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“Not if I know they’re criminals. I didn’t know Huangfu was a criminal until he killed those three men. And tried to kill me.”
“What did he want?”
“He wanted to find his ancestor’s grave.”
“To rob it?”
“He said it was so he could take the bones home to be interred in a family graveyard.”
“That didn’t strike you as odd?”
“Different cultures practice different beliefs, Sheriff. I’ve got friends in New York who believe that everyone in California is involved in some kind of environmental protection group or practice strange religion.”
A faint grin tweaked Barfield’s lips. “Do you help people find their lost ancestors very often?”
“No.”
“But you did this time. Why?”
“Because of the story involved.” That was partially the truth.
“What story?”
“Ghost towns are always interesting.”
Barfield rubbed his chin. “Volcanoville isn’t really known as a ghost town in the area. It’s just another failed gold mining operation.”
“One person’s failed gold mining operation is another person’s ghost town.” Annja glanced pointedly at her watch. It was 2:18 a.m. With the three-hour time zone deficit, she was running on fumes.
“Did you know you were going to find Huangfu’s ancestor?”
“If he was out here, I was going to try.”
“What do you mean ‘if’?”
Annja folded her arms and regarded the sheriff. “Stories don’t always have truth in them. Huangfu had the diary of a family member that said Ban Zexu was murdered in Volcanoville.”
The sheriff made notes and asked how to spell Ban Zexu’s name. “Did you see the book?”
“I saw copies of the book.”
“The book could have been faked.”
“Why would he do that?”
“I don’t know, Miss Creed. I’m still trying to figure out why three men are dead tonight.”
“They’re dead because they tried to kill us.”
“Why would they do that?”
“Because they were high and paranoid about us stumbling across their marijuana crop.”
“Is that your professional opinion?”
“That they were high?”
“Yes.” Annja started to grow more irritated. She’d known she was going to face repeated and redundant questions, but this was stretching her patience beyond the breaking point.
“I’ve seen people under the influence of drugs before, Sheriff. I don’t need a medical degree to know what it looks like.”
“Where did you get experience like that?”
“I travel frequently. Some of the cultures I’ve been involved with in my field of study use drugs regularly in religious ceremonies.”
The sheriff flipped another couple of pages. “Do you ever do drugs yourself?”
Irritation turned to anger. “Frankly, that’s none of your business, Sheriff. But the answer is no.”
Annja stood. “This interview is over. I’ve been patient and I’ve been considerate, especially in light of the fact that I very nearly ended up dead myself.”
“I’ve got three murders that I have to explain.” Barfield stared hard at her. “You can’t just walk out of here.”
“I can unless you want to arrest me. I know my rights. I didn’t have to talk to you at all. But I did. Now I’m leaving.”
“And if I arrest you?”
“Then I’m going to call my attorney, arrange bail, and get out of here a little later than I intended.”
Barfield sighed and stood up. “Forgive me, Miss Creed. I’m a little testy tonight. Those boys out there—and I know they’re old enough to be called young men, but they weren’t much more than boys—didn’t deserve what happened to them.”
“They were going to kill us,” Annja said.
“They’ve never killed anyone before.”
“You’re right. I should have given them the benefit of the doubt,” Annja said sarcastically.
“That’s not what I meant. What I meant was that maybe this wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t come here.”
“And maybe if you look out there and find their marijuana field you’ll find a missing hiker or two.” Annja reached for her backpack and slung it across her shoulders. She walked to the front of the ranger station.
A handful of cars were parked out front. Most of them were sheriff’s department vehicles, but there were also a couple from local news stations. Two reporters started forward at once, flanked by camcorder operators.
“You’ve got a fan club.” Barfield stood beside Annja. “Once they found out you were involved with television, they had to come.”
Terrific, Annja thought sourly.
“Let me arrange a car to take you back to Georgetown. You’re staying at the bed-and-breakfast there, right?”
Annja nodded. “If you can have someone take me back to my rental car, that would be great.”
Barfield spoke briefly on his radio, telling one of his deputies to meet them in back of the ranger station. He walked her back.
“I don’t want you to get the wrong idea, Miss Creed,” Barfield said. “I’m not a bad guy, and I don’t think you’re a criminal. But I do get the sense that you’re not telling me everything you know.”
“Sheriff, I can’t tell you any more about Huangfu Cao than I already have. If I never see him again, that will be fine.”
“He may not feel the same way about you. He had a helicopter standing by in Georgetown, and they hunted for you before you were able to get a call for help out.”
“I know.”
“If he tried to have you killed because you were a potential witness, you may not have seen the last of him.” Barfield held the door open and looked at her. “But if there’s something more to this, some other reason that he and his men chased you, then you may be in serious trouble.”
A deputy braked to a stop in front of Annja. A news team on foot brought up the rear.
“I appreciate your concern.” Annja meant it. She knew that Barfield didn’t want to see her end up dead. Even if she was omitting some of the truth. He seemed like a good man just trying to do his job. That made her feel bad. Don’t go there. Whatever Huangfu was looking for, it’s best left to you, she told herself.
She guessed that they would have taken the belt plaque into custody, then spent weeks or months hanging on to it before calling her back to analyze it.
And there’s the possibility that you’ll learn nothing from the belt plaque anyway. That thought was disheartening. But even if she never learned any more about why Huangfu wanted the piece, she knew she might have an authentic Scythian piece that was museum worthy. She needed to find out some of the history on it.
Barfield walked her to the deputy’s car and opened the door, holding it braced against the cold wind.
Annja sat in the front seat beside the deputy. “Thank you,” she said.
Smiling, Barfield touched his hat brim. “You’re welcome.” He glanced at the driver. “Take her to her car. Follow her back to Georgetown to make sure she gets there safely.”
“Sure thing, Sheriff.”
Reaching into his shirt pocket, Barfield took out a business card and handed it to Annja. “If something comes up, give me a call.”
Annja took the card and shoved it into a pocket of her backpack. “I will.”
By that time, the news crew had caught up. “Miss Creed,” the reporter called, “is Chasing History’s Monsters doing a story in Volcanoville? Do the murders have anything to do with the Weeping Ghost that’s said to walk through the forest in that area?”
Annja looked at the deputy. “Let’s go.”
A NNJA WAS A LITTLE SURPRISED to find the rented SUV still sitting in the parking lot where she’d left it. Then again, Huangfu hadn’t had much time to do anything to it while making his escape.
The deputy put his hand lightly on Annja’s shoulder. “Gimme a minute to have a look.”
Annja nodded.
Leaning down, the deputy slid a rack out from under the seat and took out a pump-action shotgun. He racked the slide and fed another round into the gate to fill the ammo tube to capacity.
“Be right back.” The deputy got out but left the car running. He took a quick look at the SUV and the parking lot, and even looked under the vehicle. He returned, looking a little relieved. “Looks good.”
Annja stepped from the car. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” The deputy slid behind the wheel again. “I’ll follow you into Georgetown. Make sure nothing goes wrong.”
“I appreciate that.” Walking to the SUV, Annja unlocked the door and got in. Everything looked fine and the deputy had checked the car out, but she was still hesitant about turning the ignition over.
“Huangfu wouldn’t risk blowing up the belt plaque,” she said to herself. She hoped that was true. Then she twisted the key, letting out a tense breath as the engine caught. She let it warm up just a moment then put the car in gear and started driving.
W HEN HER PHONE RANG with half the trip to Georgetown still ahead of her and woods on either side, Annja thought for a moment that it would be Huangfu. But it wasn’t. The New York number belonged to Doug Morrell, her producer on Chasing History’s Monsters.
“Annja, what do you think you’re doing?” Doug Morrell’s voice was excited and exasperated at the same time. He was twenty-two years old. Excitement and exasperation were two of the things he did best.
“I guess it’s a slow news night if this hit CNN,” Annja said.
“It didn’t hit CNN, thank God. I’ve got a fact checker in L.A. who was on her toes and caught the story when it broke on the local stations. Hopefully the story won’t go any further.”
Despite everything that had happened earlier, Annja had to smile at that. Chasing History’s Monsters didn’t have fact checkers. The only pieces that carried factual history and geography were hers, and that was only because she fought for accuracy and managed to have a look at the final cut pre-air. If she hadn’t delivered good stories—and looked good on television, Doug had reminded her on several occasions—she would have been cut from the show for being so strict about facts.
Annja felt certain the “fact checkers” Doug and the other producers on the syndicated show relied on were conspiracy theorists who read underground newspapers and Web sites for the weirdest stories they could find.
“I mean,” Doug went on, breathing hard enough to let her know he’d strapped on his phone headset and was pacing his apartment, “you’ve got to remember that you’re part of a big television success story at a time when television success stories are as rare as…as…well, they’re pretty rare.”
“Thanks, Doug. I’m fine. Really. Three people were killed in front of me, and I was nearly killed. But at least it wasn’t anyone I knew personally.” Annja drove through the night. She yawned so big it hurt.
“Oh. Wow. I didn’t think about that. All Amy said was that the show was getting linked to three murders over there.”
“ I didn’t kill them.”
“I know, but some of the other stuff you’ve gotten involved with lately, it hasn’t gone so well for the show. I mean, you have to admit some of it’s been pretty weird.”
“Weirder than trying to find a Wendigo in Colorado last month?”
“Hey, we were following up sightings.” Doug sounded defensive.
“I think I remember hearing that Kristie wanted a skiing vacation.”
Doug coughed to buy himself time. It was one of his lamest tactics. “There were stories about a Wendigo.”
“There was Kristie on skis.”
“Kristie skiing down the mountainside escaping an evil Wendigo,” Doug exclaimed.
“That’s funny. I don’t remember seeing the Wendigo.”
“We’re not here to talk about Kristie. I don’t produce her. I produce you. I have to report to people on what you do. If you get involved in something that reflects in a negative fashion on the show—”
Annja cut Doug off. “As I recall during the meeting last month, the ratings were up, advertising was up, and we had more accounts lining up to do business with us than we had spots to give.”
Doug fell silent for a moment. “Yeah, well, all that’s true, and I just want to keep it that way. We don’t need any adverse publicity.”
“In fact,” Annja went on, deciding to unleash a full salvo and put an end to the debate, “I think this is the perfect time to discuss renegotiating my contract.”
“You already have a contract in place.” The exasperation was back in Doug’s voice.
“The contract we put into place was based on numbers that have almost doubled since we inked that deal.”
“You know, you sound really tired.” Doug suddenly sounded nervous. “I just wanted to call and make sure you were okay.”
“I’m fine, Doug.” Annja decided to let him off the hook. She liked Doug and she knew how to work him to get what she needed. Maybe she didn’t negotiate skiing vacations, but she often got the show to pay for international trips to places she wanted to go to do legitimate archaeological assignments.
“So we’re cool?”
“We’re cool.”
“Are you in any kind of trouble?”
“No.”
“The police don’t think you killed anybody, do they? I mean, you’ve killed people before.”
“Only when I had to.” Annja didn’t like talking about that.
“I know. Man, look at the time. I should really let you get some sleep. If you need anything, give me a call.”
“I will.” Annja broke the connection. Her eyes felt heavy. Glancing in the rearview mirror, she saw the deputy only a short distance behind.
She took a deep breath and tried to relax, but she knew it wasn’t over. Not as long as she had the belt plaque and Huangfu wanted it.
F ROM THE VERY BEGINNING , Huangfu had hated Georgetown. The population consisted of a thousand citizens, more or less, and the community was tightly knit. Even though it was a tourist town, strangers stood out.
The way things had unfolded in Volcanoville, he knew he couldn’t return to the room he’d taken in the bed-and-breakfast. In fact, those premises had already been invaded by the sheriff’s office. But he’d been careful. Their crime scene investigators would find no fingerprints in the room, and the things he’d left behind would lead nowhere.
He’d ordered one of his men to dump the helicopter near Sacramento to lay down a false trail and lead the police to think they’d fled the area. The other four men remained with him in the hills overlooking Georgetown.
His men were, like him, well trained at hiding in plain sight. The countryside provided ample cover.
He hunkered down beside a tree and used digital binoculars capable of high magnification. He was dressed in black camouflage, complete with a Neoprene mask that left only his grease-paint covered face open.
The man next to Huangfu tapped him on the shoulder and pointed at the western road. Shifting the binoculars, Huangfu spotted Annja Creed’s rented SUV entering the town.
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