Alex Archer - The Other Crowd

“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.”