Palladium Lane is made up. Dhalgren is not. It's an excellent book, if you have the patience for it.
Disclaimer: Glenn Eichler created the Daria charactersJoss Whedon created the Buffy and Angel characters; I created Carla Fisk and Dr. Lynette Vaughn, and the storyline.
X X X X X
Wesley's head jerked up when the tall woman came barreling into the Hyperion's front lobby. "Do you people have any way I can hide my car?" Cordelia, standing behind the desk not twenty feet away, did likewise.
"I'm sorry," Wesley said. "Can I help you?"
"Yes," the woman said. "My name is Lynette Vaughn -- didn't Angel tell you I'd be coming?"
Cordelia fairly erupted from behind the desk, saying, "Well, you've got nerve," she said. "You've killed Faith, so now what? You're here to rub it in Angel's face?"
Wesley held her back once she reached him. When Cordelia began to sputter in outrage, Wesley said, "Peace, Cordelia. I believe things are not as they appear with the good doctor." Then, to the psychiatrist: "No parking garage, sorry. There's an alley around back if you'd like."
"Will the car be safe there?"
"Reasonably safe," Wesley said.
"I'll be back in a few minutes," she said, and turned around and left.
Once she was out the door, Cordelia broke free of Wesley's grasp and said, "Okay, what the hell?"
"While Angel didn't see fit to let me in on the details," Wesley said, "I believe that Faith's 'death' may not be permanent." Then a thought struck him. "And why are you so concerned with Faith's welfare? The last time I checked, you were hardly her biggest fan."
"Yeah, well, neither were you," came Cordelia's rejoinder.
"True, but I at least bear some responsibility for her being in this state in the first place."
"Big ol' guilt feelings driving this bus?" Cordelia asked.
"I prefer to think of it as 'having assumed a sense of adult responsibility," but you have the essence," Wesley admitted.
"So why would Angel invite her here?"
Wesley said, "My hypothesis -- which Angel has not officially confirmed -- is that Dr. Vaughn somehow only pretended to remove Faith's personality from her, and at some point in the future will bring her back out again."
"With Daria's consent, I'm assuming," Cordelia said.
"No ethical psychiatrist could do otherwise."
Lynette Vaughn came back in. "Sorry. I would've thought Angel would have let you know I was coming. After the Times story broke this morning, I knew if I stayed home I'd have been mobbed by reporters both by phone and camped out around my front door. I just called my nearest neighbor to apologize. They don't seem to be bothering her yet."
"Nearest neighbor?" Cordelia asked. "If you don't mind me asking . . ."
"Palladium Lane."
Cordelia let out a low whistle. "That means something to you, Cordelia?" Wesley asked.
Looking at Wesley as though he were quite possibly the stupidest man on Earth -- a look she gave at least three times daily, so Wesley was more or less immune by now -- Cordelia said, "Palladium Lane is a pretty ritzy neighborhood. Not Spielberg-level, but only a step or two down." Then she looked at Dr. Vaughn. "If you have that much --?"
It was a fairly rude question, but Dr. Vaughn took it in stride. "Because I enjoy it. I was doing it before I married Will -- it's how we met, in fact, on the set of an episode of -- and I didn't see any reason to stop just because I'd lucked into money. Tell me, would you stop what you're doing if you were suddenly rich?"
"In a cold minute," Cordelia said.
Wesley very much doubted that, never mind that Cordelia couldn't quit because she was the one having the visions. In any event, it wasn't what was important right now.
Dr. Vaughn laughed as though she'd figured that out as well. Wesley took the opportunity to ask her, "So am I correct in my assumption that Faith is indeed not gone for good?"
The laugh cut off abruptly. Dr. Vaughn's eyes narrowed and she said, "I don't know where you got that idea from, but --"
"But nothing," Cordelia said. "Wesley's right. Angel wouldn't put you out if you were you were on fire if he thought you'd actually killed Faith. And he invites you to drop on by and take shelter from a howling mob of reporters? No. Something's up here."
"Even stipulating that something is," Dr. Vaughn said, "I can't tell you. Where is Angel, anyway?"
Wesley was about to answer that Angel was asleep when he heard the vampire's voice from the top of the staircase. "And we're not even stipulating that. I see you've met my colleagues Cordelia and Wesley."
The psychiatrist's voice sound relieved when she said, "Angel. I'm glad to see you. I wasn't expecting the third degree."
"My colleagues may be overzealous, but their hearts are in the right place," Angel said as he walked down the steps. "Even though I specifically told Wesley this wasn't really his business."
"You never told me that," Cordelia said. "And you seem to be forgetting something, buddy. You're not the boss anymore. You have no right to be telling Wesley to do anything."
Cordelia might have hit on something. "And you don't have a right to be involving Angel investigations in something without my consent," Wesley said.
"I'm not," Angel said curtly.
"She's standing right there," Cordelia said.
"So she is. But I haven't involved Angel Investigations in anything. There's no client here, just a friend in need."
"We've both been helping you throughout all of this!" Cordelia said disbelievingly.
"And as a friend, I thank you," Angel said, grinning slightly. Cordelia threw up her hands in frustration.
While Wesley was fairly certain of what was going on, he still wanted the details. "Fair enough. But by bringing her here you have involved the agency, Angel, whether it was your intent or not." There. Let's see him try to answer that.
"Not at all," the vampire said self-assuredly. "I realize that Angel Investigations is headquartered here. But while they may be my employers --" and he stressed the word sarcastically -- "I still own the building. Dr. Vaughn, I have a room ready for you." He turned to walk back up the stairs.
The psychiatrist followed him.
X X X X X
Amy and Rita marked time in an unused conference room while waiting for lunch. While Rita scribbled frantically on a borrowed notepad, Amy pulled out the novel she'd brought with her -- Samuel R. Delany's Dhalgren -- and began reading.
After fifteen minutes, Rita put her pen down and said, "Really, Amy. You could be helping me."
"I could be," she said.
"Then why aren't you? You know how important this is."
"Because this isn't something I'm any good at. I don't do prepared talks well. Don't you remember my interview on the Today Show? I rehearsed my answers to Matt Lauer's questions and came off like Gort from The Day the Earth Stood Still. No, come to think of it, 'Klaatu Barada Nikto' would have been an improvement."
"But Amy, you did very well during the NPR interview."
Amy was stunned. Not that Rita had listened to the interview; that Rita had even heard of National Public Radio. Rita wasn't stupid, but she was about as intellectual as Howard Stern. Trying not to let her surprise appear on her face, Amy said, "Yes. And I didn't spend a lot of time preparing for that one. I'm much better doing this kind of thing off-the-cuff."
"Then why did you bother agreeing to 'prepare a response' with that ADA?" Rita demanded.
Amy sighed. "Because plotting out a general strategy is fine. But, from looking at your notepad --" Rita had exceedingly neat handwriting; even when she was scribbling, she was easy to read -- "you're actually trying to plan specific responses. If the reporter from the LA TV station asks this, you'll say that. If the woman from the Associated Press wonders about this scenario, you'll explain it like so. And so on."
"And if that's the way I prefer to do something like this? Sweetie, I've given speeches before. Sure, they were all at fundraisers or local gardening clubs, but I need to have everything written out. I just do not have your talent for improvising."
Amy said, "Then you do it your way, I'll do it mine, and we'll try to coordinate everything with ADA Fisk so we can make sure we're all on the same page. Or at least, reading the same book. Speaking of which --" she waved Dhalgren in the air.
"Get back to your book," Rita said. "But once I get some of these answers written, I'd appreciate it if you'd at least look them over to make sure I'm not saying anything stupid."
Amy smiled. "I'll do that."
She got back to Dhalgren.
X X X X X
Pravda didn't call.
Nor did Maxim, ESPN or the Weekly World News.
Apart from that, by shortly before noon Carla Fisk was fairly sure she'd talked with every major news organization in North America, a good proportion of the minor ones, and at least ten from across at least one ocean. When the Sydney Morning Herald called, about half an hour ago, she officially stopped being surprised.
All of them were asking largely the same questions: Was she sure Faith Lehane was Daria Morgendorffer, could Daria be faking, what would the victims' families think about her letting a murderer out on the streets, what were Dr. Vaughn's credentials, and a half dozen others, repeated ad nauseam.
It got to the point where she was tempted to say that they were letting Daria out just on a whim because this particular DA hadn't taken a hit for blowing a major case yet, and he wanted to see how it felt. She restrained herself. Barely.
She figured out along the way that, while Willard Jay Harbaugh's murder spree and Daria's subsequent disappearance had been a nine-day wonder back in 1997, it had largely faded by 1999. There was a brief revival on both anniversaries, but that was about it.
And that's when Amy Barksdale's book had come out.
April 10, 1997 had shot to the top of the bestseller lists, doing even better than Ann Rule's Eeny, Meeny, Minie, Moe, also about the killings -- Carla had read both books -- because Amy Barksdale had a personal angle that Ann Rule absolutely couldn't match.
The publicity had made the Harbaugh murder spree and Daria Morgendorffer's disappearance one of those things that became cemented in the public's memory. Maybe not quite to the level of the JonBenet Ramsey case, but no more than a step down from that.
Carla had actually checked last night. There were websites about Daria. Websites speculating on what had actually happened -- and who might be responsible.
She'd never expected that.
And yet, with all of the publicity, with thousands upon thousands of people across the country looking for her, knowing what Daria had looked like, not a single one of them had ever connected her with Faith Lehane.
Not one.
Bizarre.
So the media frenzy could be laid at the feet of Amy Barksdale.
Somehow she thought bringing this up when she met them again in . . . five minutes now, would be counterproductive.
These thoughts had been going through Carla's head while she was answering the same old questions, this time from CBS radio. ". . . and that's why I'm convinced that Dr. Vaughn knows what she's talking about."
"So why isn't Dr. Vaughn available for comment?"
"I have no idea." Because Lynette Vaughn was smart. She knew exactly what would happen and buried herself in a deep hole somewhere.
"And Amy Barksdale?"
"Will be at the 1 PM press conference. Along with her sister Rita. Any questions you have for them, you can ask them then."
The CBS Radio reporter thanked her and hung up.
She checked her watch. Close enough to noon. She set her phone to voicemail -- normally a DA was supposed to have her calls forwarded but Carla didn't hate any of her colleagues that much. Then she went to find the Barksdales in the spare conference room.
Amy Barksdale was quietly reading a thick novel; Rita Barksdale seemed to have filled up a full notebook with -- something or other. Amy noticed her first and put down her book. "Ms. Fisk. Thanks for giving us this sanctuary. I can't imagine what it's been like for you."
"No, you can't," Carla said as pleasantly as she could. "But in an hour or so you're going to get the chance."
"That's what I've been doing for the last hour and a half," Rita said, waving the notebook in Carla's face. "I've been trying to figure out how to answer the question the reporters are going to ask."
Carla laughed. "If what I've been doing for the last four hours is any indication, these are the questions." And she rattled off the ten questions or so she'd heard most often.
Rita nodded her head. "Good. I can work with that."
"I've ordered a couple of pizzas," Carla said as she sat down. "I hope that's okay."
""Not quite up to the level of cheese fries, but an excellent choice," Amy said.
"It'll do," Rita said. Somehow Carla got the impression Rita Barksdale was more used to lobster. But there were so few lobster places that delivered. "Anyway, here's how I think it should go . . ."
Fifty-five minutes later, Carla stood up. "Are you ready?"
"If I said no, would you postpone the conference?" Amy asked.
"That's a yes," Rita translated.
They went downstairs to the room where the DA's office held its press conferences. Taking a deep breath, Carla strode boldly forward. The Barksdales followed her.
"Good afternoon," she said. "My name is Carla Fisk. I'm an ADA with the LA County District Attorney's Office and I've been doing this for nine years. But you didn't come to hear about me. Approximately two weeks ago, on March 29, 2001 . . ."