Into the Abyss

Disclaimer: Characters from Buffy the Vampire Slayer are property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Kuzui Enterprises, Sandollar Television, the WB, and UPN.

Part III

His eyebrows went up. “You can’t know, of course. And any attempts I made to assure you otherwise would, naturally, be likewise suspect.” His smile, while ironic, seemed to hold genuine amusement as well, and no malice that I could see. “If you’re truly concerned, it would probably be prudent for you to avoid associating with me further. There are, to be sure, genuine murders taking place, so I wouldn’t be offended if you made such a decision.”

“Right,” I said. “Just wanted to make the point that I had thought of it.” I sighed. “Look, you don’t have to go back to the hotel.”

He weighed the words, his gaze steady on mine. “No?” he asked.

“If we’re working on this together, it’s probably better if we keep close,” I told him. “My house has a spare room. You’re welcome to stay there, if you’d like.”

I was getting in deep, I knew that. But then, that had been true for awhile already. This way, I might be able to exercise some degree of control, or at least keep up with what was going on. I didn’t believe for a moment that he was an actual murderer, but Rupert Giles was definitely involved here, if only by his own interest, and I needed to keep an eye on him.

Not that he was particularly hard on the eyes.

He was already nodding. “A practical suggestion,” he said. “I accept. Now, I believe we were about to begin seeking deeper background on our subjects —?”

We kept on into the early evening, almost as late as I would have stayed on one of my normal work days, though my actual hours vary somewhat. Giles got information from his ‘colleague’, some of it very interesting indeed and the depth of detail extremely disturbing (could you really dig up that much, online, in just a few hours? that was frightening, and at least part of it had to be illegal, and I would seriously hate to have any such spotlight aimed at me). He and I compared notes, worked up and followed out on various hypotheses, and found increasing evidence to support the notion that my off-the-wall list had some solid substance to it. I put together the anonymous warning Giles had recommended, to the two remaining women on the list and to Nicolette Herveaux, in case her seeming absence should turn out to be a simple misunderstanding; I could easily have managed a private, secure delivery myself, but Giles insisted on passing it on to his still-unnamed hacker colleague, where it would be routed out through a series of anonymizers.

Once we left the Abyss, Giles wanted to look at the locations where the first two known dead women had been found; there was no telling where the body that wound up in the landfill had originated, but his colleague had dug the sites of the other two killings out of the police department servers (which were supposed to be firewalled, damn it!). He was determined that he had to see those places himself, in case there was something that wouldn’t have any conventional meaning for police but that he would recognize … from his time at the British Museum, no doubt. After seeing his car, I insisted that we take mine instead, and he acquiesced readily enough. There was nothing new at the body-finding sites, though he put close study into some symbols spray-painted on one wall before concluding that they were, as they appeared to be, common street graffiti. Then we had a decent supper at a chain restaurant while we reviewed what we had learned so far.

“The new stuff from the coroner’s office helps explain why nobody recognized the dead women as our missing ‘beautiful people’,” I observed, leafing through the reports that had been relayed to my underground sanctuary for printout. “The skin condition is so bad, you’d have to compare X-rays of the bone structures to see the correspondences. It looked like years of neglect and abuse and bad nutrition, but it couldn’t have taken more than a few hours to get that way; what could do that? And of course, the rags they were wearing were nothing like their normal clothes, that and the skin and the way their nails were messed up — and the smell, it must have been pretty strong for the coroner to make a note of it — would be why they put the women down as homeless. They were off on the ages, though: those were estimated as late forties to mid-fifties. Not the way these women would have wanted to be remembered, you can bet on it.”

“Yes,” Giles agreed, absently buttering a roll while we awaited our entrées. “Every bit of new data seems to raise yet more mysteries. The severe deterioration of these women’s physical condition, apparently while they were still alive … inexplicable.” He put down his table knife, his eyes meeting mine. “The matter of the names, however … that is provocative.”

“Okay, I’ll admit it, your hunch there was a good one.” Only, not a hunch; he’d noticed something, evaluated it, and his analysis had led him in a fruitful direction. The man was sharp. “Actual, legal name changes, though … that, I didn’t see, at most I would have expected a professional alias or a Doing-Business-As.” I shrugged. “At least we were able to mark off Debbie Brown for good, with that being the name on her birth certificate.”

“More than that,” he corrected mildly. “This latest development establishes conclusively that these five women — assuming there aren’t more who haven’t yet come to our attention — share some immediate, personal connection.”

“Because they all filed their name change petitions within the same few weeks?” I thought about that. “That does look kind of like people acting in concert. But is there some way — I mean, I can’t figure out why, but might there be some way — that the killer is going after them because they all did their name change about the same time? that the change IS the only link they have, rather than pointing toward one?”

Giles shook his head. “No, no. The theory is plausible on its face, I’ll grant you, but it doesn’t withstand closer scrutiny. These five women, if their given birth dates were accurate, were all within seventeen months of the same age. Their petitions were granted over a period of nearly three weeks, but were all submitted within two days, at the same courthouse. Furthermore, the same steady professional success that first brought these women to your notice, seems to have begun within four months of the name changes. And, beyond that … you seem to have some awareness of their careers, so perhaps you can tell me: have any of them ever worked, or socialized, together?”

“I … don’t know,” I said. “I mean, surely there’s been some overlap over the last fifteen years?”

“One would expect there to be,” he agreed. “And I’ll certainly have Willow search for any evidence of such, but —” He stopped abruptly, coughed, then went on. “Five women, of roughly the same age, living in the same city, moving in many of the same circles — and don’t forget, a novelist whose works were being adapted for visual media would have ample opportunity to interact with a publisher and a television producer — for none of these women to ever meet and work together, would almost require deliberate avoidance of one another.”

(Hmm. So, had he actually made a slip there, or wanted me to think he had? I didn’t see him as that naturally devious, but you don’t want to take things for granted. If genuine, that would mean that his pet hacker used ‘Willow’ as a code name. Which might or might not indicate female, it could just be a fan of early Ron Howard.)

“Well, if you’re right, that would seem to mean that whatever connected them had to remain secret.” I took a sip of water. “Because attracting any notice might result in … well, in what’s happening now? I can’t make any sense of that. If it were some witness-protection kind of thing, they wouldn’t still be living in the same city, and they wouldn’t have embarked on such high-profile careers.”

He frowned slightly, though I couldn’t tell if that was from perplexity or because he didn’t like something about what I had just said. “Whatever the nature of their as-yet-unknown compact, it seems to have begun nearly fifteen years ago; and, insofar as notice is concerned, it may be that they wished to avoid, not personal fame, but any record of their prior association.”

I gave that some consideration. “That tracks logically, I suppose. If, fifteen years ago, five women pulled off some big heist or really lucrative con job, they would certainly need to keep from drawing attention to their group, even if they could afford to become well-known individually.” I looked to him. “And, you know, that could also tie in with how they died. Whoever is going after them doesn’t just want them dead; he’s degrading them, turning them into nothing, pulling them down from the top of the heap and making them into society’s garbage. That’s the kind of personal revenge you might see from some of the old mob bosses: you steal their money, they don’t just take it back, they don’t just make you pay, they somehow … I don’t know … strip away everything you managed to build up by ripping them off.”

“Perhaps,” Giles said, still with that little frown. “Perhaps. I’ll agree that this bears some of the elements of a personal vendetta, and there’s certainly something striking in these women being converted, from the elite to the dregs.” He shook his head. “It can’t simply be about money, though.”

“No? Why not?”

“I’m thinking of two things, mainly,” he said. “First, though they all seem to have come almost literally from nowhere, these women have been prominent in the public eye for years; it simply seems improbable that any recognition of prior grudge could take so long to come about, particularly one that encompassed all five of them when they have apparently avoided associating with one another. Second is … is the nature of their success. All of them are — or were — in professions requiring ability, talent … creativity. Novelist, fashion designer, columnist, television producer … only in the case of the woman with the publishing house would initial money have been a significant issue, and even there you made it clear that the real success came from her managership.” He sighed. “The type of persons who could succeed so spectacularly in such endeavors, are not the type to believe that financing with some ‘big score’ at the beginning would guarantee any such success.”

Now it was my turn to sigh. “So where does that leave us?”

He looked up, smiled. “That leaves us with our dinner, which I believe is arriving now.”

It was, and we spent the next few minutes settling into the meal. He had opted for roast beef and baked potato, with a side salad: a safe, conservative choice for an establishment with whose reputation he wasn’t familiar. I had gone with a favorite of mine (steak and shrimp, steamed broccoli), and a mug of draft beer to wash it down. Neither of us was living on the edge here, but it was solid food and it would get the job done. Giles opened his baked potato and administered butter and salt to suit himself (he nudged aside the small cup of sour cream with an expression far too well-bred to be a grimace), and watched as I went at my steak. After a minute he said, “Our unanticipated partnership has proceeded with a smoothness and facility I could not reasonably have expected. This is welcome, and fortunate, but it occurs to me that I know almost nothing about you.”

I finished chewing my bite, and swallowed, which gave me time to choose my answer. “If you’re really interested, you can always have your personal Internet ninja spin up a dossier for me.”

He smiled at that. “You did as much with me, immediately upon our first meeting, so one could say you’ve already broken the ice there.” He shrugged. “Even if I elected to follow that course, however, I would still find your own testimony more … more significant. How one feels about one’s life and experiences tends to make itself felt in such a self-presentation, and that can often carry as much meaning as — or more than — the bald facts.”

I’d cut another bite for myself while he spoke; you don’t let good meat go cold. I finished that without any rush, but likewise didn’t drag it out. “Well, I’m not a native,” I told him. “Finished journalism school in 1979, came here from Nebraska for an internship. — the Carter years, remember, jobs weren’t that plentiful and a lot of new grads were willing to do an unpaid stint to show we were worth hiring.”

He nodded. “And, clearly, this approach paid off for you.”

“Well, no, it didn’t exactly.” I shook my head. “Competition was a little too stiff at the paper I was aiming for. I networked like crazy, though — I think they were even starting to call it that by then — and when my first try didn’t win through, I was able to work some contacts and get a trial job where I am now.”

“And it was to my unearned benefit that you were there when I came to make enquiries.” He addressed his own meal, but in smaller increments, so that he was able to go on in a moment. “So, almost twenty years ago, and here you remain. Have you maintained fruitful contact with your family?”

This time my reply was briefly forestalled by a swallow of the beer. “None left by now. My father died while I was in college, my mother seven years later. And no siblings.” To get out ahead of what might be coming next, and to exert a little control, I went on, “My private life has been close to nonexistent since then, and it turns out that I haven’t really missed it that much. I mean, I’ll accept pleasant company if it’s offered, but I don’t exactly go looking for it, and there just hasn’t been that much the last several years.” I looked to him. “How about you?”

His smile was small, but not guarded or alarmed. “Much the same in my case,” he said. “My work is interesting, as well as demanding, so that socializing has been a, er, substantially lesser imperative for me. I’ve not sought personal involvement in some time, and usually avoided the possibility when it might be present; that is to say, where you’ve described yourself as generally uninterested in such things, I have been more nearly … averse. More as a matter of habit, I think, than of policy, but it became rather entrenched all the same.”

I nodded understanding, but didn’t push for detail. Then he seemed about to say something more, but then didn’t, and I raised an eyebrow. “Yes?” I asked him.

“I … I, er, that is —” He stopped, regarded me in long, piercing assessment before subsiding with a sigh. “There was something,” he said. “Just in this past year. We started out in disaffinity, and moved from there to disagreement and on into active argument. And then we found … points of commonality. Worked together, helped one another, began to associate on a regular basis …” His mouth firmed. “It was unexpected,” he told me frankly. “I wasn’t watching for such a thing, nor prepared when it arrived with no warning; but, for some months, it was … heady.” He shook his head. “It … did not end well.”

Been there, done that, I thought, but the sentiment might have come across as dismissive, so instead I asked, “So … dashed on the rocks of reality, different career goals, what?”

This smile showed no amusement or pleasure. “Her family,” he said in reply. “They had a strong claim on her loyalty, and this … this loyalty … forced a rift between us. Ultimately, the complications from that conflict separated us.” He considered what he had said, then added, “Permanently, and beyond salvage.”

I could have tried to follow this out further, or commiserate with him, but instinct warned me against that. Women can compare stories of their past romantic disasters, and maybe men can do the same with each other (though, doubtless, rigidly phrased in some kind of stoic, excruciating man-code), but it just didn’t seem advisable for me to try to respond in those terms. Maybe if I had gone first … but I hadn’t, and some things I wasn’t inclined to reveal in any case, so instead I said, “And now you’re trying to track down a former student, only you’ve been sidetracked in investigating some mysterious spree killer.”

He accepted the change of subject with equanimity, if not obvious gratitude. “Life takes us where it will,” he observed, “our own choices exerting perhaps less effect than we might wish. You, for instance, acknowledged yesterday that you had found it necessary to transition away from your lifelong intent of being a reporter —”

So we talked some about that, my cumulative recognition that I might have the desire but not the particular balance of different capabilities that could make it possible, and the adjustments I had instead made to keep myself in my chosen world, albeit in a different role. Then we discussed our tastes in music, then spent some time comparing anecdotes of our experiences in higher education.

We weren’t flirting, or even — really — feeling one another out. It was more a matter of drawing up charts of the territory ahead, well in advance of any intent to decide whether to proceed. The awareness had been there between us for some time, not from the beginning but certainly after we had actually begun working together. Each of us knew what the other was doing, knew also that some further trigger would be required before we tried to make anything of it, if ever we did. Maybe it was our age, maybe it was personality … or maybe it was a recognition of likeness in personality, with each of us determined to be just as deliberate and controlled as the other.

We remained in control, both of us. We dealt with one another as adults — as deliberate, thinking, uncommitting adults — and eventually the meal was done and we left the restaurant. I drove him back to where he had left his car (and I marveled again that anything so battered could have made it here from not-quite-Los-Angeles without simply disintegrating somewhere along the route), and then he followed me to my home.
 

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