Chapter 12
After watching a good deal of old movies and M*A*S*H reruns on TV, Darcy had fallen asleep on the chair. The evening had been a quiet affair with her staring fixedly at the television and Spike drinking a whole pitcher of what looked like Bloody Marys. She had asked for a sip and became grumpy when she was refused, muttering that he needed to 'go to AA' or check himself into the Betty Ford clinic and Rainbow Hill where he could 'hang out with Ben Affleck and that coke-fiend Backstreet Boy.' He got pissed off and told her that she needed to go to an asylum if they would take her, and then they both kept the indignant silence. Otherwise there were no other incidents worthy of remark and time simply drifted past.
Spike had stared at her long after she had fallen asleep, racking his brain on his alternative courses of action. He was confused about what to do yet he knew that he would have to make up his mind sooner or later. In his hand he still held the calling card of the firm and he held on to it like a lifeline, another option that he was seriously beginning to consider with each passing second.
Yet there remained the pang of conscience he felt when he looked at the girl. She looked even more innocent with her face free of makeup and her body just too small to fit into Drusilla's dress properly. Everytime he contemplated some new devilry, the guilt was there, for associating with white-hats didn't exactly leave a man's formerly non-existent moral compass unbesmirched.
She looked like a little girl playing dress-up with her mother's clothes, and despite all her affectations she was still as naïve as a child. This was never more apparent to him when he saw her curled up as best as she could on the chair, sleeping soundly. He may not like her, but he couldn't condemn her to death for that, could he?
He had killed people for much less than mere dislike in the past, but he had changed.
Or had he really?
He couldn't afford the luxury of morals and ethics and ideals at a time when survival depended upon being pragmatic. Oh, what to do, what to do. He remained immobile like this for a few hours, mind going 300 miles and hour before he finally snapped out of his contemplative trance.
Finally, he rose up and unchained the girl, picking her up and placing her on the bed. He took the necessary precaution of reinstalling her restraints before he picked up his duster to leave.
He had made up his mind about what he wanted.
He left the warehouse, locked the door for security's sake and crossed to the other side of the street where a convenience store was located. Just outside there was a payphone, and after he fumbled in his pockets for the appropriate amount of change he dialed the number on the card Alyson had given him.
When he heard someone pick up the phone, he automatically segued into his trademark rant.
"That was a damn fine message you left me. Cryptic enough?" He didn't bother with the proprieties of politesse.
"What do you mean? I thought it said everything we could possibly need to say."
"I have no idea what it meant." He was baiting her into saying exactly what it was that they wanted; this way he could gauge just how much they knew about Darcy or what Buffy had asked him to do.
"Yes you did. You and I both know that you knew exactly what we were talking about. We didn't even bother writing it out for you anymore because we believe in practicing an economy of words. No point in beating around the bush or making incessant gestures and wasting ink and paper. So, tell us where to meet you and if you have the girl."
"I haven't said I'd give you the package just yet." Spike was annoyed at the smug tone that responded to him from the other end.
"You didn't have to. Why else would you be calling?"
Deciding to ignore that insightful response, he tried another line of inquiry.
"If I give the package to you, will you hurt her?"
There was a pause on the other end. "What exactly encompasses your definition of 'hurt'?"
Bloody lawyers. "Bodily harm, dismemberment, the termination of her life as a sentient creature. Do I have to spell it out for you, you daft cow?"
"No need to get bitchy. I can't promise anything, but you can rest assured that she will not be inconvenienced anymore than she has to be." Spike could hear a faint grating sound from which he surmised that Alyson was filing her nails.
"Cut the euphemisms out; will you kill her?"
"Do you care? What is one mortal life to you, when your freedom hangs in the balance?"
Damnit, she had him there. When he didn't respond, she gave him a piece of advice.
"Tomorrow evening, after sundown. Griffith park, a public place so you can be sure that we don't pull anything underhanded. You bring the girl, we bring you 100k in cash and we send you to the specialist who will get the chip out. I suggest you do this, William. Be grateful for what you can take and what you have."
She hung up, not bothering to wait for an answer because she already had an inkling of what it was. He would be there.
She was betting on it.
After watching a good deal of old movies and M*A*S*H reruns on TV, Darcy had fallen asleep on the chair. The evening had been a quiet affair with her staring fixedly at the television and Spike drinking a whole pitcher of what looked like Bloody Marys. She had asked for a sip and became grumpy when she was refused, muttering that he needed to 'go to AA' or check himself into the Betty Ford clinic and Rainbow Hill where he could 'hang out with Ben Affleck and that coke-fiend Backstreet Boy.' He got pissed off and told her that she needed to go to an asylum if they would take her, and then they both kept the indignant silence. Otherwise there were no other incidents worthy of remark and time simply drifted past.
Spike had stared at her long after she had fallen asleep, racking his brain on his alternative courses of action. He was confused about what to do yet he knew that he would have to make up his mind sooner or later. In his hand he still held the calling card of the firm and he held on to it like a lifeline, another option that he was seriously beginning to consider with each passing second.
Yet there remained the pang of conscience he felt when he looked at the girl. She looked even more innocent with her face free of makeup and her body just too small to fit into Drusilla's dress properly. Everytime he contemplated some new devilry, the guilt was there, for associating with white-hats didn't exactly leave a man's formerly non-existent moral compass unbesmirched.
She looked like a little girl playing dress-up with her mother's clothes, and despite all her affectations she was still as naïve as a child. This was never more apparent to him when he saw her curled up as best as she could on the chair, sleeping soundly. He may not like her, but he couldn't condemn her to death for that, could he?
He had killed people for much less than mere dislike in the past, but he had changed.
Or had he really?
He couldn't afford the luxury of morals and ethics and ideals at a time when survival depended upon being pragmatic. Oh, what to do, what to do. He remained immobile like this for a few hours, mind going 300 miles and hour before he finally snapped out of his contemplative trance.
Finally, he rose up and unchained the girl, picking her up and placing her on the bed. He took the necessary precaution of reinstalling her restraints before he picked up his duster to leave.
He had made up his mind about what he wanted.
He left the warehouse, locked the door for security's sake and crossed to the other side of the street where a convenience store was located. Just outside there was a payphone, and after he fumbled in his pockets for the appropriate amount of change he dialed the number on the card Alyson had given him.
When he heard someone pick up the phone, he automatically segued into his trademark rant.
"That was a damn fine message you left me. Cryptic enough?" He didn't bother with the proprieties of politesse.
"What do you mean? I thought it said everything we could possibly need to say."
"I have no idea what it meant." He was baiting her into saying exactly what it was that they wanted; this way he could gauge just how much they knew about Darcy or what Buffy had asked him to do.
"Yes you did. You and I both know that you knew exactly what we were talking about. We didn't even bother writing it out for you anymore because we believe in practicing an economy of words. No point in beating around the bush or making incessant gestures and wasting ink and paper. So, tell us where to meet you and if you have the girl."
"I haven't said I'd give you the package just yet." Spike was annoyed at the smug tone that responded to him from the other end.
"You didn't have to. Why else would you be calling?"
Deciding to ignore that insightful response, he tried another line of inquiry.
"If I give the package to you, will you hurt her?"
There was a pause on the other end. "What exactly encompasses your definition of 'hurt'?"
Bloody lawyers. "Bodily harm, dismemberment, the termination of her life as a sentient creature. Do I have to spell it out for you, you daft cow?"
"No need to get bitchy. I can't promise anything, but you can rest assured that she will not be inconvenienced anymore than she has to be." Spike could hear a faint grating sound from which he surmised that Alyson was filing her nails.
"Cut the euphemisms out; will you kill her?"
"Do you care? What is one mortal life to you, when your freedom hangs in the balance?"
Damnit, she had him there. When he didn't respond, she gave him a piece of advice.
"Tomorrow evening, after sundown. Griffith park, a public place so you can be sure that we don't pull anything underhanded. You bring the girl, we bring you 100k in cash and we send you to the specialist who will get the chip out. I suggest you do this, William. Be grateful for what you can take and what you have."
She hung up, not bothering to wait for an answer because she already had an inkling of what it was. He would be there.
She was betting on it.