Dragonfly in Amber - Diana Gabaldon [459]
And the last few pages of the book, neatly labeled “Conclusions,” which had led us to this dark journey, on the eve of the Feast of Beltane. I curled my fingers around the key, wishing with all my heart that Greg Edgars had answered his phone.
* * *
Roger slowed, turning onto the bumpy dirt lane that led past the base of the hill called Craigh na Dun.
“I don’t see anything,” he said. He hadn’t spoken in so long that the statement came out gruffly, sounding belligerent.
“Well, of course not,” Brianna said impatiently. “You can’t see the stone circle from here.”
Roger grunted in reply, and slowed the car still more. Obviously, Brianna’s nerves were stretched, but so were his own. Only Claire seemed calm, unaffected by the growing air of tension in the car.
“She’s here,” Claire said suddenly. Roger slammed on the brakes so abruptly that both Claire and her daughter pitched forward, thumping into the back of the seat in front of them.
“Be careful, you idiot!” Brianna snapped furiously at Roger. She shoved a hand through her hair, pushing it off her face with a quick, nervous gesture. A swallow ran visibly down her throat as she bent to peer through the dark window.
“Where?” she said.
Claire nodded ahead to the right, keeping her hands shoved deep into her pockets.
“There’s a car parked, just behind that thicket.”
Roger licked his lips and reached for the door handle.
“It’s Edgars’s car. I’ll go and look; you stay here.”
Brianna flung her door open with a squeal of metal from the unoiled hinges. Her silent look of scorn made Roger flush red in the dim glow of the dome light overhead.
She was back almost before Roger had gotten out of the car himself.
“No one there,” she reported. She glanced up at the top of the hill. “Do you think…?”
Claire finished buttoning up her coat, and stepped into the darkness without answering her daughter’s question.
“The path is this way,” she said.
She led the way, perforce, and Roger, watching the pale form drift ghostlike up the hill ahead of him, was forcibly reminded of that earlier trip up a steep hill, to St. Kilda’s kirkyard. So was Brianna; she hesitated and he heard her mutter something angrily under her breath, but then her hand reached for his elbow, and gave it a hard squeeze—whether as encouragement or as a plea for support, he couldn’t tell. It encouraged him, in any case, and he patted the hand and tugged it through the curve of his arm. In spite of his general doubts, and the undeniable eeriness of the whole expedition, he felt a sense of excitement as they approached the crest of the hill.
It was a clear night, moonless and very dark, with no more than the tiny gleams of mica flecks in the starlight serving to distinguish the looming stones of the ancient circle from the night around them. The trio paused on the gently rounded top of the hill, huddling together like a misplaced flock of sheep. Roger’s own breath sounded unnaturally loud to himself.
“This,” said Brianna through her teeth, “is silly!”
“No, it isn’t,” said Roger. He felt suddenly breathless, as though a constricting band had squeezed the air from his chest. “There’s a light over there.”
It was barely there—no more than a flicker that promptly disappeared—but she saw it. He heard the sharp intake of her breath.
Now what? Roger wondered. Ought they to shout? Or would the noise of visitors frighten their quarry into precipitate action? And if so, what action might that be?
He saw Claire shake her head suddenly, as though trying to dismiss a buzzing insect. She took a step back, away from the nearest stone, and blundered into him.
He grabbed her by the arm, murmuring, “Steady, steady there,” as