The Other Crowd

by Alex Archer

  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.

  “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.”