The Other Crowd. Alex Archer

say, Miss Creed.” He ambled off.

      “Don’t step inside the ropes!” she yelled at him.

      “He’s never done this before?” Wesley asked.

      “Not on a dig. But he’s got to learn sometime, right?”

      “You’re not like the other television shows. They come in with lights flashing, scripts girls fluttering their wares and makeup ladies wielding powder-laden brushes.”

      Annja knew of at least two BBC shows that dealt with history and archaeological digs. “We’re American, not British. Our focus is more on…myths and legends.”

      “That’s an interesting twist. How did an American show sniff out this dig, if I can ask?”

      “My producer read the Irish Times.” Which, now that Annja thought about it, couldn’t possibly be true. Doug reading the Irish Times? He must have been surfing the Net and got lost when trying to drum up information on Irish stout. “Anyway, he learned that people have been disappearing from the dig.”

      “Three so far. Two men and then Beth Gwillym just yesterday morning. I’m glad Slater chased off the BBC because this is a small, personal situation. The presence of paparazzi is only going to aggravate the brewing tension. I expect utmost respect from you and your cameraman, or it’s out of here for the both of you.”

      “I promise it. I’m sure the families will appreciate a low-key investigation until the truth comes out.”

      “It’s a sad, strange thing.”

      “Are you sure the missing people didn’t just wander off?”

      “To where? Look around you, Annja. There’s the river right there beyond the trees, and a vast stretch of land to all three sides. Not many places to wander and get lost. Sooner you’ll wander right into a pub in Ballybeag, the only village in County Cork that features four corners of pubs.”

      Impressive, but not relevant at the moment, Annja thought.

      “What about that forest? It doesn’t look very dense.”

      “It’s more a copse than a forest. You can walk through it in ten minutes and drop directly into the river if you’re not paying attention. A man’s to be careful of the tides—they’ll sweep you downriver faster than you can holler your last words. Besides, I walked through those woods after each disappearance. Nothing but underbrush and magic mushrooms in there.”

      “Magic mushrooms?”

      “You have to know which ones are the right ones because the wrong one will kill you.”

      “You indulge in mushroom-eating often?”

      “Not a once. Though some of the ladies were giggling mightily the other night on the way to the pub after-hours. I had to wonder if their noontime gambol through the woods had netted more than just a few ticks.”

      He smirked and took the wet cloth from her to press against his bare shoulder. “So you’ve come all the way from America to investigate? Doesn’t feel right.”

      “I’m not here on an official policelike means. We reporters go anywhere the stories are, most especially on our show.” A show that chased monsters like Frankenstein and Dracula and the bat boy. “Have the authorities done a search?”

      “Sure, the gardai took a look about. They’re a couple of good blokes. Took names and asked all the right questions, but what can they do when people disappear into thin air?”

      “Thin air is a remarkable statement. Did anyone actually see them disappear?”

      “Nope, happened at night.”

      “At night? You work at night?”

      “No, we head for the village come suppertime, which is right about now. Though some stay until the sun sets. Night is when ‘the other crowd’ most likely will come out.”

      Annja winced. Seriously? Did grown men believe that tiny people with wings existed? Though her research told that the faeries of Ireland were originally human-size. It wasn’t until they’d been defeated by mortal warriors that they’d glamorized their shapes smaller and retreated underground for safety.

      If a person bought into the whole faerie thing.

      Wesley licked his cracked, swollen lip. Stubble lined his jaw and upper lip. A young female in tight T-shirt and shorts wandered up and offered him a pair of black-rimmed sunglasses, which he accepted with a grateful nod.

      “I know what you’re thinking,” he said, “And I won’t elaborate, because you won’t believe it. You’ll have to learn for yourself.”

      She appreciated his respect for her skepticism. But that she didn’t detect a hint of tease in his tone troubled her.

      “So have all three disappeared from your dig?” she asked. “Not the other?”

      “One from our camp, two from the enemy camp.”

      That was interesting. And it almost ruled out dirty dealings from the other camp. If they’d had two disappear.

      “The enemy camp, eh?”

      “I know it’s not subtle, but ‘camp one’ or ‘two’ is mundane.”

      “Michael Slater must be the director of that one,” Annja said. Wesley nodded. “He doesn’t strike me as an archaeologist,” she said.

      “He’s not. Can’t be. Hell, I have no clue what he is, but I haven’t seen him lift a trowel yet. He just paces their stretch of bog, eyes keen to his surroundings.”

      “So you two don’t get along? Aren’t you both working toward the same end?”

      “I thought so. But I’m not so sure anymore. The bloke won’t provide any information on what they find, nor will they allow my people to cross that imaginary line they’ve drawn in the grass.”

      “What is the end goal? My producer mentioned something about a spear shard. Doesn’t seem like much to go on. Certainly no reason to stretch out the dig into two separate camps. What time period are you dealing with?”

      “The spear shard is only seventeenth or eighteenth century. I haven’t had it radiocarbon-dated yet, but it’s a good guess. Initial excitement spread rumors that it was the spear of Lugh,” Wesley said. “I think it was the farmer whose land we’re squatting on was responsible for that. Legend says Lugh’s spear is one of four gifts the goddess Danu granted the Tuatha Dé Danaan. The spear always makes a kill when thrown, and returns to the thrower’s hand. If it doesn’t find its target, it kills the thrower.”

      “Not something I’d ever want to test.”

      “Come on, Annja, where’s your sense of adventure? I know you’ve got it. You’re the real thing, aren’t you? You like to dig for the truth.”

      “And what is the truth here?”

      “Nothing spectacular. Like I said, the shard is only a few centuries old, and was found too near the surface. Since arriving three weeks ago, we’ve only uncovered some tin pieces and pottery shards that date to the nineteenth century. I’m going to have the soil tested. There was a lot going on in Ireland mid-nineteenth century.”

      “You mean the potato famine?”

      “Indeed. I think we’ve uncovered a homestead from the period. Well, there was an obvious stone wall jutting about a foot out of the earth. The farmer had been dismantling it over the years, using the stones to plug up holes in his yard dug by a dog. No bodies, though, which is either a damned blessing or a strange misnomer. Lots of people perished during the famine. Unless this homestead was abandoned, I’d expect to find bones.”

      “Could have been buried in a mass grave closer to a village,” Annja said.

      “True.”

      “Why the