Blind Panic (3 page)

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 was the thin, pale, serious one, and he blinked a lot. He wore heavy-rimmed eyeglasses on his large, bean-shaped nose, and he always looked as if he cut his own hair while watching himself in the bathroom mirror. Mickey had always wanted to be a zoologist, but his father’s pet store had gone bankrupt in 2001, and he had never been able to raise enough money to go to college.

Charlie was chubby, with a wild mess of chestnut brown curls and cheeks that flamed crimson whenever he drank too much beer. Charlie was always joking and playing the fool, but he had lost both of his parents in a horrific car crash on I-580 when he was six years old. His grandparents had brought him up in a house that was airless with inconsolable grief, and so he had a whole childhood of silence to make up for. Charlie suffered from chronic asthma, and he always wore swirly psychedelic shirts, size XXL, but his friends tolerated
his constant wheezing and his lurid wardrobe because he was always the first to pitch in whenever they got themselves into a fight, which was frequently.

Remo was half Italian, with blue eyes and black stubble and very hairy wrists. He came from a noisy family of five brothers and two sisters and countless aunts and uncles, and every time they met for birthdays or family reunions it was like the Battle of Anzio. Remo liked to think that he was a younger and more handsome version of Nicolas Cage, and that he could have made a career in movies. Just like Mickey and Charlie, however, he had ended up as a telemarketer for Tiger Electronics in Palo Alto, marketing software and laptops and replacement ink cartridges.

The Emperors of IT, they called themselves. They had all joined Tiger on the same day, after a company recruitment drive two summers ago, and they had become inseparable—drinking too much beer together, going to ballgames together, playing stupid practical jokes together.

They would all meet the same fate together, too. From the moment they arrived at the Pit River Recreation Area, the Emperors of IT would have less than seven hours before they would be struck by tragedy.

Just after three in the afternoon, the clouds began to fragment and the sun started to shine. They climbed out of the Winnebago and walked to the river’s edge. Remo picked up pebbles and skipped them across the water. Charlie tried to copy him, but all his pebbles dropped into the river with a single plop.

Only a half mile to the west, the ground rose to a high volcanic precipice dotted with conifers, and the Pit River was forced to rush through a narrow ravine. By the recreation area, however, it was shallow and quiet, with sparkling rock pools, and ripples, and swampy banks where bulrushes nodded.

The air was clean and sharp and aromatic with pine, and the marsh wrens were rattling and buzzing and trilling to celebrate the passing of the storm. Even Cayley, as she came
balancing across the boulders like a tightrope walker, said, “This is so
beautiful that
I can’t believe it. It’s better even than
Bambi.
“

Charlie plopped another pebble into the water. “I thought you hated nature. I thought it ‘majorly sucked.’”

“Not
all
the time. I don’t mind it when it’s like this. You know, when it’s behaving itself.”

“That’s the whole point about nature,” said Mickey. He was hunkered down beside his fishing bag, sorting through his reels and his lures. “Nature
never
behaves itself. That’s why it’s called, like, ‘nature.’”

Charlie leaned over his shoulder and picked up a fly. “What do you reckon for this stretch of the river? Stonefly nymphs? Or coppertails?”

“I guess either. Or black midge pupae, maybe. You have to be careful which pools you choose, that’s all, or you wind up with nothing but squawfish. Did you know that a squawfish can digest another fish as fast as it can swallow it?”

“Sounds like Charlie and submarine sandwiches,” said Remo, and twisted open another bottle of Michelob Amber.

“Hey, Remo! You no fish?”

“Nope. I’m going to treat myself to another brew and enhance my tan. There’s plenty of time for fishing tomorrow.”

Mickey pulled on his green felt-tip waders and sloshed out into the middle of the river, while Remo and Charlie and Cayley sat on the rocks and watched him. As the sun sank closer to the edge of the rimrock, the surface of the water glittered like broken glass, and all they could see was Mickey’s silhouette as he cast his line across the ripples. There was no sound except for the gurgling of the river and the
zizz
of Mickey’s reel as he paid out more line.

After a while, Cayley said, “It’s beautiful and everything. But it’s so darn
quiet.
At least when you watch those nature programs, they have music.”

Charlie shook his head in amazement. “She’s on a fishing trip, out in the wilderness, hundreds of miles from anyplace at all, and she wants a
sound track.
“

“So?” Cayley retorted. “A sound track helps you to understand what’s going on.”

“Oh, you mean like tinkly harp music, so you know that it’s a river, and loud trumpety music, so you know that it’s a real high rock?”

“You’re such a scream,” said Cayley. She teetered across to the Winnebago and came back a few minutes later with her portable stereo and a flowery foam cushion. She put on a trance track by Duke of Motion and lay back on one of the boulders, with her pink sunglasses on top of her head, basking in the last warmth of the afternoon sun. So now they had the river gurgling, and Mickey’s reel
zizz
ing, and the endless
tikka-ti-tikka-ti-tikka
of Cayley’s music.

Mickey screamed out, “Take a look at this, guys! Moby Fricking Dick!” He was holding up a thrashing brown trout, at least eighteen inches long.

Remo held up his beer bottle in salute. “You the man, Mickey! Lord of the Flies!” Mickey carefully unhooked the fish and let it slide back into the river.

The sun burned its way into the top of the rimrock. The sky turned lurid orange, and the temperature began to drop. Mickey came splashing in from the river and pulled off his waders. “You just have to be careful, man. The bottom is so darned slippery, it’s like trying to walk on bowling balls covered in snot.”

Charlie collected armfuls of dry brush and built a circular hearth out of small boulders. He flicked his Zippo, and the brush crackled into life immediately, so that sparks whirled across the river like fireflies.

“Anyone for wieners?” he asked once the fire was burning up hot.

“Absolutely,” said Remo. “And bring out those chicken legs, too, will you? And lots more beer. It’s like we’re suffering some kind of a Michelob drought out here.”

“Is that all, O master?”

“No. Bring out those cheesy Doritos, and those giant pretzels, and those knobbly jalapeño things.”

“Of course, O master. A balanced diet is so important, don’t you think?”

As Charlie climbed the steps into the Winnebago, they heard a deep, hollow roar, like half a ton of coal being emptied down a chute.

“What was that?” asked Cayley, sitting up straight.

“Mountain lion, probably,” said Remo. “They usually start prowling around this time in the evening.”

“Oh my
God.
Are they dangerous?”

“Well, sure, they’re dangerous. But they don’t usually attack humans. Not unless they’re provoked, anyhow.”

“Don’t you think we’d better go inside?”

“No, it’s okay. Mountain lions don’t like fire, and I’ll bet you fifty dollars they have a serious aversion to trance music, too,
and
psychedelic shirts. The only time they’ll jump on you is if you act chickenshit and try to run away from them.”

“Maybe you ought to go get your gun.”

“Cayley, for Christ’s sake, we’ll be
fine
. I know it sounded close, but that lion is probably more than a mile away.”

“All the same.”

“Okay,” Remo said, relenting. He went back to the Winnebago and returned with the Remington 700 hunting rifle that he had borrowed from his uncle. He slid back the bolt to check that there was a round in the chamber and it was ready to fire, and then he propped it against the boulder next to Cayley. “You happy now?”

“You didn’t tell me there were going to be mountain lions.”

“We’re in the mountains, babe. The mountains. What did you expect, sharks?”

“You still didn’t tell me. I wouldn’t have come if you’d told me.”

“If I’d told you there were going to be mosquitoes, you wouldn’t have come, either.”

“No, I wouldn’t. I hate mosquitoes. And I don’t like sharks, either.”

Remo put his arm around her and held her tight. “You
don’t have to worry. We’re safe; we’re going to be fine. When you hear a helicopter fly over your apartment building, you’re never worried that it’s going to crash on top of you, are you?”

“Yes.”

Remo looked over Cayley’s shoulder at Mickey and Charlie and made a face that meant “girls—what can you
do?
“ Mickey shook his head and stifled a laugh, and Charlie waved a wiener at him.

“Come on, sweet cheeks,” said Remo. “Sit down and help yourself to something to eat. There’s nothing to be scared of.”

They sat around the fire. Charlie had heaped even more brushwood on it now, and it was burning up fiercely—so fiercely that it scorched their faces. He had impaled a dozen wieners on sticks, and they were sizzling and popping, and he had arranged eight chicken drumsticks on a wire rack from the Winnebago’s galley.

They passed around bags of taco chips and pretzels, and swigged Michelob Amber out of the bottle, and Remo said, “The Emperors of IT! This is the life, dudes and dudette! As Teddy Roosevelt once said, give me the sunset and give me the sausages, and you can keep your palaces and your peacock pies!”

“Teddy Roosevelt said that?”

“Well, he would have done if he had been here.”

“Yeah, but he’s not, is he?” Charlie retorted. “For starters, you forgot to invite him.”

The sky grew intensely black and thousands of stars came out; they could see Andromeda and Cassiopeia. They traded jokes and campfire stories, and Remo passed around a large, untidy joint.

Charlie was telling a horror story. “So, it’s pitch-dark, right? And the guy stumbles back into bed. But after a couple of minutes he feels something tickling him. He tells the woman to stop it, but the tickling goes on. He feels a tickle on his back and a tickle on his neck. He even feels a tickle
right inside his ear. He
hates
being tickled, and in the end he loses his temper and he reaches across and switches on the bedside lamp. And there she is, lying close beside him, but she’s a heaving mass of white maggots. Wrong bedroom. Wrong sister. He’s climbed into bed with the dead one instead.”

“That is
so
gross,” Cayley protested.

“I know. But it gets even grosser than that. He screams, and he jumps out of bed. He knocks the lamp over, so that he can’t see where he’s going. He’s groping around in a panic, but after a while he finds a door, and a doorknob.”

He stopped abruptly and frowned, and then he raised his left hand to shield his eyes from the glare of the fire.

“He finds a door and a doorknob,” Cayley prompted him. “What then?”

But Charlie kept on frowning into the darkness.

“What is it, man?” Remo asked him.

Mickey turned around. “Something out there?”

Charlie pointed toward the edge of the river. “There’s somebody there. No, just
there.
See him? Just left of those tules.”

It was hard to see anything, because the smoke from the fire was blowing in front of them. But they could just make out the figure of a man in a black wide-brimmed hat. He was standing not more than seventy feet away, not moving, but obviously watching them.