Chapter Fourteen:

Angel led the group of heavily armed and protected men and women as they converged upon the alley. Buffy's tracer unit pinpointed her exact location as being here but he had his doubts. Why would they be in an alley, there was no reason for it? They swarmed all over the car, shouts of "Clear!" sounding in the late night air. Angel kicked the tire, swearing a blue streak. It was another dead end in a long line of dead ends.

"This is the car," another detective called, pulling Buffy's bag out of the front seat.

"Yeah, Lindsey's blood is on the front grill and on the windshield, but we got blood inside too."

"Get a crime scene unit down here, now! And everyone back away from the car. I don't want any evidence fouled because of one of us." He paced back and forth in the mouth of the alley. "Damn, where is she?"

"Prick!" she said, climbing out of the trunk of the car slowly, keeping the gun trained upon the man's chest. "You broke my goddamn nose."

"Who are you?" he asked her, watching as she pulled off the long, blonde wig that he'd thought was Buffy's hair as he'd sat down the street from the restaurant. He'd taken big chances tonight, but when they'd been presented, he couldn't help but take them. It had seemed fate when McKenna had left her side, leaving her standing in the pool of light from the streetlight, almost as if waiting for him to come and grab her. Then, those people coming out of the restaurant, crowding around her, pushing her towards the street, how could he pass up such a chance when it had presented itself?

"Detective Faith Lehane, prick, and you are under arrest. Turn around and face the garage door." Faith waited until he did before quickly scanning the dark interior of the garage, searching for something to use to restrain him. If only she'd managed to keep hold of Buffy's purse. Her identification and, more importantly, her handcuffs were in that bag.

A small bag of long, plastic zip ties caught her eye. They weren't as long as the ones they used on the force to subdue suspects, but they might work. She backed towards them, keeping him in the unwavering sights of the gun. She would have to drop it when she went to put him in the ties, but standing here with him loose while she waited for back up made her even more nervous. She grabbed three of the long ties, devising a system that would be far more humane than the one he used on his victims.

"What is your name?" she asked him, slowly coming closer to him.

He turned his head, squinting at her with those eerie eyes. "What color is your hair?" he asked. He couldn't tell, she had it up under a thick hairnet designed to keep it confined under the wig she'd worn.

"None of your fucking business, pervert. Now, let's try this again. What's your name?" She stood behind him, pressing the barrel of the gun against his back and urging him forward until he was pressed against the thin metal door.

"Benjamin."

"Benjamin, what?"

"What color is your hair?" he asked her again, cocking his head slowly to the side as he looked at her.

Faith almost shivered before she stopped herself. He was creepy in the extreme. "Okay, Benny Boy. If you don't want to tell me anymore, we'll get the rest out of you at the station. I can't believe someone like you won't be in the system, maybe as a juvenile offender? Now, we are going to do something here and you are going to cooperate or I'm going to put a bullet in you, got me?" He didn't answer, just stared at her impassively. She sighed. "I'm going to give you these zip ties and you are going to fasten one around each wrist and then put the third inside one of the other two than put your hands behind your back while I finish the job. If you try anything," she warned him, "anything at all, I will shoot you."

She waited, watching him.

He nodded, his eyes blank and staring at her. She handed him the first zip tie, watching as he pulled it tight around his wrist. The second zip tie went on the same way. Then she handed him the third. He slipped it under one of the others before turning his back and holding his hands behind him.

Faith tried to fasten it while holding the gun to him but he'd put the other zip tie on too tight and she couldn't get the tie under it. With a hiss of frustration, she took one look at the back of his head, shoved the gun in the front of the jeans she wore and grabbed the tie with her other hand.

It was ripped from between her fingers, his body twisting so fast she barely had time to blink before seeing the rage in his eyes. His fist smashed into her face even as she fumbled to get to her gun and she fell backwards, hitting the cold cement hard. It knocked the wind from her, sent her skidding back along the hard cement until her back hit the rear end of the car. Then he was standing over her, his hands yanking at the hairnet she wore, pulling it free and then pulling her up, the zip tie in his hands. Before she could fight him, he had her wrists expertly tied, the plastic digging in painfully to the soft flesh. He bent, grunting as he hefted her slim body over his shoulder and headed for the house.

Buffy stood as if a guard over the battered body of her new friend. Lindsey had gone down hard, breaking two ribs, his leg, and giving himself a skull fracture to boot. They'd had to reinflate his lung after it had been punctured by one of the jagged edges of rib bone. He was on a machine now to regulate his breathing, tubes feeding him medicine, wires connected to his chest and his finger and another tube coming from under the sheet that covered him and leading to a small bag at the end of his bed. His ribs were bandaged, his head swathed like a mummy, a slight pink cast to part of the white. His face was a mass of scratches and his legs were covered in road rash.

"Linds, buddy," she said quietly. "You look like shit. You've got to wake up; the press wants to make you a hero for getting run down by a car. You can't let all those women out there see you like this. It's bad for the image, Linds." A sob shook her shoulders and she sank down on the small chair next to the bed, her hand lying on his limp one.

It had been her idea to come to the hospital and stay with him while Angel followed the tracker unit that Faith had in the purse. They'd switched places in the restaurant bathroom, their plan had been to leave Faith posing as her alone out in front of the restaurant to see if their killer would take the bait. He had, but he wasn't supposed to have gotten Faith in the deal.

When they'd hustled her out of the bathroom, she'd seen Angel, his dark hair mussed from dragging his hand through it in frustration, his eyes worried. He'd walked over to her, touching her cheek for a brief instant of intimacy before telling her what had happened. Then he'd had her brought here. A guard stood outside of the room, protecting both her and Lindsey. But he knew nothing of what was going on, giving her a bored look as he stood watching the nurses as they went about their duties.

Buffy wiped the tears from her eyes, tears of exhaustion and frustrations that just seemed to keep welling. She felt one slide down her cheek, saw it drop onto Lindsey's hand. With a small sniff, she wiped it away, laying her head along the edge of his bed and staring up into his battered face. "Please don't die. I don't think I could handle it if you do."

Faith struggled and fought, kicking her feet and bashing her head against Ben's back. It was as if she didn't exist, except for the hold he kept around her legs, holding her to his shoulder. He ignored her movements completely, even when she knew she must have done something to him that hurt.

She caught glimpses of the house as they moved through it. It was a normal, nice home with normal furnishings, a television set, a rocker/recliner set in front of it. There was even a nice, normal cat sitting upon the table, washing his paws. The cat looked at her for a moment, then went back to its bath as if its owner dragged bloody women into his house on a daily basis. He kept walking, through a kitchen that had plain white linoleum, dull cabinets and a cookie jar of a cat on the counter. He paused an she heard the sound of a lock turn and then a light clicked on and suddenly he was going through a door and down a flight of stairs.

He dumped her unceremoniously into a hard wooden chair with a high back, pushing her easily back down when she tried to jump up. His hands went to her hair, yanking out the pins so that her long, dark tresses shone in the bright light of the room, falling around her shoulders and into her face.

"Brunette," he said, disgust evident in his tone. "They couldn't even give me a decent decoy."

Faith shook her head, trying to get the hair out of her eyes. With her hands bound behind her, it was almost an impossible task. "Sorry to disappoint you," she hissed, her voice hoarse with pain and fear, though she put up a brave front.

"Shut up," he said quietly, staring at her.

Her eyes narrowed and she wanted to scream at him but she kept quiet, squirming under the intensity of his stare.

"You're pretty I suppose. Tara might like you." He reached behind him and onto a shelf. Before she knew what he was about, he had her pinned to the chair, a pair of scissors snipping in front of her face. "Unless you want me to use these to snip you open and see what color your insides are, you might want to hold still."

The scissors were huge and silver, dressmaker shears, she thought, knowing that they could, indeed, cut her open. She nodded her head. They were cold against her skin as he snipped through her clothing, starting at her pants. He used the shears to start the cuts, yanking at the fabric with his incredibly strong hands. When he was finished, she sat before him in nothing but a red silk bra and matching panties.

Faith longed for the use of her hands, not to cover herself up but to fight this maniac. She was helpless, a feeling that never sat well with the feisty detective. "Got your thrills yet, Benny?" she asked him, angry.

He sighed. "I don't need another girl, especially one with such bland brown hair." He said the color as if it were the most foul thing in the world. "You were supposed to be my Buffy. She was going to be mine forever, but you took her place." He tilted his head to the side, studying her. "Why did you do that?"

"Because someone needs to take scumbags like you off the streets, and protect innocent lives like those girls you murdered. Is there any better reason? You know, Benjamin," she said, her voice growing softer, more intimate. "If you were to give yourself up to me, I'm sure we could make a deal, take the death penalty off the books and make sure you got life in some cushy institution somewhere."

"Give myself up? Darlin', there ain't nothing further from my mind," he said, the Texas accent coming out heavily. He reached out suddenly, turning the chair to where she could see Tara and Cassie, their arms wrapped around their naked bodies, watching every move he made with a look of horror upon their faces. "See, my two babies over there, they're sore. I've over used them the past couple of days and I was hoping for someone new to play with for a while."

Faith took in the bruises and contusions, the terror in the young Cassie's eyes and the determination in Tara's. "And you thought I'd be willing to what, ride you like a bucking bronco?" she asked him.

He threw back his head, laughing at her use of the western vernacular. "Nice try, but the only one that will ride me will be my Buffy."

"You'll never get your hands on her, Benny. McKenna will see to that. He wouldn't let anything happen to her."

"Ah yes, Angel McKenna. Isn't he the wonderful cop in charge of you tonight? Hmm, I think he might have fucked up a little bit," he said, tapping his finger against his lips. "I mean, if he hadn't fucked up, I wouldn't have YOU!" he shouted, spraying her face with spittle as he loomed over her.

Faith cowered back in the chair, trying to keep up her mien of the tough detective, but inside she was quaking with fear. She was helpless, almost nude, and in the hands of a man who was known to have killed six women. She tried to force her numb and aching head into thinking but the only thing that came through the haze of fear was the voice of her Behavioral Psych teacher. "Don't rile the deviant." he used to always say. "Yeah, you're right. Angel did fuck up tonight," she said, trying to add disgust into her words.

Ben only nodded his head, reaching down and palming her breast in his hand.

Faith tried to jerk away but the chair was at her back. She was trapped by his body with no where to go. "Don't," she said before she could stop herself.

He laughed, a chilling sound that sent goose flesh over her cold skin. "Ah, begging already, and I haven't even gotten started. You might be more fun than I thought, Detective." He peeled the cup down slowly, exposing the plump mound, his fingers twiddling over her nipple. "Very nice."

"Sorry to not disappoint you," she hissed, hating the way his warm fingers felt against her skin.

"Good, I'd hate to have you give in so quickly. It's such a disappointment to me when they don't fight or squirm when I sink my cock into them." He pulled out the front of her bra, quickly sliding the shears into the gap and snipping it open. He pushed the two halves off of her breasts, exposing them to his eyes, the ruined material falling over her hands and catching on the zip tie that bound her wrists. "What do you think, Tara? Would you do her?" He backed away from the chair, letting the girl get a good look at his latest prize. "She's got spunk like you, not like little Cassandra in there." He bent over Faith as if telling her a secret. "Tara's gay, I killed her lesbian lover when I took her from their bed. She's a good little fuck though, so maybe she's bisexual instead. You know, I just can't keep up with it anymore, bisexual, gay, hetero, it's a big mess out there."

"Yeah and you probably only like vanilla ice cream, too," Faith said, not hiding the disgust she felt for the man from her voice.

"Ah, oh good one, nice come back, Detective. You'd better hope I find that brunettes do okay or your time in this world will be ending very God damn soon." He knelt in front of her, pushing her thighs apart with his hands. His fingers went to the crotch of her panties, rubbing against them, pushing them into the slit between her thighs. His lips went to her breast, sucking in one of her full pink nipples, chewing on the soft flesh and hearing her cries of pain. "Beg me to stop," he ordered her, biting down on her nipple.

Faith tried to stay quiet but the pain was intense, welling through her in big strong waves, too harsh to ignore. "Stop!" she screamed, "please, stop!"

Angel left the alley, his stride determined. Someone had to see something and he was going to knock on every door around until he found something. He grabbed a couple of uniforms that were just milling around, taking them with him into the apartment building next to the alley. "Okay, you guys are going to take every other floor." He handed them copies of the artist's sketch. "I want you pounding on doors and taking statements. Talk to everyone in the apartments no matter how old. If they can talk, they can be a witness, understand?" He pointed towards the stairs, watching them hurry away and then went to the first floor apartment.

He pounded on the door. "Police, open up, I need to speak with you." As soon as it was opened, he shoved his copy of the artist's rendering into the face of the man who stood there. "Did you see this man tonight?"

He shook his head, starting to close his door but Angel shoved his foot in. "Do you have anyone else living here with you?"

"Yeah, my wife and she ain't seen nothing either. We've been watching Jeopardy until you people showed up with your sirens and lights going, interrupting people from enjoying their evenings." He started to close the door again but Angel reached out and hauled him up by his shirt.

"Listen, a young woman was kidnapped tonight. The car that was used is parked outside your building, almost right outside your apartment windows. Now, you're telling me you've been here all night and you haven't seen nothing?"

"He didn't, but I did." The voice was tiny, coming from behind the big man in the doorway. Angel glanced down, seeing the owner of the voice. An older woman who was at least sixty or seventy looked up at him.

Angel let go of her husband, seeing the man run his hand over his chest before stepping back so the woman could come forward.

"Natalie, you don't have to do this," he said, holding his hand out to her.

"Yes, I do. Now let the nice detective in so we can talk like civilized people." She led the way down a long hallway and into a nice apartment that was startling compared to the harsh exterior of the building. The room was warm, with hand crocheted doilies decorating every table top and silk flowers in wicker baskets displayed everywhere.

"Detective...?" Natalie asked, holding out her hand and offering him a seat upon a comfortable looking sofa.

"Angelus McKenna, ma'am. You can call me Angel if you'd like," he said, sitting down and pulling out his notebook. "Can you tell me what you saw?"

"I was doing the dinner dishes, my husband there was setting up the cards. We like to play after dinner and I heard a noise from out in the alley. Normally, we keep the blinds closed; it's not a nice neighborhood after dark anymore. But it's such a beautiful night, I opened the window a bit for some air."

Angel nodded. His pen poised over the paper, he waited.

"I'm sorry, Detective, I'll get to it. A man, he was like the man in your picture but his hair wasn't so wild nor was he so dark skinned. He had something in his arms that he dumped into the trunk of another car. Then he got in the first one and was doing something. I think he was wiping off finger prints, like they do in those crime shows on television." She took her husband's hand into her own, twining their fingers together.

"Did you see a make on the car?" he asked.

"No, I don't know much about cars. My husband does all the driving."

"What about a plate number? Can you remember any of it?"

"Uh, the letters, I think ... A R S. I remember because I love roses and I thought, how lovely, 'A RoSe.'"

"Did you get a color of the car?" Angel asked, writing quickly. "Or maybe was it a two door or a four door?"

"Four and it was dark blue, kind of boring looking, actually."

Angel was smiling. "Natlie, I think I just might love you. If I send someone over here with some pictures of cars, do you think you can look through them?"

"Sure, detective," she said, smiling. "Will I get to come to court and testify too? Like they do on those crime shows?"

"Maybe. I've got to go. I'll be sending a uniformed officer with pictures of those cars." On a whim, he bent, pressing his lips to the old woman's cheek. "You're my hero, lady," he whispered before hurrying from the apartment, already on his radio.

Natalie French blushed, a lovely shade of pink, her hand rising to her cheek. "He was a nice boy, wasn't he?" she asked of her husband who just glowered and rubbed at his chest.

The old high school teacher paid no mind. He wasn't going to damper this.