by Alex Archer
Having Doug in the middle of everything hampered her. If she fought free, she was certain Dieter would kill Doug as an object lesson. Or out of spite if she got away.
Dieter focused on her. The pistol bulged in his pocket.
"You're planning on going to Venice, Miss Creed?" Dieter asked.
Annja didn't say anything.
"Mr. Morrell, was Miss Creed trying to make arrangements through you to get to Venice?" Dieter asked the question without looking at Doug.
"Uh... " Doug responded.
"Mr. Morrell, if you attempt to lie to me, I'm going to kill you right here."
"Yep." Doug nodded vehemently. "She was all over me about wanting to go to Venice. Couldn't say enough about it. Wheedled. Pressured. Guilted me. I sat down at the table and she started in about Venice."
"Shut up," Dieter commanded.
"Okay." Doug grew quiet, but it was hard on him.
"Why were you going to Venice, Miss Creed?"
"I got this one," Doug volunteered. "She was going to investigate ghosts."
"Ghosts?"
"Yeah. They don't have any vampire stories or serial-killer legends in Venice. And we don't just make stuff up. Okay, maybe we enhance things a little, but we do claim creative license in the show. Right before every episode."
Dieter frowned.
"You see," Doug went on, "those are some of the best standby – "
To Annja's left, a cargo van pulled around the corner and slowed behind a cab just starting to pull away from the curb. The van was coming to a stop in front of them. One of Dieter's men stepped up to meet it.
Anxiety filled Annja. If they were placed in the van, their chances of escape would lessen. Now would be the best time to escape.
A muffled sound came from behind her, then a growled oath in German.
Turning, Annja saw the small man she'd noticed earlier in Sherlock's standing with his notebook computer case in both hands. The mercenary standing closest to the man was rubbing his head and looking thoroughly irritated.
"What's going on?" Dieter demanded.
"The little idiot struck me with his computer."
They spoke in German, but Annja understood enough to follow the conversation.
"Uh-oh," the stranger said.
"What do you think you're doing?" the mercenary demanded.
The little man closed his eyes and swatted at the man again. This time his feet shot out from under him on the icy sidewalk and he fell headlong toward the mercenary. Dieter's man grabbed him out of self-preservation.
Taking advantage of the situation, Annja caught Dieter's gun hand, trapped it against his body and kicked his feet out from under him. He went down face-first on the sidewalk. She helped him along. The impact was a meaty smack.
Still bent at the waist, Annja kicked backward, catching the man next to Dieter full in the face. He was dazed by the kick even before he slammed into the side of the van.
Several passersby made sure they kept on passing. No one even asked what was going on.
Annja grabbed Dieter's head with both hands and bounced it off the sidewalk again. If he wasn't out, he was at least too dazed to show any interest in the fight for a moment.
She spun toward the third man, feeling her feet slide treacherously out from under her. Catching the man's arm as he freed his pistol, she slipped her thumb between his and the pistol, then grabbed hold of his little finger with her other hand. She bent both. The pistol dropped free as one of the captured digits broke.
Flailing a hand, she caught the back of the man's foot and yanked. He sat down hard as Annja pushed herself to her knees. Before he could move, she punched him in the temple and he turned limp at once.
Seeing what had happened to his partners, the fourth man tried to free himself from the little man, who was hanging on to his gun hand with all his strength.
The van door opened behind Annja as she got to her feet. Standing, she lurched toward the van. She hit the door with both hands, knocking it into the man's head as he tried to climb out. She managed to grab the door and swing it closed twice more. The man slumped, half in and half out of the vehicle.
Annja's breath came out in rapid clouds. Looking back, she saw the little man still maintained a death grip on the remaining mercenary. The mercenary finally backhanded the man and knocked him to the ground. He swung his pistol toward Annja.
She caught the pistol by the barrel in her left hand, yanked down and squeezed hard. The man fired. The bullet struck the sidewalk and ricocheted into the van's tire, blowing it out and causing the vehicle to sag heavily to one side.
Still holding the pistol barrel after preventing it from blowing back to chamber another round, Annja drew her right leg back and delivered a roundhouse kick that knocked the man senseless. The blow almost knocked her from her feet.
Holding on to the pistol, Annja reversed it, then worked the action and sent the empty brass spinning through the air. She released the slide and stripped the top round from the magazine, chambering it.
Swinging around, she saw that all five men were unconscious or dazed.
"Wow," Doug said, gazing around. "I can't believe you just did that."
Annja pressed the gun barrel into the back of Dieter's neck. "Hands out. Like you're making a snow angel."
Dieter complied.
Taking the man's pistol from his coat pocket, she looked up at Doug, who stood idly by watching in stunned fascination.
"That was terrific!" Doug enthused. "Why can't we get something like that on Monsters? This is like ultimate fighting!"
"What are you doing?" Annja snapped. "This is the part where you call the police."
"Huh? Oh, yeah." Doug reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone and dialed 911.
****
"You were lucky."
Annja didn't say anything. She disagreed, though. She'd trained for years to handle herself. Of course, she'd never planned on having to do it on a regular basis. But the training was there.
She stood under the building canopy with a cup of hot chocolate in her hands. Bart and Doug stood beside her. Thankfully Bart was blocking some of the wind.
"It wasn't luck," Doug said. "You should have seen her, man. It was a Jet Li moment. She was all over the place. Really fast. Those guys never had a chance."
Bart looked at Doug. "You're not helping."
"Oh." Doug looked chagrined. "Sorry. But it was totally cool."
Dieter and his men were handcuffed and loaded into the backs of police cars. Other officers interviewed a few witnesses.
"Five guys." Bart shook his head. "Do you even know what these guys want from you?"
"They didn't know she wanted to go to Venice," Doug said. "When they found that out, they were really interested."
Annja shot Doug a look. "You're not helping."
Doug frowned. "I'm confused. The bad guys weren't supposed to know you wanted to go to Venice. Now you don't want the good guys to know, either?"
"Not helping," Annja said.
Pointing back inside the building, Doug said, "I'm just gonna go get a cup of coffee."
Bart looked at Annja. "What's in Venice?"
"I don't know."
Sighing in exasperation, Bart said, "You held something back on me, didn't you?"
"Maybe a little," Annja admitted. She knew that reticence on her part made Bart's job harder, but telling him everything made hers harder.
"What?"
"The part about the treasure."
Bart blew his breath out in a big cloud. "Tell me about the treasure."
"Do you want to know about Thor, too?"
"Is Thor Dieter's connection?"
"Thor. The thunder god."
Frowning, Bart said, "The Marvel Comics superhero? The guy with the long blond hair and the big hammer?"
"That was a different Thor."
"There was a real Thor?"
"That depends on your definition of real," Annja said.
****
/> "Quit," Bart said a few minutes later. "You're making my head hurt. I liked this better when Fellini was maybe killed by a rival archaeologist or someone who was after some kind of priceless object he was carrying. Writing this up is going to be a nightmare because there's nothing concrete about this. It's all guesswork."
Annja hadn't told Bart about the mosaic, only that she'd received an e-mail from Mario that she hadn't known about earlier.
"These guys killed Fellini over a treasure that might or might not exist?" Bart asked.
"I think they believe it exists," Annja said. "Otherwise they wouldn't have killed Mario and come looking for me."
"So they came after Fellini for the map?"
"I don't know."
"Where's the treasure?"
"I don't know."
"If you have to guess," Bart encouraged.
"I don't guess," Annja reminded him. "Not about my work. Not until I'm closer to knowing what's going on."
Bart shook his head. "Do you know when the last time was I had to work a homicide starring a guy that got killed for a treasure map?"
"No."
"Never is when. This is something I'd expect in an Edgar Allan Poe story."
Annja was quiet for a moment, but she couldn't hold in the pain, confusion and anger. She faced Bart. "Whether it sounds like a Poe story or not, this is not my fault. It wasn't Mario's fault, either. Dieter and his men killed Mario because of what he'd learned. All Mario ever wanted to do was find something important, some hidden piece of history that no one had ever found before. That's all anyone who works in this field wants to do. There's no crime in accomplishing that." She turned and walked away before he could answer.
"Annja," Bart called after her.
"I know, I know. Don't leave town, right?" Annja didn't look back at him. She didn't want him to see the tears. She was tired and she wanted to rest.
One of the policemen working the scene called out to Bart. In the reflection in the window glass facing the street, Annja saw Bart hesitate for a moment, then go to the police officer.
She hunkered in against the window, ducking out of the wind as much as she could. Freezing and unhappy, she was feeling totally frustrated because she was certain the events of the past few minutes hadn't changed Doug's mind about Venice.
Laying her head back against the glass, Annja tried very hard not to think about anything.
"Excuse me. Miss Creed?"
Opening her eyes, Annja saw the little man from Sherlock's standing in front of her. He held his coat collar up to block the wind from his face. A woolen cap covered his head but came to a blunt point that made him look slightly ridiculous.
"Hi," Annja said. "I'm sorry. I never did thank you for saving our lives."
The man looked embarrassed. "It wasn't much. Not compared to what you did."
"If you hadn't done what you did, I wouldn't have had the chance to do anything."
Preening a little, the man smiled. "You're very gracious." He glanced over his shoulder. "I couldn't help hearing you talking to that policeman. You said you had to get to Venice?"
Curious, Annja nodded. "That's right."
"I can make that happen," the man said. "If you'll allow me."
Suspicion clouded Annja's thoughts. "How?"
"My card." The man made it appear with a flourish.
Annja tugged her glove off and took the card, tilting it so she could read it in the light.
Stanley Younts
Author
For a moment, Annja couldn't place the name. Then it clicked into place. She looked at the man. "I know you."
Younts smiled shyly and pushed his glasses up his nose. "I'm surprised. Have you read any of my books?"
"No, I haven't. I'm sorry," Annja said.
Younts shrugged. "It's no big deal. It's just that a lot of people have."
"I don't read much fiction."
Annja realized that over the past seven years, Stanley Younts had been one of the best-selling novelists of all time. All of his books dealt with adventure and intrigue, with an interesting historical background.
"I scheduled a meeting with Doug this afternoon," Stanley said. "That's how I happened to be in Sherlock's. That's also why I was staring at you. I thought I recognized you, but I couldn't be sure. You look different on television. Or maybe after seeing the shows you've done, I just don't expect to see you in ordinary environs."
"Why did you want to meet with Doug?"
"I wanted to know if you would help me out with some research for my new book. I'd heard you helped with research."
"Not that kind of research. I sometimes help museums, auction houses and independent collectors," Annja replied.
"Fiction and nonfiction, we work with the same histories. We just deliver what we learn and what we think in different ways." Stanley smiled. "I just wanted to spend a few days with you. Get to know what you do and how you think. Then I'd reinvent it for the heroine I plan on writing about."
"I don't think what I do is all that interesting."
Stanley looked around at the crime scene. "I wouldn't say that."
"This," Annja stated emphatically, "is not normal."
"I'd hope not. I like to research characters I'm going to write about. My next novel is going to feature a female archaeologist who finds an alien artifact."
"Alien? As in otherworldly?"
"Exactly. It opens up a wormhole to another world, and she gets a chance to study the archaeology there, as well."
"Actually," Annja said, "I don't believe in aliens."
"I do," Stanley replied. "A lot of people do. I'm going to write a best seller that deals with genetic manipulation through the ages by an alien caretaker group that died thousands of years ago on a distant world. I've mentioned it to a few people in Hollywood, and there's already talk of a movie."
"Congratulations. But everything you've talked about – the genetic manipulations and aliens – isn't in my job description."
"I just need to see you in action. Maybe ask a few questions."
Annja tried to be polite. Stanley had risked his life in an attempt to help her and Doug. That kind of effort needed to be recognized. "This really isn't the time."
"I was going to suggest we could talk on the jet."
"What jet?"
"My private jet. I flew in from Montana this morning for the meeting. You said you wanted to go to Venice. I heard Doug tell you he couldn't make that happen. Well, I can."
Chapter 23
"Will it hurt?"
Erene Skujans looked into the child's eyes and thought of lying.
The girl was six, tiny and frail. She had big eyes, but they were made even bigger by the fear inside her. She cradled her right forearm, which was swollen and discolored.
Even without X-rays, Erene could see that the arm was broken and badly set. The mother had waited for days before seeking help. By now the bones had attempted healing, but they were healing badly. If they healed the way they were presently set, the girl wouldn't get much use from the arm in years to come.
It needed to be rebroken and reset. There would be considerable pain because of the stressed tissues around it.
Not telling the truth would have been the easiest, but Erene hated thinking of the repercussions. Few in the village trusted her as it was. She shouldn't have cared.
If they didn't trust her, they wouldn't come to her. There would be no more calls in the middle of the night to go birth a baby, no more interruptions during a meal to sew up a man's foot or leg where he'd mishandled an ax, no more infections to look at or warding off curses placed on one member of the village by another.
That would have been easier. And she knew how to lie. She was one of the best many people had ever seen.
But, in the end, that wasn't how her grandmother had trained her. As a hedge witch, the keeper of arcane health and lore, she was supposed to be a good force that the community could trust.
So she told the truth to the little girl lyi
ng on the table in the small house that had belonged to Erene's grandmother.
"Yes," Erene said, "it will hurt."
The child cried and tried to get away, rolling into her mother, who sat at the table's side. Tears rolled down the girl's face, and shrieks filled the small living room that doubled as Erene's surgery. The mother wept, too, but she didn't say anything. Nor did she try to take the daughter away.
Erene sat quietly by the table in the chair her grandmother used to occupy. If her grandmother had been here dealing with this, the arm would have already been fixed. But she'd had the complete trust of the village. They had come to her grandmother with everything. Most of the people living there now had been birthed by her.
Being inactive was hard for Erene. Especially knowing that Mario was dead somewhere and that she would never again see him. She felt tears prick the backs of her eyes.
"You can do this, yes?" the mother asked in English.
"I can," Erene said. They spoke English to her as if she was an outsider even though she'd been born in the village like most of them. But she'd left when she'd been seventeen, making her way first to Riga for a few years, then on into Europe.
Desperation lit the mother's eyes. "You can take away the pain, yes?"
"I can."
The mother's mouth trembled. Erena nodded, more to herself than anyone else. "I can."
"Then... please."
Erene looked into the woman's eyes as the little girl shrieked louder and tried to hold her mother even more tightly.
"Please," the mother repeated.
Erene opened the bag her grandmother had always kept ready. She rummaged inside and found the pouch of leaves she needed. Taking a pestle and mortar from the shelves built into the wall, she crushed the leaves until the sap gathered at the bottom.
Working carefully, she heated the sap over a candle. Like the rest of the village, the cottage had no electricity. When the sap began to bubble and the astringent smoke had started to make her nose burn, then tingle and start to go numb, she put the leaves on a cheesecloth, then poured the sap over them again.
Carrying the cloth by the ends, avoiding the sap and the leaves, Erene returned to the table. She placed the poultice on the child's neck.
"This will take the pain away," Erene said calmly. She made herself smile even though she couldn't stop thinking about killing Wolfram Schluter.