Gabriel's Horn (11 page)

Despite the fact that Annja’s relationship with Roux and Garin sometimes caused problems because she couldn’t tell Bart everything that was going on, they’d remained friends.

She punched his number in and listened to the ring.

“Hey,” Bart answered after the first ring. “It’s you.”

“It is me,” Annja agreed. She felt a little happier just connecting with him. “As it happens—”

“You’re back in NYC,” Bart said. “I know.”

“How did you know that?”

“Well, you get kicked out of a country, that country kind of lets your home country know about it. So they can check and make sure you make it home. A guy from the State Department—”

“Walter Gronlund,” Annja said. The little man had been very kind but very firm about her departure. He’d stayed with her until she’d boarded her flight.

“That’s him,” Bart agreed. “Anyway, he called and wanted a background run on you. Locally. I guess the Feds have got a whole other book on what you’ve been doing elsewhere.”

“Terrific.” Annja suddenly felt worse despite Bart’s warm, friendly voice. She stood, retrieved her backpack from overhead storage and shrugged into it.

“Naturally, the captain sees your name, he calls me. I think he figures I’m the Annja Creed specialist.”

“You’re stuck babysitting me.” Annja wasn’t sure, but she felt entitled to be more than a little angry at the turn of events.

“Nope. Not even.” Bart sounded incredibly chipper. “I got to fill out the background check for Walter. Talked to him over the phone. He explained about the dead guys in Prague. I thought about telling him about the dead guys you’ve sometimes left over here.”

“Thanks. Heaps.”

“I said I
thought
about telling him. I didn’t actually do that. Figured it would have complicated things for you.”

Annja fell into line and followed the passengers out. She even managed a smile for the flight attendants.

“I called to let you know you’re in luck,” Bart said.

“How’s that?”

“I’m here. Waiting on you. You’ve got me to tote and carry the baggage, give you a ride home, and I’m going to take you to dinner. Sort of a ‘welcome home, glad to have you’ thing instead of ‘sorry you got kicked out of a country’ thing.”

“Thanks, Bart.” In spite of the turn of events, Annja was actually smiling by the time she deplaned.

“Hey, I see you.” At the end of the boarding tunnel, Bart stood outside the ropes. He was six feet two inches tall and solidly built, not a guy to trifle with. His dark hair was razor cut, and a permanent five-o’clock shadow tattooed his jaws and chin. He wore a lightweight dark gray trench coat.

He waved in a good-natured way that didn’t befit the preconceived notions of a homicide detective, and she couldn’t help but grin like a loon. Suddenly it did feel good to be home.

* * * *

“So,” Bart said while they stood in line at the baggage carousel, “what’s it like?”

“What?” Annja kept careful watch for her baggage.

“Getting kicked out of a country. I mean, man, that’s gotta suck.”

“I’ve really missed that sympathetic shoulder you always offer.”

Bart chuckled. “At least they didn’t throw you so far under the jail that they had to pipe in sunlight.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong.” Annja excused herself and leaned through the crowd to collect a bag. She placed it beside Bart.

“Is this it?” Bart asked.

“No.”

“No?” Bart looked worried.

“Be brave.”

Bart sighed. “Anyway, it looked like you did plenty wrong. There were fourteen dead guys. Some of them were shot, but there were a half-dozen killed when the car you were riding in blew up.”

“I didn’t do that.”

“Didn’t kill anybody?”

“Blow the car up.” Annja snared another bag.

“Is this it?” Bart asked.

“No.”

An unhappy look crossed his face.

“You volunteered,” Annja argued. “I was going to grab a cab.”

“I didn’t know you were caravanning through Prague,” Bart said. “When I saw it on the Travel Channel, it looked like a party spot.”

“I wasn’t caravanning.” Annja pulled another suitcase from the belt. “And I didn’t get to party.” Then she reflected on a couple of the movie soirees she’d been to and amended her answer. “I didn’t get to party much.”

“This much luggage, there shoulda been camels involved.” Bart looked around. “You know, maybe I need to start looking for a camel.”

“You’re a big boy. You can handle this. I got it to the airport.”

“All the time I’ve known you, I’ve never seen you pack this much stuff. What could you possibly have needed? And is there anything left at home?”

“I was working on a movie,” Annja said. “Not exactly a regular gig for me. I didn’t know what I needed. They make a lot of extras for the DVDs these days. I knew I was going to be in some of them. I wanted to make sure I was dressed right.”

“Were you in the movie?”

“A couple of times when they needed background people. But I worked on three of the features regarding the artifacts they’re using in the movie, as well as the history of Prague.”

“Did you meet the main actor, what’s-his-name?”

“I did,” Annja replied. “Terrific kisser, by the way.”

Bart frowned. “You’re making that up.”

“Yes.”

Bart looked a little relieved about that. Annja knew they were attracted to each other. They always had been. But Bart was the marrying kind, the kind who’d want to put down roots and raise a family. That meant his wife couldn’t be out in the field digging through broken Mayan pottery and possibly getting sniped at by grave robbers.

And there was no way he was going to understand the sword and the problems it seemed to bring.

Bart had recently called off an engagement he’d had, or the woman had. Annja wasn’t exactly sure how that had gone down because Bart was busy pretending it had never happened.

“Back to this shoot-out in Prague,” Bart said.

“They were trying to kill us.”

“Us? You mean you and this guy, Garin Braden.”

“No. Me and the Earps and Doc Holliday.”

Bart grimaced.

“Yes. I mean Garin Braden.” Annja hadn’t known what name Garin was doing business under in Prague. Besides, if the Prague police could track him down and make his life miserable for a while, he deserved it for running out on her.

“Well, nobody seems to know who that guy is. I looked him up and didn’t find anyone by that name who fits the information you gave the Prague police.”

Annja pulled her last bag from the carousel. “He’s got a lot of names.”

Bart blew out a disgusted breath. “You know, you really ought to watch who you hang out with. You might not get in so much trouble that way.”

“I’ll try to do better.” Annja looked at the pile of luggage, then looked around the baggage area. “Did you spot a camel?”

* * * *

“Ah, there you are! My movie star! Back from so far away!” Maria Ruiz, the owner of Tito’s Cuban restaurant, threw out her chubby arms and wrapped Annja in a bear hug.

Thankfully it was after eight o’clock and most of the dinner crowd was gone.

Annja hugged the big woman back. A feeling of seriously being home washed over Annja. She hadn’t realized how much she’d been gone lately until that moment. Of course, maybe getting tossed out of a country made her a little more grateful for the old neighborhood.

“I hope it’s not too late to get something to eat,” Annja said.

Maria dismissed the thought. She was short and stout, a pleasant, hardworking woman who drove her son Tito crazy while she managed the restaurant and he ran the kitchen. Together they’d created a restaurant clientele that kept them busy all day long.

“Never too late for you,” Maria said. “Come. I get the two of you a table. Then I fix you something special. You need something to put meat back on your bones. You’re getting too skinny. It’s not healthy.”

Annja knew better than to protest. She followed Maria back to the rear of the restaurant. In the next moment, Annja and Bart were seated. Tortillas, chips and an array of salsa and cheeses were placed before them.

Bart, never shy when it came to eating, dug in at once.

“So,” he said as he rolled a tortilla, “you didn’t blow up the car, but you maybe shot a few guys.”

“I don’t know. Probably. It all got pretty crazy.” Annja poured salsa onto a tortilla, added cheese and started rolling.

Bart looked at her for a moment, as if deciding whether to say what was on his mind. Then he said it. “You know, you’ve been involved in more gunfights than anyone I know.”

Annja was just glad she hadn’t told him everything she’d experienced since she’d found the sword.

“That wasn’t exactly my choice,” she replied. “I’m an archaeologist.”

Bart ticked his fingers off. “And television host, author, consultant—to museums, private collectors and the NYPD on more than one occasion—and gunfighter.”

“I never set out to do those things. I just wanted a better, deeper look at the world.”

“I guess you do that during the reloads.”

“I suppose you had time to figure out all this comic dialogue after you heard I was coming back.”

“I may have fine-tuned it a bit,” Bart admitted.

“My advice? Find an appreciative audience. I just got kicked out of a country, remember?”

“How much trouble are you in?”

“I don’t know.” Annja sipped the Diet Coke one of Maria’s servers had brought. “I don’t think it’s going to follow me back here.”

Bart rolled his eyes. “I hope not. The captain and commissioner haven’t forgotten the last debacle. Good times were
not
had by all, I assure you.” He sipped his soft drink. “Are you planning on returning to Prague?”

“Not anytime in the near future.” Annja popped a cheese-dipped chip into her mouth. “How good is my credit in the favor department?”

“You’ll never get out of debt.”

“Then it won’t matter if I go a little more in debt.”

“It’s that kind of cavalier attitude that really gets you into trouble.”

“I need to know about a guy.”

“You seem to know more about Garin Braden than the rest of the world.”

“Not him. Someone else.”

Bart reached inside his jacket and took out a small notebook. “Is this going to be like the time you asked me to check out a set of fingerprints and they turned out to belong to a person of interest in a 1940s Hollywood murder?”

That had been Roux. Annja still didn’t know what to make of that.

“I hope not,” she replied.

“Okay.” Bart waited, pencil poised.

“He calls himself Saladin.”

“First name or last?”

“I don’t know.”

“Helpful.
Not.
”

“He came to see me while the Prague police had me. Actually, he came to threaten me.”

Most of the levity left Bart then. He took threats to his friends seriously. “Saladin, eh?”

“That’s what he said.”

“The Prague police should know who he is.”

“If they’re willing to tell you. They let him in to see me, and I got the distinct impression they were willing to let him do whatever he wanted to.” Annja started to take another sip of her drink, but she suddenly felt eyes on her.

The sensation of being watched was uncomfortable but not frightening. She’d experienced such things before. Women generally did. Usually it was better to just ignore things like that, but Annja was aware that she no longer lived in a
usually
world.

She glanced at the window overlooking the street. Night had settled in over the city, and darkness hugged the doorways and alcoves.

A figure stood at the window and he was staring at her. Gaunt and dressed in rags, the old man looked more like a scarecrow than a human being. A ragged beard clung to his pointed chin. His hat had flaps that covered his ears and gave his face a pinched look. His eyes were beady and sharp, mired in pits of wrinkles and prominent bone.

He lifted a hand covered in a glove with the fingers cut off. His dirty forefinger pointed directly at Annja, and even from across the room she read his lips.

“Annja Creed.”

A chill ghosted through her. How did the man know her name?

“Annja Creed,” the old man said. “The world is going to end. Soon.”

17

“Annja Creed,” the old man repeated. His mouth moved, making her name clear even though his efforts carried no sound. His forefinger tapped against the glass.

“What are you staring at?” Bart asked. He turned in his seat. “That homeless guy?”

Without answering, Annja got up and walked toward the front door of the restaurant.

“Where are you going?” Bart asked.

“He knows my name,” Annja explained.

“A lot of people know your name. You’ve been on television.”

Still, Annja felt drawn to the man for reasons she couldn’t explain. Maybe it was his apparent helplessness.

“Do you know this guy?” Bart was suddenly at her side.

Annja saw Bart’s reflection in the glass next to hers. Both of them overlaid the old man for a moment.

Terror filled the old man’s eyes and he opened them wide. He placed both palms against the window and shook his head.

Annja kept moving and Bart matched her step for step.

“What is the matter?” Maria called out. She hurried over as she wiped her hands on a bar towel. “You don’t have to go, do you? Your food, it is not ready.”

The old man turned and fled before Annja reached the restaurant door. By the time she was out on the street, he was gone. She jogged to the corner, but there was no sign of him.

“Do you know him?” Bart asked again as he surveyed the street scene.

Annja shook her head. “No. But he knew me. He called me by name.”

“Television,” Bart replied.

“Does he look like the type to watch television on a regular basis?”

“He looks more like the type to have aluminum foil packed into his hat,” Bart admitted.

Annja turned back to Maria, who stood in the doorway and peered out. “Did you see that man?”

“I did.”

“Do you know him?”

“That one?” Maria shook her head. “Not so much. I’d never seen him before, then—poof—he is here. Like a wizard.”