Alex Archer - Forbidden City

A deputy braked to a stop in front of Annja. A news team on foot brought up the rear.

“I appreciate your concern.” Annja meant it. She knew that Barfield didn’t want to see her end up dead. Even if she was omitting some of the truth. He seemed like a good man just trying to do his job. That made her feel bad. Don’t go there. Whatever Huangfu was looking for, it’s best left to you, she told herself.

She guessed that they would have taken the belt plaque into custody, then spent weeks or months hanging on to it before calling her back to analyze it.

And there’s the possibility that you’ll learn nothing from the belt plaque anyway. That thought was disheartening. But even if she never learned any more about why Huangfu wanted the piece, she knew she might have an authentic Scythian piece that was museum worthy. She needed to find out some of the history on it.

Barfield walked her to the deputy’s car and opened the door, holding it braced against the cold wind.

Annja sat in the front seat beside the deputy. “Thank you,” she said.

Smiling, Barfield touched his hat brim. “You’re welcome.” He glanced at the driver. “Take her to her car. Follow her back to Georgetown to make sure she gets there safely.”

“Sure thing, Sheriff.”

Reaching into his shirt pocket, Barfield took out a business card and handed it to Annja. “If something comes up, give me a call.”

Annja took the card and shoved it into a pocket of her backpack. “I will.”

By that time, the news crew had caught up. “Miss Creed,” the reporter called, “is Chasing History’s Monsters doing a story in Volcanoville? Do the murders have anything to do with the Weeping Ghost that’s said to walk through the forest in that area?”

Annja looked at the deputy. “Let’s go.”

A NNJA WAS A LITTLE SURPRISED to find the rented SUV still sitting in the parking lot where she’d left it. Then again, Huangfu hadn’t had much time to do anything to it while making his escape.

The deputy put his hand lightly on Annja’s shoulder. “Gimme a minute to have a look.”

Annja nodded.

Leaning down, the deputy slid a rack out from under the seat and took out a pump-action shotgun. He racked the slide and fed another round into the gate to fill the ammo tube to capacity.

“Be right back.” The deputy got out but left the car running. He took a quick look at the SUV and the parking lot, and even looked under the vehicle. He returned, looking a little relieved. “Looks good.”

Annja stepped from the car. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” The deputy slid behind the wheel again. “I’ll follow you into Georgetown. Make sure nothing goes wrong.”

“I appreciate that.” Walking to the SUV, Annja unlocked the door and got in. Everything looked fine and the deputy had checked the car out, but she was still hesitant about turning the ignition over.

“Huangfu wouldn’t risk blowing up the belt plaque,” she said to herself. She hoped that was true. Then she twisted the key, letting out a tense breath as the engine caught. She let it warm up just a moment then put the car in gear and started driving.

W HEN HER PHONE RANG with half the trip to Georgetown still ahead of her and woods on either side, Annja thought for a moment that it would be Huangfu. But it wasn’t. The New York number belonged to Doug Morrell, her producer on Chasing History’s Monsters.

“Annja, what do you think you’re doing?” Doug Morrell’s voice was excited and exasperated at the same time. He was twenty-two years old. Excitement and exasperation were two of the things he did best.

“I guess it’s a slow news night if this hit CNN,” Annja said.

“It didn’t hit CNN, thank God. I’ve got a fact checker in L.A. who was on her toes and caught the story when it broke on the local stations. Hopefully the story won’t go any further.”

Despite everything that had happened earlier, Annja had to smile at that. Chasing History’s Monsters didn’t have fact checkers. The only pieces that carried factual history and geography were hers, and that was only because she fought for accuracy and managed to have a look at the final cut pre-air. If she hadn’t delivered good stories—and looked good on television, Doug had reminded her on several occasions—she would have been cut from the show for being so strict about facts.

Annja felt certain the “fact checkers” Doug and the other producers on the syndicated show relied on were conspiracy theorists who read underground newspapers and Web sites for the weirdest stories they could find.

“I mean,” Doug went on, breathing hard enough to let her know he’d strapped on his phone headset and was pacing his apartment, “you’ve got to remember that you’re part of a big television success story at a time when television success stories are as rare as…as…well, they’re pretty rare.”

“Thanks, Doug. I’m fine. Really. Three people were killed in front of me, and I was nearly killed. But at least it wasn’t anyone I knew personally.” Annja drove through the night. She yawned so big it hurt.

“Oh. Wow. I didn’t think about that. All Amy said was that the show was getting linked to three murders over there.”

“ I didn’t kill them.”

“I know, but some of the other stuff you’ve gotten involved with lately, it hasn’t gone so well for the show. I mean, you have to admit some of it’s been pretty weird.”

“Weirder than trying to find a Wendigo in Colorado last month?”

“Hey, we were following up sightings.” Doug sounded defensive.

“I think I remember hearing that Kristie wanted a skiing vacation.”

Doug coughed to buy himself time. It was one of his lamest tactics. “There were stories about a Wendigo.”

“There was Kristie on skis.”

“Kristie skiing down the mountainside escaping an evil Wendigo,” Doug exclaimed.

“That’s funny. I don’t remember seeing the Wendigo.”

“We’re not here to talk about Kristie. I don’t produce her. I produce you. I have to report to people on what you do. If you get involved in something that reflects in a negative fashion on the show—”

Annja cut Doug off. “As I recall during the meeting last month, the ratings were up, advertising was up, and we had more accounts lining up to do business with us than we had spots to give.”

Doug fell silent for a moment. “Yeah, well, all that’s true, and I just want to keep it that way. We don’t need any adverse publicity.”

“In fact,” Annja went on, deciding to unleash a full salvo and put an end to the debate, “I think this is the perfect time to discuss renegotiating my contract.”

“You already have a contract in place.” The exasperation was back in Doug’s voice.

“The contract we put into place was based on numbers that have almost doubled since we inked that deal.”

“You know, you sound really tired.” Doug suddenly sounded nervous. “I just wanted to call and make sure you were okay.”

“I’m fine, Doug.” Annja decided to let him off the hook. She liked Doug and she knew how to work him to get what she needed. Maybe she didn’t negotiate skiing vacations, but she often got the show to pay for international trips to places she wanted to go to do legitimate archaeological assignments.

“So we’re cool?”

“We’re cool.”

“Are you in any kind of trouble?”

“No.”

“The police don’t think you killed anybody, do they? I mean, you’ve killed people before.”

“Only when I had to.” Annja didn’t like talking about that.

“I know. Man, look at the time. I should really let you get some sleep. If you need anything, give me a call.”

“I will.” Annja broke the connection. Her eyes felt heavy. Glancing in the rearview mirror, she saw the deputy only a short distance behind.