"They threw rocks at you?" Angel asked.

"Okay-whenyousay it, it sounds stupid. When you're on the other end of a bowling ball from h.e.l.l, the situation looks a little grimmer . . ."

"The question now is, will the Tremblors change their plans?" Angel said. "The one they freed will warn them we know where they'll strike next."

"If they're gonna go through with this Crushing of Souls ritual, they may not have a choice," Doyle said.

"Ow!"

"Don't be such a wimp," Cordelia said. "Peroxide can't cause blindness, can it?"

"They may move their agenda up," Angel said. "We should stake out the graveyard tonight."

"I hate to be a naysayer," Doyle said, "but so far, we haven't exactly been doin' great against these guys. Now that they know we're comin', we don'teven have the advantage of surprise. We need an edge."

"We might have one," Angel said. "We'll make a stop on the way. The equipment I ordered is ready."

"One thing I don't understand," Doyle said as they pulled up to the curb and parked. "Who exactly are we protectin' in a graveyard?"

"Good question," Angel said as he got out. "Unless the Tremblors are planning on raising the dead, I'd guess it was someone who works here. Probably the caretaker."

There was a big iron gate at the entrance, sealed with a chain and padlock. "Doyle?" Angel said.

Doyle went to work, and a few moments later the lock was open. They went in.

As they walked up the path, Doyle said, "Okay, so far we've got an airline hostess, a firefighter and a lifeguard. Like you said, they all put their lives at risk from the element they're close to. A caretaker doesn't really seem t'be in the same ballpark."

"Depends on how you look at it," Angel said. "Earth is the most important element in the ritual; it's the one that the new Tremblors' bodies are made out of. The caretaker of a graveyard is responsible for the bodies of thousands of people, interned within the Earth itself. Symbolically, that makes himor her the maternal figure, the one that protects the unborn."

"Still, not exactly a dangerous job," Doyle pointed out.

"You wouldn't think so, would you?" a strong voice said behind them. "No sudden moves, please."

Angel and Doyle stopped and turned around slowly.

A black man in his sixties stood there. He had silver hair and wore a faded plaid shirt, brown pants and a baggy brown sweater. He had a shotgun cradled in one arm.

"You don't look like vandals," the man said. "So I'm guessing graverobbers. Well, I am sick and tired of bodies disappearing. You can just get the h.e.l.l out of my graveyard-or I'll use you to fill a few recent vacancies."

"Uh, you've got it all wrong," Angel said. "We're not graverobbers or vandals."

"And why should I believe you?" the man demanded.

"We're not carrying shovels or spray paint, are we?" Angel pointed out. "And we don't have a wheelbarrow. Don't graverobbers usually have a wheelbarrow?"

"Besides," added Doyle, "look at how we're dressed. Okay, well, howhe'sdressed. Not exactly clothes for diggin' in the dirt."

The man eyed them suspiciously. "All right then, whatareyou doing here?"

"I'm a security consultant," Angel said. Moving slowly, he took a business card out of his pocket and handed it over. "I was-hired by the city to look into the recent rash of disappearances."

The man took the card and glanced at it. He frowned, but lowered the shotgun. "Why didn't they tell me you were coming?"

"I can't say for sure," Angel answered. "Maybe they figured a surprise inspection might produce the best results."

The man snorted. "It's like that, is it? Well, I don't have anything to hide. You want to look around or ask me some questions, go ahead."

"How about a proper introduction, first. I'm Angel. This is my a.s.sociate, Doyle." Angel held out his hand.

After a moment's hesitation, the man shook it. "I'm Harold Worthington. Call me Harry."

"Okay, Harry," Angel said. "We don't want to get in your way. Is it all right if we just-follow you around for a while?"

"I suppose. I can show you the most recently disturbed sites, but then I have some work to do. Can't spend the whole night playing tour guide."

"We'd appreciate that."

Harry led them between rows of tombstones. "It'sabout time the city decided to send someone to check things out. I've been telling them for years about the strange goings-on out here, and n.o.body ever took me seriously. Thought I was crazy."

"What kinds of things?" Doyle asked nervously.

"Fresh graves being disturbed, tombstones knocked over, trails of slime that disappear when the sun hits them-all sorts of weirdness. Some of it's just kids fooling around, but I got my own theory about the rest."

"And what theory would that be?" Angel asked.

Harry stopped and turned around. He studied Angel, then shook his head. "Forget it. You'd just think I was crazy, too. Tell you what-you look around, you tellmewhat you think's going on."

Harry continued on his way. Angel dropped back a little and whispered to Doyle, "Guy's pretty sharp."

"Yeah, and I take back what I said about this not being a dangerous job. A graveyard in L.A.? Geez, he's probably seen everything from demons to mad scientists . . ."

Harry stopped at a grave with a new headstone. It was obviously a new grave, the flowers on it still fresh. The dirt bore the all-too-distinctive eruptive pattern that told Angel someone or something had recently clawed their way up from below.

"Get a couple of these a year," Harry said."Always the same. Someone young, someone murdered-though sometimes they claim it's suicide- and buried for a couple days. Within a week, the grave looks like this. Now what do you figure could be the cause?"

"Uh-moles?" Angel said.

Harry looked at Angel. "Moles. Right. The kind with big, sharp pointy teeth."

"Most people don't realize moles are actually carnivorous," Doyle said. "Sure, they usually eat bugs and such, but a big tasty corpse is hard t'resist. It's like a free underground buffet."

"But they can also be dangerous," Angel interjected. "Even attack people. You should be very careful."

"Oh, I am. That's why I carry this." Harry patted the barrel of his shotgun.

"That-won't neccesarily work," Angel said carefully. "Against . . . certain breeds of mole."

"Angel," Doyle warned. "Come on. I'm sure the man knows all about moles."

"And what would you suggest?" Harry asked. "For these certain breeds of mole?"

"It depends. Some varieties have an aversion to silver. With others, it's wood. Sometimes, something as simple as specially-treated water can do the trick."

Harry studied Angel for a moment. A smile roseslowly on his wrinkled face. "Silver's expensive.

Wood's only useful in certain cases. And I'm too old to lug gallons of water around." He dug in the pocket of his sweater and pulled out a shotgun sh.e.l.l. "Make these myself. Finely ground communion wafer mixed in with the buckshot. Works against d.a.m.n near anything."

"That's very . . . creative," Angel said with a tentative smile. "I guess you can take care of yourself."

"Been doing it for sixty-odd years," Harry said. "I guess I can last a few more."

He suddenly slapped a hand to the back of his neck. "Mosquito season's here," Harry grumbled.

"d.a.m.n bloodsuckers . . ."

After that, Harry warmed up a little. He showed them a few more disturbed graves, including one covered with gang graffiti, then invited them back to his cottage for a hot drink. "Take the chill off your bones," he said. "Mine, too."

The caretaker's cottage was in the middle of the graveyard, a small Spanish-style bungalow with red clay tiles on the roof. Inside it was neat and clean, with a small living room adjoined by a kitchenette and a single bedroom. Old movie posters covered the walls, all from westerns:Stagecoach, High Noon, Shane.

Angel and Doyle sat side-by-side on the couch,while Harry busied himself making hot chocolate.

"That's a nasty bruise you've got on your forehead," he commented to Doyle.

"Baseball injury," Doyle said. "Got hit by a foul ball.Extremelyfoul."

"One in three hundred thousand," Harry said.

"Pardon me?" Angel said.

"That's the chance of getting hit by a baseball-at a major league game, anyway," Harry said. "Statistics are a hobby of mine. Started out just being curious about how folks pa.s.sed on, and it kind of grew from there."

"Really?" Doyle said, brightening. "Odds-makin' happens to be a bit of a pastime with myself. For instance: winnin' a lottery in California-fourteen million to one."

"Chance of being hit by lightning in any given week," Harry said. "Two hundred and fifty million to one."

"Chances of making twenty-eight straight pa.s.ses at a c.r.a.p table," Doyle countered. "Forty million to one. Actually happened at the Desert Inn in Vegas in 1950; the guy throwin' the dice obviously didn't trust his own luck, because he bet conservatively. Only walked away with seven hundred and fifty bucks-though one of the Marx Brothers was tableside and pulled in twenty-eight grand."

"Groucho?" asked Angel.

"Nah, Zeppo. That guy got more luck than he deserved."

Harry stirred the pot of hot chocolate slowly, and added a little milk. "Chance of the Earth being wiped out by a meteorite in the next fifty years- one million, two hundred thousand to one."

"Gettin' dealt a Royal Flush on the openin' hand-six hundred forty-nine thousand, seven hundred and thirty-nine to one."

Harry set out mugs on the counter. He carefully poured the hot chocolate into them from the pot. "Odds of being murdered while living in the good old U.S. of A., in any given year: one in twelve thousand.

Odds of being murdered here over the course of a lifetime-one in ninety-nine."

"I see why you carry the shotgun," Angel said.

Harry chuckled as he put the mugs on a tray. "Yeah, at my age I'm just about due. Of course, statistically speaking, what I do isn't considered highrisk; cabbies and convenience-store clerks stand the biggest chance of being murdered on the job, followed by truckers and gas station attendants. Now, what does that say about our society-when doing something as simple as driving someone from one place to another or selling them junk food can get you killed?"

"Especially between midnight and fourA.M.,"Angel said. "Graveyard shift-so to speak."

Harry nodded thoughtfully, then brought the mugs over on a tray and handed one to Angel and one to Doyle. He took the last one himself before sinking down into an easy chair. "Well, at least the economy's doing okay. Chance of getting shot always goes up when the dollar dives. Jumps from about fifty-eight percent of murder victims to sixty-five."

"That really cheersmeup," Angel said.

"Thing is, you can use statistics to prove just about anything," Harry said. "Can't live your life by them, though. Life has a way of doing the unexpected-sometimes even the impossible." He fixed a steady gaze at Angel. "But then, I think you already know that."

"I've . . . had my share of unusual experiences," Angel admitted.

"Uh-huh. Something tells me that's an understatement."

"Look, Harry, I'm going to level with you as best I can. I think you may be in danger."

"From what? The things that creep around out there?" Harry snorted. "They don't bother me-and for the most part, I don't bother them. The city pays me to dig graves and maintain the grounds, not play monster-hunter."

"It's a little more complicated than that," Doyle said. "See, the people we think might threaten you are sort of-"

"-a cult," Angel interjected. "And you know people like that aren't exactly rational. They've been kidnapping people connected to the four elements; so far they've got an airline hostess, a firefighter and a lifeguard. As near as we can tell-you're next."

"Something tells me you boys don't work for the city." Harry took a sip of his hot chocolate.

"Not exactly," Angel said. "But we are trying to stop this cult. I'm hoping you'll let us keep an eye on you for the next twenty-four hours. Our information indicates that's when they'll strike."

"What did you have in mind?"

"Doyle can stay in here with you. I'll patrol outside. We'll stay in touch via cell phone."

Harry put down his mug and leaned back. He folded his hands in front of him and glanced over at Doyle. "I know I'm going to regret this, but I have one question I need to ask. I'm pretty sure what the answer will be, so don't even think about lying to me."

"Yeah?" Doyle said.

"Do you play gin?"

Angel prowled through the graveyard, alone. He'd left Harry and Doyle playing cards for a nickel a point.

He'd spent a lot of time in graveyards, once. Hiding out in them, bringing his kills to them. Notbecause he had to-he slept in a bed, not a coffin- but because it was part of the game, because it terrified his victims even more. Ever since he'd regained his soul, he'd avoided them. Too many bad memories.

And then came Buffy.

The Slayer. He'd been sent to help her, to watch her back. He'd wound up in graveyards more than once while doing that-and had become more than her ally. Now, walking between the tombstones held a bittersweet quality, reminding him of both better and worse times.

The problem was, there were so many more bad memories than good.

He read the markers to pa.s.s the time.Beloved Son. A Good Father. Gone Before Her Time. We Will Meet Again In Heaven.Angel wondered if that would be true for him and Buffy-would they eventually be together in the afterlife? Or was his soul beyond redemption?