Singing Rock sighed. “That is one prediction I don’t care to make,” he replied. “But remember this is Misquamacus’s seventh and last reincarnation. After this, he won’t have any further opportunities to take his revenge on the white people, except if this manitou is summoned to earth by other medicine men. And when you consider the general condition of Indian magic in America today, I’d say that’s pretty unlikely.”

They pulled up outside Neil’s weatherbeaten house and climbed out. Neil led the way across the yard and into the kitchen, and he showed Singing Rock to the bathroom to freshen up. Harry carried his suitcase into the parlor.

“Does Singing Rock drink?” asked Neil, taking a six-pack of Coors out of the icebox.

“I don’t think so. But he might appreciate a cup of coffee.”

Singing Rock returned, hung his sport coat on the back of his chair, and rolled up his shirt sleeves. His arms were muscular and sinewy, and decorated with elaborate patterns of tattoos and scars. As he sat down at the pine table, Neil had the feeling that he had some experienced, professional help at last.

“I want to see everything,” said Singing Rock. “The children’s paintings, the wardrobe upstairs, the sheets that attacked your wife. I want you to tell me everything, too, all over again, in as much detail as you can remember it. If we’re going to win out against these medicine men at all, we have to know as much about them as possible.”

Neil reached up to one of the top cupboards and brought down the sheaf of paintings from Toby’s classmates. Singing Rock went through them all meticulously, peering at every figure, and comparing one nightmare picture closely with another.

As he examined the pictures, he asked Neil to tell him about the first appearance of the visitation they knew as “Dunbar,” and everything that Billy Ritchie had told him about Bloody Fenner and that grisly day up at Conn Creek.

Neil was nervous at first, but as he drank and talked, he found he was able to confide in Singing Rock, and tell him everything about his days of fear and horror. Singing Rock glanced at him from time to time, and the Indian’s eyes were understanding and wise in a way that Neil had never seen before in anyone. Harry, who had heard it all before, sat at the end of the table smoking and drinking his beer out of the can.

Eventually, when Neil had finished, Singing Rock laid out the paintings on the kitchen table, twenty-two garish illustrations of the same terrible incident.