Blind Panic Read Online Free PDF Page B

daguerreotype taken at Pyramid Lake in Nevada on August 18, 1865. He was wearing a black stovepipe hat and was glaring at me furiously, as if he had known when this picture was taken that I would be looking at it one day.
    He was stony-faced, his cheeks scarred with magical stigmata, and his deep-set eyes were glittering.
    Then, less than eighteen months later, I came across another picture that had been taken only the previous day—August 17, 1865—at the Hassanamisco Indian Reservation near Grafton, Massachusetts. A group of Nipmuc Indians were posing in their finest clothes to celebrate the meeting of their tribal council. And right at the back of the group, on the left-hand side, was Misquamacus. It was unmistakably him, even though the distance between Pyramid Lake and Grafton is more than 2,400 miles.
    His face was slightly blurred, because he must have moved during the exposure, but he wore the same black stovepipe hat, and around his neck he wore the same large silver medallion that Shauna had seen, like intertwining snakes. However, I had learned from Singing Rock that they weren’t snakes at all. They were the tentacles that grew from the face of the greatest of the Great Old Ones.
    It was the symbol that Misquamacus carried of his mystical connection to a time when there was no time, and to inconceivable distances that made your head ring to think about them, and to beings that could turn the entire universe upside down, and walk around underneath the earth, in infinite darkness.

C HAPTER S IX
    Modoc County National Forest, northern California
    Lightning flashed behind the clouds as their battered old Winnebago Vista jostled and creaked down the rocky path that led to the edge of the river; and as they turned into the recreation area and parked, there was an earsplitting burst of thunder that shook the windows and rattled every plate and mug in the galley.
    “Sounds like the Great Trout God isn’t too happy to see us,” said Charlie as the first fat drops of rain pattered onto the windshield.
    “Totally the opposite, dude,” said Mickey, swinging around in the front passenger seat and rubbing his hands with enthusiasm. “Weather like this, it’s perfect for brown trout. It damps down the flies, and that brings up the fish.”
    More lightning flashed, like a cheap theatrical effect. “You’re going fishing in this? ” Remo asked him.
    “Oh, sure. I’m going to stand up to my knees in water in the middle of an electrical storm, holding a carbon-fiber extension rod up in the air. You think I got some kind of death wish? I’m going to tie a few poxybacks and wait for it to roll over.”
    “Well, I think I’ll treat myself to another beer and watch you. How about you, Charlie?”
    “Absolutely. You can’t beat treating yourself to a beer and watching somebody tie a few poxybacks. World-class entertainment.”
    Cayley came struggling out of the tiny bathroom. “I hate nature. I mean, it majorly sucks. I don’t know why I came.”
    “You came to keep an eye on me,” Remo reminded her. “You imagined that me and the guys were going to spend the entire weekend with half a dozen naked hotties, having an orgy.”
    “Actually, we were,” said Charlie. “But when we found out that you were coming along, we had to call Naked Hotties ‘R’ Us and cancel.”
    Cayley was one of those girls who had a permanently surprised expression on her face, as if her reaction to everything that happened in her life was like, What? She had spiked up her blonde pixie-cut hair, thickened her eyelashes with mascara, and slicked her lips with sparkly pink gloss, as well as misting herself liberally with J. Lo perfume. She was wearing a white sleeveless bolero and very short safari shorts, and wedge-shaped sandals that made her totter when she walked. She peered out at the rain-swept scenery as if it were a personal insult.
    “You did bring a poncho?” asked Mickey, although he could guess what the answer was. Mickey