"Let go of him and put the knife down! I'll shoot!"

One doesn't. The other does. The offending vampire falls down, tranquillised. He joins his counterpart on the ground.

"That's two of them, ready for tagging. Not bad, seeing as Finn wasn't around to help. Where is he, anyway?"

"So, kid, y'out hunting vampires? Just nod."

He nods. Leg lashes into my kneecap. I hardly notice.

"That's not very nice."

Let the knife go a little deeper and twist it. He tries to scream. Then I pull it out, turn the knife around, pop out the needle and stab him with that instead. He nods dumbly for a few seconds, then goes limp. Tranqs are a wonderful thing. A stab in an alley is worth a full-scale torture scene at home, and you can never have both.

Go over him for a radio. Find one on his belt, remove entire belt and gently place behind a dumpster. Never know what they'll put into one of those things. Haul his body over my shoulder and stroll to the car.

Master O'Meara was enraged.

And why not? Ten vampires had killed each other through infighting, five more had been killed by him as punishment for the other ten, and eight had disappeared out hunting -- including three of his best lieutenants.

Enraged, to him, it has to be said, was not the same as angry. When he was just angry he'd torture and dust a few fledglings for relaxation, but if he did that now, he... well, he'd have even less chance of having the vampire numbers needed to perform the Rites. The lack of this release, in combination with the fact that the ritual he'd spent the last four years working toward was now likely to go to Romania (vampire slang meaning to stuff up or, if an exclamation, go away. Your average demon would enjoy going to hell, but who wants to see what new tortures the Gypsies have come up with?) had put him in such a bad mood his minions did their best to avoid him.

Out of the few who did return from hunting, however, one particular minion had drawn the short straw. O'Meara didn't like bad news, but didn't like shooting the messenger either... nailing them to a cross facing west, getting behind a shaded window and watching them burn up over a period from sunrise to nearly midday (instead of the more or less instant incineration you get when they faced east) was far more enjoyable.

"Master?"

"What?"

"Your second-in-command... the one who disappeared out hunting a few nights ago? We've found her."

The group of four vampires had two orders. The first was to go to a certain back-street address, where they would find another vampire known to them as Cathy Preston, and attempt to persuade her, by whatever means necessary, to rejoin their cause. The second was to safely turn any humans they ran into on the way. After hastily trading blood with two representatives of Sunnydale's ever-shrinking homeless population, they came to the address, smashed a window and slipped in.

The explosion that followed was heard a block away. That block was more or less uninhabited, but the thought was there.

The suit and the sergeant have a quick, whispered conversation.

"Very well, Mr Giles."

Giles stands aside to let the doctor in.

Drive back to the basement I'm calling home. Lay the body on the floor and play with a few toys. Pack everything away and put on some suitable music. The body wakes up, sees me and realises there's probably no point in screaming.

"So, mother's little stormtrooper is awake. You feel alright?"

"If I say I do, will you say that you'll soon fix that?"

"Something like that, yeah."

"Then I guess I should tell you to do your worst, break out the chainsaw and the wire waistcoat and the free set of steak knives because you'll never get anything out of me, so you might as well have fun trying."

"Name, rank and serial number, hey? Damn. Well, door's open." I point. "If y'ever wanna chat, just give us a call. Be glad to talk to you."

"Not funny. Where's the trap?"

"I'm serious. No traps. You want to leave, you go."

He gets up, look of disbelief with just that little bit of fear firmly planted on his face, and walks cautiously towards the door. As he steps out, I reach over to the CD player and turn the volume up.

Soldier boy screams and falls to the ground, whimpering and thrashing.

"Look, if you didn't like the music, y'only had to say."

Markerton stands around and while pretending to admire the decor in Giles's front room, casually places something in an inconspicuous part of it.

"White or black?"

"Didn't I say? Black, one sugar."

The tea comes out. The two Britons sit down and begin talking.

"I take it this is being recorded?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Well, I somehow doubt that little bauble you put beside the bookshelf is there for decoration."

"Ah... yes... well..."

"May I?" Picks up said bauble, rolls it around in his hand. "Very nice. May I ask what is so worrisome about Miss Summers that necessitates all this effort?"

Drag the body back to where it was.

"If you're gonna have another fit like that, I'd better make sure you're safe. You could hurt yourself."

Bring out the chains.

"Whatever do you mean?"

"I mean, I somehow doubt so much expense and manpower would be put into catching someone who had merely given the university an unauthorised paint job. Let's see, we have four uniformed officers at the front door in addition to yourself. We have a listening device which looks more like something out of Mission Impossible than an American small-town police force. We have someone with a university degree -- at Oxford, no less -- in ancient history and demonology working for that same small-town police force. Do you take me for a fool, Dr Markerton? It's obvious that this is a lot more than just small crime for small police."

"Now, do you want to take up that offer?" Smug.

"What in the hell did you do to me?" Terrified. Perfect.

"Well, it involves an James-Bond-fan vampire, a copy of 1984, a small radio receiver and a large amount of medical equipment. I don't know the exact details, but the bottom line is, you really don't want me turning up the stereo."

"Oh, God... What's wrong with..."

"... the chainsaw and the wire waistcoat and the free set of steak knives? Nothing. A little messier, I guess, but that's half the fun. Good with an audience, really impresses the fledglings. But, fact is, we don't have an audience and this is so much more efficient if I just want information. Besides, torture's like any other kind of entertainment -- a lot better with a soundtrack."

And I make the music a little louder to prove it. Soldier boy makes his own contribution.

"I feel you are jumping to conclusions, Mr Giles. The X-Files is not a documentary series. Even if there was a 'big police' force and this was a 'big crime', I would hardly be at liberty to tell you about it."

"Then neither am I. Good day to you."

The door slams and the teas remain untouched.

"Feel like talking now? We'll start the old-fashioned way: name, rank, serial number."

"Riley Finn. Special Agent. 75329, but we call them ID codes. That's all you're getting."

"You sure?"

Turn up the volume.

"Good scream. I was worried this'd be getting a little repetitive, but... I guess not."

"OK, Buffy, Willow, he's gone."

"How did it go?"

"As well as could be expected. Neither of us knows more about each other than we did before but we're both far more suspicious than before. It's very difficult to trust a man who's tried to put a bug on your bookcase."

"Get me Walsh. Secure channel. Good. Thanks."

"How did it go?"

"Badly. From what I'd remembered from Oxford the man was a world-hating, apathetic punk. Unfortunately, I'd forgotten that he was an observant and intelligent world-hating, apathetic punk. He asked for a search warrant we didn't have, didn't tell me anything about our hostile, and made a point of saying he thought there was something bigger involved than the story we gave him. Which was bloody obvious with a second's thought, but you were counting on the fact that, like the stuffy English librarian he behaves like, he wouldn't be able to think with half a dozen armed police at his door. Not only did he think, he knew his rights. I told you he'd dealt with them before. And he noticed me putting in one of the bugs. He didn't spot the other one, though."

"At least something went to plan."

"Is anyone actually listening to it?"

"Of course. I've got Adam Smith on it instead of TAing for Economics..."

"Why don't you and I tune in? He'll be going over the place with a fine-tooth comb--"

Walsh's second phone beeps. Urgent call on line seven.

"That'd be Smith calling to say Giles has found and destroyed it, I expect."

Turns on the speaker.

"What is it?"

"We've lost Agent Finn."

Followed by an urgent call on line eight announcing that both signals have been lost from the house of suspect R. Giles.

"Oldest trick in the bloody book... Goodbye, Dr Markerton."

He pauses for a second to admire the technological marvel, and steps on it.

"OK, Buffy, Willow, he's gone."

The screams die down.

"Thank you very much, Mr Finn. You've been very informative. And I never let people who help me go off without payment."

Turns off and unplugs the stereo, then pulls out a screwdriver, opens up the case, and messes around for a few seconds. A small piece of what looks like some kind of computer circuitry is removed. He tosses it into a bin, smiles at his captive, then closes the case and takes out the CD, giving it to Riley. Who looks at the vampire incredulously.

"Don't you like it? I guess I wouldn't either, in your shoes... All right." Goes game. "Let's do lunch."

"Mr Giles? Is my daughter all right? Oh, thank God. Yes, I guess I should... Call me if anything happens."

Hang up and reluctantly get in the car to go to the gallery. Thinking... I hope she'll be all right, I know she'll be all right... She'll be fine... I've just missed my turn. Where's the next intersection... Oh, God, no.

"Mr Giles? I've found... Someone's been bitten... No, I don't know who it is, it looks like some kind of army uniform... I hope it isn't... What's that? Yes I do, for the gallery... OK... thanks... I will... goodbye."

Presses the hook and calls for an ambulance. Gives details, hangs up, makes another call, to say she'll be late for work, and goes to her car. She takes out a bag, removes an instant camera, and calmly and methodically takes three pictures of the victim. She puts the camera and developing photos back in the bag, and replaces the bag in the car, then goes to have a closer look at the unconscious body. When the doctors arrive and she drives off, it's not to the gallery.

"Buffy! Are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine. Just like all those times you asked on the phone. We'll find a way out of this, don't worry. Have you got the photos?"

"Yes, of course... here they are..."

Buffy sees them.

"Oh my God..."

"Dr Markerton? We've found Agent Finn."

"I suppose we should be thankful for small graces. Where was he? What happened?"

"Nearly drained in an alley off Larson Avenue. Someone called an ambulance. The interesting part is, the woman who called it is one Joyce Summers."

"Any relation to our escaped hostile?"

"Her mother."

"Her mother. Her mother. We have talked to her, haven't we?" Pause. "Tell me we've interrogated her. Tell me we've at least called her. Tell me we haven't been that bloody stupid!"

"Buffy, are you all right?"

"Yeah... but that's..."

"Riley. The guy you wanted to..."

"Oh. What are we going to do?"

"I guess we should go and see how he's doing..."

"See what he knows."

"Giles! That's not... For Buffy..."

... is in tears.

"I know, but we have to..."

"Giles. Let me do it. Please."

"Buffy... are you sure?"

"No luck with the mother?"

"No."

"So what do you suggest we do?"

"You? Nothing. Go and get some sleep. I'm going to check on Riley."

There was, of course, only one nurse at the desk this early in the morning. Despite -- or perhaps because of -- the large amount of human traffic the hospital carried, visiting hours, conditions and security were quite lax. That said, this probably had something to do with the fact that security guards are usually failed police officers, and you had to be pretty stupid to be that in Sunnydale's legendary hear-no-evil-see-no-evil-speak-no-evil PD.

It boiled down to the fact that you could reasonably expect to be able to be at any patient's bedside at eight o'clock on a Saturday morning. So, needless to say, Professor Walsh was rather angry when she was told she couldn't see her beloved TA. She wasn't worried about the old man in the corner, but didn't notice the blonde student of hers who had slipped in behind her and heard most of the argument. If she had, she wouldn't have pulled out her badge in a last-ditch effort to get let through.

"See this?"

"Yes I do, and it doesn't matter if you're with the Men in Black, I still can't let you see Mr Finn. By the doctor's report, the man hadn't slept for at least forty-eight hours, and he'd been through some kind of serious widespread physical and mental trauma in the last twelve. Nobody is to be permitted..."

Sighing in frustration, Walsh turned around quickly and saw her student.

"Buffy Summers."

"Professor Walsh. I didn't know you were a police officer. But then, I didn't know that Riley was in the army, either."

"Buffy Summers."

"That's right. You don't sound happy to see me. Was my last essay really that bad?"

"Buffy Summers. Do you know how many people... how much trouble... how much damage..."

"No, but I'll bet you want to tell me. In that café around the corner, like the civilized people I'm sure we both are. After all, we don't want to make a scene."

"No, of course not. All right. Which café's this?"

But (there's always a but) as she followed Buffy out of the hospital, she reached into her bag and drew a small handgun.