The Matador's Crown. Alex Archer

leaving her in no doubt that he thought her suggestion a bad one. Cleaning up the mess by taking out the professor with a bullet to his heart would probably be his suggestion. Joan of Arc wasn’t into vigilante justice. Neither was she.

      “No hospitals,” Crockett said as Annja led him into the tent.

      “Why? You got something against hospitals?”

      “My sister died five years ago when she caught an infection following surgery.”

      “I’m sorry. But we do need to alert the authorities to the dead man. He’s been lying in the pit since yesterday?”

      “No police, either,” Crockett pleaded as she helped him settle onto the cot, and then grabbed the water flask and a towel. She had cut him on the side of his wrist and hadn’t severed an artery, so the injury shouldn’t prove life-threatening. “I think I’ve done a very bad thing.”

      “Murder is a bad thing,” Garin commented matter-of-factly, tilting back a swig of whiskey from the bottle on the professor’s bedside table. “But it is sometimes necessary.”

      Crockett screwed up his face in disbelief at that comment, but then he winced again, leaning forward over his arm. “You think I killed that man out there? I didn’t. I swear it to you. Who are you?”

      “A friend of mine,” Annja quickly said. “Trustworthy.” For the moment. “Did the man out there attack you?” she asked while inspecting Crockett’s wrist. The battle sword had cut neatly to the bone, but she was able to close the flesh with liquid bandage and figured it shouldn’t get infected thanks to the whiskey. She wrapped a tight bandage around it. It would serve until he could get medical attention.

      “Attack me?” Crockett was starting to hyperventilate and sweat beaded on his forehead. “Didn’t you see who that was?”

      “His face was covered with dirt. Who dragged him into the pit?”

      “I panicked. I didn’t know what else to do.”

      “Call the authorities?”

      “I...” The professor tugged away from Annja’s hold. “I didn’t kill Simon.”

      Annja stilled. “That’s Simon Klosky out there?”

      He’d arrived on the morning of her last day at the dig. Annja had only worked with him half the day before leaving for Cádiz to meet James Harlow. Nice guy. Young. But either the Spanish sun or—her strongest suspicion—extracurricular drugs had made Simon a little loopy and gregarious. He’d had a habit of singing random lines from gospel songs.

      “Who did kill him? And why are you still alive, Jonathan? Has this to do with the stolen artifacts?”

      Crockett wiped the sweat from his eyes and studied her. “You know about the theft?”

      “I saw the very same bronze bull statue I unearthed yesterday in a dead man’s room this morning.”

      His jaw dropped. “Dead?”

      “Do you know Diego Montera, Jonathan?”

      His unwounded hand shook badly, but from the bits and pieces Annja was cobbling together, maybe he had been defending himself against robbers. Maybe. If there had been robbers.

      “I haven’t heard the name,” Crockett offered. “He had the bull? I didn’t have a chance to research it, but was beginning to think it was newer than we’d suspected. Maybe medieval or even seventeenth century. Whoever stole our artifacts certainly circulated them quickly. But you took pictures, right?”

      “Yes.” Which had all been erased from her camera, except for the ones she had transferred to her laptop. “So you were robbed?”

      “Of course! Why else do you think I’d come after you with a bloody machine gun? I thought you were them.”

      “Why are you alive?” Garin asked carefully. Pacing the small tent, he still held the Kalashnikov ready to fire. “Makes no sense. Surely the top man in charge of the dig would be considered a target. Criminals don’t generally leave a man behind to tell tales of their notorious escapades.”

      Crockett gaped, apparently aghast to have his fate detailed for him so coldly. “I—I hid when they first came to the camp. I was back in the gorse just now, like I said...hiding. Simon was the only other person here. They shot him, then took off with all the artifacts in the tent.”

      “Why didn’t you report this to the police, Professor Crockett?”

      He caught his forehead in a palm and rubbed roughly along his cheek. “There’s a body outside my tent, rotting, and I just...don’t know. I haven’t been the most upstanding citizen over the past few years. Since leaving the university, my life has taken a decidedly negative turn. I can’t get legit jobs. I suspect someone has it in for me. I want to be on a flight out of the country before the authorities arrive. I’ve already begun to pack up the site, but every time I walk past the body I get physically sick. I know it’s wrong. Simon has a family. I will report this, but not directly to the police. I can’t do that.”

      He must have done something pretty awful to be so afraid of contact with the police. Annja couldn’t imagine what. She didn’t want to know.

      “They’ll find you for questioning,” she said. “And they’ll be very curious to learn why you felt it necessary to bury a body that you had no hand in killing.”

      “Will you vouch for my innocence?”

      She couldn’t do that because she hadn’t witnessed the crime.

      “Exactly,” Crockett said in response to her silence. “I wouldn’t ask you to, either, Annja. Why are you here?” he posited. Regaining his usually cool exterior, his eyes searched hers, then Garin’s.

      “By having worked with you, and being the one who found the stolen statue in a dead man’s possession, I am indirectly involved. If someone is trafficking in antiquities I want it to stop. I wasn’t sure the police would follow this lead so...”

      “So, I’m not telling you, or your henchman, anything else. You’ve got no authority. I’ll ask you to leave.”

      “Fine. We’ll call in the dead body,” the henchman remarked.

      Annja met Garin’s steely gaze. Who was he kidding? The man kept his distance from any form of authority. He’d sooner dig the grave outside this tent than have his name typed in permanent ink on a police report.

      “Very well,” Crockett conceded angrily. “But you won’t need to. The authorities already know.”

      “How’s that?” Annja asked.

      Crockett sighed and gestured out to where the body lay. “Simon was killed by the Cádiz police.”

      5

      Garin whistled and stepped outside the tent. “I’m out of here,” he called. His boots tracked the dusty earth toward the Jeep. “Come on, Annja!”

      She held Crockett’s gaze, but there was no need for him to repeat what he’d said. According to him, the Cádiz police had murdered Simon Klosky and stolen the artifacts. The cops were dirty? Always a possibility.

      On the other hand, it could be a lie from a man who’d never had to face the kind of guilt murder could induce.

      “You didn’t hand the bull statue over to one individual? Sell it on the antiquities market?”

      He shook his head miserably, but didn’t meet her eyes.

      “So it was stolen from here, along with the rest of the worthless potsherds we found.”

      “There was the platter and I did unearth a few drachms after you left.”

      “Was there anything you’d packed into a wood crate, about this size?” She held her hands out.

      The