The Other Crowd Read online

  He slid off the safety.

  “You don’t want to start this argument with me, Creed. I don’t like you. And you can’t convince me you’re here only to record a few video clips and push around some dirt.”

  “Don’t forget the part about the faeries,” she said.

  “Creed, I have a loaded gun pressed against your temple.”

  “I noticed. Your people skills suck. Anyone ever tell you that?”

  He glowered. She was pushing it, but for some reason she didn’t sense that he would actually harm her. Not with a loud gunshot, within fifty feet of half a dozen workers.

  “I don’t care whether or not you do like me,” she said. “And I can film where I want. You don’t make the rules about that. And yet, when I look over all the people working both digs and involved on the site, one of those things is not like the other. That would be you. You’re no archaeologist. What are you? Security? Military? You’re some kind of soldier, aren’t you?”

  “Soldier?” He smirked. The gun stayed at her temple. The scent of gunpowder and cleaning oil stung her eyes. “You’re making assumptions. I’m security. Nothing more.”

  “Yeah? Why the need for such intense security? Most digs I’ve been on provide a flashlight and walkie-talkie to the security guards. What have you found over there in your little corner of the dig? Something valuable? Gold? Jewels? Diamonds?”

  “I want to know what the hell you and your camera boy are doing traipsing through private property in the middle of the night?”

  It wasn’t as though she’d thought the security guard would keep their adventure a secret. But she did not appreciate Slater’s brusque manner.

  “You’re not going to shoot me,” she said. “Because then you’d have to get rid of my blood-dripping body in broad daylight.”

  “There are places on a body that’ll take a bullet without producing excess blood loss,” he said. Delivered with cold detachment.

  “All right, then, where would you put my not-bleeding-somuch body? Oh, wait, you can stuff me in the back of that truck with all the empty buckets. What, are you mining for something?”

  “I’m not in the mood for jokes, Creed. You’re just lucky you missed the booby traps.”

  “Booby traps?” He was kidding. Maybe. “Now you’re scaring me. What? A trip wire? Explosives?”

  Slater smirked and snapped the pistol away from her head. He clicked the safety back on. “Explosives?” He chuckled. “Been there. Done that. Got the T-shirt.”

  His snark didn’t work as well as it might from, say, a normal human being. But then, she shouldn’t be kidding around with a man who held a gun.

  Slater strode about the tent and turned toward her, but maintained a few paces of distance. The tension, which had held his jaw tight, was now gone. It relieved Annja only a little to see him holding the pistol pointing down near his thigh. Definitely military. He didn’t drop his shoulders and he remained alert, ready for whatever leaped his way.

  “What is your story, Creed?” he asked. “You come marching onto a private dig like you own the place and can do whatever you want.”

  “I was invited here.”

  “By whom?”

  That wasn’t exactly true. She was here following a lead. The fact Daniel had offered to show her around did not constitute an invitation. But Wesley had certainly extended one, spoken or merely implied.

  “I’m gathering research for a television program. But I’m not the BBC, so chill.”

  “Research on faeries. Right. Go scamper about the woods, why don’t you, and leave us to our work here.”

  “And what, exactly, is that work? The camps have split for a reason. And I’m guessing that reason is you don’t want anyone to know what you’re up to over there. You’ve got something to hide. Is it two bodies? How is it Beth managed to find her way back to camp while the other men are still AWOL?”

  Slater cocked the pistol again but didn’t aim it at her. Annja sensed his anger rise by the tightening of his neck muscles and his increased breathing. His tell was that pulse in his jaw. “Man holding a gun here. Why is it you’re not afraid?”

  “Afraid?” Maybe a little, she thought. But never let them see you sweat. “A charging mountain lion would invoke my fear. Terrorists wielding C-14 makes me afraid. A thug with a gun? Been there. Done that. Shredded the T-shirt.”

  That got an angry chuckle out of him. He crossed his arms, which ended up aiming the pistol out the door. Lips compressed, he studied her through narrowed eyes because the sun had burnished his face and made it look as though squint was his only possible expression.

  Annja studied him back. Handsome, in a rugged, burned-by-the-sun way, and rough with a military cut and manner. His accent was British, but there were so many variations she couldn’t place it precisely. Which didn’t matter much. The camp was populated with people from all over.

  There was something a little too slick about him. Prepared. He knew how to hold a gun. It fit his hand as if an extension of muscle, flesh and bone—much like the sword fit her grip.

  The man was not a bone digger. He was trained. Militant. He’d performed security detail before, and probably not on a dig. She still couldn’t abandon her guess that he was some kind of soldier.

  “If I find out you’ve been treading on our dig layout again,” he said, “I won’t hesitate to use this.” He made show of waving the gun before tucking it under his arm in the holster.

  “Big man, threatening a woman,” she said.

  “Something tells me that kind of threat is nothing new to you, Creed. Call it intuition. Am I right?”

  He’d been reading her as effectively as she’d been reading him. That made him an even more frustrating opponent.

  “Thought so,” he said when she didn’t respond.

  Annja let out her held breath. “Back to the question about what you’re mining—”

  “Mining? Apparently you missed the memo about requiring large equipment and drills and automated machinery. We’ve got a little hole, Creed. I’m sure you saw the skeleton sitting on top of the earth. What scares you about that?”

  “Like I said, I don’t scare easily. But I do know you weren’t pleased to see Beth Gwillym come wandering out of the forest yesterday. What’s that about?”

  “You have no clue what I think about or what concerns me.”

  “Not for lack of trying.”

  “I’m not a man who shows emotion. You probably read my surprise wrong.” After a pause and a wince, he asked, “Is Beth okay?”

  He didn’t care for the girl. The question was forced, Annja thought.

  She shrugged. “Recovering.” Revealing it was a drug overdose didn’t feel right. She didn’t want to give him the easy comeback. “It’s not faeries.”

  “Who’d a’thought?” Slater crossed his arms and eyed her carefully. “Are we the only two people in both camps who believe that?”

  He was siding with her now? Hmm…

  “I sure as hell hope not,” she said. “Why don’t we start over, huh? If I come over this afternoon, during daylight, and ask for a tour around the dig, would you oblige me?”

  “Can’t do that, sweetie. We’re on a time crunch. Don’t think I can find anyone with the free time to cater to your whims.”

  “What’s so urgent?”

  Slater ran his fingertips along the table as he strode away. “It’s just business, Creed. Any other time, any other place—”

  “So that means you’ll have a pint with me in the pub later?” she called.

  He paused at the tent opening, the blinding sun behind him. “Rain check.”

  17

  The room at the end of the second-floor hallway was so humid Garin felt as if he’d entered a tropical rain forest. Black shades were drawn and the air smelled like lilacs and menthol. The weight of the scent clogged at the back of his throat.

  He winced at the underlying smell of sickness. If the old man had told him Mrs. Banyon was sick, he might have wal
ked away.

  No, he would not have.

  “She’s just woken from a rest,” the butler explained. “She’s quite sound of mind, yet age tends to work havoc on her frail bones.”

  “So she’s not sick?” Garin asked quietly.

  “Oh, yes, two feet in the grave and clinging to life with but a fingerhold, to be sure.”

  Garin took that comment as rather odd, and a bit too gleeful. Perhaps the butler was aware of a sizable inheritance attributed to him in her will. The old lady had better kick soon, then, because the butler had to be pushing ninety if he were a day.

  “You may be seated beside the bed,” the butler instructed. “Madam, this is Mr. Braden, as I’ve explained. I’ll leave the door open and stand outside in the hallway.”

  A withered hand waved the butler away.

  Garin pulled the hard-backed chair around so he could sit facing the woman lying in the bed. Describing her as frail was putting her condition lightly. She looked a ghost of a ghost. Long silver hair streamed across the white satin pillowcase. One would guess her a child swallowed up by the lace-trimmed bedsheets. But when she smiled at him, Garin felt her joy touch his heart and warm it ever so slightly.

  “Such a treat,” she said in a little girl’s voice to match her appearance. “Are you an angel come to take me away?”

  “Sorry, Mrs. Banyon, but I am the farthest thing from an angel.”

  “That makes things so much more interesting, doesn’t it?”

  Garin chuckled. He liked her too much already.

  He wasn’t averse to the elderly. Hell, he’d had a few lovers he still visited on occasion. Lovers he’d taken during the forties and fifties who were now treading their graves. It was a sentimental quirk he’d kill for if anyone found out. Roux would never stop heckling him for it, surely.

  “My name is Ruth,” she said. “You’ve come about my painting?”

  She referred to it possessively already. And Garin sensed flirtation might not prove effective, in this situation.

  He followed Ruth’s gaze down the bed and to the wall facing it. There it hung. Remarkable evidence that detailed a devastating moment from history. It had been a long time since he’d seen the work.

  Garin stood and approached the painting. He almost touched it, but did not. That Fouquet had sketched this scene at the moment of its occurrence, and then retained such a vivid memory of it to paint decades later, did not cease to stun him.

  He bowed his head, and clasped his elbows, suddenly feeling exposed. Like he didn’t want the world, or even one sweet old lady, to discover his truths. There were so many truths that he flaunted, and yet twice as many that he guarded carefully.

  “I was late to the auction yesterday,” he said, pacing the room. Aware the butler stood outside the open door, he continued. “I had wanted to acquire the Fouquet. It’s very…” Blatant? Shocking? Truthful? “…speculative. It is a reclusive piece, though. It’s never been a part of Fouquet’s known works.”

  “Which makes it all the more valuable. I’ve wanted it for years,” Ruth said in yearning tones. “You should know, I’ve got a connection to it.”

  Hell. That would make obtaining it more difficult. He still had gloves and lock-pick tools at his penthouse. Overpowering Jeeves outside would be like pushing over a kid.

  “A connection?” he said. “Tell me about it.”

  He sat again and leaned an elbow onto the bed. It felt right to clasp her hand, and he almost dropped it for her skin was cold and the bones felt as thin as bird’s limbs. He imagined she might have once been a dancer, petite and airy, dazzling audiences with her grace and pale beauty.

  “I’ve always had an interest in the saint,” she said. “Ever since I first wrote a report on her in high school. She was so determined, unwilling to accept defeat. I modeled my life after her. Striding forward with grace and determination.”

  “Remarkable.” He wondered how long she had left for this world. And would he have to wait it out until that fingerhold the butler had so gleefully mentioned finally let go? He didn’t have time or the inclination to sit about.

  “I’ve got a connection, as well,” he offered. “I don’t wish to be rude, Ruth, but I wonder how much longer you’ll have to enjoy it?”

  “Days, surely,” she said.

  It was said the dying knew within six months of their demise that death was imminent. That they began to put their lives in order before they even realized for what reason. And often, when they were but days from their final breath, they could choose to simply go, or to hang on as loved ones selfishly begged them to remain.

  Of all the deathbeds Garin had sat beside, he had never asked a dying person to stay merely for his own gratification. It was not his right to bind them to this mortal coil.

  Ruth’s eyes were still bright. The light had not yet gone out. “What is your connection?” she asked softly.

  “My great-great-great—” he wasn’t quite sure how many greats to use “—many more countless greats,-grandfather actually posed in that painting.”

  “Ah? But how is that possible?”

  He slipped his hand from hers and walked over to the painting. It was a risk, but he guessed her eyesight wouldn’t be sharp. Standing beside the Fouquet he waited as she looked at both him and it.

  “I see,” she said softly. “It is true. And you wish to deny a dying woman a few final days of happiness by taking away the one thing that means the most to her?”

  “How can it have acquired so much meaning to you in so little time?” He grasped the bedpost and scanned the bedroom. So many trinkets, and baubles and silver mirrors. A girlie-girl even so old. “As I told your butler, I can offer you twice what was paid for it.”

  “I’ve no need for money now, Mr. Braden. What do you think I will do with a million dollars if I have but two days?”

  She had him there. Although…

  “Charity. You seem like a generous woman, Ruth. An endowment to the Metropolitan Museum of Art in your name, perhaps?”

  She closed her eyes, tapping her fingers upon her chest. Garin couldn’t know what she was thinking. Had he lost her by being too forward?

  He could take out the butler with a chop to his throat, and snatch the painting. The old woman might have a heart attack before he even made it out the front door.

  Ruth’s eyes opened wide. “Any charity?”

  “Just name the organization, and it will be done.”

  She smiled, and it was wicked. “Come closer, Mr. Braden. There may be something you can do for me, after all.”

  18

  Annja set up her laptop under the canopy next to the dig. Nearby Wesley was explaining to one of the young women about the intricacies of dry stone walling. She’d uncovered a skull and was so excited she’d tripped over the ropes and had crushed the east wall of the feature.

  Annja could only smirk. Digs were still wrought with excitement and eagerness, but she’d lost the clumsy stumbling bit years ago.

  Actually, since she’d taken the sword in hand, her physicality had improved markedly. Graceful was not a word she’d have ever labeled herself a few years ago; now she embodied it, and wasn’t ashamed to think so.

  Swinging the sword had given her some nice moves and she knew her body had lengthened and her muscles had streamlined as if she’d been doing some serious Pilates. There wasn’t an ounce of excess fat on her frame, despite her indulgent meals with Bart at her favorite local restaurant, Tito’s. Roux had ensured she learned the various martial arts, and she loved to box in the gym with a trainer.

  She liked feeling powerful. So few women really embraced their power, be it physical or emotional. They accepted lower pay in equal position to men merely to have the opportunity to climb the cooperate ladder. They demurred to their professional colleagues. They held back tears and assumed caretaker positions when no others would step forward to the task.

  And they rarely stood up for the innocents—save for on paper and in court—by swinging
a battle sword in the faces of evil. Someone needed to do that, because the world was stepping up and shoving those evil faces out in mockery.

  She did have a right to wield the sword. No dream was going to make her think otherwise.

  Thanks to a satellite card she could grab an internet connection even in the middle of rural Ireland. Eric had uploaded the segments he’d filmed of the landscape and scenery for her to proof. She’d check those later.

  Now she searched Frank Neville to see what she could find. Three search results produced websites, but she suspected Neville’s Nutritious Nuts was probably not the organization funding this dig. Nor did twelve-year-old Frank and his collection of vacuum cleaners hit the target.

  The other Frank was mentioned in a federal case concerning drug trafficking. That could be her man, but it appeared as though that Frank was sitting in San Quentin at the moment, and he had to be eighty.

  Typing in Michael Slater brought up another scatter of sites and unlikely professions.

  “Can you look up a map for me, Annja?”

  Wesley appeared by her side. Annja noticed the woman he’d been teaching now carefully brushed at the skull, and no longer leaned on the stone wall for support. Good for Wesley for not admonishing her too hard, and allowing her to continue with her find. Hands-on was the only way she would ever learn.

  “Let me guess,” she said. “Ireland, nineteenth century?”

  “I’m interested in the survey of land during the potato famine. NewWorld is being slower than molasses to answer my requests. Actually, I think I’m on my own.”

  “No problem. I’ve got satellite.” She typed in a search. “You get lab results back on the soil sample?”

  “Later today. I’m driving to Cork. You want to come along?”

  “I might, thank you. I stopped at the hospital yesterday but they are only allowing relatives.”

  “Maybe I can get you in to see her.”

  “How is that possible if they’re only allowing relatives? You and Beth were close?”