The Other Crowd (10 page)

“That’s not a bad idea. It’s where Beth emerged. She had to have come from somewhere.”

“Maybe down by the river?”

“Yes, but what’s down there?”

“We won’t know until we look.”

Impressed by Eric’s dedication, Annja closed her laptop. “All right. I think we should wander down during the day, though. Makes for easier sleuthing with the sun out. I’m going to talk to Wesley first when we get back to camp and see if he has any more information about Beth and…”

“Magic mushrooms?” Eric winked.

“Right. Magic mushrooms. Remind me why I agreed to this crazy assignment?”

“Because you are a professional with the ability to maintain decorum even in the most bizarre of situations. And you always uncover the truth.”

“I’m really starting to like you, Eric.”

“Cool. Wanna make out?”

She shot him a look.

“Psyche. You’re way too old for me.” He grinned and turned onto the gravel road.

S
LATER SLAPPED
his cell phone shut and shoved it in his front pocket. A call from Frank Neville was never pleasant. The bloke was not rational, by any means, but he disguised it with alarming calm. With him threatening to come out to the site, Slater had to cool down Neville’s ire before he thought to step foot behind the wheel.

He thought he had things under control. Then random dig workers had stumbled onto Frank Neville’s private business. And he felt he’d taken control of that problem, as well. Until that woman from the American television show had arrived all perky and snooping about.

One wrong move and this operation could go up in flames.

Striding into the cool shadows of the supply tent, Slater located the security guard he’d found that morning sprawled by the truck. At first, he’d thought Peter Donovan was sleeping on the job, but closer inspection determined he’d taken a beating. The man had whined about some woman with a sword sneaking up on him in the middle of the night.

Slater pulled out his pistol and pressed it to the guard’s neck. The man startled from a snooze on the cot.

“Whoa, mate, what did I do? I told you everything I know.”

“A feeble woman came creeping about the site late last night and beat you up. Did she have wings, too? You know the whole faerie story is just a front. They’re not real, idiot.”

The guard nodded, but his eyes shifted as he considered the statement. “One of the fair folk? No. She was big—I mean, normal size. She was smaller than me, so that makes her feeble.”

Slater shoved the pistol barrel deeper into flesh.

“Wait!”

Slater recited the guard’s idiot confession from the morning, “And she had a three-foot-long battle sword, which explains the cut on your neck.”

The guard nodded frantically.

Slater tilted the guard’s chin up with the pistol barrel, none too gently. “You sure you didn’t cut yourself shaving last night, Donovan?”

“I’m telling the truth, boss.”

“So why’d you go and call Neville about it after I thought we’d cleared things up? You know I run this camp. You got a problem or concern, or someone trespasses, you come directly to me. What, about those simple rules, don’t you comprehend, Donovan?”

“I’m sorry, boss, I forgot. Neville’s number came up first in my phone and I thought he should know.”

“Yeah? Well, that’s my job now, isn’t it? Communicating with Neville. Yours is to guard the camp and keep out trespassers. Good work, Donovan. Bang-up job. You fell asleep last night and woke up in the middle of one of your sex fantasies to battle the metal-bikini-wearing warrior woman.”

“No, uh, it wasn’t like that.” Donovan eyed Slater’s trigger finger. “She was real. And she had a kid with her. He was filming, like with a movie camera.”

Now that was new information. Slater tilted the gun barrel to point straight up. If he pulled the trigger now it would go through the bottom of Donovan’s mouth and come out through his nose, shattering cartilage and gifting him with a permanent hole in the center of his maw—if he was lucky.

“Keep your eyes on the site and your hand on your gun, not your phone, got that?”

Donovan nodded profusely.

“I’ll need you to be on top of things tonight, Donovan. We have another midnight run. I don’t want any witnesses.”

“No problem, boss. If I see that woman again, I’ll shoot her.”

“No, I don’t want you drawing attention to what we’re doing here. Detain and secure her, but do not injure her. Just like the others. Got that?”

“Uh, sure.”

“Good boy.” He patted the man’s cheek with the gun’s barrel, then turned and strode from the tent. “Idiot.”

Despite wielding the sixteen-digit credit card number that Roux should have been more careful giving to him, Garin couldn’t resist the compulsion to walk the sidewalk before the brownstone. After looking over the four-story walk-up, sandwiched between two equally bland, brick-fronted brownstones, he scanned the houses across the street.

It was midmorning. The nine-to-fivers had left hours earlier in their pursuit of another dollar, another pat on the back, another missed subway train. A few dog walkers pranced the sidewalks, but most of the residences appeared unoccupied.

The best vantage point for his target was the red house across the street and to the south. The third-floor window was shielded with white lace. Little old lady must live there, he thought. Which meant she was likely home.

Garin noted digital security pads on all the buildings near the front doors. Old wrought-ironwork screen doors preceded most of the entry doors. No doubt, the neighborhood was populated by geriatrics who kept a tight fist on their fortunes. But that never dissuaded a determined thief.

He knew little about Mrs. Banyon, who had purchased the painting via a proxy yesterday afternoon. There had been but a few mentions about her on the internet, although he did find generous donations had been made to the Metropolitan Opera and half a dozen libraries in the various boroughs in her name. To Garin, that meant she was either very generous, charitable or she needed a tax write-off.

Unfortunately, he hadn’t managed to obtain Banyon’s phone number. Garin knew approaching without a call could be risky. And door-to-door salesmen probably didn’t go over at all in this neighborhood. The delivery-man act was beneath him, so a direct approach it would be.

Buttoning his suit coat so his movement would not reveal the Glock holstered under his arm, he took the steps to Mrs. Banyon’s residence and rang the buzzer. It was immediately answered by a man’s cough crackling through the ancient intercom.

“Excuse me. Who is it?”

“Mr. Garin Braden. I don’t have an appointment, so please forgive me. Mrs. Banyon acquired a painting yesterday at Christie’s that I am keen to discuss with her. If I could have but a few minutes of her time?”

“She’s not seeing anyone.”

The intercom static abruptly ceased, leaving Garin staring at the bronze-slotted cover. He raised a hand to knock, but relented. He buzzed again.

“Mrs. Banyon has no interest,” the voice intoned gruffly. Another cough followed.

“I understand,” Garin said. “And I certainly do not wish to be a bother, but I’ve been authorized to double the price she paid for it if she is interested in letting it go.”

Hell, it wasn’t
his
money.

Long moments passed. Garin was almost ready to buzz again, when the front door opened. An emaciated yet tall man in butler’s livery managed an ingratiating smile.

Money always talked.

Annja strode into the cool shade the canvas tent offered. The sun was high and bright. But rain could arrive on the Emerald Isle at any moment. It offered a dream scenario for a dig. Lots of sun during the day with light rain in the evening to keep the work area moist and workable.

She’d decided to use the opportunity that found everyone out enjoying the weather to snoop about the camp base. A clue linked to Beth, or even that the crew was imbibing in magic mushrooms, was what she hoped to find.

Wesley’s field notes were scattered on a table in a couple of hardback notebooks. Various pieces of wood, pottery and metal had been sorted into black buckets. A few larger samples lay on the table. Annja had been told that one of the girls had unearthed a carriage wheel rim and had been so excited she’d tripped and bent the frame.

Annja recalled a few of her first digs. She must have driven the dig director nuts with her constant, “Is this a find? Is this anything? Should I keep this?” questions.

She touched a plumb bob and measured its solid weight in her palm. It was used to dig level stratigraphy into the earth and for squaring up drawing grids.

“No faerie spears. Yet,” she said with a bemused tone, and set down the tear-shaped lead bob.

It wasn’t as if she expected the dig to
not
find a faerie spear. They might find any means of ancient weapon under the dirt and peat. That wouldn’t surprise her one bit.

But a
magical
spear once wielded by a race of people believed to be faeries? That would take some doing.

On the other hand, Mrs. Collins supposedly already owned the spear of Lugh, and kept it above her television right next to a Doctor Who tin lunch box and a mint-condition 1972 Kennedy silver dollar.

And who was she to question the existence of an ancient magical weapon capable of appearing when needed?

Once, she’d thought it strange that she, of all people, had managed to take possession of Joan of Arc’s sword, and could utilize it to fight the good fight. She’d initially dreaded needing to use it because that meant something bad was happening, and usually to people who didn’t deserve the aforesaid something bad.

Now, she had grown into ownership of the sword. The sword was hers. She was comfortable swinging it at enemies and liked seeing their initial reactions. A chick with a sword? Seriously?

She never got too cocky with the power she wielded. Okay, ninety percent of the time she avoided cockiness. The sword was there for a purpose and she wouldn’t abuse that power.

So why did the funky dream about the sword not being her power to own bother her so much?

Perhaps her subconscious was checking her pride, making sure she did not go over the edge with it all. And although she was confident owning it, she also knew she’d never completely understand any of it.

Especially the pair of five-hundred-year-old immortals who had happened into her life along with the sword.

She wondered what Roux and Garin were up to. Roux was likely sunning himself off the coast of France, surrounded by a couple of supermodel types with tans as deep as their cleavage—and not apologizing for his playboy lifestyle.

And Garin, well, Annja could never be sure if the man was up to something no good, or downright evil. Sure, he had occasions to good, but deception and betrayal came easily to the man who wanted to get his hands on her sword and shatter it. And if he wasn’t trying to trick her, he was trying to kiss her.

Suddenly swung about by the shoulder and shoved against a hard plastic packing case, Annja felt the barrel of a pistol against her temple at the same time she processed the fact that Michael Slater stood before her.

“What the hell are you up to, Creed?”

She was not intimidated. Only angry that Mr. Slick had managed to sneak up on her.

“Taking a look around,” she offered. Admittedly, feeling the barrel of a gun pressed to any part of her did make her nervous. “Any rule against that? This isn’t even your camp. What happened to staying on your own side?”

He slid off the safety.

“You don’t want to start this argument with me, Creed. I don’t like you. And you can’t convince me you’re here only to record a few video clips and push around some dirt.”

“Don’t forget the part about the faeries,” she said.

“Creed, I have a loaded gun pressed against your temple.”

“I noticed. Your people skills suck. Anyone ever tell you that?”

He glowered. She was pushing it, but for some reason she didn’t sense that he would actually harm her. Not with a loud gunshot, within fifty feet of half a dozen workers.

“I don’t care whether or not you do like me,” she said. “And I can film where I want. You don’t make the rules about that. And yet, when I look over all the people working both digs and involved on the site, one of those things is not like the other. That would be you. You’re no archaeologist. What are you? Security? Military? You’re some kind of soldier, aren’t you?”

“Soldier?” He smirked. The gun stayed at her temple. The scent of gunpowder and cleaning oil stung her eyes. “You’re making assumptions. I’m security. Nothing more.”

“Yeah? Why the need for such intense security? Most digs I’ve been on provide a flashlight and walkie-talkie to the security guards. What have you found over there in your little corner of the dig? Something valuable? Gold? Jewels? Diamonds?”

“I want to know what the hell you and your camera boy are doing traipsing through private property in the middle of the night?”

It wasn’t as though she’d thought the security guard would keep their adventure a secret. But she did not appreciate Slater’s brusque manner.

“You’re not going to shoot me,” she said. “Because then you’d have to get rid of my blood-dripping body in broad daylight.”

“There are places on a body that’ll take a bullet without producing excess blood loss,” he said. Delivered with cold detachment.

“All right, then, where would you put my not-bleeding-somuch body? Oh, wait, you can stuff me in the back of that truck with all the empty buckets. What, are you mining for something?”

“I’m not in the mood for jokes, Creed. You’re just lucky you missed the booby traps.”

“Booby traps?” He was kidding. Maybe. “Now you’re scaring me. What? A trip wire? Explosives?”

Slater smirked and snapped the pistol away from her head. He clicked the safety back on. “Explosives?” He chuckled. “Been there. Done that. Got the T-shirt.”

His snark didn’t work as well as it might from, say, a normal human being. But then, she shouldn’t be kidding around with a man who held a gun.

Slater strode about the tent and turned toward her, but maintained a few paces of distance. The tension, which had held his jaw tight, was now gone. It relieved Annja only a little to see him holding the pistol pointing down near his thigh. Definitely military. He didn’t drop his shoulders and he remained alert, ready for whatever leaped his way.

“What is your story, Creed?” he asked. “You come marching onto a private dig like you own the place and can do whatever you want.”

“I was invited here.”

“By whom?”

That wasn’t exactly true. She was here following a lead. The fact Daniel had offered to show her around did not constitute an invitation. But Wesley had certainly extended one, spoken or merely implied.

“I’m gathering research for a television program. But I’m not the BBC, so chill.”

“Research on faeries. Right. Go scamper about the woods, why don’t you, and leave us to our work here.”

“And what, exactly, is that work? The camps have split for a reason. And I’m guessing that reason is you don’t want anyone to know what you’re up to over there. You’ve got something to hide. Is it two bodies? How is it Beth managed to find her way back to camp while the other men are still AWOL?”

Slater cocked the pistol again but didn’t aim it at her. Annja sensed his anger rise by the tightening of his neck muscles and his increased breathing. His tell was that pulse in his jaw. “Man holding a gun here. Why is it you’re not afraid?”

“Afraid?” Maybe a little, she thought. But never let them see you sweat. “A charging mountain lion would invoke my fear. Terrorists wielding C-14 makes me afraid. A thug with a gun? Been there. Done that. Shredded the T-shirt.”

That got an angry chuckle out of him. He crossed his arms, which ended up aiming the pistol out the door. Lips compressed, he studied her through narrowed eyes because the sun had burnished his face and made it look as though
squint
was his only possible expression.

Annja studied him back. Handsome, in a rugged, burned-by-the-sun way, and rough with a military cut and manner. His accent was British, but there were so many variations she couldn’t place it precisely. Which didn’t matter much. The camp was populated with people from all over.

There was something a little too slick about him. Prepared. He knew how to hold a gun. It fit his hand as if an extension of muscle, flesh and bone—much like the sword fit her grip.

The man was not a bone digger. He was trained. Militant. He’d performed security detail before, and probably not on a dig. She still couldn’t abandon her guess that he was some kind of soldier.

“If I find out you’ve been treading on our dig layout again,” he said, “I won’t hesitate to use this.” He made show of waving the gun before tucking it under his arm in the holster.

“Big man, threatening a woman,” she said.

“Something tells me that kind of threat is nothing new to you, Creed. Call it intuition. Am I right?”

He’d been reading her as effectively as she’d been reading him. That made him an even more frustrating opponent.

“Thought so,” he said when she didn’t respond.

Annja let out her held breath. “Back to the question about what you’re mining—”

“Mining? Apparently you missed the memo about requiring large equipment and drills and automated machinery. We’ve got a little hole, Creed. I’m sure you saw the skeleton sitting on top of the earth. What scares you about that?”

“Like I said, I don’t scare easily. But I do know you weren’t pleased to see Beth Gwillym come wandering out of the forest yesterday. What’s that about?”

“You have no clue what I think about or what concerns me.”

“Not for lack of trying.”

“I’m not a man who shows emotion. You probably read my surprise wrong.” After a pause and a wince, he asked, “Is Beth okay?”

He didn’t care for the girl. The question was forced, Annja thought.

She shrugged. “Recovering.” Revealing it was a drug overdose didn’t feel right. She didn’t want to give him the easy comeback. “It’s not faeries.”

“Who’d a’thought?” Slater crossed his arms and eyed her carefully. “Are we the only two people in both camps who believe that?”

He was siding with her now? Hmm…

“I sure as hell hope not,” she said. “Why don’t we start over, huh? If I come over this afternoon, during daylight, and ask for a tour around the dig, would you oblige me?”

“Can’t do that, sweetie. We’re on a time crunch. Don’t think I can find anyone with the free time to cater to your whims.”

“What’s so urgent?”

Slater ran his fingertips along the table as he strode away. “It’s just business, Creed. Any other time, any other place—”

“So that means you’ll have a pint with me in the pub later?” she called.

He paused at the tent opening, the blinding sun behind him. “Rain check.”