A Pagan's Nightmare Read Online Free PDF Page B

and your trailer-park buddies are still around and haven’t been accosted by Estella and her minions, you should be
     making plans to evacuate the trailer park within forty-eight hours. That goes for anyone in low-lying areas.”
    While a commercial played, Ned stood at his desk and scratched his head.
I thought PFSC stood for Pink Floyd Song Connoisseur.
    Lanny sped down a hazy interstate toward Augusta, Georgia. The time was 5:50 p.m., and the windshield of his sage green Xterra
     wasby now coated with smashed moths and unfortunate flies. Lanny had tried Miranda’s cell phone and her sister’s home number
     a dozen times each, all to no avail.
    “Just stay calm,” he muttered to himself. “No one has spotted you yet, and there is surely some explanation for all this.”
    He whipped off of the interstate at the next exit, made a left, and pulled into the neighborhood and then the driveway of
     Miranda’s sister, Carla. Carla’s red Toyota Camry sat in plain sight, and mail protruded from the metal mailbox on the front
     porch. He knocked but found no one home. He ran around back but found it vacant.
    Like a movie trailer on fast forward, Lanny saw his day pass before his eyes—the BP station and the golden crosses, the billboard
     and the school, the strange greeting from Detour Airlines, the radio broadcasting his name. And now his girlfriend missing.
     Maybe even her sister as well.
    He felt safest in his truck, so he climbed in and backed out of the driveway.
Which way? Where to now?
    His mind scrambled to make sense of it all. He did not remember merging back onto the interstate, but minutes later he found
     himself circling Augusta, going nowhere and avoiding human contact. He drove with his chin on the steering wheel, staring
     straight ahead, refusing to look at other vehicles or even glance at a billboard.
    By 6:30 p.m., the temperature had not dropped a degree, and Lanny was on his third loop around Augusta. He drove in the slow
     lane, and soon he reached for his cell and hit speed dial for the thirty-fifth time.
    Miranda still did not answer.
    He tried his golf and poker buddies again.
    0 for 5.
    Lanny’s nature was to avoid trouble, and he wondered if trouble was running ahead of him toward Florida, if whole legions
     of zealots sought his capture. Perhaps he should spend the night in his truck. He slowed his speed to fifty miles per hour
     and pulled down both sun visors. He refused to turn on his radio.
    He kept circling Augusta, thinking of Miranda and their fourthdate, when they had walked barefoot on a golf course at sunset, hand-in-hand and hinting about the future. Peaceful green
     fairways were where Lanny had always found solace, his space to think.
    Perhaps he wasn’t thinking clearly, or perhaps he was deep in romantic reflection, or perhaps he saw the opportunity to live
     out a lifelong dream, but when Lanny saw a green sign that read HOME OF THE MASTERS, he took exit 199 off the interstate and
     onto Washington Road.
    Maybe if I explain my plight, they’ll let me hide here. Plus, if Georgian zealots are pursuing me in order to claim some big
     reward, this will be the last place they’ll look
    A
second green sign directed him to turn south. Excited just to be near Augusta National, he drove another mile until the right
     side of the road took on the look of a manicured fortress—green, private, and pristine. In the distance a majestic driveway
     sat behind a whitewashed guard house. Lanny sat idling in the road, ogling at the even more majestic clubhouse that sat at
     the end of Magnolia Lane.
    You shouldn’t,
said a voice in Lanny’s head.
You’ll get arrested.
    This is your big chance,
countered a second voice.
So go for it. Plus, Miranda knows you love golf, and she could be hiding nearby and waiting for you.
    Lanny eased his truck up beside the guard house, which had an electronic barrier bar to prevent tourists and non-members from
     entering the stately compound. Tucking his