Excerpt: A Murder of Crowes

CHAPTER SEVEN

Ekhiingol Oasis, Gobi Desert, China – October, present day

A week after landing in Beijing, I’d found a guide willing to take me into the heart of the desert. My guide, a tall, raw-boned Mongolian called Bataar, flatly refused to remain past the end of the month. “Too cold, Khelee,” he said, calling me the Mongolian word for “crow” as he found it too difficult to pronounce my first name. Even after repeatedly pestering him to remain an extra month, he still refused. I had to make do with the short two weeks I had before he took me back to Beijing. At least Imad had managed to narrow down the list of potential dig sites to a small area around the oasis. I began my routine search of the sites and further narrowed down the list to three sites, which Imad and I would come back and investigate more thoroughly in the spring. I fell exhausted into bed every night, after feeding from a complacent, if not willing, goat – not the most satisfying meals, but there was a dearth of criminals in the tiny community that surrounded the oasis.

Three days before Bataar and I were set to return to Beijing, the strident ringing of my satellite phone roused me from a dark, disturbed dream that filled me with terror and a frightening blood-lust. I groped for the sat phone in the early morning dark and switched it on, murmuring a sleepy, “’Lo?” into it.

There was a short silence and then an unfamiliar deep male voice said, “Juliana Crowe?”

I sat up in bed, frowning. No one but Imad and my agents in Europe had this number. “Yes, this is Juliana. Who are you?”

There was another short silence and the voice said, “I’m Detective Charlie Dekker, Denver Homicide division. Do you know Imad Jassim al-Naseri?”

I felt a horrible chill in the very marrow of my bones and I clutched the phone so tightly the plastic casing creaked. “What’s happened? Is Imad all right? Is he hurt?” I was panicking, my voice coming out in a thin whine as my chest felt like it was being crushed.

Dekker was silent again and then he said, “I’m sorry, Ms Crowe, there’s no way to tell you this gently, but…” I dropped the phone then, not hearing the rest of the detective’s words, and screamed, a high-pitched keening that carried across the oasis. Some small, dispassionate, unattached part of my brain reminded me that I was Scottish, and from the stories of my people came the bean-sidhes.

Bataar rushed into my tent, took one look at my face, and scooped the sat phone up, pressing it against his ear and speaking in hushed, broken English. One of the younger women, a pretty dark-haired thing called Sarantsatsral, came to me and tried to hug me. I pushed her away, remembering at least to check my strength so I wouldn’t hurt her, and leapt from my bed, snatching the phone from Bataar. I could hear Dekker still speaking.

“What happened?” I demanded, anger and fury replacing the shock in my voice. Who would dare hurt Imad? Who would dare take him from me?

“As I was telling your…man…there, I’m not at liberty to discuss the circumstances with you over the phone. I understand that you’re in China?” Dekker asked.

“Mongolia,” I said, cutting off his next words. “I’ll need a day to get to Beijing and then I can catch a flight back to Denver. Give me two days to get home.”

“Very well, Ms Crowe. Again, I’m so sorry to be the one to have to tell you this.”
I hung up, cutting him off again. I didn’t want to hear the detective’s empty words. I didn’t want to hear the socially expected murmurs of sympathy and regret from the small gathering of people outside my tent. I looked at Bataar and he nodded. “I’ll pack the truck,” he said and left. I stood alone in the center of my tent, shaking like a leaf. Imad was gone and whomever killed him would answer to me. I’d make them regret what they’d done. I’d make them regret the day they were born.