by Alex Archer
Mrs. Riley stood in the kitchen examining the empty wine bottle. She flashed them a frantic gape when they entered.
“I see you shared the wine.” Daniel nodded to the woman. “It’s a lovely year, isn’t it, Blythe?”
“Oh, Daniel, why do you do things like this?” She set the bottle on the counter and marched out of the room. “He’s mad,” they both heard her mutter. Stomping feet descended into the cellar, accompanied by feminine noises of reprimand.
“She’s not a fan?” Annja asked, but her mirth didn’t last. She sat down and powered up the camera. “Where did your mother find this?”
“In the forest edging the dig site Slater is overseeing. She was hunting for morels. Delicious this time of year, especially in a nice white wine sauce.”
The digital screen flashed and the green-and-black night image appeared. It looked like trees and foliage. Eric must have been filming in the forest. But why? And alone at night? She hadn’t heard him slip out last night.
On the other hand, he may have been gone by the time she’d come wandering in. He may have very well waited for her to accompany him, then gave up and went out filming on his own.
Annja turned the volume up. She heard what sounded like footsteps crushing the undergrowth. Breathing. Eric described the trees, guessing they were maple and birch. The camera angle tilted. Eric’s breathing increased.
“There’s something out there,” warbled out the tiny sound holes. “I know I’ve found them,” Eric narrated dramatically as he stalked forward.
Annja’s heart sank. If he had been out hunting for faeries…
The image became fuzzy, then went sharp. Eric’s face appeared, the green light highlighting his forehead and making his eyes eerie black. He suspected someone or something was close by. The terror in his eyes seemed real.
Then Annja got it. He was making a spoof tape to use for the show. Clever. Very Blair Witch Project. Doug was going to absolutely eat this stuff up. She gave Eric points for creativity, though it was more silly than frightening.
Ready to set the camera down, Annja saw that Eric had dropped the camera. His fingers scrabbled before the lens. Leaves blocked the view, and then—
She leaned forward, not sure she was seeing what it appeared to be. “He’s being dragged away?”
“Appears so,” Daniel said. “The other crowd doesn’t like it when people poke about in their business. And they do have a penchant for the red-haired ones.”
Ready to throttle the next person who mentioned the other crowd or the fair folk, Annja made fists and inhaled. Two deep breaths settled her ire.
She hadn’t pinned “believer” on Daniel. In fact, she knew he took the local myths with a huge grain of salt. So why the evasive argument now?
And why her stubborn need to disprove faeries? Perhaps she should be jumping on the bandwagon? Since when did she only see what she wanted to see?
She rewound the video to the point where the camera had been dropped.
It was difficult to make out clear shapes or determine what was foliage, tree trunks or Eric’s flailing legs and arms. But she did notice what looked like a slender leg near where Eric’s feet must have been lifted to drag him. A man? A mere few frames gave her good view of the attacker’s feet.
“Does the other crowd often wear lace-up leather work boots?” she asked Daniel. “Eric’s been taken by a human, a real person. If he’s been taken.”
She knew this could be an elaborate hoax. Eric could have recruited someone from the camp, or even one of his new musician friends, to help him pull it off. But seriously? He’d been respectful and eager to do as she’d asked him since they’d arrived. She hadn’t pegged him for a practical joker.
“You haven’t seen him in Ballybeag?” she asked.
Daniel shook his head. He was too calm. But then, he had no connection to Eric. This was just another disappearance to him, and he had never shown much concern for the others.
Mrs. Riley appeared at the top of the stairs with a load of laundry, neatly folded. She scowled at Daniel and turned down the hallway toward the bedrooms.
“Why did she call you mad? Do you do things like that often?”
“Things like what?”
“With the wine. Was it really that expensive?”
“It was. And no. I only offer the good stuff to the pretty girls.”
Not hiding the fact that she rolled her eyes, Annja tapped the camera. “Did your mother see anything else in the area where she found this?”
“Nope. You going to investigate?”
“Of course I am. After I’ve checked all the pubs to make sure Eric isn’t holing up and having a laugh at my expense.”
“Maybe I should go along with you?”
“Thanks, but we’ll cover more ground separately. You could help by taking two of the pubs.”
“Sure, I’ll look into the north and south pubs.
“Thanks. I’ll catch up with you later. Thanks for this.”
She collected the camera and headed outside. The day was truly dreary. A fine mist grayed the sky. Annja tugged up her hood and marched toward the first pub. They hadn’t seen Eric.
At O’Shanley’s she was offered a pint before she could even ask a question. Annja set the video camera on the counter and took a sip. Outside, Daniel’s Jeep rolled by. The horn honked twice, and the barmaid waved to him as he passed.
“I see Daniel’s taken a liking to you,” the woman said as she wiped the bar to the left of Annja. She’d not seen hide nor hair of Eric, when Annja had asked, though she did know him. He’d become everyone’s favorite young redhead.
“Daniel’s my guide,” Annja said. She tapped the bar, her thoughts racing about what to do, where to go next in her search for Eric.
“Not a lot of guiding to do about here, is there?” the woman asked. “Here’s the village. There’s the dig. There you go. Nice as it can be.”
She wasn’t sure what the woman was implying, but she did catch the tone. A particular tone women used when they were sizing up the competition.
“He showed me his wine cellar last evening,” Annja said, matching the challenge.
“Ah.” The woman smirked and braced an elbow on the bar, leaning in. “And did he play Kiss Me Kate with you, as well?”
Annja stared at the woman’s growing smirk. She felt a flush rising on her face.
Annja swallowed and clasped the camera to her chest. “So you have seen Eric?”
“Not a hair on that bright red crown of his. But you might ask Bridget.” She nodded toward a shadowed corner of the pub where Annja made out a bright red-and-pink skirt slipping out from a booth. “The two are mighty close lately.”
“Thank you.” She slipped off the bar stool and walked across the room. Kiss Me Kate? Really? And she had fallen for it.
Bridget smiled and leaned across the table to offer a hand, which Annja shook. She drew her blue eye shadow out at the corners of her eyes in a swirl that gave her a Celtic flair. “You’re the television host Eric has been telling me about. He didn’t tell me you were so pretty.”
“Thanks. I had no idea Eric had found himself a girlfriend so quickly.”
“Oh, we’re just friends. He listens to my music, or rather, tolerates it. I don’t think he understands a word of what the band sings, but he’s gracious about it. Where is the sweetie, by the by?”
“You haven’t seen him?” Annja blew out a breath. “He’s disappeared.”
“Oh, no! Like the others? Taken by the fair folk? Eric told me that’s why you two were here, poking about.”
“I’ve got proof that it was a real person who took him from the forest where he was filming last night. He didn’t try to contact you?”
“No. I don’t have one of those fancy cell phones. He’s been kidnapped by a real person? Oh, lordy.” She fanned herself with a hand.
“Did Eric say anything to you about filming a segment for the show and surprising me? Maybe say…making it look like he’d been
taken by faeries?”
“Och, no, he didn’t. You think that’s what he’s up to? Well, the boy is like to such foolery. I wouldn’t expect he’d a’fooled you, though. He looks up to you, Miss Creed. Can’t stop talking about you, so much I feared the two of you were…well, you know. But now I see you’re much older than he.”
“Right. I’ve got a few years on him, at least. Well, thank you. If you do hear from him—”
“I’ll tell him you’re looking for him,” Bridget said.
THE DISPATCHER for the local gardai station took the information from her about another missing person in the Ballybeag area. She sounded disinterested, and was downright rude when she told Annja it could be a few days before she could get an officer back out to the dig site.
“Faeries aren’t real, you know,” she said. “And don’t think I’ll find another officer willing to waste his time right now.”
“It’s not faeries. A person, or people, have been kidnapping men and women from the dig site. Can I talk to your supervisor?”
Annja shoved her fingers through her hair and kicked the iron phone box post. She wondered if calling Bart could get anyone moving, or if he even had contacts with any of the local police organizations in the country. Probably not.
The line suddenly dropped the call. Annja slammed the phone on the hook.
“Fine. I’ll do it my way, then.”
27
By nightfall, the sky had only grown darker, and the rain had no intention of stopping. Annja dressed in black and tied her hair in a ponytail before going down to the dining room to root out something to snack on. Mrs. Riley stood before the window, arms crossed.
“You skipped supper,” she said, a twang of disappointment in her words.
“Eric’s missing,” Annja said.
“Oh, dear. You’ve looked in town for him? Talked to Bridget?”
“Yes, no one has seen him. It’s dark, but I’m going out to walk around the dig site.
Mrs. Riley rubbed a hand along the back of her neck as if to ease out tension. “Be careful of the trucks if you’re walking. They drive through every few days. So fast and loud.”
“What trucks?” Annja joined her side and looked out the window, but the road before the inn was clear of vehicles.
“They head out toward your dig site, dear. I assumed they were a part of it all, hauling dirt and such.”
“We don’t haul dirt from a dig site, Mrs. Riley. It’s all put back in place when we’re finished. I’m not sure what the trucks could be for. How many?”
“One or two. Delivery trucks, they look like. Always at night, though.”
“Hmm…”
“Did you notify the gardai of your missing friend?”
“I did, and they didn’t sound very concerned.”
“Well, it’s the—”
Annja put up a palm to stop her before she could utter the words she didn’t want to hear. “Thanks, Mrs. Riley. I’ll be quiet when I return.”
THE DAY’S HARD RAIN made picking through the forest a challenge. The tree canopy wasn’t thick enough to keep the forest bed from becoming slick, and every step Annja took she had to be cautious not to fall and impale herself on one of the broken branches jutting out everywhere.
She’d brought along night-vision binoculars, borrowed from Eric’s equipment. When sneaking past Slater’s camp, she noticed there was a truck trail leading around the forest and likely to river’s edge. There was no road, beyond the tracks that had crushed the grass. Wesley told her there were docks here and there along the river.
Annja decided to go through the woods to maintain her cover. She had trekked into the forest no more than a quarter of a mile when she saw the spotlights. A rusty delivery truck had backed up to the shore. From her position, hidden among the thick scrub, Annja couldn’t determine how steep the shore was. But if there was no dock, then the drop-off couldn’t be that steep.
Half a dozen men were loading something from the truck to—she couldn’t see beyond the end of the truck. The rain had softened to a mist, but it blurred her view of the activity. There must be a boat waiting below. She couldn’t see a sail or hear a boat engine.
None of the men spoke, or if they did, she couldn’t make out any conversation from her distance.
Whatever was going on, she couldn’t figure how it would be related to the dig. They were not loading dirt from the dig and transferring it to a boat. But it seemed odd that a clandestine operation would be taking place right in the backyard of the dig.
Was Frank Neville overseeing this operation?
She would notice Slater if he were among the men. He had a distinctive walk, straight and militant. If he assumed the same role he did at the dig, his attention would not be on the men so much as scanning his surroundings.
She adjusted the binoculars and scanned the back of the truck. It looked as if large wooden trunks were being unloaded from the open truck bed. Each trunk was about five feet long and maybe three or four feet wide. It required a man on each end, gripping the rope handles, to heft them.
Kneeling on the wet grass, Annja spotted the same security guard she’d had the displeasure of meeting the other night. Instead of a dart gun, he wielded an AK-47 against one shoulder and stood near what had to be steps down to the shore.
One of the trunks dropped to the ground. The cover fell off. The men swore and the guard hustled over to bark orders. Fine stuffing tumbled out of the trunk. It looked like the shredded paper stuffing she often saw artifacts packed in. The barrel of a gun slid across the wood trunk lid and landed on the muddy ground.
She’d recognize that weapon anywhere; it was the same as the guard held—an AK-47. Though it wasn’t fitted with the curved magazine, the wooden stock always gave it away. As Annja knew only too well, the AK-47 was the gun of guns, preferred by military types and terrorists worldwide. It was easy to use, easy to train others to use—sadly even twelve-year-olds—and could fire after being buried in the sand or pulling it out from a mud puddle.
A creepy feeling zeroed in on her gut, coiling tightly. Annja leaned back on her heels. She lowered the binoculars. If the trunks were full of assault rifles, there weren’t many options to go with.
Was the dig a front for gunrunners? It didn’t fit together—guns and skeletons—though Annja had been witness to a lot of wacky scenarios, some so bizarre even she had doubted. And if she added faeries into the equation…which she would not…
She lifted the binoculars—and choked. An arm pressed across her throat. She was dragged backward across the wet undergrowth. Her attacker wrapped his legs around and over her thighs, effectively pinning her. He clasped her left hand and slammed it against her chest, leaving her right hand free to grope for the binoculars as a weapon—but she’d use a better weapon.
Slapping the ground, she grabbed wet leaves. With a concentrated thought, she held the hilt of her sword, the blade flat across the ground.
“Shh,” her captor hissed at her ear. She recognized the voice.
For the moment Annja stilled. She didn’t lift the blade. Michael Slater adjusted his chokehold, releasing her, yet slapping his palm hard across her mouth.
“Out for a jog?” he muttered. “Don’t answer. Be quiet, or they’ll hear you.”
That he cared if she was discovered surprised her, but she couldn’t determine if that was a good thing or very bad. Did he intend to save her for himself? Take her out without alerting the others?
She pulled the sword carefully across the ground so it would not make any noise.
“Whatever you think you saw,” he said against her ear, his lips cool against her rain-soaked flesh, “forget it.”
She nodded in agreement.
“I don’t trust you, Creed.”
“I…” She gasped as he slapped up the chokehold again.
“Careful,” he warned. “Quiet and smart. No shouting. No screaming. Got it?”
She nodded again.
“What are you doing out here?
” he asked.
“I was looking for Eric,” she whispered truthfully. “The cameraman?”
“He disappeared last night in these woods.”
“And you thought the best time to look for a missing person was at night, with no moon to be seen, and a pair of night-vision binoculars?”
Stating the obvious wasn’t going to win him any friendship points.
He swore softly. “I’m giving you one chance tonight, Creed. I’m going to let you go, and you’re going to sneak out of here the same way you came in. I can hold off the truck for another hour, but by then you’d better be back in Ballybeag, snug in bed, yes?”
“You’re running guns.”
His fingers tightened across her neck, making a swallow painful. “And you are running my last nerve.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“What? Snuggling with you in the mucky forest? You don’t think I want to get my hands on this?” He groped her breast, but it wasn’t offensive so much as awkward. A threat he’d never carry out, she felt sure of it.
“I mean, why are you not taking me in? Like you did with all the others who saw something they shouldn’t have seen. You run out of LSD?”
“I had nothing to do with those disappearances. And I won’t keep defending myself. Just go.”
“Is this Frank Neville’s operation?”
“Stop asking questions. Have you got a death wish?”
“No,” she gasped.
“Then do as I say. Get the hell out of here. I don’t want to see your face tomorrow, or any other day after—got that?”
She opened her fingers across the wet grass. The sword left her grip, vanishing without Slater being the wiser to its presence. “Got it.”
“Head out at an angle, east,” he directed as he stood and helped her to stand with a tug of his grip. “You make too much noise, Creed, and I’ll be forced to fire a warning shot so the blokes at the truck don’t think I’m not keeping up my end. Got it?”
She nodded.
