Gabriel's Horn. Alex Archer

watched the Prague police detective and tried to read his lips. The man’s mouth hardly moved, and the bushy mustache further disguised what he was saying.

      “I’m sorry,” she said. “You’re going to have to speak up.” Her own words barely penetrated the thick cotton in her ears. “I can’t hear very well since the explosions.”

      The detective, whose name was Skromach, calmly started over. He looked like a patient man. Slight of stature, he exuded an air of competence. His salt-and-pepper hair needed the attention of a barber, but his suit was impeccable.

      “You ran after the men, Miss Creed?” Skromach asked.

      “Yes.” Annja sat on the steps of a nearby building. An ambulance attendant treated a thin cut below her left eye and another along her jawline. Neither was bad enough to scar, but they would show for a while. She hoped Garin wasn’t planning on taking her anywhere too elegant because she would look like a ragamuffin.

      Skromach held his pen poised over his notepad. “Why would you do such a thing?”

      “I didn’t want the men who did this to get away.”

      The detective nodded. “You think they did this?”

      Annja nodded at the burning pyre of cars the local fire department was dealing with. Water streamed from hoses. Gray steam clouds mixed with the black smoke.

      “That wasn’t supposed to happen,” she said.

      Skromach shrugged. “Perhaps it was an overzealous special-effects person.”

      “No,” Annja said, feeling the need to defend Barney and his crew. “That blast was deliberately set.”

      “For the movie, yes?”

      “No.” Annja shook her head. The ambulance attendant, a no-nonsense woman, grabbed her chin and held her steady. “The special-effects crew is good. They wouldn’t make that kind of mistake.”

      Skromach flipped back through his notes. Annja had seen him questioning movie people while she’d talked to Barney and Roy. Both of them were banged up but they were going to be fine.

      “I see here that you’re not a special-effects person,” the police detective said.

      “No,” Annja said, realizing her hearing was beginning to clear.

      Skromach nodded. “You’re here as an archaeologist attached to the film?”

      “Yes. But I’m only loosely attached. I’m taking care of the props.”

      “I see. Tell me about the props.”

      “They’re Egyptian. Statues of Bast and Anubis.”

      “Were they pharaohs?”

      “No. Gods. A god and goddess, to be exact. Bast is an ancient goddess worshiped since the Second Dynasty. About five thousand years, give or take. Anubis was the god of the underworld. Usually he’s shown having the head of a jackal.”

      That seemed to catch Skromach’s interest. “These statues are valuable?”

      “Only to a collector. They aren’t actually thousands of years old, but they are a few hundred.”

      “A few hundred years seems like a valuable thing. I collect stamps myself, and some of those are worth an incredible amount of money after only a short time.”

      “That’s generally because they’re issued with flaws. This—” Annja tried to find the words she wanted but failed “—wouldn’t be like that.”

      “I see.” Skromach didn’t sound convinced.

      “Someone hosed the gag,” Annja said.

      Skromach blinked. “Hosed the gag?”

      “Sorry. The explosions were no accident,” Annja said confidently.

      “You’re no authority,” the detective replied.

      Annja sighed. The conversation seemed determined to go in circles. “Check with Barney Yellowtail. He’ll tell you the same thing.”

      “I expect that he would. Especially in light of the fact that he was responsible for the gag, as you put it.”

      Don’t get angry, Annja told herself. He’s just trying to do his job.

      “If these statues are not so much valuable, why, then, are you shepherding them?” he asked.

      “I’m shepherding all of the Egyptian artifacts in this movie,” Annja replied. “Those two props are the more important ones. The director wants everything realistic.”

      Skromach scratched his long nose. “You were hired for your expertise?” he asked.

      “Yes.”

      The detective smiled. “Perhaps also because of your own notoriety. You have a certain…reputation.”

      “I suppose.”

      “Come, come, Miss Creed. Chasing History’s Monsters is very popular, they tell me. My wife is a fan.” Skromach looked utterly disarming.

      Annja knew to be on her guard. It’s the quiet ones that always get you, she cautioned herself.

      Skromach looked at his notes again. “Why did you chase the men?”

      “Like I said, I didn’t want them to get away.”

      “Such a thing is dangerous.”

      “Today has been dangerous,” Annja countered.

      “You could have been shot.”

      “I wasn’t.”

      “You said there were three of them?”

      “Yes.”

      “Men you had seen before?”

      “I didn’t say that,” Annja told him. Finally finished with her chore, the ambulance attendant stepped away.

      “Had you seen them before?” Skromach asked.

      “No.”

      “Would you recognize them if you saw them again?”

      “Yes.”

      “Perhaps, when you’re able—say in a few minutes or so—you could come down to the police station and look at some photographs.”

      Inwardly, Annja groaned. She wasn’t looking forward to her date with Garin and didn’t want to be stressed before she joined him.

      “I’ve got plans for this evening,” Annja replied.

      Skromach checked his watch. “We’re still hours from evening, Miss Creed. And I’d rather you came down voluntarily than me going to the trouble of making my invitation official.”

      “Why me?”

      Skromach smiled. “Because you were the only one who chased those men.”

      “I gave you the license plate of the car they were in.”

      “Unfortunately, that car was stolen this morning. The owner is very distressed.”

      “Does the owner have any tattoos?” Annja asked.

      Brows knitted, Skromach studied her. “Why do you ask?”

      “One of the men had a sword tattooed on his neck.” Annja touched her own neck in the place where the man’s tattoo had been.

      “Ah.” Skromach wrote in his notebook. “You didn’t mention this before.”

      “I just remembered,” Annja said. “What about the car’s owner?”

      Skromach thought for a moment, then flipped back through his notebook. “I see no tattoos, sword or otherwise, mentioned.” He looked up at her. “Perhaps I’ll go see him. Just