The Evil That Men Do

  “What, are you nuts?” Xander cried.

  Giles said, “Willow, it would be a good suggestion if we were certain Angel would not be afflicted with the same sort of condition as we all have been.”

  “Yeah, we’ve already seen what Angel does when he’s possessed,” Xander cracked. “And it’s not a pretty sight.”

  She bobbed her head. “It was just a thought. Maybe we can ask Angel to stay somewhere else.” She shrugged. “But then, if he goes all crazy, he knows where Mark is. Not a good idea.” She raised her brows. “Library?”

  “I thought of that as well,” Giles said, “but it’s risky. We’ve had our share of close scrapes keeping Oz there. However, let’s keep it on the list.”

  Willow was silent a moment. Xander put his hand back on her shoulder and gave her a squeeze. She nodded, as if she wanted to let him know she was okay.

  “What about Mrs. Gibson’s house?” Willow asked. “Just for the time being. It’s been sold, but the new owner hasn’t shown up yet. Everyone’s gotten kind of bored with it. They don’t sneak up on the porch anymore.”

  On the floor, Mark raised his head. “I know that house. It’s haunted. I saw things moving in it.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Xander said gently. “We all see things that go bump in the night.”

  “Wait a minute. When we see things that go bump in the night, that’s because they’re really bumping.” Willow’s eyes got big the way they did when her brain was processing minor factoids into tasty, cream-filled facts. “That house was sold to a H. Ombra. Didn’t you say the Betrayed One’s name is Helen?”

  “Yes, indeed, I did.” Giles looked at her. “Ombra is a variant of the Latinate for ’Shadow.’”

  “And you saw things?” Xander said to Mark, who nodded.

  “I really did,” he assured Xander. “Shapes. I heard a woman laughing.”

  Giles looked at Xander in the rearview mirror. Xander blinked once and said, “Will? How many stakes you got in that bag?”

  “Just a couple,” she said, taking a breath. “But if we could find Buffy and —”

  “Oh, bloody hell,” Giles groaned.

  Red and blue lights flashed in the mirror. Sure enough, a police car was signaling them to pull over.

  “Giles, you maniac,” Xander said. “Obviously, there was a speed trap back there. And you were going, oh, at least twenty-five.”

  “We can only hope they aren’t possessed,” Giles muttered. “Willow, open the glove box, please. I’ll need my registration and proof of insurance.”

  “What you’ll need,” Xander muttered back, “is a gun.”

  “Oh, and do you have one handy?” Giles asked him.

  Xander shrugged. “Nope. Not today.”

  Mark tugged on Xander’s pants leg. Xander looked down.

  Mark said, “I do.” He looked embarrassed. “I took it from Mr. Giles’s house.”

  “That’s both good news and bad,” Giles observed. “Since you have it, we face the possibility of actually having to use it.”

  As he rolled down his window, he added, “Please pass it forward, Mark.”

  Xander reached down for the gun as Mark reached up with his left hand. He grabbed the front of Xander’s shirt and held him, and pointed the gun straight at Xander’s face.

  As he stared at the barrel, Xander’s heart skipped a beat. Then it thought about leaping from his chest.

  “What? Mark, give me the gun,” Giles said.

  At that moment, a voice called out, “Evening.”

  “It’s the cop,” Xander said to Mark. “So, what’s the rest of your plan?”

  Mark whispered, “To get out of here alive.” His arm stayed steady and his eyes were focused. “No matter what.”

  Chapter 12

  JOYCE SUMMERS WAS HOME WHEN BUFFY AND ANGEL arrived. She was in the kitchen, gulping down water like crazy, and wiping her forehead with a trembling hand.

  “The whole town’s rioting,” she said, refilling her glass from the faucet. “Buffy, a drink? Angel, I don’t suppose you drink much water.”

  “Actually, I can. Do,” he amended.

  Joyce turned around, saw the condition Buffy was in, and paled. She reached out a hand.

  “Oh, my God,” she said with a little cry. “What’ve you been doing?”

  Then she must have noticed Giles’s torn sweatshirt beneath Angel’s filthy duster. It was ripped from his right shoulder across his chest to his hip. There were deep scratches in the flesh beneath it.

  “Like you said,” Buffy answered, shrugging. “The whole town’s rioting. We had to fight our way from Giles’s apartment to here.”

  “Let me get the first-aid kit,” Joyce said, then took a deep breath.

  “I’m fine,” Buffy said. “Angel’s fine. Sit down, Mom. You don’t look too well.”

  Trembling, Joyce sat.

  “Mom, we’re looking for Giles. Has he checked in with you?”

  Tears rolled down Joyce’s cheeks. “I don’t know. What do I look like, your secretary?”

  Buffy blinked. “Mom?”

  Joyce slammed down her fist. “I can’t seem to control myself. It’s just that . . . nothing is going right. The insurance company called to settle on our robbery. The stolen items weren’t even covered! There was this . . . urn, I guess you’d call it . . . a piece of pottery from the reign of Caligula. It’s over sixteen hundred years old. It was truly priceless.”

  Buffy stared at Angel, who stared back. Slowly she took the urn from her pocket.

  “Is this it, Mom?”

  “Oh.” Joyce blinked. “Oh, thank God! Buffy, where did you find it?”

  Buffy moved her shoulders. She was baffled. “In Giles’s apartment.”

  She handed the urn to Joyce, who hefted it gently in her palm. “This is the one.”

  “We need to keep this,” Buffy said. “We need to show it to Giles.”

  Joyce demurred. “It’s evidence in a police matter.”

  “Mom, I was evidence in a police matter,” Buffy drawled. “Please, you know the sitch. This is so very much beyond that.”

  Joyce exhaled, nodded. “Of course. You’re right, dear. But when you’re finished with it, please give it back. We can’t afford to replace it. If we lose . . . or break it, the gallery will go under.”

  Buffy patted her arm. “Remember those eggs we had to take care of for health class at school? I’ll be even more careful with it.”

  “Okay.” Joyce managed a smile. Then she frowned. “But didn’t you tell me those eggs turned us into zombies?”

  Buffy held up the urn. “And I’m wondering if there’s anything about this that’s turning everyone into maniacs.”

  She put it back into her pocket and went off to check the answering machine.

  Leaving Angel alone with Joyce.

  They looked at each other. Joyce’s blood pressure rose. She was always uncomfortable around the vampire these days.

  Angel inclined his head. “How are you, Mrs. Summers?”

  “You’re staying away from her.” It was not a question. It was an order.

  His dark eyes were inscrutable, his face grim and set. “Yes, ma’am.”

  He was polite, she had to give him that. When he wasn’t possessed. When he wasn’t bragging to her about how he gone to bed with her seventeen-year-old daughter.

  When he wasn’t trying to kill them all.

  Sudden hatred seethed through her. Damn him. Damn him for doing all the things he had done, and then being allowed to live. He should have died like a normal man over a hundred years ago. He should have died when Buffy killed him.

  He should die now, she thought.

  “Mrs. Summers, I . . .” he began, and sighing, turned away from her. He looked up at the ceiling.

  She backed to the drawer with the steak knives. They had wooden handles.

  Probably not long enough, she thought. The broom, then.

  Very casually, she started for the broom closet.

&n
bsp; Take him out. Kill him. Yes.

  She opened the broom closet.

  “Mrs. Summers,” he continued, “I know you don’t really like me arou —”

  “Mom, did you know there’s a message from the police on the phone machine?” Buffy asked as she came into the room. “They found some fingerprints at the gallery. They want to talk to you.”

  Joyce stared at her with her hand around the broom. She stood shaking from head to toe.

  Buffy took a step forward. “Mom?”

  Her anger shifted.

  Rotten kid. She ruined my life. Ruined it. If she had stayed gone . . . if she was gone . . . yes . . .

  “Buffy,” she whispered, “run.”

  “Mom?” Buffy hurried toward her mother. “Mom, what’s wrong?”

  “I — I — ” Joyce put her hands to her head. The broom clattered to the floor. “Buffy, get away from me.”

  Buffy put her hands over her mother’s and made her look at her. Joyce fought to avert her gaze. She didn’t want Buffy to see the hatred there. The loathing. My life is a nightmare because of you.

  “I . . . I wish you were dead,” Joyce croaked.

  Tears stung her daughter’s eyes. “No, you love me, Mom. I know you do. It’s the . . .” Buffy trailed off. “Fight it.”

  “No. I hate you.” Joyce narrowed her eyes. Her lips were trembling. “If I could kill you, I would.”

  Angel did not want to be a witness to this. It was too painful, too reminiscent of when he himself had said such terrible things to Buffy and everyone she loved. He only prayed Buffy realized that what Joyce was saying wasn’t the hidden truth beneath an everyday facade of lies. Buffy’s mother loved her above all living things.

  “Mom, take it easy,” Buffy said. Angel heard the hurt in her voice, and he clenched his hands because he could do nothing to ease it. Only stand there, and be there in case she turned to him for comfort.

  Buffy looked over her shoulder at Angel. “We have to find Giles, or Helen, or both. We have to do something, Angel. This can’t go on.”

  He nodded. “Then let’s go find Giles,” he said.

  Buffy looked at him hard. “Or Helen.”

  He didn’t answer, only walked to the front door to give Buffy some time alone with her mother. He wasn’t positive that was the best thing to do, but it would have to do.

  After a few minutes, Buffy joined him at the door with her Slayer’s bag over her shoulder. The pain in her bearing cut him to the quick. She said, “You want to wash up before we go? I think I have one of my dad’s old college sweatshirts in my drawer. It’d fit you. And you’re obviously into the whole college logo thing.”

  “How’d it go?” Angel asked her.

  Misery etched her face, making her look very, very tired. He wanted to lean her head on his shoulder and tell her everything was going to be all right. He wanted to make it all right.

  “I was afraid to leave her alone. So, um . . .” She made a fist.

  His eyes widened. “You knocked her out?”

  Buffy blinked at him. “My own mother? No way.” With the fist, she mimicked throwing back a drink. “I made her chugalug an entire glass of vodka.”

  From the kitchen, he heard Joyce giggle and call, “Okay, barkeep! Pour me another.”

  “Also, I handcuffed her to the chair.” Buffy looked terribly uncomfortable. “She laughed and said something about Giles. That I didn’t quite understand and never hope to.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Buffy. Handcuffs can be fun,” he said before thinking. He rolled his eyes. “And I can’t believe I just said that.”

  “If you had any class, you’d blush,” she said.

  “If I weren’t a vampire, I would,” he replied.

  “Hey! I said, another round!” Joyce bellowed.

  “At least she’s happy.” Buffy looked in the direction of the kitchen.

  Angel couldn’t help himself. Now he did put his arm around her shoulders as he opened the front door.

  “She didn’t mean those things, Buffy. Any more than Brian Dellasandro meant to kill those people.”

  Together they turned and looked out at the night. The moon was awash with pink. Above the treetops, red flared like searchlights across the dark sky.

  “Sunnydale’s on fire,” Buffy said. “So to speak. Wouldn’t it be nice if it burned to the ground?”

  “It would only change things for a little while.”

  Buffy nodded. “The Hellmouth would still be here.”

  “The Hellmouth would still be here.”

  They headed out.

  The police officer shook his head in disbelief as Giles continued his account of how he had come to be driving a smoking car. Naturally, he omitted the fact that he had been recognized as someone in league with Mark Dellasandro.

  “Sunnydale’s gone crazy. It’s just like L.A. now, with all those riots. It’s the killings. Got people all riled up.”

  “Indeed. If ’riled up’ is the correct term to use,” Giles said.

  Xander cleared his throat.

  Giles cleared his as well. “I’ve got to get these young people home. As you might imagine, their parents are quite worried about them.”

  “Yes, I might imagine that,” the policeman said easily. He patted the car. “Hope you’ve got good insurance. My brother’s an agent with Sunnydale Mutual, so if —”

  “No,” Xander said.

  There were sounds of a scuffle, and then Giles heard Mark behind him, saying, “Freeze.”

  “Oh, no,” Giles breathed, closing his eyes. He gripped the steering wheel.

  “Take your gun out of your holster,” Mark said.

  “Now, son, take it easy,” the cop replied, holding his hands in front of him. “I know it’s been a bad night, but . . .”

  “Mark,” Giles began.

  “No!” the boy cried. “Take your gun out. I know what you people are like. You shot my brother.”

  The police officer blinked at him. “Oh, my God,” he said slowly. “You’re Mark Dellasandro.”

  Giles heard Mark suck in his breath. Evidently the boy had just realized his mistake. They had been about to get away scot free, as the saying went. Now that he had pulled this stunt, they were in deep . . . trouble, as the other saying went.

  “Give me the gun, Mark,” the cop said gently. “It’ll go easier for you.”

  “Take your gun out, or I’ll kill you,” Mark said unsteadily.

  “No, boy, I don’t believe you will,” the man replied. “I truly don’t.”

  “I will!”

  Mark fired a shot. It went wide, but it was close enough to the mark. The policeman paled and unsnapped his holster.

  “No, wait,” Mark said. “Mr. Giles, you take his gun.”

  Giles said, “Mark —”

  “If you don’t, I’ll shoot him.”

  Giles looked at the cop, who glared at Giles. “Aiding and abetting.”

  “I took them hostage,” Mark piped up. “I told him I’d shoot this guy if he didn’t drive me to Mexico.”

  It was the kind of story a fourteen-year-old would think up, based upon years of watching films about fugitives and murderers. Giles’s heart went out to the lad, who was doing this only in fear for his life. Nothing more. But the cop might not know that. No one else did.

  Giles said to Mark, “I’m getting out of the car, all right? To get his gun.”

  “My gun’s against Xander’s head,” Mark said.

  Giles heard Xander mutter, “Oh, thanks for using my name.”

  “Take his gun out of the holster and hold it with your thumb and pointer finger,” Mark instructed Giles.

  As Giles moved to comply, he knew he had to decide what to do. Aim the gun at Mark? Hand it to the policeman? Risk Xander’s life? He truly didn’t think Mark would shoot Xander. Not in his right mind. But could he trust that?

  And the cop, could he trust him? What would happen to Mark if the man succumbed to rage while Mark was in his custody? Or if anyo
ne else did?

  He took the gun and held it as Mark had ordered him.

  “Get his handcuffs,” Mark said.

  Again, Giles looked at the cop. The man swallowed.

  “I’ve got a family,” he whispered.

  Giles hazarded a look over his shoulder. “Mark, I will not allow you to harm this man.”

  “I don’t want to hurt anybody,” Mark said brokenly. Then his voice hardened. “But I will, if I have to. Now, get his handcuffs.”

  Giles said under his breath, “The last time I did this, I’d had quite a lot of chocolate.” Then seeing the cop’s confused look, he said, “I’m so very sorry about this.”

  “Just don’t let him hurt me, Mr. Giles.”

  Giles cuffed him quickly.

  “Put him in his car,” Mark told Giles.

  Giles hesitated. That was probably not the best idea. The man would probably be able to reach his radio with his mouth, something like that. Nevertheless, he did as he was told.

  The man went willingly, slid in, and looked up at Giles. He whispered, "There’s an extra key just under the dash.”

  Giles shook his head. “Sorry. I can’t chance it.”

  The man shrugged. “Someone will come along.”

  “Indeed.” Giles took a breath. “I am so sorry.”

  “You talk like you’re responsible.” His tone was suspicious.

  “Mr. Giles, come on,” Mark said.

  The man bobbed his head. “He’s closed the door behind himself. He’ll be in jail before sunrise.”

  “He’s only fourteen,” Giles said.

  The police officer’s face grew hard. “He’s a cold-blooded killer. If I’d realized he was in the car, I might have blown him away then and there. Saved the taxpayers some money.”

  Giles chilled at his words. He straightened and walked back to the car. Turned on the engine, and drove away.

  As soon as they were out of sight, Xander handed him the gun.

  “When did he stop holding it against your head?” Giles asked.

  “As soon as you guys were out of sight,” Xander replied.

  “Well, I think you did the right thing,” Giles said tersely.