Hunted Past Reason (15 page)

"All right, let's go," he said crisply. At least, he tried to make it sound crisp. He had no idea how convincing it was to Doug.

Probably not at all.

They were crossing a tree-dripping glade, Bob twenty feet behind, when Doug suddenly stopped and, reaching back across his shoulder, snatched an arrow from its quiver. Oh, my God, he's going to kill me! Bob thought in shock. Freezing in his tracks, he stared aghast as Doug grabbed his bow and quickly fitted the arrow's neck into the bowstring.

Instead of whirling though, Doug kept looking ahead, drew back the string quickly, and shot the arrow at something Bob couldn't see.

He moved up to where Doug remained standing. "Why'd you do that?" he asked.

Doug pointed toward the ground ahead and Bob looked in that direction.

Lying on the ground, twitching feebly as it died, was a large raccoon. Its fur is so beautiful, was the first thing Bob thought. "How come you killed it?" he asked, trying not to sound in the least bit critical.

"Rabies," Doug told him.

"How do you know it had rabies?" Bob asked.

"Raccoons aren't in the habit of coming straight at you in broad daylight," Doug said. "And doing it fast. They avoid people; they don't attack them."

"He was attacking?" Bob asked, incredulous.

"My call, Bobby," Doug said curtly. "I didn't care to take the chance that it was just being friendly."

Bob nodded immediately. "I understand," he said.

"Do you?" Doug responded. "Do you know that wildlife-related cases of rabies have more than doubled in the last ten years? Do you know what a rabies attack can be like? Hallucinations? Swallowing so painful you can't eat or drink? Muscle spasms in the face and neck? A raging fever? Probable death? You wonder why I killed the damn raccoon?"

"No, no— I understand," Bob said hastily. God forbid he got Doug ranting again. "You did the right thing."

"Damn right." Doug slung the bow across his shoulder and, without another word, started quickly across the glade.

Bob stopped for a few moments to look down at the dead raccoon. It looked as though it had been in perfect health. He couldn't get over how beautiful its fur was— all silvery and black.

As he started after Doug he was unable to prevent himself from wondering if the raccoon really did have rabies or whether Doug was trying to impress him— hell, intimidate him— with his skill at using the bow and arrow. Oh, don't be paranoid, for chrissake, he told himself— but he couldn't help mulling over the suspicion. Was he missing something here? Was Doug actually a menace to him? He didn't want to believe that for a moment. Still, the tension between them seemed to be increasing all the time. Just how
did
Doug feel about him? It had better be benign because if it was something more, he was a pretty helpless prey.

Oh, come on, he ordered himself angrily. Just because you're having arguments doesn't translate into murderous intent on Doug's part. For Christ's sake, Doug may well have saved your life if the raccoon really was rabid.

It
was
rabid, he tried to convince himself. Shape up, Hansen. By the weekend you'll be home with Marian and all this will be nothing more than an unpleasant memory.

Doug had stopped at the base of a steep slope, waiting for Bob to catch up.

What now? Bob thought, looking up the slope. It was much steeper than the one they'd climbed to reach the cave. "What are we—?" he started.

"We have two choices," Doug interrupted. "Either we go around this and add miles to the hike before we stop. Or we climb it and save ourselves a lot of time."

Bob drew in a shaking breath. "Well, I'm not too confident in my ability to do mountain climbing," he said.

"Mountain climbing?" Doug sounded as though he couldn't believe what Bob had said. "Jesus Christ, this is a slope, not a mountain."

Bob didn't want to try it. But, even less, did he want to generate another conflict between them. So he nodded unconvincingly and said, even more unconvincingly, "Okay, let's
do
it."

He was sure Doug knew that he didn't mean a word of it but acted as though he wasn't aware of it. "Good," Doug said. "Use that rest step I told you about and it won't be too hard." Without another word, he started up the slope.

Bob followed, boots slipping on the brush, roots, and mud surface of the slope. Jesus, are my clothes going to be filthy, he thought. He kept trying the rest step but the ground was just too slippery for it to work; he kept falling to his knees, getting mud on his hands, hurting his right palm.

As he labored up the slope— the backpack starting to feel like an anvil on his back again— he recalled the pleasure with which he'd accepted Doug's offer to take him on a backpacking trip. That was a great decision, Hansen, he derided himself. One of the best you ever made.

Looking up, he saw that Doug had stopped and was looking back at him. "Going to make it?" Doug asked dubiously.

"I'll be fine," he answered breathlessly.

He stiffened, seeing a boulder, loosened by the rain, rolling directly at Doug.

"Look out!" he cried.

Doug jerked around and saw the boulder rolling down at him. He made a sudden move to avoid it and slipped, banging his elbow against a rock, hissing at the pain.

Bob had no idea where the strength came from. But, surging upward abruptly, he grabbed Doug's pack and jerked him out of the way of the boulder. Not all the way though. As the boulder rumbled past, it grazed Doug's right shoulder, hitting his backpack and jolting him around in a quarter spin.
"Jesus!"
Doug cried.

They crouched together on the muddy soil, looking at each other. Doug kept wincing at the pain in his shoulder and elbow. "Damn," he muttered. "Damn it."

"You all right?" Bob asked. He panted a little as he spoke.

"I dunno," Doug said. He rubbed his elbow, grimacing. "Shit," he said.

Bob struggled to his feet, thinking: Well, don't thank me, Doug, I only saved your life.

To his amazement, Doug
didn't
thank him. "That was really something," was the closest he came.

"Yeah. It was," Bob said. He was astounded that Doug expressed not one scintilla of gratitude. Instead, Doug got up and said, "We'd better move or it'll be dark before we reach the campsite."

Yeah, right, Bob thought. Your appreciation really warms the cockles of my heart, Douglas.

As though to prove that the injuries had no serious effect on him, Doug moved on up the slope at an even faster pace than he'd been going before. Jesus God, what kind of childhood did he really have? Bob wondered. Proving his mettle seemed to outweigh everything else, even gratitude for someone who may have saved him from critical injury.

He couldn't restrain himself. "Doug, I might have just saved your life, you know."

"No, no, I would have gotten out of the way by myself," Doug answered casually.

Why, you ungrateful son of a bitch, Bob thought. I should have let the fucking boulder crush you into jam.

Shaking his head, he continued climbing the slope. Incredible, he kept thinking. Simply incredible.

"There, you
see
?" Doug was at the top of the slope now, pointing at the ground.

Bob reached the top and found Doug standing beside another dead raccoon. This one was swarming with maggots. Bob made a sickened noise and averted his face.

"Rabies," Doug told him.

Bob nodded, starting past him. After a few paces, he stopped abruptly at a loud, clashing sound in the distance. "What's
that
?" he asked, turning back to Doug.

"Probably a couple of horny stags fighting for a female. They butt their heads together, it makes their antlers clatter."

That's right, lecture me again, Bob thought disgruntledly. Can't get enough of that, can you?

He waited until Doug had passed by him, then followed, looking at the back of Doug's head with a resentful glare.

4:32 PM

It was more than a stream this time. Closer to being a river, Bob thought. Fast-moving, frothing, and bubbling, its current so rapid that in striking boulders it flung up explosive sprays of water drops. It looked very cold and threatening to him. "No log bridge here," he said.

"No more log bridges, buddy," Doug told him, "we're backpacking now, not taking a stroll through the park."

Bob sighed. You already said that, Doug, he thought. "So what do we do?" he asked.

"We cross, what else?" Doug said.

"How?"

Doug looked at him as though he couldn't believe that Bob had asked the question. "Wade, Bobby, wade," he said.

"Wade," Bob murmured. He couldn't see how they could possibly wade across such a rushing stream.

Doug started to remove his backpack.

"Think it might be less wide a little farther downstream?" Bob asked hopefully.

"I presume you mean
upstream
." Doug's smile was thin.

"Upstream, downstream, what's the difference?" Bob snapped.

"Upstream gets narrower; downstream gets wider," Doug told him.

"Okay, okay, it'll be less wide in
one
of those directions."

"Not necessarily," Doug said. "Take off your pack."

"How do you
know
?" Bob asked.

"Bobby, this isn't the first time I've
been
out here, you know. Take my word for it, it doesn't get any narrower farther down or farther up. Besides, the campsite we'll use is that way." He pointed across the stream.

Bob nodded reluctantly. Just stop calling me Bobby, will you? he thought. Marian was right. It did definitely sound as though Doug was talking to a ten-year-old. Maybe that's how he sees me, he thought. With another sigh, heavier this time, he started to unbuckle his backpack straps.

Doug had his pack off now. Moving to the bank of the stream, holding on to its straps, he turned himself halfway around, paused, then took a deep breath and flung the backpack across the stream. It landed several yards from the opposite bank.

He turned to Bob. "I told you how I lost a pack once in a stream like this. I don't intend to take a chance on it happening again."

"Uh-huh." Bob nodded. His pack was off now. He looked at Doug questioningly.

"Well, go ahead, throw it," Doug told him.

Bob winced. "What if I don't make it?" he asked. "I'd lose everything."

"It's not that wide, Bobby," Doug said edgily.

"I know, but—"

"Just sling the damn thing," Doug told him.

Bob hesitated. If his throw was short, he'd be obligated to Doug for everything. The prospect was more than a little daunting.

"Oh, for Christ's sake," Doug snapped. Pulling the pack out of Bob's grip, he moved to the bank of the stream, cocked his arm, and threw the pack. It landed about a foot from the opposite bank. Great, Bob thought. You didn't try as hard with my pack, did you?

"Doug," he said.

"Yessir." Doug's tone was irritated.

"Why are you expecting me to act like a professional backpacker?"

Doug scowled. "Didn't think that tossing a backpack across a stream is something only a professional backpacker could do."

"Okay, okay." Bob nodded. "Now what, do we jump across the stream in one leap? Oh, no, you said we wade."

Doug was already sitting on the ground, unlacing his boots. He glanced up at Bob. "Do
likewise
, Bobby," he said. He bared his teeth, pulling at the laces of his boots. "Unless you'd prefer getting your boots soaking wet. They take a hell of a long time to dry, let me tell you."

"All right," Bob said. He felt like sighing again but repressed it. I could be home, sitting in my chair, enjoying a vodka and tonic with a slice of lemon, he thought. He sat down and started to unlace his boots. Instead, I'm here, doing research for a goddamn novel. Why didn't I go all the way and write a novel about a Welsh coal miner and work in a mine for a couple of weeks?

"Tie the laces together," Doug told him, "and put your socks inside the boots, roll up your pants. I warn you, the water's going to be cold."

Thanks for telling me, Bob thought. The colder the better. I love wading in fast-moving ice water. The next book I write will be about an Olympic swimmer who trains in Antarctica. He couldn't restrain another sigh.

"All right, let's go," Doug said, standing. "Stay behind me and feel your way ahead as you cross. There could be rocks on the bottom that move under you."

"Right," Bob said. Anything you say, Dougie boy, his mind added.

Doug walked over to a fallen tree and broke off two thick branches. "To brace yourself against the current," he said, handing one of the branches to Bob. "Cross facing upstream so you have a triangle of support."

"Okay," Bob said, not sure he understood what Doug had just said.

Doug moved to the edge of the stream, swung his boots around a few times by their laces, then threw them across the stream. They landed beyond his pack.

"You want me to throw yours?" he asked.

No, goddamn it, I can throw my own boots, thank you, Bob thought resentfully. "I'll do it," he said.

Immediately, he visualized both boots landing in the fast-moving water and being carried off by the swift current. Or, just as bad, the laces coming untied and the boots landing separately, maybe one in the water, one on the other side of the stream. Then he'd have to hop his way through the forest, he thought, visualizing himself doing that for the next two or three days.

He held out the boots by their tied laces. "I changed my mind," he said.

He knew Doug's smile was one of disparagement but let it go. Better a little disparagement than one or both of his boots flying down the stream like lost canoes.

Doug took the boots from him and, twirling them twice by their tied laces, flung them across the stream. They bounced off the ground several feet beyond Doug's boots. The winner and still champion! Bob thought.

His first step into the stream made him cry out involuntarily. "Jesus!"

"I told you it was cold," Doug said. If the temperature of the water bothered him, he wasn't showing it. Or would rather die than show it, Bob decided.
Macho Man!
his mind sang out.