Lozère, France Present DayShe was being followed.
Annja Creed knew that from experience. She'd been followed before. Stalked, actually. On two occasions—once in Venice and once outside Berlin—the experience had ended in violence.
"Wait," Annja told her young guide.
Avery Moreau, seventeen years old and French, his hair a thick black shock and his demeanor sulky, stopped. Thin and lanky, dressed in his American jeans, red pullover and gray Nike hoodie, he didn't look as if he'd be particularly helpful in a physical encounter.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
"I want to look at this." Annja stood in front of the shop window and gazed with interest.
The young man glanced at the window, then back at her. "You're thinking about going fishing?"
For the first time, Annja took her attention from the reflection of the two men following her and really looked at the shop window. Pierre's Rods And Flies was written in French.
It was funnier, Annja supposed, in English. Kind of an unintentional double entendre. But it was a bad cover to stop and check out the guys following her.
"In case I stay up on the mountain," Annja said.
"You're going to stay in the mountains?"
Actually, Annja wasn't planning on that. She had a day hike in mind. But she was getting a later start than she'd have liked. Finding provisions and supplies in Lozère was proving more difficult than she had expected.
"I'm not planning to," Annja replied, "but I've learned to be ready for anything."
The two men following her were in their early twenties, no more than two or three years younger than she was. They looked like hard guys off the street, dressed in leather jackets and jeans. Attitude rolled off them in waves. An old woman carrying a bag of groceries crossed the street to avoid them.
They weren't, Annja decided, the kind of guys who normally hung out in a small tourist town like Lozère. Metropolitan arenas seemed to be their more likely hunting grounds. They looked like the kind of men a single woman in a strange place would do better to avoid.
She wasn't afraid, though. At five feet ten inches, athletic and full-figured, and in shape from running, climbing, and martial arts, she knew she could take care of herself. Her chestnut-colored hair was tied back. Wraparound sunglasses hid her amber-green eyes.
However, she was worried about the young man with her. Avery Moreau didn't look as if he'd had to fight thieves in his short lifetime.
What are you doing here? Annja wondered. Why would anyone be following me?
"What will you do with fishing gear?" Avery asked.
"If I get trapped in the mountains," Annja explained, "by a storm or by bears—" She looked at him. "You did say there were bears, didn't you?"
He shook his head. "Wolves. I said there were wolves."
Annja nodded. "Right. Wolves, then."
The two men weren't going away. They stood across the street and tried to look inconspicuous. It didn't work. They might as well have been standing there with fireworks going off and wearing Scottish kilts in a Marilyn Monroe pose.
Who are you? Annja wondered.
She'd been in France for two days. She was rooming at a bed and breakfast outside of Lozère. So far, no one had bothered her.
But that was before she'd come into town and started asking questions about La Bête. The creature was one of French legend and its mystery had never been solved. She'd come to Lozère in an attempt to solve it.
And to get paid by Chasing History's Monsters, the cable show she did occasional pieces for to subsidize legitimate work in her field. It was strange how archaeologists could get paid more for something that remained mysterious, riddled with myth, and might never have been factual at all than for an honest look at history.
During the past two days, however, the local populace had learned that "the insane American woman"—they didn't know how well she spoke French or how acute her hearing was—was seeking the legendary monster.
"Well?" Avery prompted. He acted surly, as if he had something else he'd rather be doing.
"What?" Annja asked.
"Did you want me to take you to your car?" Avery had arranged to rent a truck that Annja would drive up into the Cévennes Mountains.
"In a moment." Annja nodded toward the shop. "Let's go inside."
She led the way, opening the door and causing the little bell over it to tinkle. Avery followed glumly.
Inside, the shop had a wooden floor and a simple demeanor. Shelves built into the walls held lures, line, reels and other fishing gear. Racks in the center of the room held up waterproof pants, vests and shirts. Farther back, displays of rubber boots, waders, seines and other equipment filled the floor.
"May I help you, miss?" a tiny old man behind the scarred counter asked. He polished his glasses on his shirt, then blinked at her and waited.
"Yes," Annja replied in French. "I'm looking for a tent pole."
"You don't have a tent," Avery said.
The old man pointed to one of the back corners.
Annja spotted a bin containing wooden dowels an inch in diameter and four feet long. They were treated and varnished, improving their strength against wear and the elements.
Retreating to the back of the shop, Annja took one of the rods from the bin. She spun it experimentally for a moment, moving it from one hand to the other, and found the dowel acceptable.
She returned to the counter. "This is great. I'll take it."
The old man rang up the price.
Annja paid and thanked him, then asked, "Is there a back way out of here?"
"Mademoiselle?" The old man's gaze told her he didn't think he'd heard her right.
"A back way." Annja pointed to the rear of the store. "A way out into the alley?"
"Yes, but why would you want to—?"
Annja laid a hundred euros on the counter. "Please," she said.
The old man pointed with one hand and picked up the money with the other.
Annja grabbed Avery by the arm, guiding her guide for the moment.
"What are you doing?" he protested, pushing her hand away.
"Trying to keep you from getting hurt," she answered.
"Hurt?" Avery brushed at his hoodie, smoothing the lines.
"Didn't you see the two guys across the street?" Annja threaded her way through the displays at the back of the shop.
A small metal door let out into the alley. She opened the door and went through.
"No," Avery said defensively.
Gazing back, Annja saw that the two men were in motion, heading for the shop. "The two guys who were following us?" she persisted.
Avery shook his head.
He's just a kid, Annja reminded herself. He's probably never seen a mugging in his life. She took a quick breath.
"Okay," she said, "there were two guys following us for the last three blocks." It might have been longer than that. She wasn't sure. She was still jetlagged from the long trip from New York.
"Oh," Avery said, sounding confused.
The alley was narrow and the walls of the two adjacent buildings were crooked. Stones jutted out in a random pattern.
"I want you to go to the car," Annja said.
"Aren't you coming?" Avery looked worried.
"In a second." Annja slid her backpack from her shoulders and handed it to him.
The bag carried her cameras, journals, maps and pocket PC. Replacing those items would cost a few thousand dollars, but she figured they were safer in Avery's hands than hers for the next few minutes.
"Take this to the car. I'll be there shortly." Annja put a hand on his thin shoulder and gave him a gentle push. "Please, I want you to be safe."
Clasping the backpack to his chest, Avery looked uncertain.
"I'll be there," Annja told him. "In a minute. Now go."
Reluctantly, the young man left. In a handful of steps he was out of sight behind the twisting alley walls.
Threading her tent pole through her belt, Annja turned toward the back wall of the fishing shop. An accomplished rock climber, she skillfully scaled the wall and came to a rest atop the doorway. Turning around so that she faced the alley was difficult, but she managed.
She took the tent pole in both hands and waited.
Henri Foulard gazed around the fishing shop. He didn't see the American woman anywhere. Growing anxious, he trotted to the back of the shop and looked through the displays.
"She's not here," Jean said.
"I see that," Foulard snapped. At that moment, the cell phone in his pocket rang. He answered it at once. "Yes."
"Do you have the woman?" Corvin Lesauvage's tone was calm and controlled. He always sounded that way. But to the trained ear, his words held a dangerous edge.
"Not yet," Foulard answered. His head swiveled, searching desperately for the woman.
"I want to talk to her."
"I know. You will." Foulard pushed through a rack of jackets.
"If she knows something about La Bête that I do not know, I must be made aware of it."
"Soon," Foulard promised.
"Do not disappoint me."
Foulard could not imagine anything in the world that he would want to do less. Lesauvage was a violent man with an unforgiving nature. People who crossed him died. Foulard had helped bury some of them in shallow graves. Others he had chopped into pieces and fed to the fish in the Seine.
The phone clicked dead.
Replacing the device in his pocket, Foulard turned to the old man whose owlish eyes were narrow with disapproval. Foulard knew the old man was not as annoyed as he was.
"Where's the woman?" Foulard demanded.
The old man gripped the lapels of his vest. "You need to leave my shop."
Foulard crossed to the man in three angry steps.
Reaching beneath the counter, the old man took out a phone. "I will call the police."
Without pause, Foulard slapped the phone fr...
--This text refers to an alternate
Paperback
edition.
