Annja made her way through the dusty shelves of the old bookstore she'd discovered on her first day in Lozère. When dealing with fairly recent history, it was amazing what finds were often made in old bookstores, pawnshops and at garage sales. If the city, town or village was large enough to support such enterprises.

People wrote books, journals and papers that were often shuffled around, loaned, borrowed or sold at estate auctions that ended up in those businesses. Colleges and students sold off old books that somehow stayed in circulation for a hundred years or more.

Over the past decade, though, many of those finds ended up on Amazon.com or eBay. Genealogy centers took up a lot of old documents, as well.

"There are no more pictures," Annja said. She ran a forefinger over multicolored spines that were more than four and five times her age.

Roland's Bookstore was a treasure trove. She'd already purchased seventeen books and shipped them back to her apartment in Brooklyn. Where she was going to put them in the overflowing mass that she laughingly called her library, she had no clue.

"There have to be more pictures," Doug whined.

"Nope."

"If you're holding out for more money – "

"That's not it."

Doug was silent for a moment. "You don't want more money?"

"More money would be nice," Annja said, "but it won't get you more pictures."

"You should have taken more pictures."

"Did you read my e-mail?"

"Yes."

"The part about how I was chased out of the cave by guys with guns?"

"Maybe."

"You didn't."

"I think I did, Annja," Doug said defensively. "I mean, I remember it now. I was just blown away by these pictures."

"I was nearly blown away by the guys."

"Why?"

"I don't know." Annja turned the corner and went down the next aisle. She usually read books written by religious groups. Amid the doctrine and self-righteousness and finger-pointing, nuggets of history and details about people's lives resided.

"Were you somewhere you weren't supposed to be?"

"I was in the Cévennes Mountains. They're open to the public."

"Those guys just didn't want you there?" Doug asked.

"I don't know."

Doug let out a low breath. "Generally when people chase you, there's a reason."

Annja smiled at that. "Have you been chased before, Doug?"

"I'm just saying."

"Maybe they wanted the gear I was carrying."

"You said the ground opened up and dropped you into this cave."

"Yes."

"Then it closed after you left."

"Right." Annja found a blue clothbound book placed backward on the shelf. When she extracted the volume and turned it around, she found the book had a Latin title. She translated it as if she were reading English.

The Destruction of the Brotherhood of the Silent Rain.

She flipped the book open and stared at the plate inset on the first page. It was a match to the image on the back of the charm.

"Do you think if you packed a few explosives back up into those mountains," Doug began, "that you could – ?"

"Doug!" she interrupted.

He paused.

"No," Annja said.

"No?" The producer sounded as petulant as a child.

"No explosives. No more pictures. That's what we have. It's more than anyone else has everhad."

"You don't understand, Annja. You've got the makings of a great story here. A body count. An unidentified monster. Thugs chasing you. An earthquake."

And a mysterious missing charm,Annja thought. She hadn't told him about that.

Quickly, she flipped through the book. It appeared to be a history of a monastery that had fallen onto hard times and been disbanded. She knew the chances were good that it wouldn't help her, but gathering information meant taking in more than she needed in hopes of getting what she needed.

"How much longer do you think you'll need for the piece?" Doug asked.

"A few more days."

"The deadline looms."

"I know." Annja understood deadlines. Even in archaeology there were deadlines. Teams had to be in and out of dig sites during their agreed-upon times.

"If you need anything else, let me know."

"Sure."

"Maybe Kyle and the art department can touch up these pictures – "

Annja counted to ten, slowly. "Doug."

"Yes," he said contritely.

"If you touch those pictures – "

"They need to be enhanced."

"If anyone touches those pictures – "

"Just a little tweaking. I promise. You won't even know we did anything."

"Doug!"

Doug sighed in surrender.

"I'm going to call your mother and tell her about Amy Zuckerman," Annja threatened.

"You wouldn't."

"Do you remember the lagoon-creature piece I did a few months ago?"

Doug was silent.

"You took a perfectly interesting piece about a legendary swamp monster – "

"The mangrove coast of Florida isn't that interesting," Doug argued. "I had to switch the location to Barbados."

"You turned it into a freak fest. You stood me up in front of a digitally created, shambling pile of muck with eight-inch fangs – "

"The fangs were too much, weren't they? I told Kyle that the fangs were too big. I mean, who's going to believe a seven-foot-tall mud monster with eight-inch fangs? I wouldn't. I'll tell you that," Doug said.

"You told people the footage was shot somewhere it wasn't." Annja hadn't seen the finished piece until it aired. Then the phone calls started coming in. She still hadn't lived down the fallout from that. If it weren't for the big checks that Chasing History's Monsterscut, or the fact that she couldn't get them anywhere else, she wouldn't continue her association with them.

"We got a lot of favorable comments about that show," Doug said defensively.

"I'm a respected archaeologist," Annja said. "I work hard at that. I'm not some wannabe video-game heroine."

"You'll always be respectable to me," Doug promised.

"Not when you stand me up in front of digital monsters that don't have shadows."

"That was an oversight. All the monsters we do now have shadows."

"Amy Zuckerman," Annja stated. "You burn me, that's the price tag for the damage."

"That's low, Annja. Truly low." Doug took in a deep breath. "Amy was a mistake. A tragic mistake."

"Your mother would never forgive you," Annja agreed.

"You know, it's conversations like this that remind me I should never drink with friends."

"At least friends put you in cabs and send you home," Annja said. "They don't roll you and leave you lying with your pants around your ankles in a rain-filled alley."

Doug sighed. "Okay. We'll do it your way. I have to tell you, I think you're making a mistake, but – "

"Bye, Doug. I'll talk to you later." Annja broke the connection and zipped the phone into her jacket pocket. She continued scanning the shelves.

The small bell above the entrance rang as someone opened the door.

"Ah," Roland greeted from the front counter, "Good morning, Mr. Lesauvage."

Cautiously, Annja peered around the bookshelf and tried to stay in the shadows.