by Nancy Holder
Buffy shook her head. In her world there were no “rational explanations,” no pat assemblies of fact and circumstance that could explain a situation like this. Even worst-case scenarios were almost never bad enough.
“And leave the door unlocked?” Buffy asked. Taking things in context, that seemed even more conclusive than the abandoned tea service. Giles spent countless hours impressing upon her the need for personal security. She couldn’t imagine him not locking his own front door.
“No signs of a struggle,” Xander said. He looked very worried now, more worried than she would have expected.
Perversely, though, she found some hope in his words. Xander had a keen grasp of the obvious, and sometimes obvious was good. There was, indeed, no sign of a struggle: no broken furniture, no spilled tea, no sign of damage to doors or windows. Best of all, no blood trace lingered. Wherever Giles had gone, he’d gone there uninjured.
That could change, of course, but for now, she clung to the hope.
“He boiled water and he brewed tea,” she said slowly, thinking things through. She walked back into the living area and stood behind the desk, nodding at Willow before she continued. “He likes tea in the evenings. Says it helps him think clearly. He was working on the missing book thing.”
Willow was buried in her review now, looking from open book to legal pad and back again. She offered not even a nod of acknowledgment in response.
“Uh-huh. And then someone knocked on the door,” Buffy said. It was the only conclusion that made sense. Giles had gone to receive a visitor, only the visitor had received him instead. “Let’s take another look outside.”
Cordelia rolled her eyes slightly but accompanied Buffy and Xander outside. After the ominously empty interior of Giles’s home, the afternoon sun felt good, and the air seemed fresh and clean. Even so, the open door and empty windows were haunting reminders that Giles had gone missing. Buffy tried to think of other things as she and the others took another, closer look for some indication of the night’s events.
Xander hung close to Buffy after they’d exited. Even when Buffy told Cordelia that she was going to do a quick perimeter search, Xander fell in beside her, ignoring her suggestion that he inspect the driveway area a second time. Although the Slayer was accustomed to her friend’s attentiveness, she was equally accustomed to being obeyed. His hovering struck her as being out of the norm.
“Xander,” she said. “He’s going to be all right.”
“Huh?” Xander asked. The concern on his features was even more evident in the daylight.
“Giles,” Buffy said. She forced herself to sound confident as they rounded the corner of the building. A small utility shed bordered on the courtyard, and she gave it a quick inspection. “He’s pretty tough, really, and he knows how to fight. We didn’t find any blood, so—”
“I’m not worried about Giles,” Xander said.
“Why not?” Buffy asked sharply. The shed was securely locked. Xander’s dismissal of Giles’s situation irritated her.
“Not like that,” he said, raising his hands as if to ward off an attack. “I like G just fine, you know that. But like you said, he’s a pro. We’ll find him and he’ll be okay. Really. I’m sure.”
“Then spill,” Buffy said, still reconnoitering. The shrubbery that framed one window was intact and undisturbed.
“It’s Jonathan,” Xander said. “He went to the movies with me last night and he fell asleep.”
“Well, c’mon, Xander,” Buffy said. Genuine irritation cut through the generalized worry she felt. Her friend’s priorities seemed a trifle misplaced. “They were just old movies.”
“That’s not what I mean, Buffy,” Xander said. “I mean, he’s still asleep—”
“Xander, you were out all night,” Buffy interrupted. “I mean, you look beat even now, and—”
“No,” he said forcefully. “His parents found him on the living room floor, sound asleep, and they can’t wake him up.”
Buffy paused in midstride. She looked at her friend. “Okay,” she said. “I said it before and I’ll say it again. Spill.”
Xander spilled. In sentences that were surprisingly precise and succinct, he recounted for Buffy the previous night’s adventures. He told her about borrowing his parents’ car and picking up Jonathan. He offered summaries of the four movies they’d more-or-less watched and, remarkably, the summaries were short enough not to be annoying. He told her about the ride home and dropping Jonathan off at the Levenson house and going home himself.
“The next thing I know, Mom’s flipping out,” he said. “I scrammed. That’s why I was with Willow when you called.”
One thing that Buffy always liked about Xander was his overall good cheer, something that seemed intrinsic to his personality. Seeing him the way he was now, worried, fretful, and deeply, deeply concerned, was always jarring. She realized with a pang that she’d half-hoped he could provide her with reassurance, only to find the shoe on the other foot.
He wanted her to make things better, and Buffy knew that right now she couldn’t.
“Xander,” she said. “I’m sure everything’s fine. He was out all night, he got sleepy—”
“Buffy, he’s in the hospital,” Xander said. “The doctors can’t wake him up either. They’re not calling it a coma, but there’s something wrong with him, seriously wrong.”
“It—it’s not your fault,” was all she could think to say. “You said that Aura was sick too, and—”
“I don’t care about Aura,” Xander interrupted again. He paused. “No, I don’t mean that. It’s just, Jonathan was with me—”
“Hey! There you are!” said Cordelia, sounding sharp and demanding as she came around a corner. Rather than continue, however, she eyed Buffy and Xander with what the Slayer could have sworn was suspicion.
Buffy sighed. Giles’s absence was a more pressing issue than Jonathan Levenson’s excessive drowsiness; Xander was just going to have to accept that. Besides, work was the best medicine sometimes. Once Xander got busy, he’d feel better.
“What is it now?” she asked.
Cordelia led them to her find. In a grassy patch, she knelt and pointed. “Look,” she said.
Scarring the soft earth were a series of half-moon divots. Each was about the size of a large man’s hand, and each dug deeply enough to tear grass aside and reveal the soil beneath. When she probed one cut with her index finger, Buffy could see that the gouge was mid-knuckle deep.
Buffy looked at her blankly. She couldn’t find it in herself to be entirely pleased that Cordelia had made the discovery—any discovery.
“They’re hoofprints,” Cordelia said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
“Oh,” Buffy said, nonplussed. To her, hooves and hoof-prints meant one thing. “You mean, like, hairy goat-legged demon hooves?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Cordelia said. She was looking closely at the prints, estimating the distance between them, busily demonstrating more expertise that was nearly as unwelcome as it was surprising. “These are way too big for a goat. These were made by a horse, a big one.” She moved over to the walkway and pointed. “Here,” she said. “Look.”
More half-moon marks showed on the flagstones. They were bright scars on the gray stone, faint but undeniable. They were the marks that a horse’s steel shoes would make on stone. Buffy eyed them. Clearly, Cordelia was right again.
Xander asked the question she wanted answered. “Cordy,” he said, “what’s with all the data points lately? You taking smart-girl pills or something?”
The taller girl shot him a withering glance. What Cordelia regarded as the famous Chase charm was in full bloom now. Most would have mistaken it for arrogance and hauteur, and Buffy wasn’t at all sure they wouldn’t have been right. Reluctantly, however, she decided that Cordelia had the right to be proud of herself.
For today, anyway.
“Don’t be silly,” snapped the Queen of Sunnydale High. “I told you before, I�
��m not stupid.”
With that particular genius inherent in the human male, Xander dug the hole deeper. “But the Marie Celeste thing,” he said. “And now this horse business—”
“Xander, hello!” Cordelia said, thoroughly peeved by the implied slight. The midday sun made her chestnut hair even more lustrous. “I’m not just not stupid. My family’s rich, remember?”
“Uh, yeah,” Xander said. “And your point is . . . ?”
“And what is it that rich families do at exclusive resorts?” Cordelia asked. “Some families, at some resorts, that is. Hint: We wear jodhpurs.”
“Um,” Xander said slowly. “Horseback riding?”
She nodded. Despite the unnerving situation, Buffy and Xander flashed brief smiles. There was something very satisfying about seeing Cordelia so thoroughly in her element.
“Okay,” Buffy said. She massaged her temples, hoping to stimulate thought. “Someone got Giles and spirited him away on horseback. Maybe a cowboy.”
“A . . . cowboy?” Xander said very slowly.
“Hey!” Willow called to them from the doorway. “I think I’ve found something!”
“—mysterious disorder that has claimed more than thirty local victims,” the newscaster said. She was a youngish woman, no older than her early thirties, Asian, and with a good voice. She had skin the color of old ivory and her dark hair was short and neatly styled so that it looked like a tight black helmet. Joyce Summers had seen her work before, and knew that she was good at her job.
The newscaster continued, “Earlier this hour we talked with a hospital spokesperson who offered a tentative theory on why some of our young people just won’t wake up. Now, in response to those comments, I’d like welcome to our program a newcomer to our city, the proprietor of the newly reopened Sunnydale Drive-In.”
The camera pulled back into a two-shot, revealing the ballyhooed guest seated across the round table that was pretty much a standard fixture on local-market news and commentary programs. Even viewed through the camera’s unblinking eye, the man had an immediacy and magnetism about him that Joyce found fascinating. He wore an Armani suit, and his iron-colored hair and beard were impeccably styled. His smile appeared to be directed at her and her alone. Joyce liked him instantly.
“Welcome to KRAD News at Noon, Mr. Belasimo,” the newscaster said.
The guest winced very faintly at the sound of his name, and Joyce was certain that the newscaster had mispronounced it, but he didn’t correct her. Instead, in a voice as warm and smooth as melted butter, he said, “Thank you, Ms. Hasbro. I’m very happy to be here in this lovely city, and in the presence of such a charming hostess.”
Hasbro’s professional demeanor broke, and she giggled. She waved one hand in dismissal and smiled again. “The pleasure is all mine, I assure you, sir,” she said. “And please, it’s Enola.” She became more business like as she addressed the camera. “Mr. Belasimo is a newcomer to our community. The Sunnydale Drive-In ran its first programming in more than twenty years last night.”
“That’s correct, Enola,” Balsamo said genially. “Although I feel constrained to point out that the movies we’re running are at least that old themselves. For our inaugural exhibition, we chose to present a festival of vintage drive-in fare.”
Joyce, still watching, was suddenly all too aware that she was alone in the house and alone on the big sofa that offered the best view of the Summers family television. She spent a lot of time alone these days. She felt sudden envy for Hasbro, who had so much of her life ahead of her and whose work put her in close proximity to newsworthy movers and shakers. She knew that the emotion was absurd, but it was undeniable, too. She’d been alone so often lately, since Buffy’s father had left, and Buffy’s life had become so busy. Now, on such a beautiful day, she sat by herself and watched television.
Why was that? It wasn’t the kind of question that Joyce allowed herself to ask very often.
Hasbro continued, “We spoke in the last hour with Dr. Orloff, who’s treating many of the victims of this sleeping sickness—”
“So-called sleeping sickness,” Balsamo said with an indulgent chuckle. It was an interruption, but the trim and attractive newscaster didn’t seem to mind. “I’ve been following the coverage, as you might imagine.”
“So-called sleeping sickness, then,” Hasbro conceded with a smile. “Dr. Orloff mentioned the fact that the majority of the thirty individuals currently being treated had attended the grand reopening last night of the Sunnydale Drive-In. He speculated that some form of food poisoning might be at work.”
Balsamo looked annoyed. Joyce sympathized. He was a businessman, after all, and had every right to be concerned about protecting his investment. “I don’t believe that Dr. Orloff’s comments were appropriate,” he said. “At the very least, they were ill-considered. Representatives of my organization have been in contact with the hospital administration about this. Believe me, before reopening, the theater concession stand was thoroughly inspected. We comply fully with all health code standards.”
Joyce believed him. She believed him as thoroughly as she believed that the sun rose in the east and set in the west. Something about this gentleman commanded utter confidence in the words he spoke. Joyce hoped that Hasbro would just shut up and let the man speak.
Hasbro didn’t. She persevered, with words that challenged, even if her tone of voice did not. “But surely, Mr. Belasimo, the fact that twenty-seven of thirty victims have been verified as having attended—”
“Precisely, Ms. Hasbro,” Balsamo said. The use of her surname made the newscaster wince. “At least three of the victims of this so-called illness have no connection whatsoever with my theater.” He smiled, and Joyce’s world became a warmer, more welcoming place. “Really, Enola, do I appear to be someone who would continue operations if there was the slightest chance that the innocent could come to harm?”
Hasbro smiled ruefully, clearly impressed by the line of reasoning. “No,” she said. “No, of course not.”
“Excellent,” Balsamo said. His smile widened, and sparks seemed to dance in his eyes. “In fact, I’d like to issue a special invitation. For tonight, and tonight only, the Sunnydale Drive-In will waive its quite reasonable admission charge.” The camera zoomed closer, until Balsamo’s face nearly filled the screen. “So, if any of your viewers are fans of classic drive-in fare, or if they simply enjoy a corking good yarn, I invite them to attend tonight. It’s my treat. I think I can promise you an experience like no other.”
The phone rang as Hasbro commenced her closing comments. Joyce let it ring a few times, waiting to answer it until she was sure that Balsamo would have nothing more to say. By the seventh ring Hasbro and her guest alike had been supplanted by an irritated-looking man in a white lab coat. A caption identified him as Dr. Orloff, presumably making some sort of rebuttal. She ignored him and lifted the receiver at last.
It was Barney.
“Oh, hello,” Joyce said, once the bank official had identified himself. “No, no, I’m not busy at all.” She paused and listened. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” she asked. Then, after another pause, she smiled. “No, Barney, I’m not busy tonight either,” she said. “I think that’s a nice idea. We could have fun.”
“Do you all remember when Giles asked about ectoplasm?” Willow asked. Seated at the Watcher’s desk, open books and notes at her fingertips, she waited for an answer. With Giles among the missing, Willow was pretty much the next best thing they had to a Watcher, since she’d assisted him so many times in his research. Now she was thoroughly in her element as the substitute fount of all knowledge. Dire as the situation might be, it was clear that she enjoyed the role fate had thrust upon her.
Cordelia, seated on the couch with the others, paid reasonable attention. She knew all too well that Willow was smarter than she was, or at least more knowledgeable. Recognizing that superiority was a tough pill to swallow; Cordelia consoled herself with the fact that the little brainiac’s exp
ertise ran to useless stuff like computer programming and ancient history. She didn’t know a thing about basic fashion principles or what style might have made her stubby little legs look longer. No, the kinds of things that Willow knew were useful in high school and monster hunting, and Cordy fully intended to leave both behind after graduating.
“Cordy?” Willow asked. “We’re waiting.”
Cordelia checked to see if she’d raised her hand, by some dumb conditioned reflex. She hadn’t, and said as much.
“Aw c’mon, Cordy, play along,” Xander said on her left.
Without being invited, he had plopped himself on the center cushion of the couch, between Cordy and Buffy. No doubt Xander thought he’d nabbed the catbird seat, but all he’d really done was make it easy for Cordelia to give him a quick elbow in the ribs. She did so, and he gasped.
“I’d like this to be a demilitarized zone,” he said weakly.
“I’ll demilitarize you,” she muttered from the corner of her mouth. More loudly, she continued, “It’s what ghosts are made out of.”
“Very good,” Willow said with a smile and a nod. “You deserve a gold star, young lady! If I had any to give, that is.”
“Willow,” Buffy said. The edge in her voice made the name a warning.
“Um, yes,” Willow said. “Well, ectoplasm is more than that, really. It’s uh, um, the underlying psycho-etheric constitutional substance of an individual’s soul, spirit, or atman.” She spoke the string of words in a singsong voice that suggested they were memorized, and recently memorized, at that. As if to confirm, she glanced at a sheet of Giles’s notes. “Gold star for me, too,” she said softly.
“Uh-huh.” The two syllables could have come from any of the couch potatoes, or all of them. They were the kind of almost meaningless syllables so often used by students to indicate acknowledgment, if not understanding.
Cordelia could feel her eyes starting to glaze over. Giles was pretty nice for a guy who’d been around almost as long as fire, and she certainly wished him well, but life went on. She wondered who was playing at the Bronze tonight.