trouble

by John Passarella

  * * *

  Joyce Summers was just leaving for the art gallery when the doorbell rang. She looked through the peephole and saw a tall, broad-shouldered man with a pale face. He had a pronounced widow’s peak, though his pale blond hair had such a severe crew cut that she could plainly see his scalp. Probably ex-military, she thought He wore a long black overcoat and a pair of wire-frame eyeglasses that reminded her of pictures of Teddy Roosevelt He was carrying a large black case and appeared disarmingly distracted. She opened the door. “May I help you?”

  “Quite possibly,” the man said. The bright, sunny day caused him to squint his eyes. She imagined his skin was probably sensitive to the sun, judging from his complexion. “You came highly recommended by an associate.”

  “Is this about the gallery?” Joyce asked.

  “Correct,” he said. “The . . . art gallery.”

  “You’re an art dealer?”

  “A dealer in Sumerian antiquities. May I?” he said, indicating the door. “I have some samples I’d love to show you.”

  “Well, I was just about to head over to the gallery, but I suppose I have a minute,” Joyce said. “Come in.”

  “Thank you ever so much,” he said, with a nod and a grin. “I do hope I can make this worth your while.” He stepped into the foyer and unfastened the button of his black overcoat. As the coat opened, Joyce caught a glimpse of his red leather vest.

  * * *

  “We know Robert John Wallace was reported missing only two days ago,” Giles said. “Whatever devoured him was fast and certainly thorough.”

  “Now that Buffy and Angel have found a whole, um, hole filled with bones, we know he wasn’t the first victim,” Willow said.

  “And the jewelry and wristwatches would seem to rule out theft as a contributing motive,” Giles said.

  Oz had been flipping through the wallets and other personal effects Buffy had brought to the library. Now he looked up. “Have you noticed all this stuff belonged to male victims?”

  “Not one purse in the pit,” Buffy added.

  “Not just the wallets,” Oz said. “These large watch faces. Men’s watches.”

  Giles took a closer look, nodded. “Oz is correct. The class rings are exclusively men’s rings. The other rings and necklaces all have a masculine design to them.”

  Xander entered the library, looking a little sleepy-eyed. He spotted the pile of personal effects and started flipping through the items. “Somebody raid the lost and found? I had a pair of galoshes in third grade if anyone—”

  “Xander,” Willow said. “Buffy and Angel found these things in a pit of human bones.”

  Xander quickly dropped the thick, gold-plated bracelet he’d been holding. “So, no galoshes, then.”

  “Afraid not,” Oz said.

  “Just as well,” Xander said. “Wouldn’t fit anyway.” Xander plopped into a chair, put his feet up on the table and rested his head back in his intertwined hands, a wide grin on his face. “I think I’ve fallen in love.”

  “I thought you and Cordelia were past tense,” Buffy said.

  “Not Cordelia,” Xander said. “Carnie or maybe Rave. Although Lupa does have a special place in my heart Hey, nothing against drummers, but that Nash is kinda standoffish, don’t you think?”

  “Xander, I think you’re mistaking lust for love,” Buffy said.

  “Wouldn’t be the first time,” Willow added.

  “Lust Love,” Xander said. “There’s a very fine line when it comes to the heart of the seventeen-year-old male.”

  “Irrespective of Xander’s affairs of the heart,” Giles said, “we must identify as many of these victims as possible. Find out where they lived, where they went to school or work, when they disappeared. I’m convinced we’ll find a pattern to determine where the killer or killers will strike next.”

  Willow veered toward the computer in the library. “Sounds like more research for Cybergal,” she said. “Anything to take my mind off this ‘forbidden history of Sunnydale’ term paper.”

  “Hate to break this to you, Will,” Xander said, “but the whole secret pit of gnawed human bones fits right into the forbidden section of Sunnydale’s history.”

  “You’re right,” Willow said, pressing her palms against the sides of her head. “I’m doomed. How am I ever going to write this paper? It’s not fair. I really do know too much.”

  Giles ran his hand through his hair. “Willow, I’m afraid you must draw upon the general reference volumes available on the history of Sunnydale.”

  “Forced to be a shill for the Chamber of Commerce,” Willow said and sighed. “If only I could have temporary amnesia, at least until this history paper was finished. It happens all the time in the soaps. Not that I ever, you know, watch them.”

  Cordelia entered the library in time for the last comment. “What about the soaps? Are you talking about me and Troy?”

  “No, Cordy,” Xander said, “the whole world doesn’t revolve around you and Dapper Dud.”

  “I’m surprised you’re still here,” Cordelia said. “I expected you to drop out of school by now to become a roadie for your precious Vyxn.”

  “Vixen?” Giles asked, confused. “Roadie? I’m afraid I’m not following.”

  “V-y-x-n,” Buffy spelled. “All-girl band at the Bronze. You know, that whole Carnie, Rave, Lupa, Nash confusion earlier.” Buffy gave Giles a conspiratorial look.

  “Ah,” Giles said, removing his eyeglasses as a way to avoid eye contact with Cordelia. “Thank you for clearing that up.”

  “What confusion?” Cordelia asked.

  Willow spoke up. “Xander was just talking about . . . joining a fan club. And he couldn’t decide which band member would be, um, the best.”

  “Tough decision,” Oz remarked, playing along.

  Cordelia cast a withering gaze at Xander. “Do I look like I even care whose poster he tapes to his bedroom wall?” Cordelia said with a dismissive wave of her hands. “Because I don’t.”

  “Why should you? You have Troy to keep you warm at night,” Xander said.

  “That’s—!”

  Giles interrupted. “Look, this is all fascinating,” he said and, from his tone, it was clear he did not find it so. “But aren’t we forgetting something?” He pointed to the pile of personal effects on the counter. “We need to find out about these victims before more people are killed.”

  “Oh, oh, I found one!” Willow said from in front of the computer. She had taken a couple wallets to the table with her and was running name searches cross-referenced with police reports. “Brandon Cortez was reported missing five days ago. Also a UC Sunnydale student. Last seen leaving a frat party. Reported missing by a roommate. Still no word on his whereabouts.”

  “That’s because he’s hereabouts,” Xander said, flipping through the wallet. “New Mexico driver’s license.”

  “Here’s another one,” Willow said. “Dave Sheppard. Reported missing six days ago by his parents.” She looked up at them. “He went to Sunnydale High.”

  “I didn’t know him,” Buffy said.

  “Young male victims thus far,” Giles said. “There’s a chance Xander and Oz might be at risk.”

  “Aren’t we always at risk?” Xander asked. “As card-carrying members of the Scooby Gang?”

  “There is that, of course,” Giles conceded. He had always been a little uncomfortable with the whole concept of the Slayer having a coterie of helpers. For a while, he’d thought the need for a Scooby Gang reflected negatively on his abilities as a Watcher. Still, he had to admit there was safety in numbers. Moreover, his Slayer, Buffy, was in the extraordinarily difficult position of warring with the supernatural right on top of the Hell-mouth. If the average life of a Slayer was a short one, Buffy was truly fortunate to have such a devoted following to watch her back and, perhaps, improve the odds a bit “Nevertheless, since neither of you are accustomed to being primary targets, you would do well to maintain a defensive posture.”

  �
��Best defense is a good offense,” Oz said.

  Xander enthused, “All we need is for Cyber Will to tell us which butts need some kickin’.”

  “This is hardly a laughing matter,” Giles said.

  “We have two choices,” Xander said. “We can laugh . . . or we can run screaming in the night.”

  “Well, then, given the alternative—”

  “See, Will, we have Giles on board for a major butt kick. Whatcha got for us?”

  Willow shook her head. “Whatever is . . . snacking on the young men of Sunnydale,” she said, “it doesn’t leave any eyewitnesses behind.”

  Cordelia was looking through the personal effects still left on the counter. “What about all this stuff?”

  “You’re quite right, Cordelia,” Giles said, nudging his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “After we glean what information we can from these items, we should return everything to the pit and report it to the police—anonymously, of course—so the families can be notified.”

  “I just meant it all looks too tacky to pawn or wear or anything,” Cordelia said. “You think the families will actually want this stuff returned?”

  Giles frowned at her startling lack of compassion. “I’m almost sure of it, Cordelia.”

  “No accounting for taste,” Cordelia said, oblivious to the censure in his expression.

  “The police?” Buffy said. “I can’t wait to see what rational explanation they come up with to explain a pit of human bones.”

  “Wood chipper runs amok,” Xander said. “Stray dogs hide bounty of bones.”

  “The existence of numerous victims would seem to point to a group of flesh-eaters, possibly a pack of ghouls, rather than a solitary predator.”

  “So I don’t have to worry about that flame-headed hi-bachi demon you were so keen on?” Buffy asked, grinning.

  “Rasselu demon,” Giles corrected. “No, I should think not.”

  The class bell rang.

  “Willow, perhaps it would be best if you resumed the search during a study period,” Giles said. He gave the computer a wary look, cleared his throat and added, “Meanwhile, I’ll have another look through the stacks for information about mounds of bones, mass graves, that sort of thing.”

  “There’s a cheery thought,” Cordelia said, rolling her eyes. She grabbed her books and headed toward the door. “I really have to stop coming in here.”

  “Not a problem,” Xander called. “We’re changing the locks.”

  But she was already gone.

  * * *

  Buffy slammed her locker shut, taking grim satisfaction in imprisoning her math book there. For the moment, she set aside regrets that the incarceration was only temporary. She would be lugging the thing home with her at the end of the day. It represented one of her problem classes.

  “Willow,” Buffy said. “I think it’s time to wave the white flag over that yellow zone.”

  “Buffy, calculus isn’t all that bad, I mean, if you stop and think about the practical applications and stuff.”

  “Practical applications?”

  “Well, like, you know, figuring out the distance a crossbow bolt travels at a given velocity if—Okay, I lied. It is bad,” Willow said, almost out of breath. “It’s a bad, bad thing.” She sighed. “There. Was I supportive?”

  “The model of supportiveness. But another bad, bad thing is headed our way and the velocity is”—she whispered—“too late!”

  “Well, well, well,” Principal Snyder said. “If it isn’t Ms. Summers.” He made a point of checking the time on his wristwatch and then scribbling it down on a clipboard. There was something reptilian and sneaky about the way he patrolled the school halls, as if he were sure every student was up to no good and he was determined to finally catch every one of them in the act.

  “Principal Snyder,” Buffy said.

  “I’m keeping my eye on you, Ms. Summers,” he said. He looked down at the piece of paper on the clipboard. Buffy glimpsed a grid and lots of fine print, along with copious handwritten notes. “I have your complete class schedule here. If I’m not mistaken, you should have just finished calculus—but, hmm, no calculus textbook? How do you expect to excel if you forget the proper texts? Or did you just skip that pesky calculus class? That would certainly explain it.”

  “Explain what?” Buffy asked.

  “Why calculus has been designated as one of your trouble zones by Mrs. Burzak,” Snyder said, positively glowing over Buffy’s difficulties.

  “Look, Snyder—” Buffy said, omitting his title in her exasperation. Just how far did Burzak’s network of scholastic spies extend? Why can’t that woman just leave me alone? “The book is in my locker. I was in the class. Believe me, I will live with the memories.”

  “A concerned student would stay after class,” Snyder said. “Ask for extra credit assignments. Then again, I never counted Buffy Summers among my concerned students.”

  “On the contrary,” Willow said. “Buffy was just asking if I would sleep over her house for a late-night tutoring session.”

  “I . . . was?”

  “You were.”

  “I was,” Buffy said, with a “so, there!” nod to Snyder.

  “She’ll be burning the midnight oil,” Willow said. “How’s that for being a concerned student?”

  Snyder nodded, conceding the advantage, for now. “But don’t think this means I won’t be keeping track of you, Ms. Summers, from morning bell till school dismissal. Mrs. Burzak has identified you as a troubled student and asked for my help in setting you on the straight and narrow. I’d hate to see you . . . slip up and face expulsion again.” By the excited gleam in his eye, Buffy knew that was exactly what he’d like to see happen.

  When they were alone again, Buffy said, “Does it ever bother you that we and Principal Snyder are members of the same species?”

  “We’re on the Hellmouth,” Willow said. “So we can’t really be sure.”

  “This is true,” Buffy said. “Thanks for bailing me out, Willow, but you don’t have to—”

  Willow held up a hand. “My overnight bag is already packed.”

  “But what about your history paper?” Buffy asked. “I know that whole honesty thing is bothering you. Not that that’s a bad thing.”

  “Actually, I think it’s giving me hives,” Willow said, unconsciously rubbing her arms. “I feel like a fraud, forced to write a completely false history of Sunnydale. Where’s my journalistic integrity?”

  “Willow, you’re not a journalist.”

  “Theoretical journalistic integrity.”

  “Don’t think of it that way,” Buffy said. “Think of it as a creative writing assignment.”

  “The conscience is a prickly little beast,” Willow said. “It jabs you and pokes you and puts soft, lumpy things in your milk and won’t let you get any sleep.” She sighed. “At least it’s only an academic dilemma eating away at me. Oz and Xander could be supernatural specials of the day. I’ll look out for Oz, but what about Xander?”

  “Cordelia will probably hang around just to make sure he stays miserable.”

  “Oh, but Cordelia has Troy now,” Willow said. Buffy watched as her friend got a dreamy look in her eyes. “You know, he plays Zack Garner on Wanderlust. See, Zack’s a rebel rich kid who has a way with horses and with the women. He’s—oh—I mean, not that I’ve ever watched it, really, I just read somewhere or heard—” She bit her lip, looked chagrined. “Sometimes my mother talks.”

  “Hmm,” Buffy said, grinning. “Maybe I should be taping.”

  “Really?” Willow said, excitement bubbling up again. “If you want, I could lend—I mean, yes, you could tape.”

  “So . . . what were we talking about?”

  “Was it horses?” Willow asked innocently.

  “Xander,” Buffy said.

  “Oh, right,” Willow said. “Xander.”

  “Xander is smitten,” Buffy said. “Which means, he’ll stay put at the Bronze. At least for a couple days. Maybe
that’s the safest place for him to be until we figure this out.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Buffy walked through her house, calling, “Mom?”

  She entered the kitchen, expecting her mother to be there, maybe flipping through department store ads or doing the crossword puzzle. But the kitchen was empty. As she placed her backpack on the kitchen table, her foot crunched on something and she looked down to see a broken mug, pieces of ceramic scattered across the tile floor. It was the sand-colored Philadelphia Art Museum mug her mother had been sipping coffee from that morning.

  “Mom?” Buffy called. No answer.

  Then she noticed it. On the table, beside her backpack, was a playing card, the jack of clubs.

  Footfalls on the basement stairs, getting closer.

  Buffy slipped a wooden stake from her bag and stalked toward the basement door, not making a sound. The basement door was open several inches. She should have noticed it when she came into the house. Careless, she thought. Now she waited beside the door, poised, ready to attack whoever or whatever had invaded her home. The door swung open. Buffy raised the stake.

  Her mother gasped, almost dropping the dustpan and brush she had carried up from the basement shelf. “Buffy!”

  “Mom!” Buffy said, her heart racing. She’d been way too close to staking her own mother.

  “You scared me to death,” Joyce Summers said, breathless.

  “The feeling’s mutual,” Buffy said. “I . . . I saw the broken mug on the floor and assumed—”

  “That I dropped it while emptying the dishwasher?”

  “Which is . . . also a reasonable assumption.” She followed her mother into the kitchen, held the dustpan at an angle as her mother swept the ceramic debris toward her. “So, I wanted to let you know that Willow’s coming over tonight, if that’s okay. Kind of a calculus tutoring sleep-over.”

  “That’s good, Buffy,” Joyce said. “I’m glad you’re taking the initiative with these problem subjects. By the way, I had a visitor stop by this morning.”