The Other Crowd

“Done.”

3

Rangy and easy in his skin, Daniel Collins was, from outer appearances, quite the character. Long skinny jeans clung to his legs as if glued to the skin. The pants certainly didn’t require the white suspenders that hung loosely over a black shirt decorated with gold appliqués across the chest. A red-and-black plaid coat, the sleeves rolled to expose his veiny forearms, hung on his lithe frame. Gold hoop earrings clung to both earlobes and were small enough not to be garish, but added an interesting glint to his narrow face, which was mastered by bushy black brows.

A black fedora capped his head, and he tilted it to Annja as she approached to shake his hand.

“You must be the television host Mr. Morrell asked me to drop everything to come and fetch.”

“Sorry about that. Doug tends to think the world moves on his time. So I assume you’re as surprised about this assignment as I am?”

“Surprised, but willing. It’s not every day I’m given the opportunity to show a lovely American lady around my neck of the woods.” He looked beyond Annja. “Eric?”

“You remember Eric Kritz. He’s my cameraman,” Annja said.

Eric looked up from his iPod long enough to nod at Daniel. He didn’t have the earbuds in. He’d explained to Annja during the flight that he used the music player as a backup hard drive to store still photographs. He must be paging through the aerial photos he’d taken from the plane as they’d landed she thought.

“You’re all grown up, Mr. Kritz,” Daniel said in acknowledgment. “So, the two of you, have you got some ID so I can be sure you are who you say you are?”

Taken aback by that request, Annja laughed. She was often introduced and accepted merely for her fame and the fact she was associated with the TV show. But a wise man should ask for ID.

She tugged her passport out from her backpack and flashed it for him. “I don’t have ID from the show. But I am who I say I am.”

Eric did have press credentials for Chasing History’s Monsters, which he flashed. How he managed a press pass—and she had never been given one—was something Annja intended to discuss with Doug when she returned to the States.

Eric shuffled around in his duffel bag and pulled out a small cigar box. “Mr. Collins,” he said, “a gift from my father.” He handed over the box.

Daniel sniffed the box, his eyes closing briefly in olfactory satisfaction. “Cigars. Thanks to your father, boy. I do love a Montecristo.”

“Inspired by Dumas’s story,” Annja tossed out. She was an Alexandre Dumas fan.

“Indeed. The Count of Monte Cristo. A fine story, if not a wee bit far-fetched.” With a wink to her, Daniel tucked the box under an arm without opening it to inspect. He gestured that they follow him to the parking lot outside the airport terminal.

“Doug said you know the dig director and can get us clearance to film on-site?” Annja asked.

“Already done. His name is Wesley Pierce and he expects you. Let’s hop in the Jeep and get you settled first. There’s a cozy little B and B a few jogs from the dig site at the edge of Ballybeag, and I know the proprietress, Mrs. Riley. Already told her you’d be needing rooms.” He winced, noting Eric’s general disinterest. “Be sure and take advantage of the breakfast every morning, but with a warning to avoid the black pudding.”

“Avoid the black pudding,” Annja affirmed as she climbed into the passenger seat of the Jeep. Eric shuffled his equipment into the back and scrambled in. “Would it be all right if we head straight to the dig? After the flight delays and layovers it’s late afternoon and I’d hate to lose a day. I want to take a look around, familiarize myself with the area. I may find an opportunity to talk to someone who knew those who disappeared.”

“Doug was right about you being focused,” Daniel said. “To the dig it is.”

Once out of city limits, the regional roads in County Cork—all of Ireland, for that matter—weren’t so much roads as pathways carved out of necessity for getting from one place to the other. They weren’t well marked, and if so, Annja noticed, the signs sometimes displayed kilometers, and other times mileage—on the same road.

“You have to learn the county quirks,” Daniel commented when Annja remarked about the mileage markers. “I’ve decided it’s always best to go by kilometers. But no matter which method of measure you choose, you’ll always end up somewhere, sooner or later.”

“Somewhere is a better place to be than nowhere at all,” Annja agreed. The open-topped Jeep sucked in the country smells as they traversed the rugged road. She tilted her head against the seat and took it all in.

“You feel like you’re home?” Daniel asked Eric after they’d been driving awhile.

“Huh?”

“I mean your heritage.”

Eric wielded a mini-DV video camera, sweeping it across the horizon.

“Come to recall a conversation with your father,” Daniel mused, “I think his pa’s grandfather was from around this neighborhood somewhere.”

“Cool,” Eric said.

Annja caught Daniel’s eye. He clearly wasn’t impressed with Eric. She had to give the kid credit, though. He was filming, and she liked his focus.

Ireland did take the prize for being green. Though a dusting of fog hung low above the ground, the rolling fields were coated with what looked like tightly packed moss, though she knew it was wild grass. Dark green shrubs pocked the perfect quilt of emerald here and there.

“Is that gorse?” Annja asked of the shrubs spotted with golden blooms.

“When gorse is in flower, kissing is in fashion,” Daniel replied. “Or so they say.” Again he winked at her, and resumed his attention to the road.

A row of pine trees lined a field where livestock grazed. The cattle were hearty and looked like something out of an old English cottage painting. There were even a couple of sheep.

They careened around a sharp curve that hugged what Annja knew was a rath, a small hill that locals would be keen to avoid because they believed faeries lived beneath the hill.

She had brushed up on the local mythology during the flight. It wasn’t in her to resist any kind of mystery, and if that entailed learning more about the history of the land, then she was all for that.

Faeries were definitely integrated into the Irish culture.

“Hang on!”

At Daniel’s shout, Annja gripped the handhold above her head and was crushed up against the steel door. A fast-moving white truck barreled toward them. Daniel swerved sharply to the right. The Jeep slid sideways over the rough gravel, the tires clambering for hold.

Thick spumes of road dirt clouded over the open-topped Jeep. From the backseat, Eric cursed and coughed. Annja tucked her face into her elbow but she still inhaled a hearty dose of dust.

“The devil take those lousy bastards!” Daniel gunned the accelerator and managed a remarkable venture over what looked like moss-covered boulders edging the road.

Through the foggy mire, Annja spied something small and white. “Sheep!”

The Jeep veered sharply left. Eric clung to the roll bar and swore.

“Missed the poor bloke,” Daniel announced with cheer. “Won’t be dining on chops tonight!”

Clinging to the door frame so she wouldn’t be bounced out of the car, Annja called back to see if Eric was all right.

“And the equipment?” she hollered after his affirmative grunt.

“Full of dust, but fine.”

“Sorry ’bout that.” Daniel’s grin met Annja’s worried glance. She offered him a sheepish smile. The Jeep navigated the road in the wake of the truck that had blown by with so little regard. “The bastards in the new camp have all sorts of macho equipment they’re driving back and forth all times of day and night. They’ve no respect for the land, that’s for sure. Fashes me, it does.”

“The new camp? I thought this was a single dig? Isn’t it just a simple artifact find?” Annja asked.