Chapter 7
The road to Slaughterbridge was a strip of blacktop dropping down the side of a steep hill, between ten-foot-high stone walls
and looming screens of dense hedge. There was a dotted line painted down the middle of the road, although it was barely wide
enough for a single car. Twenty-five yards up the hill from the stone piers of the bridge, Robin slowed her Land Rover and
turned clattering across a cattle grid and into a Cornish meadow, soggy from a late-afternoon shower. Colin thought her total
self-assurance behind the leather steering wheel of the big four-by-four was a reminder Robin hadn’t grown up with a dollhouse
and books about ponies. He found he didn’t much care for that—one of the things he liked best about women, even someone like
Donna, was the way they contentedly allowed their gender to be their destiny. Men drove, especially if the vehicle in question
was a big truck; women wrote thank-you notes with hearts dotting the i’s. But Robin Fellows might expertly apply a pair of
false eyelashes and then hit a fleeing purse snatcher in a flying tackle like a former cornerback. Colin preferred people
who lived their limits, people who knew what they could and couldn’t do and took it to heart. People like Arthur—there was
a man who let himself be ruled by his natural shortcomings.
They climbed out into the meadow, the soaked grass an almost hallucinatory green in the dying light.
Arthur eased himself into his old hiking backpack with the steel frame, and then tested his flashlight, a big Cree hi-thrower.
Arthur had picked up one for Colin and another for Robin.
He had instructed them both, if they felt threatened, to flick the torches on to their highest setting, but hadn’t said why—to blind an attacker, perhaps, or signal the others that they were in trouble, Colin guessed.
“You haven’t even met him,” Robin said. “You really think this Finger is going to want to go down into this crypt tonight?”
“I think if we find him, he will show it to us now or not at all. He either likes you or he doesn’t, is what I heard.”
“Do you think he’ll like you?” Robin asked.
“Can you imagine anyone not liking me?”
“Yes,” she said, but they began walking down the road—single file, ready to dive out of the way of passing cars—toward the
lively music of the River Camel.
“So,” Robin began, after a few moments of padding along silently, “you aren’t going to tell me what this is really about?”
Arthur bowed his head in thought. At last, he said, “I haven’t told you anything that isn’t true. We really are meeting someone
who can lead us to a crypt of great historical importance, a place I very much want to see. And in any caving expedition there’s
some risk, which is why it’s important to have a friend who knows your plan, where you’re going, and when you’ll be back.”
“But I don’t know where you’re going. Not really. And you’ve asked me to stay by the bridge while you and Colin talk to him . . . which
makes me think you aren’t worried about the cave at all. You’re worried about your guide.” Robin had come prepared for the
wait with a folding chair—she had it strapped to her back—waterproof boots, and a thermos of tea.
“Whatever risk there might be,” Arthur said, “it’s ours to face, not yours.”
Robin nodded slowly at that. The bridge was in sight now: an arch of gray stone, with ancient retaining walls, sitting on
rough-hewn granite piers. The river beneath was wide and shallow and black, rushing over smooth stone and through scatterings
of brush.
“Can you tell me one thing, Arthur?” Robin asked. “Does this have something to do with Van? Does it have something to do with
whatever was in the sky the night we landed in Greenland?”
Arthur had stepped off the road. He was looking at the embankment beneath the bridge, his eyes narrowed. Then he turned and beamed, like a man walking into a pub and seeing all his closest friends bellied up to the bar.
He took Robin’s hand in both of his and squeezed it warmly. “He’s there. I hoped he would be. We leave each other here. Don’t
cross the bridge alone, Robin, and if we aren’t back by one a.m., get help.”
She looked pale, her mouth pursed in a dark bow, her dark green eyes clouded with worry. He squeezed her hand again.
“I’m sorry,” Arthur said. “I can’t tell you more, and I can’t bring you with us. Van and Allie would never forgive me if anything
happened to you. It doesn’t matter Van is dead. I still owe him your safety.”
“And do you think Van and Allie could ever forgive me if anything happened to you two?”
“Sure they would,” Colin told her, and winked. “They know what ungovernable pricks we are.”