Alex Archer - The Other Crowd

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.

“Wanker,” she heard Slater mutter. Obviously directed at Wesley. He slapped Daniel across the back. “Good to see you, mate.”

She had thought Daniel wasn’t an archaeologist, but he seemed to know most in the camp as he waved to some and slapped palms with others. What did the man do? Spend his days visiting the site? Did he have a job? Doug had mentioned he was some sort of collector. And he obviously liked his cigars.

“A friend of yours?” she asked, bending before Wesley Pierce to inspect his damaged shoulder. He sat on an overturned plastic bucket, knees spread and shaking his arms out at his sides to simmer down.

He shook his head. He was obviously in pain, and she didn’t want to touch him, or make him appear weak in front his friends for needing attention from a woman, but…

“Your lip is cracked.”

“It’ll heal,” he muttered in tones heavily creamed with an Irish accent. “Bloody Slater. Bastard is walking around with a pistol strapped at his side.”

“Is that why you two were fighting? Why the need for weapons at a dig site?”

“Exactly,” he said, and flinched.

One of the women arrived with a small plastic tub of clean water and a towel, which Annja took and dabbed at Wesley’s face. The cut on his shoulder was merely an abrasion.

“Why don’t you tell everyone to clean up their loose,” Wesley said to the woman. “Day’s shot as it is. Might as well head out.” The girl nodded.

“Sorry. Can I do this for you?” Annja asked, holding the towel before him. “Or would you prefer I not?”

“Go ahead. If I get the attention of the prettiest lady on the lot, I’m all for that.” He spat to the side and flashed the bird toward Slater’s retreating back. “No bloody guns!” he shouted.

Slater dismissed his theatrics with a return flick of the bird.

“Not even for security?” she asked.

Security was not uncommon on a dig, Annja knew, but it usually consisted of a hired guard or a camera set up to keep an eye on possible theft. That was if valued artifacts had been discovered, such as gold, jewels or even centuries-old bones.

“You must have found something important,” she tossed out, but Wesley continued to fume, his eyes following Slater’s departure to the other camp, flanked by a couple of his own people.

“Ever since Neville took over financing the dig this kind of shite has been happening on a daily basis. First, it’s splitting up the camps and shoving us over here away from the peat bog, then it’s sending over spies to snoop out what we’ve found. Like they didn’t think to simply ask? And today it’s the gun. Don’t let him intimidate you, though. He’ll try to kick you off his site. He got rid of the BBC yesterday.”

“Really? Then I don’t think our little show stands a chance if the BBC isn’t allowed on-site.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll vouch for you. Besides, you’re much prettier than the BBC reporter. He acted like he had a stick up his arse when Slater accused him of sensationalizing the remains of the dead. Ha!”

Eric clattered up with camera equipment hanging from his hip belt. A mesh backpack dangled over one shoulder, a few cords poking out. He twisted at the waist, the video camera recording the surroundings.

“The dig site located two kilometers west of the R605,” he narrated into his mic. “Go ahead, Annja, take up my narration. You know more about the landscape than I do. Describe some of this stuff. It’s all so cool.”

“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.”