The Other Crowd

3

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.

4

“Looks like the rain is going to stay away today.” Daniel pulled onto a gravel road edged every twenty feet by head-size boulders. It led to the dig site. “You’re in luck.”

“The luck of the Irish, eh?” Eric intoned from the backseat.

“Don’t try the leprechaun accent, kid,” Daniel said. “It’ll only get you in trouble around here.”

“Sorry.”

Annja offered Eric a conciliatory smile from over her shoulder.

They rambled over rough pot-holed gravel and dirt tufted with grass. It wasn’t a real road, but had obviously been worn down by the trucks like the one that had run them off the road earlier. Where the truck had come from was a mystery. And though she only got a brief look at it, she could swear it was armored because the windows were narrower than usual.

The field was a compact area, perhaps a half mile long, bookended by a forest on one side and an electric fence on the other, which Annja assumed kept in cattle or sheep, though she didn’t spot any four-legged creatures at the moment.

“Is that the farmer’s land beyond the fence?” she asked.

“Yes. The dig sits on the river’s edge, a bit over half a mile from the shore. The forest separates the two.”

The fog had receded but the sky was still gray. Annja spotted eager students at work in the dirt thanks to a tarp canopy erected overhead should foul weather decide to break.

Annja scanned the grounds, excitement brewing. She forced herself not to grip the door handle and run out and start mucking about in the dirt. It didn’t matter what they were digging for, she wanted to get her hands in the mix. It had been too many months since she’d been involved on a real dig. Sometimes breathing dirt all day was better than sex.

“The Bandon River is a jog to the west beyond the trees,” Daniel noted. “We get some boats, private yachts and the occasional lost barge up the way. Great for fly-fishing.”

“Really? And I left my fishing rod at home,” Annja replied.

“I can hook you up if you’re interested in snagging a salmon or two.”

“We’ll see if I have a spare moment. I’d love to learn to fly-fish.”

Daniel’s attention averted sharply. “What the bloody—?”

The Jeep squealed to a stop and Eric groaned. The kid was juggling camera equipment to save it from breaking. He wore a sheen of dust from their near-miss with the truck, but it managed to give his face some color.

“A fight?” Daniel shoved open the driver’s door.

Annja pinpointed the scuffle fifty yards ahead, just outside a staked canvas tent. It wasn’t a friendly disagreement with shaken fingers and vitriolic words. Fists were flying.

Daniel leaped out from behind the wheel and raced across the muddy grounds.

“Is he going to join in?” Eric said with so much disbelief Annja had to smile. “Appears so.”

“Cool.” Aiming his video camera at the scuffle, Eric began filming. “What could they possibly be fighting over on a dig? I mean, this place is boring central. People poking about in the dirt with dental picks?”

They did use dental picks for the finer, detail work. And what was so wrong with that? Annja wondered.

Turning the other cheek to the boy’s ignorance, Annja stepped out from the Jeep. “I’m going to check it out. Stay out of everyone’s way, but…keep filming.”

Much as she didn’t approve of the macho posturing, if there was tension between the two camps, as a reporter, she was interested. As an archaeologist, she never overlooked the details. If people were disappearing into thin air, then exposing the differences and arguments between the two camps could be key in learning the truth behind it all.

A crew of six men dressed in cargo pants and T-shirts—standard dig gear—surrounded two struggling men. A tall, sun-bronzed dark-haired man with dusty khakis and no shirt delivered a punch that sent the other black-haired bruiser sprawling into Daniel’s arms.

Daniel shoved the fallen man aside and went at the dark-haired one full force. He wasn’t necessarily trying to stop the violence. In fact, he assumed the other’s position and now pummeled the shirtless one in the gut. The man’s abs were well defined, and he took the punches with a grinning challenge and gestured with his fingers to deliver more punishment.

“Boys,” Annja muttered, and then smiled despite herself.

The one who’d been shoved aside snorted blood and spat as he assumed a bouncing, fighting stance. He wore black khakis and military boots. His black hair was shaved to stubble. Swinging, he lunged for the pair and rejoined the scuffle. All three went down in the wet soil that had once been grassy, but now was being shaved bare by kicking, sliding boots. None seemed to have the upper hand, and if they did, it was quickly lost to another.

The men standing around watching the fight pumped their fists and urged on their man. A few women in T-shirts and shorts, and scarves to tie back their hair, lingered away from the fight near the marked dig. Their interest was more worried than keen.

Hands to hips, Annja wondered how long they’d go at it before someone got seriously hurt. Could be a means to blow off some steam after a long day spent hunched over and digging for nothing more than worthless pot shards. But this was no way to act on a dig. Archaeologists enjoyed a good workout and were not slouches. But they preferred to use their brains not their fists. At least, the ones Annja had worked with followed such moral compasses.

Did she need to whip out her sword and show them who was boss?

Annja crossed her arms firmly, biting her lip. Wouldn’t go over too well, and she realized the fight was probably more a means to let off aggression, and if denied that, the men would stew and simmer—over what she intended to find out.

She was surprised at Daniel’s eagerness to join the fray. He’d come off as laidback and good-natured. Though he had shouted at the truck that had almost run them off the road. But who wouldn’t have?

Could the stereotypical belief about the Irish temper hold truth? It was looking pretty plausible.

Someone must have found something valuable. That was Annja’s only guess as to the source of their rage. If one camp found something of value, who then did it ultimately belong to?

Then again, she didn’t notice any find tables or black rubber buckets with bits and shards of pottery. Must be inside the canvas tent.

The dig was flat and bare and surprisingly clean of spoil dirt. The turf had been cleared away from a forty-by-forty-foot section beside the tent. The second camp was about two hundred yards to the north just over a ridge that was too high to be one of the infamous potato ridges still remarkable from the nineteenth century. It was far enough away so one couldn’t shout back and actually hear what had been said, but close enough for curiosity.

Beyond the ridge she spied a truck, similar to the vehicle that had almost driven them off the road. It looked like a delivery truck, though. She figured it must contain supplies or could even function as a mobile office for the dig director.

The situation was odd. Digs didn’t split up like this unless they were large and initial investigation proved a major feature had been uncovered like an entire castle wall or even a village.

If they’d only uncovered a spearhead, Annja couldn’t imagine why the split. Unless artifacts had been sighted in both locations. Still, it would be difficult to get permission from the county for such a large operation.

A jawbone cracked. A male groan was followed by a litany of Irish oaths and promises to do something nasty to the other guy’s mother.

“All right, boys.” Annja stepped close enough to feel the wind of one of their punches. “Fun and games is done. Time to get back to work.”

“You heard the lady,” Daniel growled from his position, bent over one man and clasping him about the waist, while the other twisted his leg to topple the threesome. “Feck!”

The dark-haired man was the first to pop up from the tangle. Hopping from foot to foot, his fists ready for a defensive swing, he smiled a million-dollar blast of white that made Annja do a double take. Relinquishing his fight stance, he smoothed a palm over his muddied abs and gave her the once-over. A preening look. She straightened her shoulders.

The man was not ugly at all. Sometimes her assignments really were easy on the eyes. And she hadn’t bothered to check the mirror after arriving at the airport. Her face must be coated with road dirt like Eric’s.

“A lady stepping up to the fight?” he volleyed at her. “Fancy a tussle with the boys, then?”

“That was a tussle?” She lifted a brow, noting the scrape on his shoulder. “Was the bloodshed worth it? What were you fighting about?”

The other guy, whose lip was cracked and bleeding, struggled from Daniel’s grip, shook himself off and puffed up his chest. He wore a dark blue muscle shirt streaked with dirt. “Ma’am.”

He’d apparently taken a clue from the dark-haired man and didn’t want to be shown up in manners. Annja discreetly rubbed a hand along her cheek. A fine sheen of dirt smudged her fingers.

“It’s Annja,” she offered, holding out a hand to shake, and receiving a slap of mud-caked sweaty palm. “Annja Creed.”

“Annja’s here to do a shoot for her television program,” Daniel offered with a swipe of his palm across his sweaty hair. Retrieving his hat from the mud, he placed it on his head and gave it a pat. A chunk of dirt landed his shoulder.

“Absolutely not,” the militant one spat out.

“Cool your jets, Slater,” the brunette said. “Let’s offer Miss Creed our nicest welcome before you start slinging mud at her.”

“If I’d known the welcoming committee was going to get rough, I’d have worn my armor,” Annja joked.

Then she recalled the nightmarish dream. Fighting in mud? The dream had nothing to do with this situation. Couldn’t have. She offered a hand to the dark-haired man, who shook it and held it a little longer than usual.

“Wesley Pierce,” he offered. “Director of this camp. You going to put us on the television? Be sure to get my good side, will you?” He turned and offered a beaming smile, face coated with mud.

“This is Michael Slater,” Daniel introduced the other, who eased a hand aside his jaw. Annja noticed the empty gun holster strapped under his left arm.

Slater spat to the side and nodded to her. “No filming on location.”

“Nice to meet you both,” she replied. “And don’t worry, it’s just a segment for a show on monsters.”

Slater looked her up and down. His face was streaked with dirt and sweat. Anger vibrated off him like heat waves in the desert. “Monsters?”

She shrugged. “Faeries, actually.”

Slater smirked and disregarded her by turning and slapping the mud from his black khakis.

“You need to sit down,” Annja said to Wesley.

She assumed responsibility since it was sorely lacking, and directed Wesley to a bench outside the dig area that was cordoned off with rope and pitons.