Disclaimer: Veronica Mars is owned by Rob Thomas; Buffy by Joss Whedon. I own the plot.

X X X X X

Well, if there was one thing I knew, it was that not only had Oz not been the one to rape me, it was that he would have done everything he could to stop anyone who tried. Still, he might be able to tell me something I needed to know, even if the only person in the Buffyverse less likely to commit rape than Oz was Tara.

I couldn't say the same about Devon MacLeish. Neither of my sets of recollections thought of him as someone capable of raping someone, but if I appeared willing he might have been willing to ignore me possibly being drunk.

And certainly I'd appeared willing enough to Duncan. So it wasn't completely impossible that I could have seemed so to someone else. I like think even drugged out of my skull I'd have better taste than Devon, though.

I asked Cameron one final question: "Any idea where Oz or Devon are right now?"

He looked at me like I was stupid. Not a look I get very often. Like I was annoying, pesky, a pain in the ass, sure. But rarely stupid.

I'd earned the look, though. He said, "It's Tuesday."

And, of course, Dingoes Ate My Baby played at the Bronze any Tuesday it wasn't actually otherwise booked. "Thanks," I said. I resisted the temptation to throw in some crack about avoiding steam rooms. I doubted the entity who sent me here would have taken that as "telling someone about their futures," but it was close enough that I wasn't going to take the risk.

I hate being hamstrung like this. I hate "rules are rules." But when the Adversary with the power to wipe you from existence tells you to do or not do something, you do or don't do it.

To the letter. I'd already figured out one loophole: I might not be able to tell people about their futures, but I could do something about it. Sheila Kelly's continued breathing proved that.

The band wouldn't begin setting up for an hour or so, so there wasn't a point to simply hanging around the Bronze. Anyway, it was getting to be time for dinner.

So if I couldn't come up with a loophole, I'd ask the smartest man I knew:

My father.

X X X X X

As we ate our pork chops. Dad said, "Did you find anything useful at the beach?"

"A big treasure chest full of Spanish doubloons. But some mean boys took it away from me."

"Funny, sweetie. I meant, having to do with the case you're working on."

And now it was time to walk that extremely fine line between "letting Dad know more or less what's going on while withholding vital data" and "letting Dad know exactly what's going on," and letting him thing I was doing the latter when I was actually doing the former.

"A little bit," I said. "Mostly, I got pointed in the right direction."

"A lot of that in the detective business," Dad said. "As long as you're sure it's the right direction. So, what's this one about?"

"Well, since it turned out you were right about the Unabomber," I said. "I decided instead to try to track down what happened at a party."

"Your client wasn't there?"

"Was there; doesn't remember. And from the way everyone's acting around her, she's pretty sure something did," I put down my fork. "And now for something completely different."

"That is an ex-client?"

"Huh?"

He shook his head and said, with mock sadness, "You kids today have no sense of history. What is this different thing?"

"A story I'm working on for English class," I said. "Horror. A powerful demon has sent a man back in time ten years. He remembers everything that's going to happen, including a number of tragedies, and wants to stop them. But there's a twist: He can't tell anyone about their futures -- or anyone else's future, for that matter. Now, I've already figured out that say doesn't mean do. Can you think of any other escape clauses?"

"That's one odd story."

"We weren't really given any restrictions."

"Hmmm. Is he in a situation where telling people about their pasts could do any good?"

My father is a genius. Scratch that: My father is a god. No, scratch that again. My father is THE God. I'm not quite too sure about the theological ramifications as far as I'm concerned, but never mind that. I'd been bashing my brains against this restriction for weeks and hadn't come up with this -- this blatantly obvious solution. "Perfect," I said. "Yes. The past would work beautifully."

Jane Calderash becoming Jenny Calendar was in the past.

"Ripper" was in the past.

Buffy's happy fun time at Hemery High was in the past. So was her stay in a mental institution.

Angel's curse was in the past. Hell, Angel's entire history was in the past.

I kissed Dad on the forehead and started to clear off the table. When he got up to help, I said, "You. Sit. You've earned it."

"Many times over, I'm sure," he said. "I'm just not certain what about this entitles me to such swanky treatment."

"Swanky? Mister, you ain't begun to see swanky." I gave him another ten minutes of the royal treatment, went in to check my makeup and clothes -- no, I am not Cordelia Chase, nor was meant to be, but I do like to be sure I don't look like the fourth day of a three-day drunk -- and left.

Dad's information would be a big help in the future.

Say, around Halloween.

In the meantime, there were Devon and Oz.

X X X X X

I talked my way past the bouncer by saying, "I'm here to help the band set up."

Not one of my better lies, but I honestly think I could have said anything, up to and including, "Hi! I'm here to murder everyone in the place with an AK-47!" and he would have let me in. One thing I had to remember: Sunnydale security was made up of the people who couldn't get into the Sunnydale police department.

I heard Devon's dulcet tones as soon as I walked in -- sound check, apparently. He did have a nice voice. I forget the band that provided Dingoes' voices -- yeah, I know, and I call myself a Buffy fan. What can I say? I'm all about what happens on the screen, not so much about what happens off it. I hung back and waited until they were done the song. "Okay, man," Devon said. "Now we can plug in." Then he saw me. "And it looks like some of our fans are already here." He smiled what I'm sure he thought he was an irresistible smile. "Show hasn't quite started yet."

"Oh, darn," I said. "Does that mean you don't sign body parts?"

Oz recognized the sarcasm when he heard it. Devon wouldn't have recognized sarcasm if it had slapped him in the face. "What body part did you have in mind?"

"My sacroiliac," I said.

"Huh?"

I shrugged. "Sorry. Had your chance. Look. I need to ask the two of you some questions about Cordelia Chase's Christmas party."

Oz looked at everyone else in the band. "Take five," he said. He came over to me; Devon followed. We sat down at one of the tables. "What do you need to know?"

"What happened to me."

Devon broke out into a big grin. "You were really wild that night, manhunter. But then, you know that --"

Oz interrupted. "If she knew, she wouldn't be asking."

"Cam Walker said that when I collapsed the two of you carried me off to a downstairs bedroom before Cordelia could throw me out."

"Right," Oz said. "She'd've thrown you out. Couldn't have you going around like that. You could've been hurt or killed."

"What did you do?"

"I took your shoulders, Oz took your legs; we found what looked like a guest room and laid you out on the bed," Devon said. "You were saying things I couldn't understand." Devon, of course, didn't understand simple arithmetic. "Oz?"

"Assorted words. Nothing too embarrassing or revealing. 'Duncan' once or twice. But then, he's your ex, right?"

"Right," I said.

"You know what your problem was, manhunter?" Devon asked.

"Enlighten me, wise one," I said.

"Your problem was that you didn't pace yourself. I mean, I'm not against getting a buzz on myself, but if you're not experienced --"

"I didn't touch a single drop of alcohol," I said. "Someone dosed me. That's why I'm trying to figure out what happened."

"Oh," Devon said. "Sorry." The difference between Devon and Dick Casablancas is that Devon actually sounded like he meant it. He might have been a "rock god" and a lover of the ladies, and dumber than a truckload of dirt, but he wasn't actually a malicious person.

Of course, I'd thought Beaver Casablancas was a nice guy too, once.

"Did you see me do anything else?"

"Yeah," Oz said. "You were fine the first time I saw you -- even though no one was talking. Then, half an hour later, you were acting disturbed."

"Do you remember when that was?" A time frame would be useful.

"9:30 to 10, I think." I got to the party a little before 9. GHB starts to work pretty quickly in the bloodstream -- so that meant whoever dosed me did it between 9:30 and 10. As in the regular universe, I dimly remembered someone handing me a soda. Unfortunately, Madison Sinclair wasn't around to be conveniently blamed, so I'd have to figure out who else had done it.

"Thanks," I said. "Anything else? Anyone . . . come near the bedroom you dumped me off in?"

Devon said, "We had to get back and play another set. I didn't see anything."

"One guy," Oz said. "Didn't see him go in. Just saw him hanging around the doorway."

"And who was he?"

"Don't know his last name. His first name, though, was Warren."