by Alex Archer
“I might drive to Cork tomorrow, see if she’s coherent,” she said. “I don’t think she needs too much fuss right now. Wesley will ensure she gets the proper care. I suppose not much will get done on the dig now. I should head to my B and B. I’ve got some research to do.”
On hospitals in Cork and Beth Gwillym, she thought.
“You fancy that meal at my mother’s?” Daniel’s attention focused on the retreating vehicle, a strand of grass twitching at the corner of his mouth.
“A home-cooked meal sounds great, but there’s Eric, too.”
“He can come along. Mum always makes a feast on Fridays. She expects me to bring over friends. Girlfriends mostly, but I haven’t been a good son about that lately.”
He cast her a wink and marched off.
Had that been flirtation? The man had to be twenty years her senior. Not that he wasn’t attractive, albeit eccentric.
MICHAEL SLATER MARCHED across the trampled grass to the edge of the excavation site where the dried peat cushion made his footsteps feel as though he were walking on a strange planet.
The chief archaeologist, Maxwell Alexandre, was packing up his shovels, buckets and other equipment. He ran an efficient dig and was meticulous about putting things away at the end of the day. Slater appreciated anyone with a fastidious bone. Maxwell did what he was told, with little argument.
Rain rolled down his temples. Slater did not like the weather in this country; it was much worse than his native London, and that was saying a lot.
He gripped the handle of his Walther P99, still in its holster. It was something he did probably a dozen times a day. His training buddies had given him shit for his attachment to the thing. Bugger them. Some guys stroked their bollocks every now and then; he stroked his gun.
Alexandre popped his head up from the area marked off with pitons and ropes. “What was the commotion over there?”
“The girl is back,” Slater spat out. “The one the captain grabbed the other day.”
“How the hell did that happen?” Alexandre kicked the base of a black bucket, toppling it over. It was empty. “How’d she get free?”
“I don’t know, but heads will roll.” Twisting his neck against the tight muscle tugging along his jaw and throat, Slater nodded toward the black SUV that transported the crew into town each night. “You packing up?”
“It’ll be dark soon.”
“I thought you understood we are on a time crunch? I want to be out of here within the week.”
Everything else Frank Neville had his hands in was scheduled to come down to the week’s deadline. This wasted nonsense of digging in the dirt twisted his knickers the wrong way. He had not signed on for kicking about bones.
“I know that.” Alexandre stood before Slater. He was taller by three inches, but both men were aware that when push came to shove Slater held the upper hand. “I’ve uncovered the entire skeleton.” He gestured behind him and Slater eyed the ground. “She’s a beauty thanks to the peat. Preserves bones and bits of fabric real nice like. But not sure I’m going to find any more rocks.”
“Give it another few days. Don’t things tend to…move around over the years?”
“Erosion does tend to do that, though not so much in these conditions. We’ll strip the area for sure. Won’t leave a single pebble unscrutinized.”
“You think it could have spread as far as the other camp?” Slater asked.
“Unlikely. Such a contained cache is probably going to be within the marked area we’ve pitoned off. I think it would be next to impossible for the rocks to move from the bog to the dirt the other camp is working in. Unless an animal did it? That’s always possible. When’s the next truck come in?”
Slater tucked his hand under an arm over the pistol. “Not that it’s any of your concern, but tomorrow night.”
“Just want to know to get the crew out on time. Settle your britches, Slater, the operation is going well.”
“This operation is a joke.” Slater harnessed his anger. “The girl—Beth—should have never gotten away. I’m going to check on the guys down by the river.”
8
“We moved them.” Reggie Marks, the captain of the officious little barge that camped down by the river, scratched his belly, and slapped his grungy felt cap back onto his bald head.
“And in the process you managed to lose one helpless woman?” Slater fisted his palms. “I can’t believe your ineptitude. Who hired you?”
“Your boss, that Neville bloke.” The captain sniffed, drawing far too much phlegm into his nasal cavities for Slater’s liking. He hacked and spat a globule over the starboard side of the barge. “Ain’t gettin’ paid to babysit or mollycoddle. You want we should keep some woman fancy and entertained, then you’re looking at the wrong crew. Just be thankful I didn’t let Smelly Joe get his hands on her. That man breaks his women.”
Despite his managing to keep a handle on all the operations Frank Neville had set into place since arriving in Ireland, Slater hadn’t been quick enough on the draw when hiring the barge crew. Good men were few and far. Neville trusted Slater to oversee this operation and as a right-hand man for his business deals, yet he still did a lot of work on his own. He was too determined, and far too controlling, to sit back and let it all happen.
“What you standing there for?”
Slater winced as the captain snorted again. “Nothing at all.” He turned and strode off.
TO CLAIM THE OFFICIAL title of village in Ireland, the settlement had to have a church, a post office and a pub. No other buildings required. These three things met, you have got yourself a village, Annja thought.
Remarkably, the village of Ballybeag boasted the Four Corners. Each corner featured a pub, though for all proper purposes the east corner was more a grocery store/petrol station that sold diner food and poured Guinness, as well.
O’Shanley’s sat on the west corner and Annja chose it for its smiling pink pig painted on the window. Daniel had dropped her and Eric off at a quaint bed and breakfast and they’d dumped their gear in their respective rooms. They’d missed the supper call, but the proprietress had offered to make cold beef sandwiches for them. They had dinner plans, but she left Eric behind to gobble down a few.
She sat down at the bar next to an older gentleman and ordered a Guinness. The bartender nodded and went to work. She knew a properly poured pint was all about patience.
Eric ambled in while she was waiting. He set his video camera on the warped wooden bar, ordered a Coke and winked at her. “No drinking while on the job,” he said. “A man’s gotta stay sharp.”
“Did you get footage of Beth coming out from the forest?” she asked.
“Yep, and it rocks. Her face was all ‘Hey, what’s going on? Who are you people?’ and she was stumbling and looked like she’d been through hell.”
“But no faerie dust, eh?”
“Faerie dust? Damn, I wasn’t looking for any. It should have sparkled in the sunlight, right?”
“I’m kidding you, Eric.”
“But seriously.” He leaned in, spreading a hand between them on the bar. “Maybe when I run the video through the threshold the faerie dust will show up like a black light seeking…er, well, you know.”
She did. And that image made her hope the sheets in her room had been changed since the last guests had stayed there.
“You up for a home-cooked meal in a bit or did you fill up on Mrs. Riley’s sandwiches? Daniel Collins invited us over to his mother’s this evening.”
“I’m full. Mrs. Riley made me eat three sandwiches and a huge bowl of cole slaw. It was good, but by no means could her cooking compete with a Big Mac.”
“If that’s what you want you’ll have to drive into Cork.”
“Don’t tempt me,” he said. “I may love to travel but I am a fries and burger guy all the way. I think I’ll pass on the invite. I want to check out the local music scene tonight.”
“Really? How much of a local scene is possible in a
village this size? The population is less than two hundred.”
“You’d be surprised, Annja. On the way here, I saw musicians with guitars and flutes walking the street. I think they’re playing at the Hollow Bog across the way tonight.”
The south corner pub.
“It’s interesting that you’re into Celtic stuff, Eric. Good for you.”
“Celtic? Sure.” He tilted back the mug of soda, and Annja had to smirk. The kid hadn’t a clue what the local music was like. The Metallica T-shirt he wore promised he’d be more than a little disappointed upon hearing flutes and fiddles.
“You got enough money?” she asked, then inwardly cringed. She wasn’t the guy’s mother. But she did feel protective of him. She had traveled to dozens of countries and knew being abroad could be overwhelming. Away from his family, he had to feel vulnerable.
Annja hadn’t any family to claim, save for a few friends back in Brooklyn. She didn’t need family. Well, she tried to put it out of her thoughts. She’d been orphaned when she was very young. Family wasn’t necessary to survive.
“I’m cool, Annja. Do you think a video of the music would be good to insert into our piece? I mean, it would be like a montage of the culture.”
“That’s clever, Eric. I like it. Film away. I’ll catch up with you in the morning.”
He held up a palm and Annja answered by high-fiving him. Pleased, Eric gathered his equipment and left.
Annja wished the bartender would hurry, but noted her pint was only three-quarters full, and sat there waiting for the final top-off.
“Beautiful day,” she said to the man next to her. He nursed his own half-full pint.
“You folks from the dig?” His craggy voice was the closest Annja felt she’d get to leprechaun-speak.
“Yes. We’re filming for a television program that broadcasts in America.”
He nodded, his focus on the glasses lining the shelf behind the bar. Most had names written on them with a fancy scrawl and white pen. Not a big talker, she decided, but amiable enough that she might get something from him.
“I’m looking into the disappearances from the dig. Three people. Did you hear about that?”
He nodded again, and then sucked down a long swallow. “’Twould be the other crowd.”
“No offense, but—”
He chuckled as if his mouth were full of pebbles. “Ah, anytime a person starts a sentence with no offense means they are out to offend.”
“No, I—” The pint of Guinness was set before her. Liquid black gold captured in a glass. Annja dipped a finger into the thick creamy head and licked it. “If I may ask, when was the last time you saw the other crowd?”
The man made a show of turning toward her and propping an elbow on the bar. His salt-and-pepper beard had been stroked to a point. Age spots battled with bright blue veins across his cheeks. “Lassie, you need to know the other crowd are never seen, only felt.”
All righty, then. “Has this happened before? People gone missing? And the suspicion is that…er, the other crowd is involved?”
He swallowed back another tug, and took his time before answering. “I recall two decades ago Certainly Jones went missing for three months.”
“And?”
“He was found in a mud hole near the Bandon River. Broken leg.”
“He was in the hole three months?”
“No, he slipped and fell after the other crowd allowed him to go home. Had to promise them he’d never drive the Hightow Road again or cut the ash tree at the north end of his property.”
Annja knew that certain trees and bushes were revered as faerie trees. Oak, ash and the hawthorn bush, being the few she recalled from her research. It was thought the Sidhe, or faeries, lived beneath them in their tangled roots. Entire freeway systems were built around centuries-old trees for fear of messing with the faerie mojo. Same with faerie raths, like they’d passed on their drive out to the dig. The grass-covered hills were believed to house faeries beneath. It all related to the earliest inhabitants of the Island of Éire, the Tuatha Dé Danaan, as Wesley had confirmed her research.
“Tell me about the Tuatha Dé Danaan,” she asked. “If you wouldn’t mind.”
The man sized her up a moment, long strands in his eyebrows dancing as his forehead creased. Determining if she were worthy of his tale? With a slight nod, he splayed open his hand and began. “It all happened so long ago, in the BC times that you bone kickers like to dig about for.”
“BC means Before Christ, or Ante Christum.”
She caught the sharp cut in his glance and decided to remain silent for the rest of his story.
“A race of giants called the Fir Bolg were overtaken by the supernatural tribe Danaan. The tribe was reputed to be magicians and wield remarkable powers no man could explain. They battled against the Fir Bolg up by Cong, northwest of here. I’ve been there a time or two. The air broods still.”
He paused for a dramatic sip of Guinness. Annja found herself sipping just as carefully.
“It was the Celts who defeated the Tuatha Dé Danaan. It is said the battle was so bloody the sea turned red for an entire year. But when the Tuatha Dé Danaan knew their end was near they turned themselves into wee folk and fled underground to live among the Sidhe. You ever see a faerie rath?”
“The hills across the countryside? Yes. They are mystical.” She could go there. For the sake of his story.
“You best watch how you go about those raths and sacred ruins, my girl. The fair folk don’t give favor to those who tread their grounds with malicious intent.”
“Would they go so far as to kidnap a person who was making them angry?”
“Oh, yes.”
“What about someone who wandered onto their grounds without ill intent?”
“You keep asking stupid questions, you’ll go missing, too,” the man snapped, and turned back to his pint. Then she caught his grin before he quickly hid it by taking another swallow.
“Thanks for that encouraging vote of confidence. Stop asking questions and keep an eye out for things you can’t see. I’ll see what I can do about that,” she said.
“Make sure that you do.”
Annja relaxed as the thick froth trickled down her throat and was washed deeper with the cool beer. She’d have to tell Bart about this pint. He’d enjoy hearing every slow, creamy detail. She’d seen her dear friend Bart McGilley enjoy his fair share of Guinness.
“Heard Beth Gwillym wandered in from wherever she’d gone missing,” the man tossed out.
“Yes, little over an hour ago, actually. Did you know her?”
“I’ve heard of her.”
“Wesley Pierce drove her to Cork to have her checked out by a doctor.”
“Ah, Pierce is the bloke who winks at all the girls and flashes his unnaturally white teeth at ’em. He and Beth had a thing, you know.”
She’d suspected Wesley hadn’t told her everything. “How do you know?”
“Whole town knows. We know everything that’s up with everybody.”
She believed that. It probably wasn’t that easy to hide an affair, drinking problem or addiction when the center of town boasted the Four Corners.
“They had a spat, they did,” the old man said. “You might want to question loverboy if you’re intent on finding the real answers.”
“I’ll do that.” She believed the old man wasn’t trying to throw her off. He had no reason to.
“You talk to Mrs. Collins up the way?” the man asked. “You want to know about the other crowd, she’ll have what you need.”
Interesting. Daniel hadn’t mentioned his mother’s knowledge of faeries. “Thanks. I’m having dinner with her this evening.”
“Then you’ll see her collection. That lady does have a pack rat in her. Blessed Rachel.”
9
Garin raced to the curb where his limousine waited. The driver already had directions to the auction house. He slid inside and grumbled about the delay. “I had to get a passport waiver
. This is obviously not my day.”
He settled in and reached for a bottle of Evian water as the car drove away from the airport. That hit the spot. They’d grilled him on his overseas travels. It was as if they’d suspected him of third-world espionage.
Although he could claim a certain amount of notorious dealings, he covered his tracks well. And he’d kept his cool while sitting in the customs office. He knew when to bow to authority and when it was best to make a fuss and start threatening subordinates.
To his credit, the man who’d contacted the German consulate to verify his passport had been polite and efficient. He’d wanted to get Garin through customs as quickly as he could, and Garin appreciated that.
“What time have you got?” he asked the driver.
“Ten after three, Mr. Braden. I’ll try my best, but the auction started at three.”
“Damn it.”
Roux had called while he’d been crossing the Atlantic Ocean to let him know his bidding paddle would be waiting. He wasn’t sure of the order of items to be auctioned off. He might still make it, unless the Fouquet went first.
“I can call in my bid. I’ll have to. Roux wanted me to take a look at it first, but it’s got to be the painting,” he mumbled to himself.
He slapped his suit coat, mining for his cell phone. “Hell!”
“You have a phone up there, Stephan?”
“Sorry, Mr. Braden. My daughter dropped it in the toilet this morning. Did you forget yours?”
“It’s back at the airport.” He turned, assessing which would be faster—making the turn and getting back on the ring road that surrounded the airport, or driving straight on and crossing his fingers this limo could fly.
Neither seemed a viable option.
“You have any painkillers up there, Stephan?”
REMARKABLY, HE ARRIVED at the doors to Christie’s at twenty minutes to four. Garin rushed through the entrance, his presence and sheer size keeping most from questioning his determined path toward the auction room. He stopped at the reception desk and showed ID to get his bid paddle. At least he still had his wallet.
