I really didn’t need to hear that, Annja thought.
Kristie Chatham, the other hostess of Chasing History’s Monsters, wasn’t a rival. At least, Annja didn’t see Kristie as such. Kristie wasn’t an archaeologist and didn’t care about history. Or even about getting the facts straight.
When Kristie put her stories together, they were strictly for shock value. As a result, Kristie’s stories tended to center on werewolves, vampires, serial killers and escaped lab experiments.
“You can’t go into a frat house without finding her new poster,” Jason went on.
“That’s good to know,” Annja said, then realized that maybe she’d responded a little more coldly than she’d intended.
“Hey.” Jason held his hands up in defense and almost dropped his newly acquired skull. He bobbled it and managed to hang on to it. “I didn’t mean anything by that.”
“No problem,” Annja said.
“I don’t know why you don’t do a poster,” Jason said. “You’re beautiful.”
Maybe if the comment hadn’t come from a geeky male in his early twenties who was five years her junior and had a skull under his arm, if she hadn’t been covered in dirt from the sacrificial pit and perspiring heavily from the gathering storm’s humidity, Annja might have taken solace in that compliment.
Dressed in khaki cargo shorts, hiking boots and a gray pullover, she stood five feet ten inches tall and had a full figure instead of the anorexic look favored by so many modeling agencies. She wore her chestnut-brown hair pulled back under a New York Yankees baseball cap. Her startling amber-green eyes never failed to capture attention.
“I don’t do a poster because I don’t want to end up on the walls of frat houses,” Annja said.
“Or ceilings,” Jason said. “A lot of guys put Kristie’s posters on the ceiling.”
Lightning flashed in the leaden sky and highlighted the dark clouds. Shortly afterward, peals of thunder slammed into the beach.
Jason looked up. “Man, this is gonna suck. I hate getting wet.”
“That’s part of the job,” Annja told him. “The other part is being too hot, too tired, too claustrophobic and a thousand other discomforts I could name.”
“I know. But that’s only if I stay with fieldwork. I’d rather get a job at a museum. Or in a crime lab working forensics.”
Annja was disappointed to hear that. Jason Kim was a good student. He was going to be a good forensic anthropologist. She couldn’t understand why anyone would choose to stay indoors in a job that could take them anywhere in the world.
Lightning flashed again. The wind shifted and swept into the pit where Annja stood. The humidity increased and felt like an impossible burden.
“I’m gonna go clean this up,” Jason said. “Maybe after we batten down the hatches, you can tell me more about who Shakti was.”
Annja nodded and turned her attention back to the burial site. The storm was coming and there was no time to waste.
W ITH CAREFUL DELIBERATION , Annja checked the scale representation of the burial pit she’d drawn. So far everything was going easily, but she suspected it was the calm before the storm.
The drawing looked good. She’d also backed up the sketch with several captured digital images using her camera. In the old days, archaeologists only had a pad and paper to record data and findings. She liked working that way. It felt as if it kept her in touch with the roots of her chosen field.
She stared at the body she’d exhumed. From the flared hips, she felt certain that the bones had been a woman. She resolved to have Jason make the final call on that, though.
Lightning flickered and thunder pealed almost immediately after. The storm was drawing closer.
“Annja.”
Glancing up, Annja spotted the elfin figure of Professor Lochata Rai, the dig’s supervisor. Lochata was only five feet tall and weighed about ninety pounds. She was in her early sixties, but still spry and driven. She wore khakis and looked ready for a trek across the Gobi Desert.
“It is time for you to rise up out of there. The rain is coming,” the professor said.
Annja looked past the woman at the scudding clouds that filled the sky. Irritation flared through her at the time she was losing.
“We must cover this excavation pit,” Lochata said. “Perhaps it will not rain too hard and we won’t lose anything.”
“I know. This really stinks because we just got down far enough to take a good look at what’s here,” Annja said.
Lochata squatted at the edge of the pit. She held her pith helmet in her tiny hands over her knees. “You’re too impatient. You have your whole life ahead of you, and history isn’t going anywhere. This site will be here tomorrow.”
“I keep telling myself that. But I also keep telling myself that once I finish this I can move on to something else.” Annja stowed her gear in her backpack.
Lochata shook her head. “You expect to find something exciting and different?”
“I hope to.” Annja pulled her backpack over her shoulder and climbed the narrow wooden ladder out of the pit. “I always hope to.”
“I do not.” Lochata offered her hand as Annja neared the top. “Finding something you did not expect means you didn’t do your research properly. It also means extra work and possibly having to call someone else in to verify what you have found.”
Annja understood that, but she also liked the idea of the new, the undiscovered and the unexpected. Lately, her life had been filled with that. She thought she was growing addicted to it.
Once on the ground outside the pit, Annja stood with her arms out from her sides as if she were going to take flight. The wind blew almost hard enough to move her. Perspiration had soaked her clothing.
“Drink.” Lochata held out a water bottle and smiled. “Hydrate or die.”
Annja smiled back and accepted the water. The rule was a basic one for anyone who challenged the elements. She opened the bottle and drank deeply.
The dig site was in the jungle fringe that bordered the Indian Ocean. Kanyakumari lay as far south on the Indian continent as a person could go. They were forty miles west of there on a cliff twenty-seven feet above sea level. The ocean stretched to the south under the whirling storm clouds. Whitecaps broke the dark-blue surface.
“What are you thinking?” Lochata asked.
Annja grinned self-consciously. She didn’t like to get caught daydreaming. The nuns who’d raised her in a New Orleans orphanage had worked hard to train that distraction out of her. It hadn’t worked.
“I was just thinking about how many ships have been through those waters,” Annja admitted.
“Ah,
