The Other Crowd (2 page)

Annja nodded and received Doug’s shoulder-slap manhug. “Here’s your ticket,” he said. “I’ve already arranged for someone to meet you and drive you to Ballybeag. Thanks, Annja, this show is going to rock.”

“Uh-huh. Who’s this guy?” She cautioned the accusing tone of her voice. She had showered and thought to erase the sleep from her foggy brain, but maybe not so much. “Where’s Michael, the usual field cameraman?”

“Sick with strep. This is Eric Kritz.” Doug managed a high five with Eric, even though the redhead was loaded down with equipment. “He’s the new guy and a buddy of mine.”

A buddy of Doug’s? That meant he was young, self-involved and one step away from a frat-party bender, Annja thought.

Eric lunged forward with an enthusiastic handshake. Annja had to tug to get her hand back. “I’ve watched all the episodes of the show,” he said. “I’m a huge fan of yours, Miss Creed.”

“Thanks. You can call me Annja. How old are you?”

“Twenty.” He didn’t sound entirely sure of it, though the reply was practiced enough.

Annja swung a disbelieving look at Doug. “Are you serious? Sending me across the sea with a…” The word
boy
stuck on her tongue. Good thing, too. That was no way to start a working relationship. Hell, she just needed to sleep off the aftereffects of the strange dream. “Has he got any experience?”

Doug wrapped an arm around her shoulder and steered her a few paces away from the giddy cameraman. To their left, cabs zoomed by and intermittently deafened Annja. “Not much. But you have to start somewhere, right?”

“I can’t believe this. You’re sending me across the ocean with Doogie Spielberg? Doug, I’m in no mood to train a new guy. I don’t even know how all that camera stuff works. Does he?”

“He does. His father owns QueensMark studios out of Manhattan. They do independent films, documentaries and stuff. Eric has been following in his father’s footsteps since he could toddle. He’s very good with the camera. He knows the drill and accompanied his father on a stint last summer in Kenya. He’s enthusiastic, but more important, he likes you.”

Annja rolled her eyes.

“He can take care of himself. He’s a big boy.”

She glanced back at the guy, who looked like he belonged in the front row of a classroom dodging spitballs from the bully. Not even a shade of five-o’clock shadow.

“You owe me one for accepting this assignment,” she muttered.

“Duly noted. You go and do your job. Sleuth out the facts and bring home faerie footage. Like I said, I arranged for a buddy of mine who lives near the dig to meet you and be your guide.”

“Another buddy? How old is he? Twelve?”

“Annja.” Doug pressed a dramatic hand over his heart. “You wound me. All my twelve-year-old friends are tucked in with their Transformers blankies right now.” He winked.

Doug may appear erratic and selfish on the outside, Annja thought, but she could not ignore his savantlike work ethic that had made
Chasing History’s Monsters
a success.

“His name is Daniel Collins,” he explained. “He’s more a friend of Eric’s father. Eric spent a couple of weeks at his home a few summers ago during a business trip with his dad. I understand the man’s a laidback dude and you’ll get along with him, I’m sure. You get along with everyone, Annja.”

“Guides are good.” Of course, the country was small, about the size of Indiana, but a guide would free her to worry about the assignment.

Missing students. Mystery surrounding an archaeological dig. And…faeries.

Hey, she was a professional. She could handle any assignment Doug lobbed at her. As soon as she got a few more hours of sleep.

“You tell her about Daniel?” Eric asked as he joined them. “Daniel’s a bit of an eccentric,” he said to Annja, “but more normal than any other person on earth. Trust me on that one. But whatever you do, don’t get him talking about wine unless you’ve got hours to spare. The man is really into wine.”

“I can dig it.” She shoved her hands in the front pockets of her cargo pants and eyed Eric. Eager puppy dog waiting for a bone.

“Annja, this story is going to rock!” Doug said.

Her producer’s enthusiasm wasn’t capable of lifting even a hint of a smile on her face. Assessing her tense muscles and stiff posture, she realized she was anxious. Not only was she voluntarily traveling three thousand miles to chase after Tinkerbell, now she’d acquired puppy-sitting duties, as well.

“First sign of trouble, I’m sending him home,” she said as she snatched the tickets from Doug’s hands and strode into the airport through the sliding glass doors.

His cell phone volume was turned off, yet he’d set it to flash with an incoming call. Garin Braden leaned across the black silk sheets and eyed the caller ID. A familiar, yet unwelcome, name was displayed. He groaned and sat back. A flute of champagne was cradled in his hand, and he ran his fingers through the long blond hair that spilled over his bare chest.

“No bubbly for you?” he asked.

“I’ll be up in a bit,” she said in a husky drawl seasoned with just the right touch of determination. Her head disappeared beneath the sheets.

The red flashing LED had ceased and now the phone vibrated across the marble nightstand. That indicated someone was leaving a message. He didn’t want to talk to the old man at this particular moment.

Slamming back the champagne, Garin set the glass on the nightstand next to the phone that began to blink red again. “Give it up, old man.”

Another message vibrated the cell phone dangerously close to the edge of the nightstand. Just when the phone teetered and threatened to drop to the marble floor, it flashed and Garin snatched it and flipped it open.

“What?” he growled. “This had better be good, Roux.”

“It’ll surely be more stimulating than whatever it is you’re engaged in right now.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” Garin said, gazing at his companion.

“Mental stimulation oftentimes exceeds that of the physical.”

“Doubt it. Why the call? I haven’t heard from you in months.”

“The Fouquet has resurfaced. Thought you’d want to know about it.”

“I’m not particularly concerned about ever seeing that thing again. Too many bad memories. A painting. Is that all?” He clutched the sheets. What the hell was the blonde’s name?

“It’s being auctioned off at Christie’s in New York this afternoon. I want you there. Buy it.”

Garin laughed. The blonde popped her head out from under the sheets and grinned at him. He gestured for her to roll to the side. Roux had spoiled the mood.

“I’m not interested in putting that thing on my wall,” Garin snapped. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and leaned forward. “Ever.”

“It’s not for you or myself,” Roux explained with castigating patience. “I thought it would make a nice gift for our Annja.”

Our Annja.
It always startled Garin when Roux referred to her in that manner. It was too possessive.

“Why?”

“Garin, there are more things in life than fast cars, million-dollar acquisitions and women. You know what month it is?”

“I’m not keen on the late-night quiz show, old man. I’ll have you know I was engaged in something far better—”

“Blonde or redhead?”

“Blonde.”

“Common. There’s always another one around the corner.”

True. Garin turned and cast a wink over his shoulder at the pouting female. She got up and lazily wandered into the bathroom. “Why don’t you simply call in your bid?” he asked.

“I want you to look at the thing before bidding. I can’t be sure this is the actual painting. It’s merely attributed to Fouquet and listed as ‘in the style of the fifteenth century master.’”

“So why don’t you go after the bloody thing?”

“Because you’re closer.”

“Closer? I’m in Berlin, Roux. And let me guess—you’re in…Monaco, reclining under the moonlight on the roof of the yacht surrounded by a blonde, a redhead and a brunette.”

“You don’t get points for being obvious.”

“Technically, you’re closer to New York. You go after the thing.”

“At the moment, I’m not near any major airport. And there is a time issue. I found out about this just moments ago. And I know you have a collection of private jets and planes and, who knows, maybe even a submarine or two.”

“Sold the sub last month.”

“I hope it wasn’t to the enemy.”

“Your definition of enemy is vastly different from mine, old man.”

Roux huffed out a breath. Garin loved to tweak at his presumed morals. “No matter. You can get there faster than I, Garin. So you’ll do it?”

Garin sighed and shrugged, rubbing a palm over his face. “For Annja?”

“Indeed.”

“Fine. Send details, an address and get me set up with a bid number so all I have to do is stroll in and take the thing.”

“Done.”

Rangy and easy in his skin, Daniel Collins was, from outer appearances, quite the character. Long skinny jeans clung to his legs as if glued to the skin. The pants certainly didn’t require the white suspenders that hung loosely over a black shirt decorated with gold appliqués across the chest. A red-and-black plaid coat, the sleeves rolled to expose his veiny forearms, hung on his lithe frame. Gold hoop earrings clung to both earlobes and were small enough not to be garish, but added an interesting glint to his narrow face, which was mastered by bushy black brows.

A black fedora capped his head, and he tilted it to Annja as she approached to shake his hand.

“You must be the television host Mr. Morrell asked me to drop everything to come and fetch.”

“Sorry about that. Doug tends to think the world moves on his time. So I assume you’re as surprised about this assignment as I am?”

“Surprised, but willing. It’s not every day I’m given the opportunity to show a lovely American lady around my neck of the woods.” He looked beyond Annja. “Eric?”

“You remember Eric Kritz. He’s my cameraman,” Annja said.

Eric looked up from his iPod long enough to nod at Daniel. He didn’t have the earbuds in. He’d explained to Annja during the flight that he used the music player as a backup hard drive to store still photographs. He must be paging through the aerial photos he’d taken from the plane as they’d landed she thought.

“You’re all grown up, Mr. Kritz,” Daniel said in acknowledgment. “So, the two of you, have you got some ID so I can be sure you are who you say you are?”

Taken aback by that request, Annja laughed. She was often introduced and accepted merely for her fame and the fact she was associated with the TV show. But a wise man should ask for ID.

She tugged her passport out from her backpack and flashed it for him. “I don’t have ID from the show. But I am who I say I am.”

Eric did have press credentials for
Chasing History’s Monsters,
which he flashed. How he managed a press pass—and she had never been given one—was something Annja intended to discuss with Doug when she returned to the States.

Eric shuffled around in his duffel bag and pulled out a small cigar box. “Mr. Collins,” he said, “a gift from my father.” He handed over the box.

Daniel sniffed the box, his eyes closing briefly in olfactory satisfaction. “Cigars. Thanks to your father, boy. I do love a Montecristo.”

“Inspired by Dumas’s story,” Annja tossed out. She was an Alexandre Dumas fan.

“Indeed.
The Count of Monte Cristo.
A fine story, if not a wee bit far-fetched.” With a wink to her, Daniel tucked the box under an arm without opening it to inspect. He gestured that they follow him to the parking lot outside the airport terminal.

“Doug said you know the dig director and can get us clearance to film on-site?” Annja asked.

“Already done. His name is Wesley Pierce and he expects you. Let’s hop in the Jeep and get you settled first. There’s a cozy little B and B a few jogs from the dig site at the edge of Ballybeag, and I know the proprietress, Mrs. Riley. Already told her you’d be needing rooms.” He winced, noting Eric’s general disinterest. “Be sure and take advantage of the breakfast every morning, but with a warning to avoid the black pudding.”

“Avoid the black pudding,” Annja affirmed as she climbed into the passenger seat of the Jeep. Eric shuffled his equipment into the back and scrambled in. “Would it be all right if we head straight to the dig? After the flight delays and layovers it’s late afternoon and I’d hate to lose a day. I want to take a look around, familiarize myself with the area. I may find an opportunity to talk to someone who knew those who disappeared.”

“Doug was right about you being focused,” Daniel said. “To the dig it is.”

Once out of city limits, the regional roads in County Cork—all of Ireland, for that matter—weren’t so much roads as pathways carved out of necessity for getting from one place to the other. They weren’t well marked, and if so, Annja noticed, the signs sometimes displayed kilometers, and other times mileage—on the same road.

“You have to learn the county quirks,” Daniel commented when Annja remarked about the mileage markers. “I’ve decided it’s always best to go by kilometers. But no matter which method of measure you choose, you’ll always end up somewhere, sooner or later.”

“Somewhere is a better place to be than nowhere at all,” Annja agreed. The open-topped Jeep sucked in the country smells as they traversed the rugged road. She tilted her head against the seat and took it all in.

“You feel like you’re home?” Daniel asked Eric after they’d been driving awhile.

“Huh?”

“I mean your heritage.”

Eric wielded a mini-DV video camera, sweeping it across the horizon.

“Come to recall a conversation with your father,” Daniel mused, “I think his pa’s grandfather was from around this neighborhood somewhere.”

“Cool,” Eric said.

Annja caught Daniel’s eye. He clearly wasn’t impressed with Eric. She had to give the kid credit, though. He was filming, and she liked his focus.

Ireland did take the prize for being green. Though a dusting of fog hung low above the ground, the rolling fields were coated with what looked like tightly packed moss, though she knew it was wild grass. Dark green shrubs pocked the perfect quilt of emerald here and there.

“Is that gorse?” Annja asked of the shrubs spotted with golden blooms.

“When gorse is in flower, kissing is in fashion,” Daniel replied. “Or so they say.” Again he winked at her, and resumed his attention to the road.

A row of pine trees lined a field where livestock grazed. The cattle were hearty and looked like something out of an old English cottage painting. There were even a couple of sheep.

They careened around a sharp curve that hugged what Annja knew was a rath, a small hill that locals would be keen to avoid because they believed faeries lived beneath the hill.

She had brushed up on the local mythology during the flight. It wasn’t in her to resist any kind of mystery, and if that entailed learning more about the history of the land, then she was all for that.

Faeries were definitely integrated into the Irish culture.

“Hang on!”

At Daniel’s shout, Annja gripped the handhold above her head and was crushed up against the steel door. A fast-moving white truck barreled toward them. Daniel swerved sharply to the right. The Jeep slid sideways over the rough gravel, the tires clambering for hold.

Thick spumes of road dirt clouded over the open-topped Jeep. From the backseat, Eric cursed and coughed. Annja tucked her face into her elbow but she still inhaled a hearty dose of dust.

“The devil take those lousy bastards!” Daniel gunned the accelerator and managed a remarkable venture over what looked like moss-covered boulders edging the road.

Through the foggy mire, Annja spied something small and white. “Sheep!”

The Jeep veered sharply left. Eric clung to the roll bar and swore.

“Missed the poor bloke,” Daniel announced with cheer. “Won’t be dining on chops tonight!”

Clinging to the door frame so she wouldn’t be bounced out of the car, Annja called back to see if Eric was all right.

“And the equipment?” she hollered after his affirmative grunt.

“Full of dust, but fine.”

“Sorry ’bout that.” Daniel’s grin met Annja’s worried glance. She offered him a sheepish smile. The Jeep navigated the road in the wake of the truck that had blown by with so little regard. “The bastards in the new camp have all sorts of macho equipment they’re driving back and forth all times of day and night. They’ve no respect for the land, that’s for sure. Fashes me, it does.”

“The new camp? I thought this was a single dig? Isn’t it just a simple artifact find?” Annja asked.

“Right. Farmer found a spearhead when he was cutting turf on a dried-up blanket bog. NewWorld, the managing outfit, sent in a team to investigate. That team is headed by Mr. Pierce. When Neville took over financing the dig, he split it into two camps to get twice as much work done.”

“NewWorld is the company overseeing the dig?”

“Far as I know. Unless Neville has taken the reins and holds sway over the entire operation.”

“Who’s Neville? I’ve never heard of a private citizen taking over a dig from a management company. Unless he’s with another overseeing outfit?” Annja asked.

“Nope, Neville’s private. He’s…” Daniel shifted gears and didn’t say any more.

Annja suspected he was leery, which struck her as odd. What did he know that he wasn’t willing to say?

After a strained silence, Daniel spoke. “He’s a very powerful man, let’s leave it at that. He’s seen something he wants. Now he’s going to get it.”

A dig separated into two camps was unusual. It was financially prohibitive to operate two complete camps. And Annja knew a management corporation always oversaw any dig operated on Irish soil. No private citizen could simply decide to dig for treasure. It just wasn’t done. Annja knew, for a fact, that the average citizen couldn’t even buy a metal detector in this country. A person had to have a permit, and had to be either an archaeologist or an ordnance surveyor.

This Neville guy must be very powerful. But what did he hope to find on a routine dig that had only turned up a spear shard?

“You work on the dig?” she asked Daniel.

“Nope. I’m not a bone kicker. Just stop in every once in a while to chat with friends. It’s close to my house.” He pointed north and Annja spied a small thatch-roofed stone house across the field. “That’s me mum’s home. I’m a half mile beyond but you can’t see for the hill. The dig site is ahead.”

“Time to film some faeries,” Eric said enthusiastically from the backseat.

Annja rolled her eyes, but noticed Daniel’s lifted brow at her reaction. She was perfectly willing to allow the older villagers and those born and raised in the country their belief in a folk superstition. Folk tales and myth had been bred into them.

But Daniel Collins seemed an educated, modern man. Not one to be placing a bowl of cream out on his back porch at night.