After years spent working around the clock buying up domain names while in college, he’d learned a desk and chair designed to his exact measurements provided comfort and prevented nuisances like carpal tunnel syndrome.

On his desk was the sniper’s photo of Annja Creed and the notes Ben had taken from the television show the previous night. He had the phone number for the television studio, but he decided to surf the Internet before calling and thus having to make up a story about wanting info on Creed.

At the Web site for Chasing History’s Monstershe found a short bio on Annja Creed that emphasized the episodes she’d hosted regarding mythical creatures and legends. The bio downplayed her archaeological background.

“Idiots,” he muttered of the show’s producers.

It was obvious they felt the buxom Kristie Chatham was the real cash cow and they thought they’d add a little scholarly realism once in a while with that other chick.

Ben tapped the tracking pad. There was no eulogy, no memorial. That meant she was still alive. Most television shows would certainly capitalize on the death of one of their stars, or at the very least issue a statement regarding their sympathies to her family.

He scanned the show’s masthead. Doug Morrell was listed as the producer. It boasted a skeleton crew for a show that looked pretty slick. They didn’t post a phone number, but Ben highlighted and copied the e-mail contact information.

He knew they wouldn’t give out Miss Creed’s address to an anonymous caller. But if the caller was an elite businessman who had a proposal for a show idea featuring her?

Ben pondered what he could push as an idea, but his mind didn’t function beyond stock market figures and the patent craze in Dubai and the current need to find that damned skull.

History’s monsters? He wouldn’t know where to begin.

Opening a new window, he searched Creed’s name and it produced page after page of snippets from online chat room discussions. A quick glance determined all were archaeology sites.

Then he spotted something unusual. A site called “Celebrity Skin” was advertising exclusive nude pictures of Creed. He’d check that one later.

Clicking through the archaeology forums proved tedious. He realized it was possible Marcus Cooke had contacted her through a chat room. It was stupid—nothing online was secure—but still possible.

He scanned pages of chatter about pottery shards and gold coins. There were kudos to Miss Creed for surviving a tsunami during a dig in southern India and a few others wished to convince her that her excursion to Transylvania had damaged her credo.

Creed hadn’t replied to those.

The Amazon rain forest, the jungles of Southeast Asia, Siberia, Paris, Texas, China. The woman did have adventures. How the hell had she gotten tangled up with the Skull of Sidon? The owner had kept its whereabouts quiet for decades. Hell, a few centuries, he thought.

For that matter, Ben couldn’t fathom how Serge had discovered he had arranged to steal the thing. Someone was putting information out into the public arena. But who?

His thoughts averted by the disturbing idea, Ben typed in the name Maxfield Wisdom. It produced two hits. One for a used car salesman in Toledo, Ohio, the other was a small Who’s Whobio on the man he knew.

They named Wisdom as an avid collector of eclectic ephemera from around the world, an enthusiastic philanthropist, never married, but always looking. He once garnered an entry in the record books for the most gum balls chewed at one time.

Ben didn’t recall Wisdom as being so eccentric, just passionate about the oddities he’d secured for his collection. He bought everything online, of course; the man was not a world traveler due to an extreme dislike for air travel.

The bio did not mention the skull. But of course it should not.

Sitting back and huffing out a sigh, Ben twisted the chair to gaze out the window. Snow fell heavily.

How had Serge learned about the skull?

“Serge knows things normal people cannot dream to know. He’s mystical. He has connections to a world we cannot imagine,” he said aloud.

It was the very reason Ben had hired the man. After a trip to finalize the Berlin headquarters for Ravens Tech, he’d detoured east. He’d been interested in the Ukrainian farming crisis. Their assets were being mishandled. The government was all about keeping information under lock and key as opposed to actually helping their citizens thrive.

A visit to an Odessa deli had resulted in the most interesting experience.

There were only six tables in the deli, each crammed chair to chair, and topped with faded red-checked tablecloths. A smiling elderly woman had seemed to be waitress, cook and hostess. Ben had marveled over the borscht. He’d never tried it before, and though reluctant at first to taste the brilliant pink cold soup, he eventually ordered a second bowl.

On about the last spoonful of soup, Ben was startled to hear a low humming sound coming from behind the long brown wool blanket that served as a curtain between the dining room and the kitchen. It was a man’s voice.

He questioned the old woman to see if someone was in pain. She clasped Ben’s face with warm, pudgy palms and shook her head sweetly. “Summoning the spirits,” she said. “Reading the future.”

Ten minutes later, a pregnant woman emerged from behind the wool blanket, smiling and rubbing her belly. She’d obviously heard what she wanted from the fortune teller.

“You next?” the old woman asked Ben. “You want to know your future?”

Ben shook his head, trying to dismiss the request, but at the sight of the tall bald man standing behind the curtain, just a glimpse of his side view, curiosity changed Ben’s negative nod to a positive.

There wasn’t much difference between selling futures and telling the future, was there? he thought.

Remarkably, Serge had pinpointed Ben’s need to obtain nothing. The man didn’t know what that meant, only that it was what the spirits offered to him. With that, Ben knew the man was for real.

Ben had taken Serge to dinner that evening to an expensive restaurant in Odessa. The fortune teller had marveled over the waitstaff’s manners and was fascinated with the linens and devoured the steak. He’d never had such a fine meal. The price of the wine alone would surely feed his family for a week.

Serge traveled to Odessa to find jobs to help his family, but unsure of navigating the city proper, always kept to the impoverished outer suburbs. He found work mostly in the back rooms of family diners or feed shops. His skills were unusual, but not questioned. The old folk believed, and those who would scoff at him didn’t need his help, anyway.

He had to keep a low profile. If the Odessa police got wind of a man who conjured spirits, they would have him arrested and he’d never see his family again.

Ben had seen opportunity. He was the man who believed in things one could not see or touch. He’d made a good living buying and selling just such things. Embracing Serge’s talents had come easily.

And he’d been rewarded for his beliefs.

It was possible to learn the future through spiritual contact. Ben had no idea how it worked—only that it did.

But at the moment, Serge landed second on Ben’s list of persons of interest. His mole in the NYPD had reported there was nothing more than clothing and a roll of sodden twenties on Marcus Cooke when his body had been dredged from the canal. No skull.

Ben decided Annja Creed must have the skull.

What would an intrepid young archaeologist do with a skull like that? Obviously bones and stuff were her thing. Could she know what she held? Marcus hadn’t been told what it was, so he could not have clued her in.

So then, Ben thought, she must be curious about it. She’d probably search online for information about it. Likely try to date it, as he suspected archaeologists would do. She couldn’t have any fancy equipment herself, so how would she do it?