Chapter 54: Hull

The trail ended at a door leading back into a semi-dark construction zone. It was an obstacle course of construction materials—piles of drywall and lumber, sawhorses, tarps and rubbish. A room full of places to hide.

Clay cocked his head, nostrils flaring—listening, looking and sniffing.

Dawn squinted to let her eyes adjust, and counted the exits. The farthest, an open doorway, led to what looked like another hall.

A shape passed that distant door, and Dawn tapped Clay's arm, redirecting his attention. He nodded, and they split up again, heading for that far door.

Dawn made it there first and glanced around the doorway to see a figure obscured behind a sheet of opaque plastic hanging from the ceiling. Clay tensed but, after a deep breath, Dawn shook her head.

"Nick and Buffy," Dawn mouthed.

Dawn cleared her throat. Nick pulled back the plastic and waved them over. Buffy was on his other side, hunched down, trying to pick up a scent.

"Don't bother," Dawn said. "She went down this hall. I can smell her already."

"So, can I," Buffy said. "It's the other one I'm trying to pick up."

"We were wondering when he'd show up."

Nick shook his head. "I don't think it's a zombie. It didn't smell the same—"

"That's because we've only killed him once so far. He's not as ripe as she is."

Clay waved them to silence. "Let's concentrate on the one we have—the one that's getting away as we stand here."

They followed Rose's trail to a door that opened into an outdoor construction zone. This site was empty, someone having apparently decided current events were sufficient grounds for a mass personal day.

Clay tapped Dawn's arm. "Security van."

Buffy shook her head. "There's no one here. I can tell."

Dawn bent to pick up Rose's scent, winnowing it out from all the others. Once she found it, she started forward, weaving around piles of building material.

Within ten feet, they hit a spill of some kind, as if someone had dumped building chemicals—hopefully by accident. The trail became indistinct, the smell of rot more apparent on the air than the ground. Clay and Dawn headed around the piles of material in one direction, while Buffy and Nick took the other.

Dawn finally picked up Rose's scent again, but only got about twenty feet more before she lost it behind trailers stacked with lumber. When she bent, Clay waved her up.

"You shouldn't be bending so much. Can't be comfortable. I'll take a turn."

As he crouched, Dawn heard the crunch of stones underfoot. She motioned to Clay, but he'd already stopped, head tilted, following the noise. He grabbed the edge of the trailer and swung onto it. Dawn followed … with more heaving and clambering than "swinging."

By the time Dawn was atop the trailer bed, Clay was on the lumber pile. He looked over the other side, then helped her up. As Dawn scrambled to the top, a fair-haired head bobbed from behind a truck. A man stepped out. Thirties, maybe nearing forty, and small, though that was probably the fault of my vantage point.

The man was dressed in slacks and a dress shirt. An office worker cutting through the empty construction yard. Then Dawn noticed his pants were an inch too short and his shirt was too large in the collar and long in the sleeves. Not as ill-fitting as the bowler-hatted man's clothes, but enough to make her take a second look. In that look, my gaze slid down the overlong sleeve … to a semiconcealed knife in his hand.

"Zombie?" came Clay's thought.

Dawn took a deep breath, but he was downwind. "Can't tell."

He was below them—about a dozen feet away. Decent positioning for a jump. As Clay crouched, neither of them moved or said a word, but the man stiffened, and his gaze swung up and around. He caught Clay before they could backpedal.

The man's face paled and his eyes widened. Dawn shifted, and the man's gaze shot her way, as if he hadn't noticed her there before.

"Oh, thank God," the man murmured in a soft, British-accented voice. "It's you." He lifted a hand to shield his eyes as his gaze turned to Clay. "Yes, yes, of course it is. I should have recognized you as well, but—" His eyes closed and he shuddered. "Dear God, my heart. When I saw you up there, I was certain I'd run straight into a trap, that you were another of those—" He shuddered again. "—those things."

"Things?" Dawn said.

"That…Those…" He faltered, as if he couldn't find a word. "The man and the woman. They—" He took a deep quavering breath. "I'm sorry. Just give me a moment."

He lifted his hand. The knife blade flashed. Clay dropped, ready to leap, and the man nearly fell backward, arms going up to ward Clay off.

"D-don't—I mean you no harm. Please—"

"Drop the knife," Clay said, his voice a nearly unintelligible growl.

"The—?" The man's gaze dropped to his hand. "Oh, oh, yes, of course. I'm sorry." He stooped and laid the knife down, then gave a small, nervous laugh. "I can't blame you for being wary. I know they've been after your wife, which can't be very pleasant." His gaze slid to Dawn's stomach. "Particularly considering her delicate condition. But I believe—" He swallowed. "That is to say, I hope I can help you."

"Not interested."

As Nick and Buffy approached, Dawn could see that her assessment of the man's size hadn't been skewed by their position—he wasn't much bigger than Buffy, in height or weight.

Buffy stopped and looked at him, head tilting as if puzzled.

"Dawn, Nick, Clay, something is off about him. He doesn't smell like the zombie, but I don't know. Something seems to be tripping my Slayer senses. I just don't know what," Buffy thought.

Dawn, Nick and Clay all gave the subtlest of nods but otherwise didn't say anything.

"Hello," the man said, his head bobbing in greeting. "I was just speaking to your friends. I saw you all together earlier. I was following you. That is to say, I was following her, that … thing. The woman. She led me to you, and I continued on here, in hopes of getting an opportunity to speak to you. But before I could go inside, the other one cut me off."

"The other one?" Dawn said.

"The man. Her partner. He saw me and—" The man swallowed, his gaze tripping around the construction site. "I hid, and I thought I lost him. Then I heard noises. I was preparing to run when I saw you."

"Who are you?" Dawn asked.

"I'm not one of them," the man said, then hesitated. "Or, I should say, I do not believe I am. It's all very…" He shook his head sharply. "It doesn't matter. My name is Matthew Hull, and yes, I did come through that … whatever it was. I could use your help, and in return, can offer my own."

Dawn glanced at Clay, but he was staring at Hull as if he could bore into his thoughts and read his intentions.

Hull continued, a near-pleading note in his voice. "My perspective is one you're not likely to have, or be able to find elsewhere. A firsthand account, so to speak."

Clay's scrutiny was obviously making Hull uncomfortable. He shifted from one foot to the other, glanced over his shoulder at Buffy and Nick, then took a sideways step, as if preparing for a quick escape.

"Perhaps we could speak in someplace more … public," he said. "We passed a park south of here. When I was following you. The road appeared to circle around it."

"Queen's Park," Dawn said, as Clay tensed, ready for the leap. "Fine, but we have someone else who'd like to speak to you, and he's not here right now, so why don't I give him a call…"

Dawn took out her cell phone. A momentary distraction that worked better than she expected because, as she lifted it to her ear, the man stared at her in confusion. The perfect opportunity for Clay to take him down. When he didn't, Clay looked over to see him staring out over the construction yard. There, on the other side, a man was creeping around a dump bin. While Dawn couldn't make out his features, Dawn recognized his form and his stance, slightly stooped. The other zombie.

"Buffy, Nick. Clay's spotted the male zombie creeping around the dump bin." Dawn said.

Buffy and Nick nodded and went after the zombie, the man watched them leave.

"They—they're still here, aren't they?" he stammered. "Those … things. Perhaps I should leave this to you—"

"Don't move," Clay said.

"We could still meet in the park," the man said, gaze darting about for the clearest escape route. "Shall we say, dusk? At the north end?"

Clay leapt just as Hull bolted. A second sooner, and he would have landed atop him. As it was, he hit the ground about five feet behind the already running man. As Dawn moved forward to jump down, the toe of her sneaker snagged on an exposed nail. Any other time, that would have just meant an embarrassing stumble and quick recovery as Clay sprinted away, leaving her to catch up. But the moment Clay saw her shadow stutter, he stopped, turning fast, arms going up as if she was about to fall headfirst off the trailer.

"I'm fine!" Dawn said. "Go!"

He hesitated until he saw that she was indeed okay. Then he continued the pursuit, but slowly now, as if my stumble had reminded him where his priorities lay. As the gap between Clay and Hull widened, Dawn knew that the only way they were going to get him is if she caught up—and fast. So she concentrated on forgetting the twenty-pound weight on my gut and the sweat streaming into my eyes.

As Dawn sprinted forward, something jumped from behind a pile of lumber. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught only a furry brown blur, and her brain screamed "wolf." She backpedaled so fast she tripped and thudded down on her backside, letting out a whimper as she felt the jolt slam through to her stomach. Dawn jerked forward into a semi-seated fetal position, protecting her stomach.

Something hit her shoulder, teeth catching in her shirt. A strangled snarl from Clay. A high-pitched squeal of rage from whatever was clinging to her shoulder, then the thump of flesh hitting wood as it flew off. Dawn caught a whiff of her attacker then, and knew what it was even as she turned to see it lying dead beside a pile of boards.

"A rat?" Dawn said. "In daylight?"

"Dawn?" Clay's voice was oddly quiet, with that same strangled note she'd heard in his snarl. "Don't move. Please, don't move."

Dawn started to ask "why?" then realized speaking probably fell under the heading of "moving."

"What's wrong?" Dawn thought.

"Four rats on top of the pile of boards," Clay's reply came.

Dawn moved only her eyes to where Clay indicated and just as he said there were four rats staring at her. They let out short hisses and the occasional squeak. Definitely not a display of welcome.

Clay's gaze slid to the other side of Dawn, where she remembered seeing a pile of bricks. She couldn't look that way without moving, but a crosswind brought more rat stink, and she knew she was surrounded by them.

"Should I –"

Dawn didn't even get the thought out before Clay shook his head. He didn't want to risk one of them latching on before she had a chance to teleport.

So, Dawn tried to relax. Reminded herself that as nasty as rats were, even a dozen of them were no match for two werewolves. But the crosswind brought another smell—that smell of disease they'd picked up on the rats in the warehouse.

Diseased rats. Out in the daytime, when rats normally seek shelter. Aggressively confronting, not just a human, but a werewolf.

The rats started to chatter, teeth snapping and grinding, needlelike incisors flashing, eyes blazing with rage, as if the disease had driven them mad and only the faintest shreds of sanity were keeping them from jumping down and ripping into me.

"Inch toward me," Clay said. "When you're close enough, I'll grab your feet and pull you out of the way. Just move very, very slowly."

Before Dawn could "inch" anywhere, she needed to get her hands on the ground. She started with her left hand, easing it down toward the ground. The largest rat lunged for the edge of the wood pile.

Dawn froze, heart thudding, knowing they'd sense her fear and fighting to control it. The big rat paced along the edge of the pile, as if struggling to resolve warring fight-or-flight impulses. Behind it, the others jostled for position.

"Clay?" Dawn thought. "It's not going to—"

"I know."

"If I teleport fast—" As soon as the thought was out there. Dawn had to wonder could she make her teleporting any faster, really? It was already near instantaneous to begin with.

"No."

"I have to. They won't wait much longer. If you cover me—" Dawn thought.

"They could attack before you even have a chance to teleport." Clay said. He knew like Dawn her teleportation was near instantaneous but there were a couple seconds as her mind cast the spell.

"I'll—" Dawn thought. "I'll have to teleport there is no other way."

"Clay!" Nick's loud whisper cut through the construction yard. "There you—" He stopped at Clay's shoulder. "Holy shit."

A quick confused glance at Clay, as if to say "Why are you just standing there?" then Nick leapt forward. Clay's hand slammed into the middle of his chest, stopping him.

"Nick, spook them and they'll attack," Clay thought.

"What are you talking about?" Buffy thought as she came up behind Nick. Then she saw Dawn. "Dawn, I have a plan. When I leap teleport to Clay."

Dawn shifted her gaze to the pacing rats. The biggest one was perched on the edge, as if calculating the distance to her belly, snapping at the others as they jostled him.

"Dawn?" Buffy said. "I'll be okay. I can handle rats. Better me than you right now."

Dawn hesitated, and then nodded. Buffy slowly lowered himself to a half-crouch, ready to jump. Then she leapt as Dawn teleported.

The rats did exactly what Buffy hoped they went for her. Dawn materialized next to Clay who immediately handed her to Nick. He then turned to see Buffy covered in rats, at least six of them, hanging off her arms and clothes as she swung wildly, trying to get them free. More attacked from the ground, lunging at her legs. Clay kicked the nearest one, bones crunching as his foot made contact. He grabbed one off Buffy and whipped it into the brick pile.

Nick steered Dawn out of the way, then ran back to help. By then, the rats were already dispersing, hissing and squeaking as they ran for cover. Nick snatched the last one off Buffy's back. The rat twisted around to bite him, but Clay's fist knocked it out of Nick's grip, and it hit the ground, convulsing as it died.

Dawn hurried over to them. Buffy was shivering, eyes wide and wild, as she looked herself over.

"They—they're gone, right?" Buffy said. Dawn had never seen Buffy that scared in her life.

Dawn looked to Nick and Clay. "I know Buffy and I can't catch diseases since we're both immortal. But I would feel better if Jeremy gives her some penicillin."

"No, Dawn, I'm alright," Buffy said.

"You're sure," Dawn asked as Buffy nodded.

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

Twice Buffy and Dawn caught that whiff of rot that told them one of the zombies had been by, but after following them for a few feet other scents got in the way. Hull was even tougher, lacking that special zombie odor. His story might be complete fiction, but if he did come through that portal, that was why they hadn't picked his trail up at the site.

After twenty minutes, the blood seeping from Clay's arm had soaked through a third bandage. They decided—or Dawn insisted and Nick backed her up—to take Clay back to the hotel so Jeremy could have a look. Which gave Dawn the excuse she needed to get Buffy checked out also. They may be immortal but she didn't want to take any chances either.

At the hotel, they left Nick in the lounge. He had wanted to come upstairs with Buffy she had told him she was fine and feeling no effects. That she would be back down in five minutes. Upstairs, Jeremy popped his head outside his room almost the moment they stepped off the elevator.

"There you are," he said. "I was about to go out searching for you."

"It's just a scratch," Clay said.

Jeremy ushered them into the room. He gestured to the bed, and had the bandage off before Clay even finished settling. "It does appear to be—" he began.

"Just a scratch?" Clay finished. "Told you."

"But why did it bleed so much?" Dawn asked, drawing closer for a better look.

"It's a deep scratch," Jeremy said. "It looks as if it nicked a vein."

Clay looked over at me. "Right again. I'm a genius."

"No," Jeremy said. "You've been hurt so often you can't help but recognize the signs."

"What about…?" Dawn began, then paused. "It was Rose."

"She's worried about syphilis," Clay said.

Jeremy shook his head. "Don't be. Unless she bit him, that isn't a concern."

Jeremy cleaned it well, then plastered it up and told Dawn to let him know if it started bleeding again or bothered Clay. Then Dawn told him about the rats and Buffy being bitten by them.

Jeremy understood Dawn's worry as he brought out a bottle of penicillin from his kit and injected some much to Buffy's objections that she didn't need it. "We know you may not need it," he said. "But we don't know what the disease is their carrying. It could be something that the Fountain's effects can't fight off. The penicillin will help for now just in case."

Buffy sighed and nodded in resignation as Jeremy cleaned her wounds.

Then Dawn told Jeremy what had happened at the museum.

"So, the zombies are catching on to our plans," Dawn said.

Jeremy nodded. "Meaning our chances of catching one, without serious risk, are rapidly diminishing. Time to take a break and focus on Shanahan."

"I'll call Zoe," Buffy said. "See if she'll tell us anymore."

Dawn turned to Clay, who was picking up the tourist shirt. "Hold on. I'll grab one of yours."

"I like this one."

Dawn rolled her eyes and helped him into it. "As for this Hull guy, his mannerisms suggest that he is what he claims to be—a refugee from the Victorian portal—but Clay thinks he's working with the controller, maybe an actor hired to get close to us."

"Explains how he just happened on the scene," Clay said. "Better than 'I was following the zombies.'"

"So, what do we do about this supposed meeting?" Dawn said.

"Let me think about it. For now, go call Zoe."

They started for the door.

"Oh," Jeremy said. "Dawn, Anita Barrington hasn't called you, has she?"

Dawn double-checked her cell phone, and then shook her head.

"She called me here, at the hotel," he said. "Something about digging up a story we'd probably like to hear. I called her back and left a message asking her to phone your cell or Antonio's, but she hasn't returned my call…"

"We'll swing by thereafter I've called Zoe," Buffy said.

They headed down the hall and into Buffy's room where Dawn handed Buffy her cell phone as Buffy's dialed.

"Slayer!" Zoe said.

Buffy explained their suspicions about Shanahan, and why they needed to find him.

"Patrick Shanahan as a zombie-controlling madman?" Zoe said.

"Madman…debatable," Dawn said. "But the zombie-controlling part seems a good guess. As for why he's controlling them or why the portal was embedded in that letter or what he hopes to gain by getting it back, we're still working on all that."

"As motivations go, I always liked world domination myself. Or perhaps this is just metropolitan domination. Patrick never was the type to think big. Never struck me as zombie lord material either, but I can't say I know him well. It's a working relationship, and a sporadic one at that. Most of my jobs for the family were with his grandfather, and he wasn't chummy with the hired help either."

"Which means you won't be able to give us much insight into Shanahan," Buffy said.

"Next to none. But I know someone who can. A client. Randall Tolliver. He grew up with Patrick."

They had a heck of a time finding Tolliver. His office either didn't have his exact schedule, or was reluctant to provide it, so they ended up canvassing a list of places he was expected to visit that afternoon with no luck so they headed for Anita's shop while Buffy called Zoe asking for her help in finding Tolliver.

"Erin?" Anita said as they walked into the bookshop.

The girl popped up from behind a display where she'd been unpacking books.

"Can you watch the store, dear? We'll be in the back."

Anita ushered them through the beaded curtain into the back office.

"We'll have to step out back to speak freely if a customer comes, but that's unlikely. We haven't seen anyone since noon. Now they're just phoning about charms and whatnot—afraid to even leave the house. Complete nonsense, of course."

"You said you have more information for us?" Clay said.

Dawn resisted the urge to glare at him.

First, Anita had Clay haul out four folding chairs. Then she set up bottled water and cookies on a box of books, insisting Dawn at least have the water to avoid dehydration.

She finally settled into the empty chair. "I managed to dredge up a Jack the Ripper story with a portal angle, though it doesn't mention the From Hell letter."

The story seemed to be an embellishment on the one about a half-demon making a deal with his father. In this version, the killer had been only partway through fulfilling his obligation to his demon father when he'd been caught by a band of sorcerers, who'd imprisoned him in a dimensional portal.

"The legend goes that the sorcerers then lost the portal device, and it's out there somewhere, waiting to be accidentally triggered, whereupon the monster will, once again, be unleashed on the world, rendered insane by his long imprisonment, driven only by the need to fulfill his unholy obligation." Anita grinned, eyes twinkling. "Rather sounds like a campfire story, doesn't it? Something for our children to spook their supernatural friends with."

"It does. I suppose there could be a nugget of truth buried in there…" Dawn said.

"Well, it's not the part about sorcerers playing world saviors, I'm sure." She shook her head. "Uncharitable of me, but I suspect they would have been negotiating to share the demon's boon instead."

They discussed the story for a few minutes, then Anita asked about their progress, and Dawn brought her up to date. When Dawn told her about Hull, her eyes widened.

"He came through the portal?"

"Well, he says so. But he isn't a zombie, so I doubt—" Buffy said.

"Oh, but that doesn't prove anything. Only those who were sacrificed come out as zombies. If they were alive when they went in, they'll be alive when they come out."

"Like in the story," Dawn said. "If Jack the Ripper was imprisoned in a dimensional portal—"

Clay snorted. "That guy is not Jack the Ripper."

"And how do you know—?" Buffy asked.

"It is just a story," Anita said. "At most, as you said, it may contain distorted elements of truth, as most folklore does. But still, if this man came from Victorian London—"

"He claims," Clay said.

"But if he did, I would love to speak to him. The historical wealth of information, combined with his circumstances…Why, it would be supernatural folklore in the making."

Dawn's cell phone rang. "Zoe," she said handing the phone to Buffy. "Hopefully she found Tolliver." She had.

According to the plaque outside, the Church of the Holy Trinity was built in 1847, on what had then been the outskirts of Toronto. Looking around, it was hard to imagine this had ever been on the outskirts of anything. The small church stood incongruously cheek-to-jowl with the sprawling Eaton Centre shopping center—an urban shopping mall in the heart of downtown. As if having a house of spiritual worship standing beside a monument to material worship wasn't ironic enough, the church also served as a walk-in center for the homeless.

They climbed the steps to a set of tall, narrow green-painted wooden doors, propped open to welcome daytime visitors. Inside was a reception area, staffed by a volunteer at a table with guides and history booklets.

Zoe was waiting inside. Buffy knew that vampires could go into churches they were just afraid to. She was also sure there was likely sewer access also otherwise how else could Zoe have met them.

Zoe led them to the left, where the pews were and toward two men talking near an interior door. The younger man, probably in his early forties, turned and started walking briskly down the aisle. He almost smacked into Dawn, as if she'd materialized from nowhere. With a murmured apology, he started going around her.

"Randy," Zoe called after him.

He stopped, and turned. "Zoe?"

"Hey, Doc. Do you have a minute? We need to talk to you."

A discreet glance at his watch, then at Clay, Buffy and Dawn, as if curiosity was warring with an insanely busy schedule. Without a word, he nodded and waved them to a hall on the east side of the church. They went down a few steps, then out a single door into an courtyard.

He gestured to a set of chairs. There were only three, and he seemed ready to give them to Clay, Buffy and Dawn. Zoe hung back at the door staying out of the sun's rays. When Clay took up position at Dawn's shoulder, Tolliver turned the third chair around to face theirs, then sat.

"So…" he began. "What's this about?"

Buffy and Dawn told him the story. When the sisters finished, Tolliver looked at Zoe.

"You know that these three are council delegates? For a fact?"

"Well I know she is a Slayer," Zoe said. "The other two, well why else would they be investigating this? It's hardly the kind of thing people volunteer for."

"I can think of one group who would, particularly if they could use this portal to their advantage."

"A Cabal?" Zoe waved at Dawn. "Does she look like a Cabal goon?"

"No, which would be a perfect way to convince us she isn't. It would also explain why Patrick is missing. They likely took him into custody themselves."

"Yeah?" Clay said. "Then why would we be looking for him? That's what we're doing here. Trying to find him, hoping he can close this thing."

Tolliver's expression didn't change. If Buffy was indeed a Slayer, he knew why she was here for sure. But the other two. "If you two are on the council, then tell me this. Who's the sorcerer delegate?"

"Trick question," Zoe muttered.

"No," Dawn said. "If Dr. Tolliver does know the current council, then it's a trick question within a trick question. There is no sorcerer delegate. Never has been. However, one other delegate is married to a sorcerer who does help with our investigations, though he doesn't participate in matters of policy."

Tolliver met my gaze. "You know him?"

"Of course," Buffy said. "And he knows myself, my sister and my brother-in-law. Call him up and ask, about any of us or the investigation. He's aware of it, and has been helping with background."

Tolliver hesitated, then nodded, but didn't move. He finally put his medical bag on the ground and relaxed into his chair. "I can tell you this much. Whoever said Patrick's letter is responsible for this portal is wrong."

"Right," Clay said. "So, the fact that this portal opens on the same night his letter is stolen, and spews out Victorian zombies and cholera is…a coincidence?"

Tolliver blinked. "This portal is responsible for the cholera?"

"Nah, it's just a coincidence," Clay said.

Tolliver ignored him and turned to the sisters. "Is there anything else?"

Dawn hesitated as she looked at Buffy, then said, "Possibly something with the rats, but we aren't sure yet."

Tolliver let out a quiet curse. "Typhus, probably. I've been dealing with rat bites all day."

"Typhus? How … how bad is it?" Buffy asked. She remembered the last time she was in a country with a Typhus outbreak. She and Dawn had been in Ireland in 1816 during the start of the Typhus outbreak there.

"Treatable with antibiotics if it's caught." He said as Dawn let out a sigh as did Buffy. "People haven't started showing symptoms yet. I'm just dealing with the bites, far more than normal. Typhus will be a concern, if that's what it turns out to be, but at this stage, I'm more worried about infection from the bites. The rats seem to be more aggressive than normal."

"We found that out. They're attacking in daylight too. Is that from the disease?" Dawn said.

"I don't know enough about typhus to say." He leaned back. "First, cholera. Now this. No wonder I'm so busy."

Clay looked at him. "So, getting this portal closed might not be such a bad idea."

"I never said it was. Cholera and typhus notwithstanding, I completely agree that it needs to be closed, but I'm not convinced that finding Patrick will help. Yes, it seems impossible that this is a coincidence, but I find it very hard to believe his letter is to blame. It's a fake."

"That may be," Buffy said, "but whether Jack the Ripper wrote it or not—"

"No, I mean it wasn't a real portal device. It was a fake. That's what Mr. Shanahan—Patrick's father—always said."

As he looked across their faces, he must have seen their confusion, and continued, "Geoffrey Shanahan was what you'd call an affable drunk. Normally, he barely said two words to me, but when he'd been drinking, he liked to talk, especially about his father's collection. He'd take Pat and me in there and regale us with the stories behind the pieces, what they were supposed to do, who had exposed them as fakes—"

"Fakes?" Dawn said.

"Of course." Again, Tolliver looked at them, then Zoe. "You must know this, Zoe. You put some of those artifacts in that collection yourself."

She shook her head. "Theodore Shanahan placed the order and I filled it. Half the time, I barely even knew what I was stealing."

"Not surprising, I guess. He was an arrogant old bugger. Like most men who get their money from shady dealings. If you act like you've been born to it, no one questions where the money came from."

"So, it's a collection of … fakes?" Buffy glanced at Dawn and Clay, remembering the files they'd found in the house, where they'd thought he'd cleverly documented his artifacts as counterfeits. "Supernatural curiosities."

Tolliver nodded. "All of them, including that letter."

"So, it supposedly did contain a portal," Dawn said. "One that was believed to be fake."

"I don't remember the exact story behind it, but Patrick will have it on file."

"File's gone," Clay said.

Tolliver nodded, as if neither surprised nor indignant that they'd searched Shanahan's house.

"Can you remember anything about it?" Buffy asked.

He paused, then shook his head. "I'll think on it some more, but that piece never interested me. Neither did Jack the Ripper in general." A small laugh. "Even as a child, I think I was offended by the suggestion that a doctor might have been responsible. Patrick would know more. The letter was one of his favorite pieces."

"Which brings us back to square one…" Clay said.

"Finding Patrick. I agree that the portal needs to be closed, and quickly. Even if I don't know how much help Patrick can be, I'd be happy to help you locate him…if I could."

"Why can't you?" Buffy said.

"Because, while Patrick and I were close as boys, we've barely seen one another since college. He only calls now and then to see whether I've come to my senses and taken up a more profitable branch of medicine…with profits he could help me invest. When he learns I haven't…" Tolliver shrugged. "That's the end of our contact until the annual Christmas card. I can try—"

Tolliver's cell phone rang. He answered. As he listened, he closed his eyes, suddenly looking very tired. "Tell them I'm on my way," he said, then hung up.

"There's a small outbreak of intestinal upset at a nursing home I cover, and they're worried it's the cholera. More likely food spoilage from the heat, but I need to check it out immediately. As I said, I'll think about the letter some more, and Patrick as well, and see what I can come up with."

Dawn took out a piece of paper, jotted down her number and gave it to him. He was out of the courtyard before she or Buffy got to their feet.

Zoe made them promise to call and update her. In the meantime, she'd try to track down more on the story behind the letter.

The seven of them went to dinner before the meeting with Matthew Hull. Jeremy had decided they'd go—that the potential reward outweighed the risk.

They found a sit-down restaurant and a quiet table. While Jeremy and Antonio updated them on their dead-ended investigations, Clay kept casting anxious glances at Dawn as she picked at her dinner.

When it was their turn and Dawn asked Clay to tell them what they'd learned.

"What's wrong?" he murmured.

"Noth—" Dawn said.

"You've barely touched your meal."

"It's just the heat," Dawn said.

"You look pale," Jeremy said. "I thought it was the lighting, but—"

"It is. I'm fine."

"You're probably dehydrated," Antonio said. "Finish your milk and we'll order you another."

Dawn lifted her hands when Buffy started to open her mouth. "Enough. The pregnant woman is fine. Not terribly hungry tonight, that's all." She felt Clay's gaze boring into her, and sighed. "Okay, maybe a little tired, but no more than everyone else, I'm sure. It's been a very long day."

Clay pushed back his chair and stood. "Come on. I'm taking you up to our room."

"Before I finish my dinner?"

That gave him pause, but only for a second. "We'll ask for takeout."

Dawn shook her head. "Yes, I am tired, probably from the heat, but the sooner we get this done, the sooner I can go home and really rest, in my own bed. Now sit down and bring everyone up to speed on what Randy Tolliver said." Dawn looked up at him. "Please."