"This wasn't included in your outline."

"You said you don't like to read."

"Well, I don't," Doug admitted grudgingly. "But maybe you could put interesting details like this into your proposal."

"There's only so much you can do with half a page," Annja pointed out. "Double-spaced."

"Yeah, but you need to learn the right things to include. Body count. That's always a biggie."

When I get back, Annja promised herself, I'm going to finish that résumé. There has to be another cable show out there that's interested in archaeology. She knew she'd miss Doug, though.

"At any rate," Annja said, "no one ever found out what the creature was. It was supposed to be six feet tall at the shoulder."

"Is that big?"

"For a wolf, yes."

"I thought you said it wasn't a wolf."

"I said no one knew what it was."

"So it's not a wolf, not a werewolf. What the hell is it?"

"Exactly," Annja agreed.

"A mystery," Doug said with forced enthusiasm. "Mysteries are good. But only if you have answers for them. Do you?"

"Not yet. That's why I'm headed into the Cévennes Mountains right now."

"This creature was supposed to be up in those mountains?" Doug asked.

"Yes. According to some people, La Bête is still around. Every now and again a hiker goes missing and is never seen or heard from again."

"Cool. Sounds better already. How soon are you going to have this together?"

"Soon," Annja promised, hoping that some kind of breakthrough would take place. At the moment, she had a lot of interesting research but nothing fresh.

And she didn't have Kristie Chatham's breakaway top. Nor the desire to stoop so low. She said goodbye, then closed the phone and concentrated on her driving.

Glancing up at the mountains, Annja couldn't help thinking it would be better for her ratings if she actually ran into La Bête. Probably not better for her, though.

"The woman got away." Foulard sat in a small café across from the fishing shop. He held his beer against his aching jaw. The swelling made it hard to talk.

"How?" Lesauvage wasn't happy.

"She ambushed us." Foulard still couldn't believe the woman had leaped from above the door and taken them down so easily. It was embarrassing.

Lesauvage cursed. "Do you know where she's going?"

Foulard looked across the table at Avery Moreau. The young man was scowling. He sat with arms folded over his chest and blew out an angry breath now and again.

Foulard just barely resisted the impulse to reach over and slap the young man. It would have been a mistake. The police were still canvassing the neighborhood.

"The boy – " Foulard called Avery that on purpose, watching the young man tighten his jaw angrily " – says she is headed up into the mountains."

"Why?"

"That's where La Bête was known to roam." Foulard didn't believe in the great beast. But he believed in Lesauvage and the magic the man possessed. Foulard had seen it, had felt its power, and had seen men die because of it.

Lesauvage was quiet for a moment. "She knows something," he mused quietly, "something that I do not."

"The boy insists that she didn't."

"Then why go up into the mountains?"

Foulard cursed silently. He knew what was coming. "I don't know."

"Then," Lesauvage replied, "I suggest that you find out. Quickly. Take Jean – "

"Jean is out of it," Foulard said. "The police have him."

"How?"

"The woman knocked him out. I couldn't wake him before I had to flee. I was fortunate they didn't get me." Foulard rolled his beer over his aching jaw. "She fights very well. You didn't tell us that." He meant it almost as an accusation, suggesting that Lesauvage hadn't known, either. But he wasn't that brave.

"I didn't think she could fight better than you," Lesauvage said. "And I heard there were shots fired."

Wisely, Foulard refrained from speaking. He'd already failed. Lesauvage appeared willing to let him live. That was good.

"Find her," Lesauvage ordered. "Go up into the mountains and find her. I want to know what she knows."

"All right."

"Can you get someone to help you?"

"Yes."

Lesauvage hung up.

Pocketing the phone, Foulard leaned back and sipped the beer. Then he reached into his jacket and took out a vial of pain pills. They were one of the benefits of working for Lesauvage.

He shook out two, chewed them up and ignored the bitter taste. His tongue numbed immediately and he knew the relief from the pounding in his head would come soon.

Turning his attention to Avery Moreau, Foulard asked, "Do you know which campsite she'll be using?"

Arrogantly, Avery replied, "I helped her choose it."

"Then you know." Foulard stood. He felt as if the floor moved under him. Pain cascaded through this throbbing head. He stoked his anger at the woman. She would pay. "Come with me."

"What about Richelieu?"

It took Foulard a moment to realize whom the boy was talking about. "The policeman?"

Avery's blue eyes looked watery with unshed tears. "My father's murderer," he said.

Waving the statement away, Foulard said, "Richelieu will be dealt with."

"When?"

"In time. When the time is right." Foulard finished the beer and set it aside. "Now come on."

"Lesauvage promised – "

Reaching down, Foulard cupped the boy's soft face in his big, callused hand. "Do not trifle with me, boy. And do not say his name in public so carelessly. I've seen him bury men for less."

Fear squirmed through the watery blue eyes.

"He keeps his promises," Foulard said. "In his own time. He has promised that your father's killer will pay for his crimes. The man will." He paused. "In time. Now, you and I have other business to tend to. Let's be about it."

Avery jerked his head out of Foulard's grip and reluctantly got to his feet.

Across the street, the Lozère police were loading Jean's unconscious body into the back of an ambulance. The old shopkeeper waved his arms as he told his story. Foulard thought briefly that he should have killed the man. Perhaps he might come back and do that.

For the moment, though, his attention was directed solely at the woman.

A snake lay sunning on the narrow ledge that Annja had spent the past hour climbing up to. She had been hoping to take a moment to relax there. Climbing freestyle was demanding. Her fingers and toes ached with effort.

The snake pushed itself back, poised to strike.

Great, Annja thought. Climbing back down was possible, but she was tired. Risking a poisonous snake bite was about the same as trying to negotiate the seventy-foot descent without taking a break.

She decided to deal with the snake.

Moving slowly, she pulled herself almost eye to eye with the snake. It drew back a little farther, almost out of room. Freezing, not wanting to startle the creature any more than she already had, she hung by her fingertips.

Easy, she told herself, breathing out softly through her mouth and inhaling through her nose.

The snake coiled tightly, its head low and its jaws distended to deliver a strike that would send poison through her system.

At a little over twenty inches long, it was full-grown. A string of black splotches from its flared head to the tip of its tail mottled the grayish-green scales and told Annja what kind of venomous adder she faced.