Hunted Past Reason (23 page)

It took him more than fifteen minutes to cut the branch loose and shorten it into a cudgel about two and a half feet long.

That done, he sat on the fallen trunk of the tree and, for a short while, examined his improvised club.

It was about three inches thick. The bottom half, the part he'd hold, was straight for almost a foot and a half. The upper half twisted sideways, small stumps jutting out from it. He touched the ends of the stumps with his right index finger. They all felt sharp to the touch. Again involuntarily, he visualized the stumped end of the cudgel hitting Doug's face, digging into his cheek, perhaps gouging out one or both of his eyes.

He clenched his teeth and willed away the image. No choice, he told himself again and again.
No choice
.

He examined the cudgel for almost ten minutes before realizing that his plan had gone no further than the preparation of the club and the vague idea of him stepping out from behind a tree and smashing Doug across the face with it.

Idly, he plucked loose three small dead leaves from the upper half of the club. How much time had he used now to prepare it? He looked at his wristwatch. He'd wasted—
utilized!
he berated himself— almost twenty minutes now. If Doug had told him the truth, he'd have to wait in hiding for more than two hours.

Doubts began to pile up in his brain. What made him assume that Doug would come this way? What if he hid behind a tree in waiting only to have Doug bypass him by a hundred yards,
two
hundred? Then his plan was worthless.

Worse, what if Doug
did
come by this way but from a different angle? He might very easily spot him hiding behind a tree, casually notch an arrow into his bow, and let it fly. He wouldn't have to be anywhere near Bob to kill him.

Worse still, what if Doug's plan was to bypass him anyway, hurry on to the cabin, play out his lachrymose scene for Marian, and talk her into driving away with him to find the nearest ranger or sheriff's station? By the time he reached the cabin— presuming he'd reach it at all, Marian could be gone. How could he conceivably make his way out of the forest to find help? He'd end up hopelessly lost, finished. In his condition, he couldn't possibly endure another extended hike through the forest. Lost— or killed by some wild animal— he'd die knowing that Marian was now the unwitting victim to Doug's ungodly plot.

The more he examined the possibilities, the less sense his plan made to him. Doug was too skilled to be caught by surprise, and he might never even
see
Doug. No, it made no sense, no sense at all. To wait here, lurking behind a tree, his only chance the improbable appearance of Doug in such a convenient way that he could jump out at him and smash the club across his face. Jesus Christ, Hansen, he scorned himself. Great plan. He was sure to fail the attempt, lose everything, his wife, his children, his life. You're out of your mind, he told himself. Absolutely out of your mind. There was only one hope he had. To reach Marian before Doug could overtake him. That was
it
. As weak and physically depleted as he was, it was his only hope.

He scowled at his own unthinking gullibility and looked at the compass Doug had given him. Doug had told him that the cabin was on a magnetic bearing of forty degrees from where they were standing. He had turned the compass housing to the forty-degree bearing, then turned the entire compass until the red end of the needle was lined up with the N arrow on the bottom of the circular housing.

"Now you're oriented," Doug had told him as though lecturing a student on some casual direction-finding problem. "Just turn the compass until the red end of the needle is pointing north, then turn the base plate until the direction-of-travel needle points toward a forty-degree bearing— got it?"

Bob turned the compass until the needle was pointing at N on the compass. He was off the mark by twenty degrees. Turning, he pointed himself in the corrected direction. What was it Doug had said, trying to be "so helpful"— something about picking out a distant landmark. Looking up, he saw a mountain peak on approximately the forty-degree bearing; maybe it was forty-five. He could adjust to that.

Nodding to himself in satisfaction (oh, now you're an official backpacker, his brain mocked him), he started walking again.

Was it possible that Doug had lied to him completely about the bearing to follow to reach the cabin? That he was actually sending him into untraveled forest, planning on him getting lost, dying of thirst or hunger, maybe even being killed by a wild animal? The idea made him ill.

No, he told himself then. No, he wouldn't do that. What if he goes right to the cabin and tells his story and I survive and show up? That would be too much of a risk. He has to kill me, he realized. There was no other way.

At first, he thought it was the idea of Doug sending him into impenetrable wilderness that was making his stomach churn. Then he realized— "wonder of wonders," he muttered— that he had to move his bowels.

He did what Doug had suggested (well, he's done that much for me anyway, the bizarre thought occurred) finding a fallen log and sitting on it, hovering his rear end over the ground.

It was hardly the best bowel movement he'd ever had but he groaned and sighed in relief as he emptied his bowels. In a few minutes, he sat motionless, smiling despite the dire circumstance he was in. He listened to the faint soughing of the wind in the high trees, admired the colors of the leaves, the massive silence of the forest.

The momentary pleasure ended as he wiped himself, seeing the bright blood on the tissue. "Bastard," he muttered. "Son of a bitch." He sighed wearily. A far remove from metaphysical reflection, he thought. Hanging off a log, wiping blood from my ass.

He looked at his watch as he kept moving, managing to achieve a certain rhythm and timing to his strides. He'd been gone more than two hours now. If Doug had been honest about the "rules" of his lunatic game, he'd be starting after Bob in less than fifty minutes. He visualized Doug, smiling excitedly to himself, lunging into the forest, intent on his prey. How would he know which direction to take? Had he backpacked here often enough that he had a built-in compass in his brain? Bob didn't know. All he did know was that Doug would be on the move with a zeal that was near crazed.

He was sure of that.

Still, he thought, Doug couldn't have been planning on this right from the start. Why impart any woodlore at all if he intended killing Bob from the very beginning? No, the anger and resentment had built up in the last two days. Now it had crested and erupted like a mental volcano.

When?
he thought as he walked steadily. When had it all begun? What had he said to generate this madness in Doug's mind? Was it any one thing he'd said? Or was Doug primed for this from the beginning, needing only constant exposure to Bob's thoughts and words to be aroused to murderous rage? And it
was
rage. Doug could act as "cool" as he wished— but flowing under his mock-amused behavior had to be raw, untrammeled rage, which now was out and flourishing.

He suddenly recalled what Doug had said about the vivid panoply of hues in some of the trees. It signified the destruction of the leaves; they were dying in a blaze of color. How appropriate a memory, he thought.

It occurred to him— causing a chill to wrack his body— that Doug didn't have to kill him with an arrow, dismember him and bury the parts. He could just as easily, catching up to him, throw him off a cliff or drown him. That way, he could still enact his "Oscar-caliber" performance for Marian and the authorities. An accident. He tried to protect Bob while they were climbing, while they were crossing that river. It just happened so fast. Tears and sobs. Guilt presented with performing skill.

"No," he said. "No good." Doug wanted to kill him with an arrow, two arrows, then use his golak to hack him up. Why was he so sure of that? He just was. It was as though he'd seen, full measure, into the blackness that pervaded Doug's mind and there was no room for any further doubt.

Doug would do what he said he would.

"If I let him," Bob muttered angrily. "But I won't.
I won't
." Never mind what he believed. It wasn't of any significance at the moment. At the moment, he almost agreed with what Doug had said to him just before he left.

"Your philosophy is shit, Bobby. A lot of stupid words. You have to fight for what you get in this lifetime, not fucking meditate on the glories of the fucking universe. You grab and you take— that's the only way to live. Survival of the fittest, Bobby. Ever hear of that? Well, you better take it to heart or you'll be skewered before sunset."

Still, as he walked, he began to wonder that if the moment had actually occurred, that his ploy of waiting behind the tree had worked, that he'd actually been able to lunge out from his hiding place and use the club on Doug, would he really have been capable of killing Doug? Easy enough to rationalize that it would be self-defense, kill or be killed. But what he'd be doing was committing a violent homicide. Despite all considered facts of the situation, would he have been able to live with the realization that he was now a murderer?

He didn't know. He simply did not know.

His jaw dropped as he crossed the brow of the hill and saw a lake below.

It was a big one, deep blue, with a tidal current of its own. Should he go down there and refill his water bottle?

Leaning against a lodgepole pine, he took out the compass to check his bearing. Jesus Christ, he reacted. The forty-degree bearing was straight across the lake. Did Doug know that? Son of a bitch, he thought. He looked up at the distant mountain peak; grimaced. The view of it was also straight across the lake.

He put the compass back in his pocket and checked his watch. There was a cold, dropping sensation in his stomach as he realized that Doug was on his way now, probably running through the forest with a crazy glint in his eyes, the hunter tracking the hunted, never doubting for a moment that he'd overtake his prey and kill it.
It,
he thought. That's probably exactly what he was to Doug now. An animal without an identity. A quarry not to be concerned about but run to earth and dispatched with quick efficiency.

He shook himself. Stop brooding about your crazy stalker and start planning your escape. Escape? challenged his mind. You think you're going to escape?

"Yes!" he cried.

All right. First step: He should refill his water bottle, drop in several iodine tablets to purify it. How did he know if there would be any other water once he left the lake behind? Of course, he'd have to move around the border of the lake; the left side looked more possible than the right, which was so far away he couldn't even see it. Then, when he'd circled the lake, he'd relocate his bearing again, move on toward the mountain peak.

The descent to the lake was steeper than he'd thought it was. Almost immediately, he slipped and started to slide down on his back. Oh, Christ, don't break a bone! he thought in panic as he half thrashed, half slithered down the overgrown hill, wincing as he brushed against bushes, bounced over stones. Stop! he told himself. For Christ's sake, stop!

He managed to grab on to the trunk of a small tree as he passed it. The wrenching on his arm and shoulder made him cry out but his rapid, uncontrolled descent was stopped. He dug his boot heels into the ground and drew his hand away from the tree trunk. "Oh,
God
," he muttered, wincing in pain. Now I've sprained my arm and shoulder. What more can I do to make my flight impossible? He closed his eyes with a groan. "Jesus, Jesus, Jesus," he murmured.

The name made him think— more wish, he sensed— that taking all his grand beliefs into consideration, he could convince himself that "outside" help was available.
Pray?
he thought. Oh, yeah, that would do a lot of good. The Lord helps those who help themselves, Bobby boy, his mind chattered irritatingly. Thanks a lot, he answered it. Very reassuring.

He sighed heavily. Well, he already knew that was the case. No white-robed angel with fluffy wings was going to swoop down, pick him up, and carry him to sanctuary. He could pray until the snow fell but he'd still have to make his way to safety on his own two weary, aching legs.

For a moment, what he suddenly saw was so astounding to him that he was unable to react.

Then he gasped. "My God," he said, his voice barely audible.

A boat had appeared from behind the headland of a cove, moving across the lake. It was a motor launch with an awning roof, three people sitting inside.

"Oh, Jesus Christ," he said. He shouted. "Hey! I'm up here! Wait for me!"

He knew he wasn't loud enough and, hastily, took a sip of water, threw back his head and gargled with it, spit it out.
"Hey!"
he cried as loudly as he could. "Come
back
! I need a ride!"

He stared at the boat. Surely, they'd heard. It seemed to him that his voice had rung out across the lake, so loudly that he felt an uneasy tremor, wondering if Doug had heard and now knew exactly where he was.

No help for it. He had to get on that boat.

"Hey! I need your help! Please! I'm in danger! Come back! I need to cross the lake!"

The boat kept moving steadily through the water. Did he actually see it— his distance vision was far from perfect— or had a man in the back of the launch gestured across his shoulder with his right thumb. He couldn't be sure.

"Please!" he screamed with all the power he could summon. "I need your help! Please come back!
Please!
"

The boat did not turn but kept gliding across the lake, leaving behind a narrow wake, its prow cutting knifelike through the dark blue water.

"Oh, God." Bob's voice broke in a sob; he felt tears flowing from his eyes, running quickly down his cheeks. If this is my karma, I hate it, I
hate
it! he thought.

"I'm finished," he muttered. "There's just no way."

It took ten minutes of surrendering agony to regain himself. He hadn't cried like this since he was a young boy. Or since you watched the last scene of
The Miracle Worker
, his mind, irritating once more, reminded him. Oh, shut up, he thought. But there was no strength to his retaliation. It was weak and unconvincing.