Chapter Three: Bane

Monday, 11: 27 pm

It was getting late. I decided I'd had enough brooding for one night. Plus, I hadn't eaten since breakfast. The Nighthawk Cafe had salisbury steak on Mondays. Top that off with a big slab of cherry pie and the best damn cup of coffee in town and I'd be feeling a helluva lot better. I stretched until my joints snapped and crackled, then stood up for a last leisurely gaze out my window.

The lovely vista of blowing newspapers and overturned trash cans was enlivened by one lone drunk tottering up the sidewalk in the beginning of a misty rain. I wondered just how far he'd come. The nearest bar was Willy's and that was in the other direction. A fat black cat licked it's paws and stared at the guy, then turned and sauntered away down the alley. A bus rolled by, swaying and rolling, empty of passengers at this hour and disappeared in a haze of greasy black diesel smoke.

The drunk flopped down onto the bus bench and stared glassy eyed up at my window. He caught sight of me staring out, and pointed a shaking finger at me. Then he seemed to mouth some words. I figured it for a curse. I ducked.

Being around vengeance demons would make anybody jumpy. I peered back out at the neon-lit bench. The guy looked to be passed out, hanging half on and half off the bench.

Poor slob'll be somethings midnight snack if I don't-- I noticed a red, glistening puddle spreading underneath him and realized he wasn't just an unlucky drunk. I called the ambulance, but I had a bad feeling about this.

By the time I'd gotten downstairs, it was clear to me the guy was going to be D.O.A. The front of his brown wool jacket was soaked through. He looked sort of familiar. He looked up at me, all wide-eyed and blissful. Like he was happy to see me. ....keep... secret... .

... crystallus...vividus...poison, he gasped out. He sounded incoherent and I was just picking out bits and pieced of what he was murmuring. He muttered some stuff about going to see the frogs and fishes, but lapsed into unconsciousness for a while after that. His skin was icy and I've only seen skin that chalky white on the newly dead. I took out my handkerchief and wiped some of the crusted blood from his face. There wasn't any kind of an obvious wound or cut to have produced so much blood. It was like he'd been sliced open inside. I'd never seen any kind of poison that worked like this, and I'd seen a lot of peculiar things when we worked in L.A.

I recognized him finally. He was Larry Torgerson, a football player from my old high school. God, he looked bad. Blood, red arterial blood, dripped from his chin in a steady stream. He must have been bleeding out for a while. What in the name of hell had happened to him and how had he managed to get here? There was a trail of blood leading towards the center of town.
He blinked his weary eyes and struggled to sit up. I could see his eyelids trembling with tension. He knew he was dying, poor sap. Larry fought to make his lips form a sentence, but the words weren't coming. He scrabbled at his jacket pocket. I reached inside and found a small, cloth covered bundle, just big enough to hold worlds of trouble. He gave me a wide, goofy smile, like he was giving me a blessing. Or a curse. Then he blinked in surprise. The rest of his words were blurred as he belched up a massive gout of blood.

Poor guy. I straightened him out and went back upstairs to call Homicide. The ambulance was definitely going to be too late.

I took Larry's little bundle upstairs and shoved it behind the books, and wrote down everthing I could remember. I didn't have time to fool with whatever was in the package, but Larry had said it was a secret. Evidently one worth walking for miles while you bled to death. I figured I owed him that.

My lucky night. Lieutenant Riley Finn answered the phone. After the usual hassle, he detailed a couple of uniforms to check over the scene and roust out the usual suspects. Great. I just love having a run-in with Lieutenant Finn.

Back when Oz and I were with L.A.P.D.'s so-called Odd Squad, I'd made the trek up the coast to Sunnyhell a few times. I'd been impressed with Finn, then. We'd worked well together and I admired the way he handled himself in the field. He was smart and knew a lot more about the underworld than he let on. He really enjoyed his job and he made plenty of big busts. He was the rising star in the cop shop.
But then, I noticed a few things that were off. Little things like roughing up the occasional witness and not sticking at bringing his own evidence. He had a big problem with the demon breed, too. He made no secret of his disdain for the Peace Accords. Even the sentient ones were fair game. I called him on a few things and he decided he didn't like my big city attitude or my big mouth. After Oz and I opened the agency here in Sunnydale, he'd made it his job to give me a hard time. Mostly, I tried to stay out of his way. It was healthier that way.

Finn's boys handled the scene casually, asking me the most cursory of questions. Larry was bagged and tagged and on his way to the morgue in less than thirty minutes. Just another routine night on the Hellmouth.

It bothered me , though. I decided I needed another perspective on this business. The best place to start was the Silver Stake.

tbc
AN: Music: Craig Armstrong