The Other Crowd (16 page)

By nightfall, the sky had only grown darker, and the rain had no intention of stopping. Annja dressed in black and tied her hair in a ponytail before going down to the dining room to root out something to snack on. Mrs. Riley stood before the window, arms crossed.

“You skipped supper,” she said, a twang of disappointment in her words.

“Eric’s missing,” Annja said.

“Oh, dear. You’ve looked in town for him? Talked to Bridget?”

“Yes, no one has seen him. It’s dark, but I’m going out to walk around the dig site.

Mrs. Riley rubbed a hand along the back of her neck as if to ease out tension. “Be careful of the trucks if you’re walking. They drive through every few days. So fast and loud.”

“What trucks?” Annja joined her side and looked out the window, but the road before the inn was clear of vehicles.

“They head out toward your dig site, dear. I assumed they were a part of it all, hauling dirt and such.”

“We don’t haul dirt from a dig site, Mrs. Riley. It’s all put back in place when we’re finished. I’m not sure what the trucks could be for. How many?”

“One or two. Delivery trucks, they look like. Always at night, though.”

“Hmm…”

“Did you notify the gardai of your missing friend?”

“I did, and they didn’t sound very concerned.”

“Well, it’s the—”

Annja put up a palm to stop her before she could utter the words she didn’t want to hear. “Thanks, Mrs. Riley. I’ll be quiet when I return.”

T
HE DAY’S HARD RAIN
made picking through the forest a challenge. The tree canopy wasn’t thick enough to keep the forest bed from becoming slick, and every step Annja took she had to be cautious not to fall and impale herself on one of the broken branches jutting out everywhere.

She’d brought along night-vision binoculars, borrowed from Eric’s equipment. When sneaking past Slater’s camp, she noticed there was a truck trail leading around the forest and likely to river’s edge. There was no road, beyond the tracks that had crushed the grass. Wesley told her there were docks here and there along the river.

Annja decided to go through the woods to maintain her cover. She had trekked into the forest no more than a quarter of a mile when she saw the spotlights. A rusty delivery truck had backed up to the shore. From her position, hidden among the thick scrub, Annja couldn’t determine how steep the shore was. But if there was no dock, then the drop-off couldn’t be that steep.

Half a dozen men were loading something from the truck to—she couldn’t see beyond the end of the truck. The rain had softened to a mist, but it blurred her view of the activity. There must be a boat waiting below. She couldn’t see a sail or hear a boat engine.

None of the men spoke, or if they did, she couldn’t make out any conversation from her distance.

Whatever was going on, she couldn’t figure how it would be related to the dig. They were not loading dirt from the dig and transferring it to a boat. But it seemed odd that a clandestine operation would be taking place right in the backyard of the dig.

Was Frank Neville overseeing this operation?

She would notice Slater if he were among the men. He had a distinctive walk, straight and militant. If he assumed the same role he did at the dig, his attention would not be on the men so much as scanning his surroundings.

She adjusted the binoculars and scanned the back of the truck. It looked as if large wooden trunks were being unloaded from the open truck bed. Each trunk was about five feet long and maybe three or four feet wide. It required a man on each end, gripping the rope handles, to heft them.

Kneeling on the wet grass, Annja spotted the same security guard she’d had the displeasure of meeting the other night. Instead of a dart gun, he wielded an AK-47 against one shoulder and stood near what had to be steps down to the shore.

One of the trunks dropped to the ground. The cover fell off. The men swore and the guard hustled over to bark orders. Fine stuffing tumbled out of the trunk. It looked like the shredded paper stuffing she often saw artifacts packed in. The barrel of a gun slid across the wood trunk lid and landed on the muddy ground.

She’d recognize that weapon anywhere; it was the same as the guard held—an AK-47. Though it wasn’t fitted with the curved magazine, the wooden stock always gave it away. As Annja knew only too well, the AK-47 was the gun of guns, preferred by military types and terrorists worldwide. It was easy to use, easy to train others to use—sadly even twelve-year-olds—and could fire after being buried in the sand or pulling it out from a mud puddle.

A creepy feeling zeroed in on her gut, coiling tightly. Annja leaned back on her heels. She lowered the binoculars. If the trunks were full of assault rifles, there weren’t many options to go with.

Was the dig a front for gunrunners? It didn’t fit together—guns and skeletons—though Annja had been witness to a lot of wacky scenarios, some so bizarre even she had doubted. And if she added faeries into the equation…which she would not…

She lifted the binoculars—and choked. An arm pressed across her throat. She was dragged backward across the wet undergrowth. Her attacker wrapped his legs around and over her thighs, effectively pinning her. He clasped her left hand and slammed it against her chest, leaving her right hand free to grope for the binoculars as a weapon—but she’d use a better weapon.

Slapping the ground, she grabbed wet leaves. With a concentrated thought, she held the hilt of her sword, the blade flat across the ground.

“Shh,” her captor hissed at her ear. She recognized the voice.

For the moment Annja stilled. She didn’t lift the blade. Michael Slater adjusted his chokehold, releasing her, yet slapping his palm hard across her mouth.

“Out for a jog?” he muttered. “Don’t answer. Be quiet, or they’ll hear you.”

That he cared if she was discovered surprised her, but she couldn’t determine if that was a good thing or very bad. Did he intend to save her for himself? Take her out without alerting the others?

She pulled the sword carefully across the ground so it would not make any noise.

“Whatever you think you saw,” he said against her ear, his lips cool against her rain-soaked flesh, “forget it.”

She nodded in agreement.

“I don’t trust you, Creed.”

“I…” She gasped as he slapped up the chokehold again.

“Careful,” he warned. “Quiet and smart. No shouting. No screaming. Got it?”

She nodded again.

“What are you doing out here?” he asked.

“I was looking for Eric,” she whispered truthfully. “The cameraman?”

“He disappeared last night in these woods.”

“And you thought the best time to look for a missing person was at night, with no moon to be seen, and a pair of night-vision binoculars?”

Stating the obvious wasn’t going to win him any friendship points.

He swore softly. “I’m giving you one chance tonight, Creed. I’m going to let you go, and you’re going to sneak out of here the same way you came in. I can hold off the truck for another hour, but by then you’d better be back in Ballybeag, snug in bed, yes?”

“You’re running guns.”

His fingers tightened across her neck, making a swallow painful. “And you are running my last nerve.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“What? Snuggling with you in the mucky forest? You don’t think I want to get my hands on this?” He groped her breast, but it wasn’t offensive so much as awkward. A threat he’d never carry out, she felt sure of it.

“I mean, why are you not taking me in? Like you did with all the others who saw something they shouldn’t have seen. You run out of LSD?”

“I had nothing to do with those disappearances. And I won’t keep defending myself. Just go.”

“Is this Frank Neville’s operation?”

“Stop asking questions. Have you got a death wish?”

“No,” she gasped.

“Then do as I say. Get the hell out of here. I don’t want to see your face tomorrow, or any other day after—got that?”

She opened her fingers across the wet grass. The sword left her grip, vanishing without Slater being the wiser to its presence. “Got it.”

“Head out at an angle, east,” he directed as he stood and helped her to stand with a tug of his grip. “You make too much noise, Creed, and I’ll be forced to fire a warning shot so the blokes at the truck don’t think I’m not keeping up my end. Got it?”

She nodded.

“And Creed?”

“What?”

He gripped the collar of her shirt. “I never have to fire beyond the warning shot because I always hit my mark.”

“Warning shots aren’t supposed to hit, they’re just supposed to…” What was she saying? The argument wouldn’t matter. Slater had offered her freedom. She should take it.

Unless being captured would lead her to the others.

He released his hold on her shirt. “You’re not moving, Creed.”

No, she wasn’t prepared to talk herself into being taken hostage. She did not purposely get involved in dealings better handled by the police. As for the weapons, he wouldn’t give her a straight answer, even if she did let him have that grope he’d mentioned. But he wasn’t here to rape her. He was supervising something much more covert and illegal than an innocent dig.

“I guess this is goodbye, then,” she said, confused at what he was doing.

“I’m not going to miss you.” he whispered.

Annja marched past him, not bothering to look back. Slater watched her retreat, gun cocked and muscles tensed to react. She couldn’t shake the creepy feeling of being watched until she reached the forest edge and was out of range of the gunrunning operation.

Now she knew why the people had been taken from the dig site. Somehow she had to find out where they were being kept. If the trucks ran every few nights, as Mrs. Riley had said, then there was an opportunity to move a person onto a boat and down the river to the harbor.

Kinsale was the harbor town the river opened onto. At first light, Annja intended to check out the town.

“Annja, I think you should come out to the site.”

Wesley Pierce had called. Annja was sitting in the pub, laptop open on the bar. She hadn’t wanted to bother Mrs. Riley for breakfast, and the pub opened for breakfast at six. “I’m on my way in just a bit. What’s up?”

“Ah, there’s something I wanted to tell you. Feel you out about a suspicion. And I found a very interesting item close to a femur that has been ravaged by animals. You’ll want to take a look at it.”

“What is it?”

“I’ll show you when you get here.”

She flipped her phone shut, then nodded to the bartender that she didn’t need a refill of her coffee. Weird. Wesley hadn’t been forthcoming with information, and had almost sounded a little nervous. Why not just tell her over the phone?

Annja thought about what she’d learned so far.

Annja had looked up Eric Kritz’s dad online, but the only information linked to him was the QueensMark studios page. Marvin Kritz was listed as owner. His photo was an older version of Eric, right down to his thick eyebrows and shoulder-length red hair. She could find nothing else on him, not even a Facebook page.

She admonished herself for being so suspicious, but knew it never paid to walk through life like a Pollyanna, trusting everyone. Marvin Kritz might just be a very generous father, or there could be something she’d missed on him.

On a whim, she’d dialed New York. It was late at night there, but she knew Detective Bart McGilley wouldn’t mind.

“Annja? Why the late check-in? You up for a jog around Prospect Park tomorrow morning? I’m in the mood for a little forest scenery.”

She wasn’t keen on tromping through another forest anytime soon, especially with men like Michael Slater lurking in the depths. “Sorry, I’m out of the country at the moment.”

“Ah, then that means you have work for me. There’s no other reason you’d call from out of the country unless you wanted something.”

“Give me some credit, Bart. I don’t always call to ask a favor, do I?”

“Yep.”

Okay, he had her there. Did she use her relationship with Bart to her advantage? Probably. But he was one of few people she could trust asking questions that usually involved identifying a criminal.

“I have two names I need checked out.” He was accustomed to the “name calls,” so she started right in. “Frank Neville, whom I believe is a British citizen, though that may or may not be true. And Michael Slater—he may be British, as well. Or not.”

“I can search the databases in the United States, Annja, but if they’re British citizens it might not bring up any hits.”

“I thought you had contacts in the FBI and CIA?”

The phone clattered as he switched ears or hands and gruffly asked, “Annja, what are you involved in?”

“I’m in Ireland filming for
Chasing History’s Monsters.
It’s a segment about faeries.”

“Seriously? And?”

And he knew her too well. For all the times Annja had called Bart for information on criminals or just to have her back, she wasn’t about to start lying to him now. She valued his trust too much.

“I suspect the dig site is really a front for arms dealers. At least, that’s the obvious conclusion after seeing a truck unloading trunks of AK-47s onto a boat last night.”

“Christ. Ireland has some of the weakest arms control legislation,” Bart said.

“The man running the guns isn’t Irish, but I suspect British.”

“A British citizen doesn’t need a license to broker small arms in Ireland. Hell, Annja. If you suspect it’s guns I want you to take a big step back and turn and walk away right now. No wait. Don’t walk. Run. Let the big boys handle whatever it is you’ve stepped into.”

“But who are the big boys? The local gardai have been contacted regarding three missing people and I haven’t even seen them. I called them to report my missing cameraman and they hung up on me. It’s as if they can’t be bothered.”

“Missing people? Are you talking about guns or kidnap victims?”

“Both. The dig site is riddled with all sorts of illegal activity. I know it sounds crazy, but—”

“But nothing can ever be too crazy when it’s coming from your lips, Annja. You forget I’ve gotten these calls from you before. So you’ve got illegal weapons and missing people. And no sign of the local authorities. What about MI-6?”

“You think I should contact them? Yes, I suppose they would handle the weapons.”

“Unless they’re already involved. Annja, you have no idea the twisted channels and butt kissing that goes on between the criminals and legitimate government agencies.”

“I don’t suspect anything right now. I have proof of nothing. But I feel these two guys are not on the up-and-up.”

“Tell me their names again.”

She did and Bart wrote them down. “Could you run two other names while you’re at it?”

Bart sighed, then said, “Shoot.”

“Marvin Kritz and Daniel Collins. Kritz owns QueensMark studios in Manhattan. The latter lives here in Ballybeag and collects wine and doesn’t do much else. But that could be a front. His card showed up in the wrong wallet at a weird time.”

“You’re filching wallets now? Annja.”

“I didn’t filch a thing. I just want to know what I’m dealing with here.”

“Doesn’t sound like you’re doing much faerie chasing.”

“Bart, if you even think to start teasing me we are going to meet in the ring at Eddie’s when I get home.”

“Sounds like a fun time to me. It’s been a while since you let me kick your butt. Tell Tinkerbell hey from me.”

“Not funny. Call me as soon as you have some information.”

“Will do.”

She hung up, but knew Bart would have her back. She’d give him a couple hours to check the names. And she looked forward to that boxing match. The only butt kicking that would commence would involve Bart’s and not hers.

She packed up her gear and paid her bill. She’d better get to the site and see what Wesley was so worked up about.

N
O WORKERS HUNCHED
over the dig square. The sound of tapping trowels did not echo in the still air. Not a single industrious body waved hello as Annja got out of the Mini Cooper and strode across the dirt.

“Where is everyone?”

Wesley tugged down the canvas tent tarp, letting it collect in thick billows on the ground. From the looks of the stacked buckets and folded tarps, he was in the process of packing up camp.

His smile was lackluster. Probably because the shiner on his left eye had stolen that luster. “My crew is all gone. Slater paid them off.”

“I just—” Saw Slater last night, she almost said. He’d had time to pay off Wesley’s coworkers since then?

“How do you know Slater did that?”

“It’s a guess. But I’m sure it’s a correct one.”

“So you’re just quitting?”

Putting on his sunglasses, Wesley stopped folding the tent. He gave the stacked tarp a kick. “Can’t do much without help, you should know that. It wasn’t like I didn’t expect it, anyway. I was just hoping to get a little more time to dig deeper. But isn’t that what any archaeologist always wants? Where’s your puppy dog today?”

Too stunned that the entire camp had committed mutiny, Annja scanned the horizon and focused on the other camp. Some commotion over there caught her attention. A white delivery truck was parked behind the tent, but it wasn’t the same truck as last night. She couldn’t make out people’s faces from this distance, but there were only three that she counted.

“Annja?”

“Huh?” What had he asked? “You haven’t heard? He’s gone,” she said. “Eric disappeared.”

“No kidding? Like the others?”

“I suspect so. But it’s not the other crowd taking them. I saw the video.”

“There was video?”

“Eric went filming in the forest the other night. Mrs. Collins found his camera when she was out walking. I thought he was making a joke for the show—filming a sort of spoof—but after watching the replay, I changed my mind. Looks like he was forcibly taken.”

Wesley adjusted his stance and stared up toward the sun, which flashed on the metal rims of his glasses. “Sorry. I don’t know what to say. I wish I had some information.”

“You talk to Beth any more? Did she say anything to you?”

“Honestly, she’s still kind of out of it. The doctors said, being a diabetic, she had a severe reaction to the drugs. She was mumbling about faeries the last time I visited. You said Mrs. Collins found the camera?” He scratched his head. “You ever think it’s kind of odd that a little old lady spends her days bustling about our digs? And now she’s the one to bring you proof of your friend’s disappearance?”

“What are you implying?”

He shrugged. “Nothing. Maybe. Just don’t trust that lady.”

“She’s probably eighty years old.”

“Age shouldn’t matter. Ah, sorry.” He blew out a heavy breath and slapped the dust from the thigh of his cargo pants. “I’m pissed over the loss of my crew. Should have expected as much after what I found last night.”

“Which is?”

“I think I’ve determined the reason why Frank Neville took over the camp and is forcing everyone out.” Wesley dug in his breast pocket and displayed a small chunk of clear stone on his palm. “Found this while I was taking archival photographs. It’s small, but a beauty.”

“Quartz? Yeah, it’ll make a nice necklace for your girl.”

Annja dismissed the find and glanced to the enemy camp. She wanted to be over there right now. The makeshift tarp wall was no longer up. What was going on? Were they clearing out, too? Would Slater blow a gasket if he saw her again after last night?

“Annja.” Wesley chuckled. “This little beauty is a rough diamond.”

She took the nickel-size chunk from him and held it between two fingers. Clouds blocked the sun so the surface appeared dull. One side was rough, dirty and pocked with two smooth flat sides that resembled every piece of quartz she had ever seen. Except it also looked a lot like the rough diamond Mrs. Collins claimed to own.

“How do you know it’s a diamond?”

“Took it into a jeweler in Cork last evening after I’d visited Beth. He verified as much. Offered me ten thousand on the spot.”

“And you didn’t take it?”

He chuckled softly. “I dated a jeweler once. She used to buy Tunisian roughs. She taught me a few things. This is worth five times that much, I’m sure. It’s weird, though, because Ireland doesn’t have diamond pipes or even trace indicator minerals like kimberlite.”

“It didn’t have to come from a mine,” Annja said. “The stone could have been lost, dropped—”

“Or buried right next to the nineteenth-century skeleton we’ve unearthed. The same skeleton that I’ve verified died of starvation. So tell me how that’s possible?”

She tossed him the rough and he caught it smartly. “It could have come from travelers to the area. Could have been part of a coveted stash. Whoever found the rough might not have realized it had any value, they may simply have thought it was a pretty, clear stone.” Much as she had when examining Mrs. Collin’s diamond. “Are you sure you can place it with the skeletons?”

“There were traces of wool thread wrapped around it. Probably from a skirt. So my guess is the rough was sewn into the skirt.”

“Interesting. Women used to do that, sew valuables like coins and jewels into their skirts before traveling. If they were robbed, the thief would rarely think to search their clothing for hidden booty.”

“Exactly. Or…”

“Or?”

“The country was ravaged with wolves during the famine. If it was a woman, with roughs sewn into her skirt, she had to have traveled from someplace, well, not here.”

“Like maybe she stole the stones?”

“Yes, and traveled to her family, only to arrive and find they’d been dead and buried since she left. Used to happen. A family member would go off to Liverpool in hopes of finding work, a new starting place for their family. Only problem is the English would deport the Irish as quickly as they set foot on English soil.”

“So if our girl had managed to snag some diamonds and returned here to present to her family as their means to salvation, only to discover said family has died, then…you think wolves got to her? But Slater’s camp is two hundred yards away, which is where Mrs. Collins claimed to have found her rough. Why the distance between the roughs?”

“You said they found a full skeleton over there? Was it missing a femur?”

Annja tracked through her memory of the video she’d seen of the skeleton filmed at night. She’d thought it was complete, but she could be mistaken.

“She could have been dragged from this site to that one,” Wesley offered.

“Do you think a wolf, which may have been near starvation itself, could manage to drag a human body so far?”

“Minus one femur.”

“Still. Why?”

“Either that, or the wolf attacked her here.” He gestured to the site. “But she managed to run from it a ways, to over there. And after she was dead and had been gnawed on a while, scavengers carried the femur over here. It makes sense.”

Annja nodded. It was a long shot, but that’s what they did, pieced together the mysteries of the past. It could have happened that way. If she believed a starving woman made the trek to England, and returned home with a bounty only to find her family dead. How devastating must that have been? To have traveled so far only to find utter hopelessness upon return.

“What we need to do is match the femur we found to the other skeleton,” Wesley said. “That is, if I was still working the dig. I’ve already put in a call to my manager. He’s got a job in Machu Picchu that interests me.”

“I’ll do it,” Annja said. “This is too fascinating to ignore. So that has to be the reason for the secrecy. Diamonds.” She took the rough back, holding it high to catch the burgeoning sunlight.

“Yep.” Wesley stood beside her. “And good reason to take out someone who might know too much, like Beth, Brian and Richard.”

“But not Eric. What could he have discovered tromping through the woods? Certainly not diamonds.”

But he could have seen the trucks filled with guns. No, the trucks hadn’t gone through here the other night. However, that didn’t mean Slater wouldn’t keep his area clear of snoopers all the time.