The Other Crowd

by Alex Archer

  Keeping her distance five feet from the tent, she straightened and insinuated herself alongside one wall. Ears keenly perked she heard snoring from within. One single snore. It didn’t mean only one person was inside, only one who snored.

  Would Slater stay overnight at the camp? Possible. Did that mean he was the security? Pretty lax, if he was snoring.

  She moved onward. Eric kept filming. The man had a remarkable sense of his surroundings and did not trip. He must be an athlete; grace came naturally.

  The truck was parked ahead. Taking a straight line because there was nothing to hide behind, Annja swiped at the breeze that moved her ponytail from in front of her shoulder to the back. Then she paused.

  There was no breeze. And she hadn’t moved her head.

  “Annja?” Eric whispered.

  She must have moved her hair, flipped it over her shoulder with a jerk of her head. It was the only thing that made sense. Until a strange flutter made her look down.

  “I hear it,” Eric whispered. “They’re here.”

  “Nothing is…” For some reason the protest didn’t feel right. She didn’t know what was causing her sudden nervousness, or making her hear things.

  It had to be an insect. Beetles were noisy, their carapaces clattering against wings in flight. It had sounded like that, like…a fluttering.

  “Just a bug,” she whispered, and signaled they continue.

  There were scads of colorful beetles native to Ireland. And if not that, it could have been a wasp or some big insect she was glad she hadn’t seen.

  Gripping her ponytail to pull it forward over her shoulder, Annja let go of the guessing games and focused.

  She reached the truck, pressed a palm along the metal side and walked the length of the bed toward the back. Something clanked behind her.

  That was no insect.

  Eric swore and slapped a palm to the truck bed. Annja’s heart pounded. The muscles in her neck and shoulders tightened. For a moment she stood like a statue, as did Eric. He’d tripped on something metal. So much for grace.

  When alert, her senses heightened, picking up breaths and footsteps more easily than most. Both of them glanced west. No noise came from within the tent. The snoring had stopped, or else she was too far away to hear it.

  Moving around to the back of the truck bed, she gestured for Eric to follow. Testing the back doors with her fingers, she was surprised to feel them give. They were not locked.

  A male cry of pain alerted her. She heard a body hit the ground and the clatter of the plastic-encased camera followed.

  “Eric,” she whispered slowly.

  Footsteps crunched the dirt. Those were not Eric’s rubber-soled Vans.

  Sucking in a breath through her nose, Annja calmed. At times like this, she had nothing to fear because she wasn’t a lone woman without protection.

  She swept out her right hand. Tapping into the otherwhere she opened her fingers and closed them about the hilt of her battle sword. Slapping her left hand to the hilt, she prepared to meet whatever swung around the corner of the truck.

  13

  Bright light flashed, causing Annja’s pupils to constrict and reducing her ability to see in the darkness. She didn’t need to see who held the flashlight. Now that she had marked his position, she swung her arms out wide, twisting at the waist. The blade landed at his throat.

  “Drop it,” she demanded. The flashlight beam wobbled and landed on the ground. “What’s in the other hand, too.”

  The clatter of a pistol barrel hit the ground. The man was big; she had to look up to feel his breath on her face. Salty anxiety wafted from him.

  “Who are you?” he growled in a British accent similar to Slater’s.

  “I could ask the same. Anyone else out here tonight?” She pressed the blade into his flesh. It hadn’t cut, but she could change that quick enough.

  “Hey!” His knuckles hit the truck bed behind him as he raised his hands in placation. “Watch it!”

  “Bring the volume down. Or are you alerting your buddies?” Annja maintained a keen sense for her surroundings, especially any footsteps approaching from behind.

  “I’m the only bloke on security tonight.”

  “No one else? The tents are empty?”

  “Yes, they all leave at nightfall.”

  “I thought I heard someone snoring in the main tent.”

  “I’m the only one. Trust me, duck.”

  That would never happen. Annja twisted the blade to press the flat of it under his jaw, prompting him to lift his chin. “What did you do to my man?”

  “Tranq dart,” he said. “It will knock him out for a couple hours.”

  “Eric?” she called.

  She heard a groan.

  “You must have missed,” she said to the security guard. “Step aside.”

  She followed his careful sideways steps with the blade of her sword, wedging it firmly against his neck. When he stood against the open sky his silhouette, imposing as it was, showed her he was barrel-shaped and probably more brawn than physically agile. That could either work to his advantage or, if she was quick, to hers.

  Bending and performing a sinuous move, she snapped up the dart gun from the ground with her left hand. That moment of inattention got her a boot to the side of her shoulder. Her body collided with the rear truck tire. Yet she maintained her hold on both the gun and sword.

  The security guard ran around to the other side of the truck.

  Scrambling to her feet, Annja skipped over Eric’s fallen body. “Be right back. Stay there.”

  “My leg,” he said, and groaned.

  Stopping to listen, she heard heels scuff across rubble. Annja tracked the man to the truck cab. He could hop in and drive away, but not on her watch.

  She dashed around the front of the truck and slashed her sword across his thigh as he took the first step up into the truck. With a yelp, he released his grip on the steering wheel and landed on the ground, arms splayed.

  Pinioning him with the sword tip directly over his heart, Annja loomed over him. With her other hand she teased the dart gun’s trigger. It was spring-loaded, ready to fire.

  “What’s in the truck?” she asked.

  “Nothing but supplies.” His heavy accent was difficult to understand, but she got the hint. “Bloody trespasser,” he said.

  Yes, she was. Thankful for the darkness, she felt sure if this guy reported a woman sneaking about camp with a cameraman in tow, it wouldn’t take long for anyone to put two and two together.

  “Why don’t you let me take a look inside?”

  “It’s shovels and buckets!” He finally decided to play along.

  “Just a peek, then, to verify. Stay.”

  Holding aim on him with the pistol, she backtracked to the end of the truck. Releasing the sword into the otherwhere gave her a free hand to dig out her Maglite. A flash of it inside the truck bed found it was empty save for, indeed, a stack of empty black buckets.

  Did Slater’s camp believe security was necessary to protect a few supplies and a skeleton? She’d heard of rivalry at dig sites, but this was pushing it a bit far.

  She thought she should have a look inside the tents, but as the man had stated, she was the trespasser. She didn’t need to cross any more lines tonight, especially since her original plan to sneak in unnoticed had gone haywire.

  “We’ll be leaving, then, nice and quick,” she said.

  Pulling the trigger, she aimed for the guard’s arm, and was pleased when he grunted as the dart pierced flesh. A good shot should put him out completely within fifteen to thirty seconds.

  “Ah-ah.” She nudged his arm with her toe. “Just let that rush through your system. Good boy.”

  His body relaxed under her foot. With a nudge of her boot toe to the side of his head, she verified he was out.

  Slater would hear all about it in the morning, which gave her a few hours to come up with a good reason for scouting his camp in the middle of the night.
>
  Rushing around the side of the truck, she expected to find Eric out cold, too. He sat with his shoulders braced against a tire. Annja knelt before him.

  “Some kind of dart,” he muttered, huffing as if his breaths pained him. “I tugged it out of my thigh as soon as I felt the hit. It just cut through some skin but didn’t go deep, but I can’t feel my leg now, Annja. I’m paralyzed.” Panic eddied his voice up an octave. “I can’t lose my leg. I’m young. Girls don’t go for guys in wheelchairs. Well, some do, but those chicks are whacked. Annja!”

  “It’s a tranquilizer. Your leg is asleep. The more you move, the more the adrenaline pushes it through your system. Though, perhaps it didn’t hit the bloodstream with the shallow cut. I think you lucked out, Eric. Just give me one minute.”

  She retrieved the video camera and swept it across the camp one last time, including taking in the fallen guard’s face.

  “Annja!”

  Eric must be falling asleep. Or there could be others who had been alerted by their noise. The guard had no reason to lie about being the only one on-site, and every reason if he were protecting something valuable.

  Annja shut off the camera, and raced back to Eric’s side.

  “It stings,” Eric said as she went to help him stand.

  “You’re going to have to hop along beside me,” she directed. “We have to move fast before anyone else discovers us. Put your arm around my shoulder and let’s go.”

  “You got the camera?”

  “Yep.” She helped him to stand and hop on one foot.

  “How’d you get away from that dude? He was huge. And he had that gun.”

  “Used my feminine wiles.”

  “Wiles?”

  “Quiet now. We’ll talk when we get back.”

  Passing the truck and tents, she thought briefly about the strange feeling she’d had before finding the guard. That someone or something had been near her. Something she could not see, yet it had felt as if wings had moved the air about her.

  With a careful scan of her surroundings, Annja led Eric into the dark countryside. If there were faeries out here, she’d try her best to avoid any raths or hawthorn bushes, anything the other crowd deemed their own.

  Just to be safe.

  14

  They arrived back at the B and B around 5:00 a.m. After Annja inspected Eric’s thigh and declared it a superficial wound—the dart had torn his jeans and abraded the skin—he fell immediately to sleep.

  She decided to view the video of the enemy camp in the morning. She’d managed three hours of sleep when the proprietress knocked on her room door, announcing breakfast below.

  Eric’s knock followed shortly after that. He popped his head in the doorway as Annja was sliding from under the covers. She tugged the sheet up to her chest. She wore the same T-shirt she’d been wearing last night but below that it was just her underwear.

  “You coming?” he asked.

  Annja marveled that he was bright and shiny after so little sleep. Was she really getting old enough that she admired the resilience of youth?

  “Of course I am. Nothing can keep me away from black pudding. How are you feeling?” she asked.

  “You were right, it’s just a nick. I think it was more shock at actually being shot at than actual injury, you know? But I’m tough.” He flexed his biceps. “This is turning out to be way more exciting than following my dad around on documentary gigs.” He gave her a thumbs-up, then closed her door.

  Fifteen minutes later, after some amazing luck at finding the bathroom empty and the shower stocked with towels, Annja sat at a table perusing the black pudding. It wasn’t mushy or in any sort of form she associated with pudding. It was actually sliced blood sausage that was then fried. Although there was nothing keeping her away from the delicacy, she changed her mind, and went with double the rashers and eggs. An extra helping of beans was served, too.

  Mrs. Riley and her son joined her, along with Eric, who was very focused when he ate. He’d criticized the local cuisine, but he certainly had no problem putting it down when it was available.

  “What’s that, honey?” Mrs. Riley asked as her husband entered, coddling something close to his chest. He headed for the refrigerator and opened it up.

  “Wine from Mr. Collins.”

  Annja saw Mr. Riley slide a dark wine bottle into the fridge. “Daniel Collins?” she asked.

  “Yes, he’s got the nicest wines,” the man said as he wandered into the dining room. “He barters, did you know?”

  “What did you trade this time, honey?” his wife asked.

  “Ah? Oh, er, nothing of much import. Something I found in one of the delivery trucks.” Annja had been told the husband delivered auto parts to various repair shops in County Cork. “Never you mind much, it’s all in the goblet, don’t you know. That’s what Collins told me. Something about allowing the wine to breathe, and the width of the goblet opening. Nice to meet you, Miss Creed. My wife tells me you’re with the dig up yonder?”

  “Actually, I’m here to film a segment about the people gone missing from the dig.”

  “Ah, that’d be the fair folk, then.” Mr. Riley sat down and tucked a napkin in at his collar and began to murder the runny eggs on the plate before him. “You don’t expect to catch the wee things on film, do you?”

  She caught his gleeful wink.

  “Not at all. I’ve been told the fair folk are not seen but rather experienced.”

  “It would bring a disaster upon you to attempt such shenanigans with your filming equipment. I was quite relieved when the BBC was shuffled out of town, don’t you know.”

  “My crew is small, just myself and Eric. And I hope to explore the more…human aspects of the story while I’m here.”

  The husband and wife exchanged glances. Did everyone believe in faeries except her?

  “You know, Rachel Collins owns a genuine faerie spear,” Mrs. Riley said as she offered Annja another pour of paint-peeling coffee. “And Certainly Jones, well, he’s always sauced so we can never be sure what truths he speaks or if they are faerie tales. It’s all tales of faeries, then, isn’t it?”

  Annja offered a closemouthed smile.

  “To think it all started with Farmer Gentry’s arthritis,” Mr. Riley said around a mouthful of beans.

  “Is that the name of the farmer whose land we’re digging on?” Annja asked.

  “Indeed. He found the spear fragment when he was cutting turf to soak in.”

  Annja lifted a brow. “Soak in what?”

  “Himself. Peat is good for the muscles and bones,” he explained. “Gentry soaks every other day and swears he’s much more spry for it. Good for the arthritis, don’t you know. You tell me you haven’t seen those fancy salons in the United States that sell the peat baths for restoration and beauty for thousands of your American dollars?”

  “I don’t really go to spas,” Annja replied. “It makes sense, though. The peat would retain vital minerals and carbon that could have a healing effect on the body.”

  Mr. Riley nodded, pleased with the information he’d bestowed, and his wife patted his forearm.

  Annja would have to remember that silver lining the next time she found herself mucking about in a fresh, deep bog.

  MR. RILEY OFFERED Annja and Eric a vintage black Mini Cooper to use for the day if they’d stop by the market and pick him up some cigars. Annja was ready to tell him he could probably barter with Daniel for those, too, but it was the least she could do in response to his generous offer.

  More rust than paint coated the body of the compact road hazard. But after a few stops and starts Eric got a handle on the stick shift.

  On the passenger side, Annja reviewed the night’s footage that she’d transferred to her laptop. Even enhancing the video and altering the brightness didn’t allow for much clarity. It had been a dark dig. But the skeleton did show quite nicely, which pleased her.

  She was able to confirm the pelvic bone was female from the wide sciatic notch
nicely revealed on film.

  She couldn’t be sure, but the pale gray smudges along the femur looked like fabric. It was very unlikely that fabric would have survived so long in regular dirt, but not impossible when buried in a peat bog. Peat retained moisture well, which preserved things like skin, bone and some fabrics. Heck, it even cured arthritis, according to Mr. Riley. A sample of the thread strands could be dated with the proper lab equipment. Wesley Pierce had contacts in Cork. They’d be able to learn a lot about the corpse if they could test the fabric.

  She much preferred to do things on the up-and-up. She wondered if Michael Slater would be open to her testing the fabric strands if she asked nicely.

  Plugging in the satellite card, she then went online and searched for information about the area along the Bandon River. That brought up a surveyor’s map. The forest and bog were noted, but the makeshift road to the river was not.

  Next she researched nineteenth-century Ireland.

  The first few pages of hits detailed the potato famine and the incredible trials and struggle the Irish people—and countries including Belgium and Prussia—endured for that period in the mid-century when their most prized and fruitful crop had been blighted by a fungus, leaving a quarter of the population starving, unable to pay rents and seeking mass emigration. The loss of crops—a way of life—had killed millions within a five-year period. To this day, the country’s population was still less than it had been in the nineteenth century.

  It was very interesting, but she still couldn’t figure how that would make the one skeleton worth protecting with security and why people were disappearing. Anything left behind from the famine period could not be particularly valuable.

  And to consider Mrs. Collins’s makeshift diamond, Annja could only shake her head. She decided to let the information brew.