The Other Crowd

by Alex Archer

  “High tech,” she observed. “Eric did mention you’re a fanatic about wine.”

  “Guilty as charged. Mr. Kritz must have told him about my collection.”

  Right. Eric’s father. The man financing this trip. And should that bother her more than it did? Why hadn’t Doug mentioned that detail? Everyone was intertwined, and that raised the red flag.

  Annja peered at the computer monitor. “So you have all the bottles entered in this program?”

  “Yes. Any bottles I’ve consumed I record notes on them, as well. The bottles each have a bar code that I use to track provenance and chateau. A climate-control system monitors the temperature and keeps it at a constant fifty-seven-degree/seventy-percent-humidity ratio. The security is fierce, as well.”

  “Security? You get a lot of burglars out here on your little patch of green?”

  “You’d be surprised at the riffraff that comes sorting about for artifacts and bits and bobs.”

  Like his mother?

  “If they’ve been drinking they can be very bold,” he said. “They will knock right on the door and start a ruckus. That’s why I keep a 20-gauge shotgun beside the door.”

  “Not unwise.” She eyed a huge wine bottle behind the computer screen. It was about three feet tall.

  “That’s called a Balthazar,” he offered upon noting her wonder. “Holds twelve liters. Equal to sixteen bottles of wine. I keep it for a conversation piece.”

  “I bet. This is all very impressive, Daniel.”

  “You haven’t seen anything yet.”

  He turned and perused a rack of bottles, drawing his long fingers down the row. He stopped at one and pulled out the bottle. “You enjoy wine, Annja?”

  “On occasion.”

  She preferred Diet Coke and beer but she wasn’t a snob. Wine would serve when appropriate.

  “How long does it take to acquire a collection like this?”

  Daniel uncorked the bottle he held and set it on the center counter. “I’ve got about twenty thousand bottles. Been collecting for fifteen years. And yes, that makes me a lot older than you.”

  “I wasn’t aware the age difference was a concern. Is it when drinking wine and sharing conversation?”

  “Not at all. But we’ve yet to have a scintillating conversation. Unless you consider a stolen midnight kiss?” He smiled and handed her the bottle. “Take a swig of this.”

  She accepted the bottle, glanced to the row of gleaming goblets, then decided it was his character to expect her to quaff a swig directly from the bottle. So she did.

  “What do you think?” Daniel walked onward, eyeing the bottles as if in search of another. He thumbed his chin. Dark ink looking like a birthmark slashed across his flesh.

  The red wine was deep, pleasant and a little fruity. Annja had no clue when it came to actually discerning good wine from otherwise not. She’d once attended a tasting at New York University and had learned there were too many ways to define wine. Acid, cloying, luscious, foxy, peppery. And then to spit it out?

  “It’s wine,” she offered. “Pretty good.”

  He nodded and wandered farther into the cellar depths. Taking out a bottle from a row, he displayed it to her.

  Annja tucked the bottle she held to her chest and went to inspect. The label was unevenly cut around the edges, definitely not machine printed. “Old?”

  “Seventeenth century. A rarity. Not many bottles survive from that long ago. The glass is so fragile. If you can find eighteenth century you should consider yourself lucky.”

  “Nice. French?”

  “Prephylloxera Lafite. Very rare. Made before the yellow root louse infestation forever changed the vintage. It is the holy grail of wines.”

  He replaced the bottle. Annja lingered on the vertical row of ancient bottles that must hold so much history coded within their murky depths. A connoisseur could decipher that liquid code. But she did know that not all wine traversed the decades intact. It could very well be vinegar Daniel kept as a prized possession in some of these bottles.

  “So how much does an old bottle like that cost?”

  “The prephylloxera? That one put me back five hundred Gs.”

  “Five hundred thousand?” she repeated, utterly stymied.

  “Yes, but that’s my most expensive bottle.”

  And he didn’t have it under lock and key? If it was her, she would put it in a safe and surround it with guards.

  “People pay that much for wine?”

  “Yes, and you can never know if the contents will be drinkable or reduced to vinegar.”

  “Then why spend so much on it?”

  “It’s buying history, Annja. You must be able to appreciate that.”

  “I do appreciate history, but not the kind that breaks the bank. I like to dig it up from the dirt. For free.”

  Daniel chuckled. “But you’re not allowed to keep your finds.”

  “I can go to a museum whenever I wish and spend an entire day looking over any number of valuable artifacts.”

  “True. But drinking history is amazing.”

  “Even vinegar?”

  “Even so.” He pointed toward the other aisle, where he shuffled down the row and sorted through the bottles.

  Annja took another swig from her bottle. History? The label was marked 1955. Old, but not surprisingly so. It was certainly before her time. “So how much did this stuff cost?”

  “Five grand,” he said, and turned away from her, dismissing the statement as if a mere comment of a mediocre day of sunshine.

  Nearly choking, Annja swallowed hard. The wine burned now. It dropped to her belly like a stone. Suddenly the word vigorous came to mind to describe it. Five thousand? She inspected the bottle. A few healthy oaths tickled her tongue, but she held them back.

  Daniel had handed her a five thousand dollar bottle of wine as if it were something he’d picked up at the liquor store for six bucks. What the hell?

  “Ah, here.” He claimed another bottle and opened it up. “A nice pinot grigio. My favorite. You bring that bottle, and I’ll decant this one. We’ll go up and chat a bit.”

  “Thanks, but I think I’ve had enough wine for the day. You want this one back?”

  “No, you keep it, Annja. It’s a gift.”

  Cradling the bottle carefully, for now she feared dropping it, Annja followed the man upstairs.

  “I’d offer a Montecristo, but I don’t believe you smoke,” he said as they took the hallway back into the kitchen.

  “Thanks, but I do enjoy the smell. I should probably be going. I had intended to speak to Wesley and look around the forest a bit before it gets too late. Don’t want to tease the midnight hour.”

  “The witching hour can be very magical.”

  “Is that when the faeries come out?”

  “They could.” He winked. “They most definitely could.”

  25

  Eric was surprised that Annja was not filming more footage for the show. Doug Morrell expected faerie stuff, and Eric was determined to get it, whether or not Annja participated.

  “I should have asked to work with Kristie,” he muttered as he adjusted the night-vision lens. “At least she would have been more fun. We’d probably be soaking in a hot tub right now with a bunch of leprechauns drinking a pint.”

  He had to admit Annja was thorough. And she was concerned for the safety of the people involved with the dig, as opposed to merely seeking a sensational story. He had learned a few things from her already, not in the least, how to maintain professionalism.

  And then there was the stealth night filming and being chased by men with guns. Go figure. That was pretty exciting, he thought.

  It was probably best his first assignment had been with the smart one as opposed to the sexy one. Not that Annja wasn’t sexy. When he caught her unawares, just staring off at the horizon, her profile did things to him. Those full lips and that long gorgeous hair. Her body was great, too. She didn’t like it when he filmed her in those private
moments.

  He knew he already had enough footage of screw-ups to fill a whole one-hour gag-reel special. Doug might be interested in something like that for a special segment. That would rock.

  “She’s going to fall for Daniel,” he said, and hefted his camera to scan the land. “Dude’s too old for her.”

  What was it about women liking older men? Eric couldn’t figure it. Of course, Annja wasn’t that much older than him, but she came off as older. Wise. Very smart. He respected her a lot.

  That was why he’d let her sleep in and went off filming on his own earlier that day. What she was up to now, he didn’t know. He hadn’t been able to find her at the dig site or back at the B and B. He decided to take the initiative to start investigating, figuring Annja would be impressed.

  He was eager to explore the copse of trees along the north side of the dig where Beth had emerged from the forest during the night. It was about three hundred yards from the actual work site. The river backed up to it, and he could smell the water.

  “The other crowd,” Eric said. “If you’re out there, I will find you.”

  Night had fallen so quickly. Eric had started his walk to the forest when the sun was on the horizon, but now the half moon held court low in the sky. He entered the woods, picking his way slowly through the overgrown scrub and litter of dried twigs and old leaves. He recognized oaks, but had never paid attention in science class so everything else was just a tree.

  His boots crunched branches and Eric realized he should exercise more stealth, as Annja would say. If they heard him coming, they’d flee for sure.

  How did one attract the other crowd?

  “With rainbows and Broadway show tunes,” he muttered.

  This truly was a lame assignment. His father had suggested it as a means to kick-starting his career before he even graduated high school. A few credits on a major TV show would look sweet on his résumé.

  Something crackled. It had sounded close. Eric swung the camera to the right. It sounded like a branch breaking. The forest flora showed in various shades of green and black though the night lens.

  A blur of gray swept from the left side of the camera frame.

  Eric swung to the left but did not sight the anomaly.

  “Something is out there,” he whispered.

  With his heart racing, he ventured forward, stepping lightly. He liked a good fright, and knew that if he thought scary thoughts and expected the worst that his brain would follow and heighten his freak factor.

  He’d seen the movies. Blair Witch Project, Children of the Corn, all the Halloween movies and the complete Nightmare on Elm Street series. Nothing good ever came to those who ventured into the woods alone. It was classic horror movie fare.

  But he wasn’t alone; he had the camera. It was like being alone, but not. Dude, was he starting to creep himself out?

  “No way. Come out, ghosties. I’m not afraid of you,” he whispered.

  Something nudged his ankle. He stumbled. Eric swung the camera and scanned the ground. Leaves and branches. His Vans were darker on the toes where moisture had soaked into the leather.

  If Annja was right, people were kidnapping workers from the dig site. But could a person sneak up on him unaware in the middle of the forest? It was impossible to walk quietly through all the branches and foliage. A person would have to be a ghost—or a faerie flying silently through the air—to get the jump on anyone.

  A snap echoed.

  Eric swung around, scanning his periphery. He had wandered quite far. He couldn’t see the dim light from the enemy camp on the peat bog anymore. He could barely see ten feet in front of him. The tree canopy blocked out all moonlight and the night-vision lens distorted depth.

  Close by an owl hooted. That made Eric smile.

  Something was watching him, just not a human something. He wondered if owls attacked humans. He imagined their talons would hurt. He did not want to star in any part of The Birds alone in the woods where no one could hear him scream.

  Lifting the camera to his eye, he moved slowly in a circle, taking in the narrow tree column. The wide black spaces between the trees menaced with their utter blackness. It made him feel imprisoned and yet the breeze listing at the nape of his neck only heightened his increasing anxiety.

  A breeze? There was no breeze.

  But wasn’t this exactly like the other night? Annja had also felt a weird breeze the night they’d invaded the enemy camp, only she hadn’t said anything to him. But he’d known. She had been creeped out then.

  A face suddenly appeared immediately before the camera. It opened its mouth wide to reveal a gaping black maw.

  Eric swore and jerked his camera hand down a few inches. Wits fled, but he clutched the camera to focus again. He’d looked away, and now he couldn’t find it again.

  It had been a face. And not an owl’s face. It had been human. Or something resembling human with two eyes and that big open mouth. Cripes, what had a mouth like that?

  “Wasn’t there,” he muttered. “Couldn’t have been. I didn’t hear anything. Is…is anyone there?” he called out.

  He turned the camera lens toward his face and spoke. “I’m hot on their trail. There’s…something out there. I know I’ve found them. But who or what are they?”

  Way to go, Kritz. Keep the drama level high, even when you’re scared shitless.

  He jerked his gaze left to right. When not looking through the camera lens his vision was poor, only picking up shadows and black foggy tree trunks.

  Something fluttered near his ear. Eric swung the camera to the right, then realized the lens was still facing him—so he began to narrate.

  “It’s very close…whatever it is. I feel…like the temperature has dropped a few degrees. That’s what happens when ghosts are around. Right? Hell, I don’t want to see a ghost. There are no ghosts. Chill, Kritz. It was a stupid bird. The owl.”

  A branch cracked. He skipped ahead and nearly tripped, and his equilibrium faltered. Groping with his free hand, his fingers swept the chill air. His knees buckled and he fell.

  The camera crunched onto a pile of leaves. Body prone, Eric dug his fingers into the cool, moist leaf cover.

  Something grabbed him around the ankle. He yelled and groped for the camera but couldn’t reach it. His body was dragged along the ground.

  26

  Annja dressed in the tiny bathroom, then peeked out the doorway down the hall before skipping over to her room. The bed and breakfast didn’t offer en suite bathrooms. Four rooms shared one bathroom at the end of the hall, and two of those rooms belonged to the owner’s children.

  Knocking on Eric’s door, she waited to hear signs of life from inside his room. Funny how she had initially been worried about keeping him out of the pubs when the only one who had been tipping back the spirits lately had been her. She had a headache from Daniel’s wine this morning, which presented a sharp pain in her right temple. It didn’t matter how much that bottle had cost, she’d kill for an aspirin.

  Trying the knob, she opened the door a crack. The bed was made. Some of Eric’s clothes were folded neatly by the pillow.

  “Impressive.” The sun had barely peeked above the horizon. “He must be downstairs loading up on black pudding.”

  Eric wasn’t downstairs. He’d probably gone off filming again, she thought. Annja filled up on fresh cinnamon rolls and then went and left a note for him in his room. Rain poured throughout the day, and she spent the better part of the time at a body shop in Cork, getting a new back window put in the Mini Cooper. Thankfully, she’d been able to slip out before Mr. Riley had noticed.

  When she returned to the bed and breakfast, supper was brewing in the kitchen. Annja skipped upstairs to find her note still laying on Eric’s bed right where she’d left it.

  Her sense of something not being right teetered toward the orange security alert zone. She lingered in the dining room until Mrs. Riley popped in with fresh biscuits.

  “Did I miss Eric?” she ask
ed the proprietress.

  “Haven’t seen him all day, dear. Didn’t see him last night, either. He must have tucked in early. Though you did come in rather late.”

  And toting a very expensive half bottle of wine. She thought about the bottle she’d stuck in the refrigerator. “Did you find the wine I left?”

  “Harvey tilted it back around after midnight. I hope you weren’t saving it for yourself? It’s not often the mister has wine. He’s a pint man, he is.”

  And yet just yesterday Mr. Riley had been toting a bottle of wine he’d bartered from Daniel. Some people only saw what they wanted to see, Annja figured.

  Did that include faeries?

  “Said it had a bit of a corky taste,” Mrs. Riley continued. “Must have been a cheap bottle, eh?”

  “About five thousand dollars cheap actually,” Annja said. She left the woman with her mouth hanging open, the plate of biscuits tilting dangerously over the table.

  The inn sat at the edge of the village. Annja just caught the tail end of a bicycle troop rolling through. They did tours across the countryside, and next time Annja was here, not on business, she fully intended to join the fun.

  Daniel pulled up and jumped from the Jeep in all haste. He reached into the back of the vehicle.

  “What’s up?” she said.

  “Mum found something this afternoon on her walk.” He held up a video camera—a very familiar camera.

  Annja swallowed roughly. She grasped the handheld camera. “This is Eric’s. Where’d your mother find it? Where’s Eric? Have you seen him?”

  “You’d better take a look at what’s been recorded,” Daniel said. “Let’s go inside, shall we?”

  Confused that she held something Eric would never have left lying around to be found by a cross-country-hiking old woman, Annja let Daniel tug her inside.