UNSEEN: THE BURNING

  Little King blinked. Then he pulled over to the side of the road and killed the engine.

  “Idiota!” he shouted. He smacked her across the face.

  Rosalie was actually relieved that it was gonna happen now, whatever it was. At least it would be over.

  He drove crazy, shouting at her, as they roared back to the oil fields. The fire was still going and there were police cars and fire trucks everywhere. There was no way they would be able to retrieve her cross.

  “Are you sure he didn’t have it on when he got in the SUV?” he demanded, all traces of the alcohol gone now. The fire reflected in his brown eyes as if it were burning inside of him.

  “Yes.” Hot tears streamed down her face, mingling with the blood that dripped from the corner of her lips. “He was completely naked, okay? I would have noticed it.”

  Little King hung a U. Rosalie wiped away the blood and fearfully asked, “Where are we going?”

  “Back to the beach,” he said. “You’re gonna tell ’em.”

  “No, please.” She held out her hands. “You like me, don’t you? I—I could be your girlfriend, if you want.” She sobbed. “Please, don’t take me back. They’re all drunk! They’ll hurt me bad!”

  He shook her off. “You put all of us in danger, and why? Because you wanted Nicky to notice you, treat you special. Well, he’s made his mark now and he can have any woman he wants.

  “And I promise you, Rosalie, after we’re done with you, no one is gonna want you.”

  “No, por Dios, please,” she wept.

  Stone-faced, Little King kept driving.

  Chapter 15

  Los Angeles

  AS SIRENS WAILED AND SMOKE CHOKED THE CELLS, Angel prodded Rojelio Flores to tell his story. Flores kept glancing at the still form of Barlowe, stretched out on his cot. Barlowe’s breathing was regular, Angel noted. He was out cold but he’d be okay later, with just a headache and a bruise. Probably safer here inside the cell, unconscious, than he would be out in the population.

  “Talk fast,” Angel suggested. “Once the police restore order, I’ll be kicked out of here.”

  Flores rubbed his short hair and closed his eyes for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts. “I was taking a walk,” he finally began. “I do that about four nights a week, after dinner.”

  He patted his stomach. “Doctor’s orders, right? Sometimes just around the neighborhood, and sometimes I drive over to the ocean, like in Santa Monica or Venice. Once in a while, Griffith Park, but I like to do that one on a weekend day, instead of at night.

  “Anyway, on this night I was walking close to home, up to Seventh Avenue and then going to head over to Broadway, down that to Olympic, and then back.”

  “Long walk,” Angel offered.

  “Yeah, I like to go fast. Get a lot of thinking done. But this night that we’re talking about, I’m on Seventh, and my shoelace feels like it’s coming loose.

  “So I bend over to tighten it. I stop by this apartment building, and put my foot up on this bus bench to tie my shoe. And from the apartment, I hear something loud, like maybe shots. But I figure, no business of mine. Plus, nobody’s screaming or anything like that.”

  He sighed, as if the telling was wearing him out. Angel’s patience was wearing thin, but he kept his mouth shut.

  “So I just keep going, thinking that if it was shots, somebody in the building will call the cops, take care of things. It’s a security building, I couldn’t get in even if I wanted to. Plus I’m not a fighter, and I’m not armed. Look at me.” He held out his arms. His physique was paunchy in spite of the walking. “What am I going to do against someone with a gun?”

  “And after all, this is L.A.,” Angel said dourly.

  “This is L.A.,” Rojelio agreed. “Then, when I’ve gone about another block, I’m about to cross the street, and I look back. There’s a police car. It’s coming from the direction of the apartment, but past it, toward me. At first, I’m thinking it’s here to check out the shooting, and it really was a shooting, and that’s kind of scary, you know? But then it passes by that building so I think it’s just a coincidence.”

  Angel nodded, trying not to glance over his shoulder. Flores had to snap it up, or Angel might never get to hear the end of this story.

  “Only as I’m about to step out onto Olive to cross the street, the car pulls to a stop right in front of me, practically running over my feet, and cops get out with their guns drawn, pointing them and yelling at me.” He wiped his face with both his hands.

  “Flores, keep going,” Angel prompted.

  The man nodded silently. He took a breath. “Another police car comes up beside them, and there’s two more guns pointing my way. I hit the ground, like they said. They came over and knelt on my back and handcuffed me and put me in one of the cars.”

  Angel considered. “Did they tell you why they were picking you up? Mirandize you?”

  “Nothing then.” He was sweating now, and he kept craning his head to look at the hallway, as if someone might walk in on them. Angel figured it wouldn’t take too long to get paranoid in a place like this.

  “While I was locked in the back of the car, they drove back to the alley behind that apartment building. I sat in the car alone for about twenty minutes. Everything was quiet, no sirens, no noise. Then they came back out of the building, got back in the car, and drove me here. It was a couple of hours more before I even found out what they were accusing me of.”

  “Murder in the first,” Angel guessed.

  “Police say ‘homicide,’ ” Flores said bitterly. “They said I could call a lawyer, but I don’t have a lawyer. Lawyers cost money. So the court has to appoint someone, and finally Mr. Preston, he shows up about three minutes before I’m arraigned.”

  His voice grew shrill, anxious, angry. Angel understood. This man had every right to be outraged, if what he was saying was true.

  “No bail, because they’re saying I killed this guy, Nokivov, and then resisted arrest. They said they found the gun on me that killed him. I don’t even own a gun.” His voice broke, and he swallowed a couple of times as emotion threatened to overcome him. Angel felt sorry for the man. Jail was no place for the innocent. “I never heard of Nokivov before, never met him, and sure didn’t kill him.”

  “I believe you,” Angel said.

  Flores stopped. “You do? Why?”

  “Your story rings true,” Angel said. “You don’t have a record, your wife says you’ve never owned a gun, you don’t do drugs. Why would you kill a Russian drug dealer?”

  “Too bad you’re not the judge.” Flores laughed harshly. “I figured he’d throw my case out in a minute, but he didn’t. Ordered me held without bail until my trial. I’ve met with Preston a few times, but he doesn’t seem like any great lawyer to me.”

  Angel glanced down the corridor. Things seemed to be quieting down, and the smoke was thinning. It looked like the riot was probably being brought under control. Just then, as he stood in the cell’s doorway, an inmate carrying a cop’s service piece stopped in the hall, saw Barlowe’s uniform, and started to come into the cell.

  Angel confronted him at the door. “Help you?”

  “Out of the way,” the inmate said, waving the gun at him.

  Angel caught the prisoner’s wrist in one strong hand and applied pressure. The guy squealed and dropped the gun. Angel caught it in midair and put it in the pocket of the windbreaker he still wore.

  “Don’t think so,” Angel said. “Go turn yourself in and be glad I didn’t break your wrist.”

  The inmate’s face was white. He turned and ran, his footfalls echoing down the corridor until they were lost in the wail of sirens and the din of shouting voices.

  Angel went back to Flores. “Not much time left,” he said. “So you were framed, you think.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Have any idea who? Or why?”

  “From what I overheard of their conversation,” Flores said, lowering his voice, “I t
hink those cops did it themselves. I heard one of them say something about a throw-down, and the others called the dead guy some names, and laughed. Then they lowered their voices again, as if they were worried I would overhear.”

  Angel nodded. “A throw-down piece.”

  “A what?” Flores asked.

  “An unlicensed, unregistered gun cops sometimes carry illegally, in case they want to do something with a weapon that can’t be traced.”

  Flores nodded. “And they say it’s my gun.”

  “So you think while they had you in the car, they went in to make the crime scene look like you had been there, maybe even planting hairs or threads from your clothing, and trying to eliminate any traces of themselves having been there except to investigate the crime.”

  “That’s what I fear.”

  “Hard to prove otherwise, if they knew what they were doing,” Angel told him grimly.

  “So what you’re saying is, basically, I’m hosed,” Flores said despondently. “They have evidence I was there, they have a gun they say they took from me, there are four of them and only one of me and no other witnesses.”

  Angel shook his head. “It looks bad on the surface. Maybe I can turn up something, though. Especially now that I know where to start looking. In the meantime, you stay clean and stay out of trouble.”

  Flores stared through the bars. “I thought that’s what I was doing,” he murmured.

  Angel knew time was ticking by, and he still hadn’t broached the subject he’d come here to talk about. “Rojelio, I think you and your son are both powerful telekinetics,” he said. “Do you know what that means?”

  Flores blinked. “We can move stuff with our brains?”

  “That’s pretty much right. Did you know that about yourself?”

  For a moment, Angel thought the man was going to go through the routine of denying it. But then Flores sagged, as if relieved to have it out in the open, and said, “There have been things happening, lately. I wasn’t sure, but I was thinking . . . maybe . . . something like that.”

  Angel nodded. “Well, I’m pretty sure it is you. You need to work on it. Pick things in your immediate vicinity, and move them around. It’s like any other muscle, you need to work it out, to practice using it. That’s the only way you’ll gain any control over it. I think the stress of being arrested jumpstarted your ability, but without control over it you’re making everyone around you anxious.”

  “I’ll try,” Flores promised.

  The police officer Angel had knocked out uttered a low moan and shifted position on the bed. Angel went to him, helped him to a sitting position.

  “Are you . . .?”

  “I’m the guy who hit you,” Angel said. “You were about to assault a prisoner for no reason.”

  “He—he’s the one . . .”

  Angel read the man’s nametag. “Think about this, Barlowe. You really want to deny this man due process, get carried away in the middle of a jail riot and kill someone? If you have a case you can prove, then prove it. You kill an innocent, unarmed man in here, you’ll fry just like any murderer.”

  Barlowe rubbed his jaw, wincing when he touched it.

  “Guess you’re right,” he said. “I was just so sure.” He looked at Rojelio Flores, blinking as if gazing into a bright light. He regarded Flores as if something had changed about the man, but Angel thought it was something in Barlowe that had changed. He was seeing Flores anew. “Sorry, Flores,” he said. “Guess I got caught up in the moment.”

  “No problem,” Flores replied sincerely.

  “Why don’t you go get a compress on that jaw?” Angel said. “Flores isn’t going anywhere.”

  Barlowe looked at Angel. “Who are you?”

  “Riot squad,” Angel said. “I’m almost done here.”

  Barlowe unsteadily gained his feet. “I don’t like it,” he said. “But a situation like this, all the rules are changed. You get out of here in the next ten minutes or I will arrest you, though.”

  “Deal,” Angel agreed. Barlowe left the cell, walking uncertainly.

  “Quick,” Angel insisted. “What are the names of your arresting officers?”

  Flores answered without hesitation. “Doug Manley, Bo Peterson, Luis Castaneda, and Richard Fischer.”

  “Okay,” Angel said. “I think you’re safe in here for now. Just practice, like I said, and try to bring your powers under control so there aren’t any more incidents. Carlos is doing the same thing at home.”

  “I miss him,” Flores said. His eyes were moist. “And Isabel.”

  “I know. They miss you, too, believe me. Keep your nose clean and maybe you’ll be home with them soon.”

  Sunnydale

  Riley and Tara barged in to find Giles sitting in front of his police band radio, intent on the crackles and sputters that issued from it. He was obviously disturbed by something, but so was Riley. It had taken forty minutes to get Spike back to his crypt, out of the car, and situated inside. Forty minutes that Riley didn’t think they could spare. He’d been all for just booting the vampire out by the side of the road, but Tara had argued that Buffy wanted Spike treated with decency. Riley didn’t get it—it seemed like she had some kind of save-Spike’s-soul campaign going, even though it was way too late for that.

  Then he’d wanted to finally get Tara home, but she had argued again. With this new information, she said, there might be more work that needed to be done at Giles’s house. She would rather stay there with the others, in case there was something she could help with. For someone so timid, Riley thought, heading the car in Giles’s direction, she sure can be persuasive.

  On the way, they had tried to call Buffy and Willow, but there had been no answer at the de la Natividad household. Which could have meant they had all gone to bed, Riley knew. But it bothered him nonetheless.

  He told Giles about the fire, mentioned dropping Spike off, and showed him the cross they had found. Giles examined it with the magnifying glass he kept in a drawer in his desk.

  “There are two sets of initials on the back of this pendant,” he announced. “And a rather poor rendition of a snake.”

  “We know,” Riley told him. “We figure the ‘L.C.’ is for the Latin Cobras. It’s the other one I don’t have a clue about.”

  “R.L. . . . Oh dear . . . There’s, umm, there’s been a homicide at Sunnydale Cove,” Giles stammered, indicating his radio. “Quite recent, by the look of the body. According to the police. The victim’s name was Rosalie Lopez, and she was a member of the Latin Cobras.”

  Stone-faced, Riley said, “Tara, stay here with Giles. I’m going to check this out.”

  “I can help you,” she said. “What if a shadow—”

  Riley was out the door.

  About an hour later, he returned. Giles and Tara, who had been waiting anxiously, answered the door together.

  Xander and Anya were also there, sitting on the couch.

  There were bruises on Riley’s cheeks and his right eye was swollen shut. When Tara’s eyes widened, he grinned halfheartedly and said, “You should have seen the other guy.”

  “Why?” Anya asked. “It’s revolting enough seeing you.”

  Xander hung his head in defeat.

  “Riley, what happened?” Tara asked.

  “I’ll get some antiseptic,” Giles announced.

  “I got some answers,” Riley said, slowly seating himself in Giles’s chair, perpendicular to the couch. Grimacing, he said to Tara, “It’s like we figured. Nicky set that fire.”

  “Oh, my God.” Tara covered her mouth.

  “And he walked away from it unscathed,” Riley added. “The leaders of the Cobras—well, not the Cobras, exactly, but the gang they’re associated with, the Echo Park Band—wanted to find out how he pulled it off, so they summoned him to Los Angeles.”

  “Unscathed?” Giles asked from the bathroom, where he was rummaging in the medicine cabinet.

  “He should have died. My informant said no one could figure
out how he did it.” Riley looked at Tara. “You have any guesses?”

  She said slowly, “He’s the shadow monster?”

  “So what now?” Xander asked. “Do we neutralize him with really big fluorescent lights?”

  Everybody looked at Riley.

  “What happens is, I try to find him in Los Angeles. And the rest of you stay here and patrol, and make sure the shadow monster is really gone.”

  “Well, that sounds like bloody good fun,” said a voice from the kitchen.

  The microwave dinged. Through the arch that separated the living room from the kitchen, Spike’s head rose slowly into view. He frowned at Riley. “What the bleedin’ hell are you staring at?”

  “I thought we tucked you in.”

  Tara said, “Xander and Anya found him wandering around again.”

  Grunting, Spike went to the microwave and opened it, pulling out a coffee mug. He began to sip.

  “I think he was lonely,” Anya reported. “He has few friends, as he isn’t accepted by other demons, and his social skills with humans are marginal at best.”

  Spike made a face at her. “Hey. I thought we were mates, you and me. Neutered Demons United and all that.”

  Anya blinked. “I am not a neutered demon. I am a perfectly functional human woman. For now. If I get my powers back, that will be a different story.”

  “Neutered,” Spike insisted. “Just like me.”

  Anya squirmed uncomfortably. Xander put his arm around her and said, “It’s okay, Ann. I like you just the way you are.”

  She preened victoriously at Spike.

  “You two shut up,” Spike said to Tara and Riley.

  “So, Los Angeles,” Giles said, returning with a bottle of Betadyne and some gauze pads.

  Riley nodded. “The rest of you will stay here and patrol,” he said again.

  “Oh, yay,” Xander drawled.

  Tara blinked. “I should go with you.”

  Riley shook his head. “If we’re wrong, and Nicky isn’t the shadow monster, you’re going to be needed around here.”

  “That’s very true,” Giles said. “All hands on deck, and so on.”