The Other Crowd (4 page)

“Eric Kritz, Wesley Pierce. He’s my cameraman,” Annja said. She dipped the towel in the water, and sat beside Wesley on another bucket. “Not right now, Eric. Go scan the work site. Over where the earth is marked off and you see that big hole?”

“Okay. Whatever you say, Miss Creed.” He ambled off.

“Don’t step inside the ropes!” she yelled at him.

“He’s never done this before?” Wesley asked.

“Not on a dig. But he’s got to learn sometime, right?”

“You’re not like the other television shows. They come in with lights flashing, scripts girls fluttering their wares and makeup ladies wielding powder-laden brushes.”

Annja knew of at least two BBC shows that dealt with history and archaeological digs. “We’re American, not British. Our focus is more on…myths and legends.”

“That’s an interesting twist. How did an American show sniff out this dig, if I can ask?”

“My producer read the
Irish Times.
” Which, now that Annja thought about it, couldn’t possibly be true. Doug reading the
Irish Times?
He must have been surfing the Net and got lost when trying to drum up information on Irish stout. “Anyway, he learned that people have been disappearing from the dig.”

“Three so far. Two men and then Beth Gwillym just yesterday morning. I’m glad Slater chased off the BBC because this is a small, personal situation. The presence of paparazzi is only going to aggravate the brewing tension. I expect utmost respect from you and your cameraman, or it’s out of here for the both of you.”

“I promise it. I’m sure the families will appreciate a low-key investigation until the truth comes out.”

“It’s a sad, strange thing.”

“Are you sure the missing people didn’t just wander off?”

“To where? Look around you, Annja. There’s the river right there beyond the trees, and a vast stretch of land to all three sides. Not many places to wander and get lost. Sooner you’ll wander right into a pub in Ballybeag, the only village in County Cork that features four corners of pubs.”

Impressive, but not relevant at the moment, Annja thought.

“What about that forest? It doesn’t look very dense.”

“It’s more a copse than a forest. You can walk through it in ten minutes and drop directly into the river if you’re not paying attention. A man’s to be careful of the tides—they’ll sweep you downriver faster than you can holler your last words. Besides, I walked through those woods after each disappearance. Nothing but underbrush and magic mushrooms in there.”

“Magic mushrooms?”

“You have to know which ones are the right ones because the wrong one will kill you.”

“You indulge in mushroom-eating often?”

“Not a once. Though some of the ladies were giggling mightily the other night on the way to the pub after-hours. I had to wonder if their noontime gambol through the woods had netted more than just a few ticks.”

He smirked and took the wet cloth from her to press against his bare shoulder. “So you’ve come all the way from America to investigate? Doesn’t feel right.”

“I’m not here on an official policelike means. We reporters go anywhere the stories are, most especially on our show.” A show that chased monsters like Frankenstein and Dracula and the bat boy. “Have the authorities done a search?”

“Sure, the gardai took a look about. They’re a couple of good blokes. Took names and asked all the right questions, but what can they do when people disappear into thin air?”

“Thin air is a remarkable statement. Did anyone actually see them disappear?”

“Nope, happened at night.”

“At night? You work at night?”

“No, we head for the village come suppertime, which is right about now. Though some stay until the sun sets. Night is when ‘the other crowd’ most likely will come out.”

Annja winced. Seriously? Did grown men believe that tiny people with wings existed? Though her research told that the faeries of Ireland were originally human-size. It wasn’t until they’d been defeated by mortal warriors that they’d glamorized their shapes smaller and retreated underground for safety.

If a person bought into the whole faerie thing.

Wesley licked his cracked, swollen lip. Stubble lined his jaw and upper lip. A young female in tight T-shirt and shorts wandered up and offered him a pair of black-rimmed sunglasses, which he accepted with a grateful nod.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said, “And I won’t elaborate, because you won’t believe it. You’ll have to learn for yourself.”

She appreciated his respect for her skepticism. But that she didn’t detect a hint of tease in his tone troubled her.

“So have all three disappeared from your dig?” she asked. “Not the other?”

“One from our camp, two from the enemy camp.”

That was interesting. And it almost ruled out dirty dealings from the other camp. If they’d had two disappear.

“The enemy camp, eh?”

“I know it’s not subtle, but ‘camp one’ or ‘two’ is mundane.”

“Michael Slater must be the director of that one,” Annja said. Wesley nodded. “He doesn’t strike me as an archaeologist,” she said.

“He’s not. Can’t be. Hell, I have no clue what he is, but I haven’t seen him lift a trowel yet. He just paces their stretch of bog, eyes keen to his surroundings.”

“So you two don’t get along? Aren’t you both working toward the same end?”

“I thought so. But I’m not so sure anymore. The bloke won’t provide any information on what they find, nor will they allow my people to cross that imaginary line they’ve drawn in the grass.”

“What
is
the end goal? My producer mentioned something about a spear shard. Doesn’t seem like much to go on. Certainly no reason to stretch out the dig into two separate camps. What time period are you dealing with?”

“The spear shard is only seventeenth or eighteenth century. I haven’t had it radiocarbon-dated yet, but it’s a good guess. Initial excitement spread rumors that it was the spear of Lugh,” Wesley said. “I think it was the farmer whose land we’re squatting on was responsible for that. Legend says Lugh’s spear is one of four gifts the goddess Danu granted the Tuatha Dé Danaan. The spear always makes a kill when thrown, and returns to the thrower’s hand. If it doesn’t find its target, it kills the thrower.”

“Not something I’d ever want to test.”

“Come on, Annja, where’s your sense of adventure? I know you’ve got it. You’re the real thing, aren’t you? You like to dig for the truth.”

“And what is the truth here?”

“Nothing spectacular. Like I said, the shard is only a few centuries old, and was found too near the surface. Since arriving three weeks ago, we’ve only uncovered some tin pieces and pottery shards that date to the nineteenth century. I’m going to have the soil tested. There was a lot going on in Ireland mid-nineteenth century.”

“You mean the potato famine?”

“Indeed. I think we’ve uncovered a homestead from the period. Well, there was an obvious stone wall jutting about a foot out of the earth. The farmer had been dismantling it over the years, using the stones to plug up holes in his yard dug by a dog. No bodies, though, which is either a damned blessing or a strange misnomer. Lots of people perished during the famine. Unless this homestead was abandoned, I’d expect to find bones.”

“Could have been buried in a mass grave closer to a village,” Annja said.

“True.”

“Why the secrecy from the other camp?” Annja asked. “And what prompted the other camp at all? Daniel said it’s been a few weeks since the split?”

“Like I said, Neville has taken over the reins from my employer, NewWorld. I haven’t received any information from them since about a week after my arrival. And I have called and left messages.”

“NewWorld being the overseeing company?”

“It’s a relatively new outfit. I think they’re getting their bearings. That’s why it was so easy for Neville to sneak in. And Slater treats me as if he has to tolerate my presence.”

“So officially you’re working for whom?”

“NewWorld.”

“So the digs are managed by two separate companies?”

“Far as I know. Haven’t a clue what Neville’s outfit is called.”

“That’s out of the ordinary. You know this Neville guy?”

“Frank Neville. Never met him, and don’t think I want to. I’m just here to do a job and report my findings. So long as Slater keeps his gun in the holster we’ll all be fine.”

“He was waving it around? He wasn’t wearing it just now.”

“Handed it to a buddy before we got in the scuffle. He was shooting coots. Idiot. It scared the women on my crew something fierce. This job doesn’t pay well, as you should know. It’s not worth the angst of having to endure a loose cannon.”

“It certainly isn’t. You have any theories on the disappearances beyond…well…?”
Faeries.

“Nope. Haven’t had time to think about it much. I know that sounds callous. I’m losing crew and I don’t know how much longer before Slater scares them all off. Someone goes missing, or decides this work isn’t for them, and leaves without warning, I just gotta let it go.”

“You think any of the three wandered off because they didn’t like the work?”

“Possible.”

“What were the two men’s names?”

“Brian Ford, he was from Kansas. I’ve worked on a dig previously with him in Africa. He’s a curious sort, but easily distracted. If he hooked up with a looker one night in Cork, well, yes, he could have just wandered off without notice. The other guy is Richard something-or-other. Didn’t know him. He joined us the day the camps split and ended up on the enemy side, so I didn’t get to know him at all.”

“Did you ask around Ballybeag for Brian?”

“Annja, I said I’ve been busy.”

His lack of concern disturbed her. Had he reneged all responsibility for his crew when the sites had split? He didn’t seem like a man to do so. And could frustration be a reason for lack of interest? Doubtful.

If Wesley had something to do with the disappearances he would be less concerned than if he had not, she thought.

“I’ll want to poke about the other camp, as well.”

“I’d watch your back around Slater. He’s tough, coiled tight as a spring. He’s no bone kicker. Looks like some kind of corporate thug hired to keep the lessers in line, if you ask me. I don’t like him one bit.”

“So he was the one to physically ensure the camps split?”

“Yep, packed our tent and supplies up one night. Next morning we arrive over at the bog, only to find our stuff sitting over here. Thinks he’s going to get to the prize before we do and then he’ll hand it over to Neville.”

“What could the prize possibly be if the spear of Lugh has been ruled out?”

“Fungus.” Wesley chuckled and shook his head. “I don’t know, Annja. What I do know is that Slater charged in two weeks ago all generous and ‘let’s find the treasure,’ ensuring me I had the financing to hire a few more hands. But since he’s added the additional camp, he’s no longer providing for our side. I’ve had to scramble for funds to keep it going.”

“Why continue without the support?”

He turned a look on her that Annja knew she had given many a doubter over the years. She answered her own question before he could. “Because something
could
be there.”

“You never know what will turn up from the depths of history. And if someone wanted so desperately in on the other dig, then there must be something worth finding, eh?”

“Exactly.”

“What’s your focus, Annja? You spend any amount of time in the field when you’re not filming?”

“Whenever I get the chance. Medieval studies are my specialty, but I’d never pass up a chance to help on a dig. Can you use an extra hand?”

“Hell, yes. You won’t be too busy with the television show?”

“I won’t get in your way. Just want to dig about a bit, get my hands dirty. And yes, I’ll be filming segments. Okay, here’s the truth. My producer wants me to track faeries.”

“Seems to be the consensus on the disappearances.” Wesley shrugged. “Be difficult getting the other crowd on film.”

Could someone please be on her skeptical side? she thought. “I’m sure. But maybe I can help solve the disappearances. If someone is kidnapping people who are generous enough to volunteer their time for such grueling digs, I want to find out who that someone is.”

“I like you, Annja. You’re a flash of sunlight on this sorry camp. If it’s not the weather giving us headaches it’s Slater. You want me to show you around?”

“I’d love that—”

Shouting from across the way alerted Annja. Slater was stabbing a finger into Eric’s chest. Eric had wandered too close to the enemy line.

Daniel had wandered off somewhere. A sweep of the camp’s periphery did not reveal the eccentric plaid-clad Irishman. Wouldn’t a guide have explained the lay of the land to Eric? That he probably shouldn’t wander onto the other camp, which was headed by a pistol-packing director? On the other hand, Annja was already taking sides and she hadn’t begun to learn the real facts. It wasn’t like her to make off-the-cuff judgments.

She insinuated herself between Eric and Michael Slater, and asked Slater, “Now what? Your bloodthirst not satisfied yet?”

Slater stepped back and smirked a slimy grin. Wesley was right; he did look too polished to be an archaeologist. And a bit too much with the angry, tight neck muscles.

“You have no fear, do you,” he countered, “stepping in the middle of a confrontation like that?”

“I doubt it was a mutual confrontation. Are you okay, Eric?”

“No problem,” he said. He clutched the camera to his chest and didn’t look fine. His face was flushed as red as his hair.

“Don’t worry, he’s a trooper,” Slater said. “I was just blustering with him. Seems you’re the lady in charge, so I best direct my concerns toward you. No cameras on the grounds,” Slater barked. “You were not granted permission to film here.”

“Mr. Pierce already gave me approval,” Annja said. “Don’t tell me the two camps are like two separate countries. Do I need a visa to access your dig?”

Slapping a palm over the gun holster, not as a means to pull it on her but perhaps just a security reassurance, Slater shook his head.

“Does Frank Neville have say over Pierce’s camp?” she challenged.

Slater crossed his arms high across his chest. “How do you know Neville?”

“I don’t, but I’m learning more and more each minute. Like the camp was split right after Mr. Neville’s men showed up.” Aware Eric was filming over her shoulder, she raised a hand and blocked his view. “Take a break, Eric. This isn’t necessary for the show.”

“But it shows the volatile mood on the dig,” he protested. “A mood probably created by the presence of the otherworldly.”

Slater’s brows waggled. He smirked and spat to the side. “Lookin’ for faeries, then, are you?”

“No. Erm…” This assignment was so lacking in credibility. But she’d never let that stop her before, or make her look bad. “I’m here to investigate the disappearances.”

“That’d be the fair folk,” Slater offered. “Good luck with that.”

He turned and stomped off, delivering her a smirking sneer over his shoulder.

“Good luck with that,” she mocked at his back. “This is hopeless, Eric. No one will take me seriously if they think I’m tracking faeries.”

“You won’t be saying that when we have them on film. I can feel the eerie mystical presence in the air.” He scanned his camera around to her face.

“Can you?” She sighed. “Good for you, Eric. The land
is
steeped in the mystical. I guess I need to relax and let it take hold of me, too.”

“Want to do the introduction now?”

“Save it. I want to walk the area with Wesley and see what’s what.”

“I’ll be right behind you.”

“No, you are not my shadow—at least, not right now. You can film the countryside and get some pretty shots of the green rolling hills. The sunset is really enhancing the vivid greens and the sky as amazing. That’ll look great on film. Then skip down to the river and scan for mermaids if the mood takes you. But I don’t need you until I need you. Got that?”

He tilted his head aside from the viewfinder to eye her. “You see? There
is
an aggressive mood hanging over us all.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but thought better of it. Annja stalked off, wondering if there was something to what Eric had said. When normal people became aware of danger such as a gun-wielding dig director, they went on guard without realizing it. It was simply an innate reaction to the feeling of uncertainty. Who wanted to work a dig with that kind of menace in the air?

No matter. She shouldn’t allow the volatile mood to creep into her psyche so easily, and would not.

A fine mist veiled the camp, dulling the air, but not Annja’s determined attitude. Surely, if faeries did exist, they would be here in bonny Éire. The green was so intense it hurt her eyes. Rolling soft grass, untouched by dig tools or rut-forming tires, undulated up a distant hill and was topped by a scatter of scraggly pine trees.

Breathing deeply, she concentrated on centering herself. She had let anxiety get the better of her. A deep inhale scented salty and fresh, mixed with earth and gasoline fumes.

“Petrol,” she muttered, correcting her language for the country.

“This way.” Daniel appeared, muddy fedora tilted to shadow his eyes. “I’ll show you about the camp. You’ve already met both dig directors.”

“Yes, and Wesley offered to show me around.”

“He’s nursing his wounds and letting the females fuss over him. This won’t take long. You’ve seen most of the layout already.”

His footsteps were fun to follow. Toes pointed forty-five degrees outward, Annja tried to fit her steps into his prints in the drying mud but her balance wavered from the task.

The sight of a little old lady in her peripheral view intrigued her. One was never too old to work a dig as long as they were eager. But Annja suspected perhaps the woman was a local who brought food to the crews, which was always a blessing when that happened.

She caught up to Daniel’s long strides. “Who is that?”

“Ah? Me mum. She visits digs on occasion. We get a lot in the area. Wanders the countryside and riverbank endlessly. Always looking for geegaws and collectibles, she is.”

“Collectibles? But whatever is dug up on-site is an artifact. She doesn’t try to buy things from the dig, does she?”

“Buy? Oh, no. You’d be amazed what an apple pie and a string of fresh blood sausage can get you.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“It’s how I learned to barter, watching me mum. She’s an avid collector. Her cottage is filled overflowing with all sorts of things. You’ll have to pay her a visit while you’re here.”

“I think I’d like that.” The idea of the old woman bartering for things found on digs—items that should normally belong to the landowner or government—stirred Annja’s curiosity. And her sense for protecting history.

“She’d be pleased if you would stop in for supper one night. I’ll arrange it, then.”

“So you have an interest in archaeology, Daniel?”

“Nope.”

“But you know the dig directors?”

“Yep.”

“What about this Neville guy?”

“Frank Neville. He’s an…acquaintance. I met him a few years ago and traded him a bottle of Lafite.”

Eric had referred to wine as being Daniel’s passion.

Bartering was a way of life for some people. They lived off the land, didn’t consume anything that could not be recycled and basically existed off the electronic grid. She suspected Daniel was the sort, and perhaps got by on very little, save for what he obviously bartered for.

“I know everyone in the area and most of West Cork, too, it seems,” he said. “Hear they believe they found some kind of faerie spear on this particular dig.”

“Allegedly. The spear of Lugh. It’s connected to the Tuatha Dé Danaan.”

“The tribe of the goddess Danu. I know the story. Don’t know much about the spear.”

“One of four magical gifts brought by the Danaan from four island cities of Tír na nÓg. It’s supposed to never miss its target and always return to the hand that threw it.”

He nodded, and shrugged. “Me mum’s probably already got it, then.”

W
HILE THREE WOMEN
and one man went about cleaning up their loose dirt and packing away their tools for the night, Wesley was still working when Annja returned to the dig square.

He waved her over and showed her the strata trench. Dug down about two feet, this trench was preserved to study the stratigraphy and gauge the year for each level of earth dug. Photographic records were usually kept nowadays, but Wesley explained he’d given Theresa a drawing frame and set her to work recording the north corner of the dig where a few pot fragments had been partially uncovered.

“Everyone should learn how to do it the old-fashioned way,” he said.

Annja sensed he enjoyed teaching and the satisfying tedium of the old-fashioned way. She would never go against a director’s methods, and didn’t mind the old-fashioned way so much herself.

He handed her a trowel, and Annja squatted next to him.

In this quadrant, the crew had dug down to about the mid-nineteenth century, according to a small matchstick tin they’d found two days earlier. Wesley suspected they’d tapped into a farmhouse that may have held victims of the potato famine. He planned to bring in soil samples to a lab in Cork for verification.

“I suspect we’ll find the pathogen that destroyed the crops,” he commented. “As I told you, we haven’t found any bones yet. Perhaps this farmstead was lucky and the family found their way to Liverpool or even America.”

Neither of which option would have been preferred, Annja mused. The Irish immigrants arriving in America had been treated as second-class citizens, if they made the trip successfully. The emigrants crossing the ocean to find prosperity in America were usually struck down with disease and fever during the long journey on the so-called coffin ships. And if they did set foot in New York, they were discriminated against, cheated and treated cruelly.

In England they’d received no better treatment. As soon as they’d arrived in Liverpool most of the Irish riffraff had been deported directly back to Cork.

With the open dig plan, the entire squared-off area was dug down, and baulks, or aisles of dirt marked in a grid and not dug, were not utilized.

Annja preferred the open-dig method. It was well enough that the walls of the open area served as a stratigraphy to measure their progress. One stone wall had been unearthed, and Wesley’s crew had earlier uncovered a fireplace.

“Was that feature apparent before digging began?” she asked Wesley.

“Yes, the entire stretch of wall and the stones of the hearth. The farmer removed the turf and found it. We’ve got dirt here, though, not peat like the other camp. I’m guessing the enemy camp is looking at the end of a farm plot, perhaps animal stables and a pond.”

Wesley pointed out an area he was working on and she moved beside him to inspect.

“A wall feature, yes?” He traced the outline of an oblong mound with the tip of his trowel. “Probably another two or three feet into the earth. Puts us back another few centuries. I just wish we had the time to go at this slowly. Yesterday one of my crew destroyed a wood feature, could have been a table or part of a chair. Can’t blame her, though.”

Annja teased the dirt with her trowel and worked efficiently next to Wesley. “Why the rush?”

“Slater’s been pushing to get us all to leave. I managed to negotiate another week.”

“What have they found that they want to keep you off the entire dig so badly? Have you gone over and taken a look around?”

He swiped a hand over his hair and lifted his face to worship the setting sun. “Tried, but there’s security at night. Only one guard I’ve noticed, but I’m sure that’s a machine gun slung across his shoulder. Couple of nights ago they drove a truck in and something was going on.”

“You camp on-site?”

“Not usually, but I’d been tooling around with this feature, wanted to get deeper. You know how that goes.”

“You love the work,” Annja guessed.

“As much as I bet you love it. I gotta ask, and I hope you don’t mind.”

“Go ahead.”

“How did you ever get involved in a TV show that chases after stories like the other crowd?”

“We chase all sorts, actually. Werewolves, vampires, yeti.” Annja smirked. “We’re an equal-opportunity monster-hunting show.”

“Well, now, you ever talk to a vampire?”

“No. You?”

He cast her that sexy grin that Annja was beginning to realize must work as a sort of lodestone to any women within stumble-over-her-feet range. “Nope, but wouldn’t mind the conversation over roast pheasant with Vlad the Impaler.”

“He’s dead.” She lifted a trowel of displaced dirt and emptied it into a nearby bucket. “And so is Frankenstein’s monster and Dr. Jekyll. Not dead, actually, never existed.”

“Skeptic, eh? So why this assignment?”

“It got me here, sitting in a pile of ancient rubble, with trowel in hand. Couldn’t be happier. Well, I could.”

“How so?”

“Earlier, you mentioned the men who disappeared, but we were interrupted before I could ask more. Can you tell me anything about the girl who disappeared from this dig? Description? Was she friends with everyone here? Anyone have something against her? Was she native to the area?”

“Whoa, the detective is overtaking the archaeologist.”

“It’s what we do, isn’t it? Play detective. Search for clues and piece them together to create a story.”

Wesley tapped the trowel against his boot to shake off the dirt and sat back, wrists resting on his knees. “I wish I could help you, Annja.” He scanned the sky, yet Annja sensed his sudden lack of ease from the tapping of his fingers on his knee.

“Beth Gwillym was spending the summer here on the dig. She came from England, though haven’t a clue whereabouts. I don’t do background checks. Basically, if you’re willing and not stupid, you’re hired. She was pretty, young and amiable. I know it sounds awful, but I’ve been preoccupied with that other damned site lately. While I had in heart to keep my people protected from loose cannons like Slater, I should have been paying more attention to my own site. Beth was friendly with everyone, I do know that, didn’t have any enemies.”

“What about boyfriends? Anyone she was seeing? That she might have had a fight with?”

She couldn’t catch his facial movements because he’d tilted his head down, perhaps away from the sun. Annja suspected it was something less to do with the light than a need to keep secrets. Interesting.

“You’re not going to accept the well-agreed-upon fact that the other crowd snatched her away?”

Annja sighed. “Wesley, I know the Irish hold great reverence for…the fair folk. And sure, faeries like to steal humans, or trick them into their circles and make them dance for years and years.”