Hunted Past Reason

7:01 AM

It was a difficult set of steps to ascend; they seemed to go on endlessly. He felt his breathing get more and more strained. “I have to warn him,” he kept muttering to himself. The man had to leave right now or he was doomed.

Finally, he reached the door—it was made of thick, heavy wood. He pounded on it with the side of his right fist, wincing at the tenderness in his palm.

There was no response and he pounded on the door again. “Come on,” he shouted. “For God’s sake, answer the door!”

No response. He looked around. Was there a window he could break, maybe kick in? No; the outside wall of the cabin was solid. “Goddamn it, what’s the matter with you?!” he cried.

He had just raised his fist to hit the door again when the door was yanked open by an irritated-looking man. “What the hell is it?” he demanded.

“What the hell is it?” Bob raged. “Don’t you know what’s going on, for Christ’s sake?”

“No, tell me,” the man said mockingly.

“Goddamn it, man, the mountain is getting ready to blow!” He looked across his shoulder at the mountain and saw the dome on its side swelling quickly.

“You have to get out of here,” he told the man. “Can’t you see that?”

“Listen,” said the man. “I have a job to do. You want to take a powder, do it. I’m busy.”

“For God’s sake, man, the mountain is going to explode any second now! Either you—!”

At that moment, he saw the man look across his shoulder, an expression of shock on his face. Jerking around, he saw that the dome had exploded, sending a dark cloud of smoke high into the sky. “Oh, Jesus,” he muttered. He couldn’t understand why there was no sound to the explosion.

He looked back at the man but he was no longer in the doorway, running to a radio transmitter. Picking up a microphone, he shouted into it, “Vancouver, Vancouver, this is it!”

Bob whirled to see a cloud of gas rushing at him, a torrent of mud and rocks hurtling toward the cabin. Too late! he thought. Dear God, he’d never escape now. He was finished.

He felt his body twitch so sharply that it woke him up. He sucked in at the chilly morning air. Dear God, he thought. It had been so real. But why such a dream now? Because it was a way for his subconscious to express itself because he was afraid he’d never escape from Doug?

He shuddered and swallowed. His throat was dry. Feeling around for his water bottle, he found it, picked it up, unscrewed its cap, and took a swallow of the cold water, then managed to swallow two multivitamins.

Putting the cap back on the water bottle, he slumped inside the sleeping bag. He still felt tired, bone tired. And yet he had to get going; he had no choice.

He recalled the time he and Marian had driven up to the Mount St. Helens display building and seen the film there, the one that began with the last words of the observer in the area—“Vancouver, Vancouver, this is it!”

The film had been horrifying. No sound of explosion because it traveled straight up—but a river of mud and rocks and magma hurtling down the valley at a hundred eighty miles an hour, the observer dying almost instantly, a man living miles away telephoning Vancouver to report that he had just seen the observer’s car and cabin engulfed by the rushing wall and that it was headed for him. “And now it’s going to get me,” the man said in a dreadfully calm voice. Then he was gone as well.

Bob shuddered convulsively, then checked his watch. Not quite quarter after seven. He had to move on right away. His clothes still felt damp but there would be no opportunity to dry them any further. He decided that he’d leave the sleeping bag behind, trusting the assumption that he’d reach the cabin today; anything to help him move faster.

He winced as he realized that his face felt hot. He pressed a palm against his forehead. It felt warm but not as hot as it would if he had a fever. He realized then how badly he’d become sunburned. He gritted his teeth in a scowl. Sure, why not? he thought. Add it to the list.

When he sat up, he saw the headless rabbit. It was impaled on an upright piece of branch the other end of which was pushed into the ground between two of the boulders.

At first, his mind could not react. He stared at the rabbit blankly, then a rush of ice water flooded his chest and stomach.

Doug.

He gaped at the rabbit in sick, mindless terror. It had been skinned, its hide split open from tail to throat and peeled off carefully, its genitals and musk glands removed, internal organs lifted out, its bladder carefully cut away. Blood and transparent liquid dripped from its flesh.

Thought suddenly returned to him, searing his mind. Why was he still alive? If Doug had caught up to him, why hadn’t he hacked him to death with the golak? It didn’t make sense and, in a way, was more frightening than the idea of him being killed as soon as Doug overtook him.

Then he saw the note. It was impaled on a standing twig, written on a piece of cardboard torn from a box. One that he had or one that he found? he wondered pointlessly.

For almost a minute, he could only stare at the piece of cardboard, unable to move, feeling that he was destined to be killed by Doug. But why the note? Why the rabbit?

Reaching out a shaking hand, he pulled the piece of cardboard from the twig. The note was printed in small, uneven letters of ink.

Conflicting thoughts raced through Bob’s brain, dread competing with fury. Goddamn the man. It’s still a game to him, a sick, exciting game. He’d been here. Here. He could have murdered me in my sleep. But he wants the chase to go on. Never had he felt more distant from Doug’s mind. He was sociopathic, that was certain now. How had he functioned as an actor all those years, as a husband, as a father, as a human being? Well, he hadn’t, that was undoubtedly the answer. He’d hidden his diseased interior self with the skill of a trained performer. Now it was out in all its aberrant glory. The man who wanted to kill him was deranged.

“Well, goddamn it,” he said in sudden rage. “I’m not going to play the role of helpless victim for you.”

Moving fast, he unzipped the sleeping bag, pulled it off and slung it aside. Environmentalists, go screw yourself, he thought. He shivered, his clothes still damp, especially his jacket. For several moments, when he stood, all his angry resolve evaporated as he almost lost his footing, his legs feeling weak and rubbery. No! he commanded himself. Pulling on his boots quickly and fastening their laces, he stamped his feet on the ground to get their circulation going. That was better. He was going to move and move with speed. Doug had underestimated him. He shunted aside the realization that Doug had already caught up to him once. Well, it wouldn’t happen again. It just wouldn’t.

He had the whistle to his lips when the idea came. Well, thank you, Doug, you idiot. I need protein and you’ve provided me with some, you dumb son of a bitch. You even prepared the rabbit for me. Thanks again.

As quickly as he could, he opened his knife and hacked away a chunk of the rabbit’s flesh, stuffing it into the right side pocket of his jacket. I’ll cook it later. Now—

He raised the whistle to his lips and blew it twice, as strongly as he could. He had no doubt whatever that he had two hours to get the jump on Doug who, in his own psychotic way, would abide scrupulously by the rules of the game.

The rules of the game, he thought in sickened disgust. A game that belonged in another time, another place, not in California, U.S.A., in the twenty-first century. Well, so be it. Let the grinning sociopath play his crazy game. He’d play another one titled Escape and Revenge.

Chewing on turkey jerky, he began to move as rapidly as he could through the forest. He had to force himself to move at a quick pace, force himself to ignore the aching pains in his body. He wasn’t going to lose Doug’s stupid, bloodthirsty game, he vowed. Allow him to take over Marian’s life? Never!

“You can’t even spell, you stupid bastard!” For some bizarre reason, the thought pleased him.

9:12 AM

He kept thinking it over and over as he struggled through the forest, eyes staring, almost unfocused.

Easy enough to say.

Easy enough to say he was determined to live, determined to reach the cabin and get Marian out of there.

How did he convince his body of it?

He felt exhausted again, every muscle seeming to ache. He’d stopped once and attempted to move his bowels; completely in vain. Every effort to empty them drove streaks of pain through his rectum. Finally, he gave up, pulled his pants up, and continued on.

His legs seemed strengthless now. He kept stumbling, tripping, stubbing his boots on the ground. How can I go on like this? he thought. He had the feeling that if he threw himself down and allowed himself to rest, even to sleep, he’d never be able to get up again, he’d be lying there, inert and helpless when Doug caught up to him, pulled out his golak, and hacked him to death. I can’t let that happen, he told himself but with less and less assurance. He had the frightening impression that he wanted to fall, to rest, to sleep.

To surrender.

Still, he kept on going, his movements more labored and erratic as the minutes passed. He fell more than once, pushing to his feet each time, starting forward once more, as though he was impelled by some kind of mechanical force, walking like a robot, stiffly, devoid of will, unable to stop, his expression blank, his gaze directed ahead of himself yet seeing nothing but forest, forest, forest.

Once, as he crossed a sunlit clearing he thought: I’ve paid no attention to the house I live in. I’ve spent too much time thinking about where I was going when I left the house, in the meantime letting the house get run-down and in desperate need of repair.

Now that house was on the verge of collapse, ready to fall because of his neglect.

Then he was in the forest again, his mind unable to concentrate. There was only one thought he could manage. How far behind was Doug? Had he already recommenced his stalk? Goddamn the man, didn’t he ever get tired? Who was he, goddamn Superman?

He stumbled over a fallen branch and, without volition, reached down and used his boot to break off a piece of it, strip away its twigs and leaves. A cudgel, he thought. Good. If he had the chance, he’d use it on Doug, kill him if he had to. He knew it was an unlikely weapon since Doug had the bow and arrow and could kill him from a distance. But if he could hide somewhere, so that Doug came close without knowing he was there. A sudden blow then, directly on Doug’s skull.

He frowned in confusion as he stumbled on. Hadn’t he already thought about waiting to ambush Doug? And didn’t he discard the idea as unfeasible?

He grunted, gesturing weakly. Just keep walking, he told himself. Keep walking as fast as you can. He checked the compass again. He was still moving in the right direction. He’d use that distant pine tree standing by itself as his immediate target. Walk, he told himself. Keep walking. Fast. Forget about your body. Your body is irrelevant. Will yourself on. No other way. Try to ignore—no ignore!—the aches and pains, the devouring fatigue that threatened him, at every moment, with collapse, surrender. Keep moving. Move. Move.

He tried to deflect his sense of exhaustion by looking at the area he was passing through. On each side of him were darkly forested hillsides that disappeared in heavy mist. The entire valley he was walking through had a low ceiling of mist, lying like pale wool above the trees. He could barely see the target pine tree through the mist. The valley was dead still. The only sound he could hear was the crackling stumble of his boots. He hoped he would be out of the misty section of forest soon. His jacket, still damp, felt cold on him.

Still, the silent valley was extremely beautiful, he thought, then recalled that, somewhere he had read that, just before death, everything looked beautiful. He forced away the notion but realized that his resistance was becoming weaker and weaker. He had to face the facts. At any moment, he might break down, crumple to the forest floor, and lie there helplessly, unable—even unwilling—to go on.

Don’t, he pleaded with himself. Just keep moving, moving. Doug couldn’t run after him; he had to be tired too. His grip tightened on the cudgel. Just keep on, he thought. Keep on. Keep on.

Keep on!

10:48 AM

His gaze nearly out of focus, he almost walked directly into the mountain lion.

With a dry gasp, he recoiled, hearing the hiss and snarl of the lion; it was big, its tawny body eight feet long. He froze, preparing himself to die. There was no possible way he could escape.

But the lion didn’t attack. As he stared at it in terror, he saw it slump back on the ground, its greenish-gray eyes fixed on him, its mouth open, teeth bared in a threatening growl. Why doesn’t it attack? he wondered. Surely, this was not another apparent miracle of protection.

Then he saw the reason. The mountain lion’s right rear leg was pinned beneath a fallen tree, it was unable to do more than try to stand on its front legs.

“Oh, you poor thing.” Bob couldn’t help but feel sorry for the trapped cat. “How long have you been that way?”

The mountain lion growled again, a rumbling in its throat and chest.

“It’s all right,” Bob told it. He quickly put down his branch cudgel. “You don’t have to growl.” He made shushing noises until the mountain lion grew still. Bob saw now that its tongue was hanging out and it was panting. “You’re thirsty,” he said. “Well…” He couldn’t very well put water in his palm for the cat. He’d lose his hand if he tried.

He stood immobile for a while, wondering what to do. Practicality advised that he move on, Doug was still after him.

He couldn’t though. He knew that if Doug ran across the mountain lion—and he probably would—he’d immediately fire an arrow into the trapped cat. Or cut off its head with his golak.

He couldn’t allow that. I’m not like him, he thought. I can’t just leave it here. I won’t, goddamn it. I just won’t.

He looked around and saw that the trunk of the fallen tree had some bark torn away. Maybe he could…

Taking out his knife—the movement made the lion growl—he began to peel away a section of bark several feet in length.

“You don’t have to growl now,” he told the cat in a gentle voice, “I’m going to see if I can give you a drink. Just lie still now. Shh. Shh.”

The cat became quiet and watched, seemingly curious as to what he was doing. “That’s right,” he said, “I’m going to try and give you a drink, okay?”

Now the mountain lion’s mouth was shut except for the tip of its red tongue protruding slightly. It watched as Bob peeled away the section of bark. “Now,” he said, “let’s see if this will work.”

The strip was already curled up on both sides. At first he considered trying to use it as a trough through which he could pour the water into the cat’s mouth. He gave up that idea immediately. Cats didn’t drink that way.

Carefully, he began to bend up one end of the curled bark strip. It wouldn’t hold, making him frown. If he only had one of those backpack straps now, he thought. He looked around. Something to tie up the end with, he thought. Something to—

“Ah,” he said. He reached into his trouser pocket and took out his handkerchief. It was still damp but that didn’t matter. He twisted it again and again until it formed a kind of thick, white twine that he used to tie up one end of the bark length. Then, pouring water from the bottle into the curved bark, he began to slide it slowly toward the lion. A rumble sounded in its chest. “No, don’t growl,” he told it quietly. “I’m trying to give you a drink. Don’t growl now. Shh. It’s okay. I’m just trying to give you a drink.”

The bark-held water was close enough now for the cat to drink from it but it only eyed the bark suspiciously, not moving. “Go on,” Bob told it softly. “Water. It’s water.”

The mountain lion extended its broad white paw and hit the bark, knocking it aside as the water spilled on the ground. “Aw, no,” Bob said. “Don’t do that. I’m trying to give you a drink. Come on now.”

As he pulled back the length of curved bark, Bob wondered if he was committing suicide by staying so long with the trapped lion. He made a hapless sound. “What am I supposed to do, just let it die?” he asked, of whom he had no idea.

“All right,” he said, “I’m going to try again. Now just don’t knock it over. I know you’re thirsty.”

Pouring more water into the curved bark, he pushed it back toward the cat. “All right, I’m doing it again,” he said. “Now drink, will you? Just drink?”

The cat slapped at the bark, spilling the water again.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, pussy,” Bob said unhappily. “I can’t stay here all day, trying to give you a drink of water. A crazy guy is after me and wants to kill me.”

Again, he put water in the bark, holding the bottle higher so the cat could see the water being poured. “See?” he said. “Water. I know you’re thirsty. Now you’re going to drink this time, all right? Water. Water.”

The cat watched him push the length of bark to it. This time it didn’t move. “Come on,” Bob said. “Drink. Drink.”

He felt an unexpected rush of joy as the lion lowered its head and began to lap at the water with its tongue. “That a boy—or girl—I don’t know which but I’m not going to check,” Bob said, feeling a strange flow of happiness inside himself. “Drink. Good water. Good.”

When the lion had drunk all the water, Bob leaned forward without thinking to pour more into the bark. The cat jerked up his head to stare at him but for some reason, Bob didn’t feel alarmed. He poured more water into the bark. “There you go,” he said. “Have some more.”

Without a sound, the mountain lion lowered its head and lapped up the new supply of water. “That’s the way,” Bob told it, smiling. “You’re really beautiful, you know that?”

The cat was beautiful, its head covered with multi shades of brown, gray, and beige all blended perfectly, its nose dark red, the fur beneath its nose and on its chin a snowy white, its whiskers and hairs sticking out above its eyes also white. Its long body was a soft, tawny brown, its chest white.

“You are beautiful,” Bob told it. “And I’m going to get you out of here right now.”

He blinked at his audacity. Get it out of here? How, for God’s sake? He couldn’t get close enough to the lion to try to raise the fallen tree. The cat would kill him. Maybe glad to get that water but not suddenly domesticated.

Bob looked around uneasily. I have to get out of here myself, he thought. I can’t waste any more time. But, again, the conviction gripped him. He simply could not leave the mountain lion for Doug to slaughter. No matter how long it took to—

“Ah!” he said. Another inspiration. Well, a workable idea at any rate, he decided.

He moved to the fallen tree. A branch wouldn’t be strong enough; he had to have a limb. Fortunately, in its fall, one of the limbs had almost cracked away from the trunk. Bob took out his knife and hacked at the splintered wood holding the limb in place. Could really use that golak now, he thought, wincing at the image of how deadly a weapon it was. Not that it was designed to be exclusively a weapon. That was, of course, how Doug regarded it though. He tried to rid his mind of the image as he cut the limb free.

It took only a few minutes for him to cut away the branches. This should do the trick, he thought. “I’m going to get you out of here, pussy,” he said. He grimaced at himself. Pussy? This was no house cat. He recalled, fleetingly, Doug calling him that. Bastard, he thought.

The limb was ready now. He moved to the opposite side of the tree and spoke across the foliage to the mountain lion. “I’m going to raise the tree now,” he told it. “When I do, pull out your leg and move off. I hope your leg isn’t broken. However… just don’t kill me after you’re free, okay? I really don’t deserve it. Right. Let’s see what happens.”

He pushed the end of the limb as far beneath the trunk as possible, keeping it away from the lion’s trapped leg. “All right,” he said. “Archimedes’s principle, pussy. The lever. Get yourself ready.”

He pressed down on the end of the limb. Nothing budged. “Oh, Christ, I hope it’s not too heavy,” he muttered. He pressed down harder, using more strength. The effort sent barbs of pain through his lower back. “I’m not sure I’m going to be able to do this,” he told the cat and himself. “Jesus, don’t let the tree be too heavy.”

He pressed down harder, teeth clenched against the pains it caused in his back. “What am I doing this for?” he muttered. “Trying to save you, I’ll ruin myself. Is that fair? Ah!” A quick smile pulled back his lips. The tree was lifting off the ground. “Get ready, pussy, get ready,” he said, breathless now. “Pull out your leg.”

The cat remained motionless, its throat filled with vibrating growls.

“For Christ’s sake, pussy, pull your leg out,” he begged. “I can’t keep holding up the tree.” Wasn’t there enough of it lifted for the cat to free its leg? he wondered. He groaned in agony as he pushed down harder on the limb. “Come on,” he said through gritted teeth. “Pull out your leg. I can’t keep—”

He broke off in shock as the limb snapped and the tree trunk fell back on the mountain lion’s leg. Its high-pitched scream of pain horrified Bob. “Oh, God, I’m sorry,” he said, barely able to speak. “I didn’t mean for that to happen. It wasn’t me, it was the limb. It broke, it broke.”

The mountain lion uttered an unearthly sound of pain and fury.

Suddenly, uncontrollably, Bob began to cry. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he said brokenly, tears pouring from his eyes. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m trying to help you get away.” He could hardly speak he was sobbing so hard. “You can’t stay here, you’ll die. Don’t you understand? You have to move or you’ll die.”

Fury filled him with startling abruptness. “Goddamn it, pussy!” He began to rage. “Are you just going to give up and die?! Don’t you want to live?! Don’t you?!”

With a sudden move, he grabbed hold of a still intact limb and struggled to lift the tree. “Damnit, you are going to live, you hear me?” he told the cat in a fury. “I’m going to lift this goddamn tree, and when I do, you’re going to pull your goddamn leg out, do you hear me? Do you hear me, cat?!”

Later, he wondered where on earth the strength had come to him to raise the tree trunk. Was it the kind of desperate strength that helped tiny women to lift the weight of a car off their child’s leg? He never knew. All he knew, at this moment, was that his body felt suffused with a kind of maddened power that enabled him to lift the tree trunk from the mountain lion’s pinned leg.

“Now move, goddamn it! Move! Pull out your leg! You hear me, goddamn it! Pull out your fucking leg!”

The mountain lion suddenly lurched free and leaped to its feet, growling fiercely.

All rage vanished in an instant, all unnatural strength. He stood frozen, watching the mountain lion starting to limp around the tree to get at him.

“Now come on,” he pleaded. “I just saved your life. I gave you water. I lifted the tree and freed your leg. You don’t want to kill me. You know you don’t.”

The mountain lion stopped its limping move around the tree. Was it the sound of his voice, no longer furious but, once more, gentle? He had no idea but kept on talking.

“Just move on now, pussy, just move on,” he said. “If your leg is broken, there’s nothing I can do about that. But at least you aren’t trapped. My crazy friend can’t kill you now.” He broke into a bitter laugh, causing the cat to cock its head and gaze at him curiously. “He’s not my friend. He’s nuts. He wants to kill me. I’d love it if you got him instead of me. But just move on. I’m going to turn and get on my way. Don’t jump on my back now, please. Just stay here ’til I’m gone, then move on. Okay? I’m going to turn and walk away now. Just stand still. I wish you well. Good-bye now.”

As slowly as he could, he picked up the cudgel, turned and started off into the forest, chills lacing up and down his spine as he walked, anticipating a dreadful roar behind him, the sound of the huge cat’s thrashing body, the crushing weight of its body leaping on his back, the claws digging into him, the sharp teeth rending at his flesh. Much good the cudgel would do him.

Nothing happened though. After a minute had passed, he stopped and turned around. The mountain lion was standing motionless, watching him go. Without thought, he raised his right arm. “Bye,” he said. “Take care of yourself.”

He turned around and walked on into the forest. A miracle? he wondered. Or simply that the mountain lion knew he’d saved its life?

He sighed. At least that bastard Doug would never get to kill it now.

12:09 PM

He’d followed the instructions in the booklet Marian had given him, found a flat, concave stone and heated it over a fire. Then, when the rock was hot (he’d put drops of water on it until the last one sizzled) he’d placed the rabbit, open side down on the rock and fried it as long as he dared.

It was barely done, but it tasted magnificent. He was conscious of tearing at it like a wild animal, ripping off large chunks of it with his teeth, chewing it noisily and probably swallowing it too soon. But it tasted delicious and he ate every scrap of it.

Now the coffee was steaming. Using his shirttail to hold the hot metal handle of the cup, he sipped at the coffee with powdered milk and sugar in it. It tasted wonderful too. He ate an energy bar and took continued sips from the metal cup. As he did, he kicked dirt onto the hole in which he’d placed the rabbit directly on the stone, turning it over and over, blackening it on the outside, hoping that the inside would get cooked enough to make it edible.

He looked at his watch. He’d been here almost twenty-five minutes. Had it been too long? There was just no way of knowing where Doug was, how fast he was moving in his demented pursuit.

No matter. He had to eat and he did. The rabbit, probably more raw than cooked, sat in his stomach in lumps. To hell with it, he told himself. He needed protein, he had it now.

He finished putting out the fire and kept sipping at the hot coffee, nibbling at the rest of the blackberries in his pocket. He’d finish the coffee, then move on. Even sitting, he was aware of every ache in his body. Never mind, he thought. You saved that mountain lion, didn’t you? He had the time. Even as he thought it, he realized that the logic made no sense at all. Yet, somehow, it was satisfying to him. He was amazed that he was even able to stand after the strain he’d put on his back, lifting that tree. Adrenaline, he thought. There really was something to it. To his knowledge, he’d never consciously experienced its effect before. He sure did this time though.

It came to him, as he thought, that his belief system had value to him only as a philosophy that had no tangible effect on the realities of his life. Perhaps if he was so spiritually advanced he would actually control those physical realities. He wasn’t though. He had the belief system, period.

So he believed in life after death. So what? It didn’t make his plight any easier to endure. Surviving death, however certain it might be, didn’t alter by a single detail the knowledge that a madman was chasing him, planning, after the killing, to move in on Marian. Under these circumstances, his belief system was of limited or no use at all to him. He didn’t have the time to sit on a log and ponder on the infinite.

Karma? Sure, maybe this entire terrifying experience was part of his karma. Again, so what? Believing that Doug would eventually pay the price for what he was doing didn’t help a bit. Big deal, he thought in disgust. The only thing that mattered was staying alive; and the details of living were up to him.

Maybe he’d spent so much time thinking about the meaning of life that he’d almost overlooked the fact that he was alive.

It was a bizarre notion but, in a real sense, maybe Doug was doing him a favor. He knew very well that this was the last thing in the world Doug intended. It was true though.

By threatening him with death, it was just possible that Doug had reacquainted him with life.

2:16 PM

He emerged from the forest and saw an open, boulder-strewn slope in front of him at the bottom of which—about fifty yards distant—was a cliff overlooking distant forest and mountains.

He felt a stab of dread. Had he miscalculated the compass reading? Hastily, fingers trembling, he removed the compass from his jacket pocket and took a reading. An even more severe stab of dread now. The route Doug had instructed him to follow pointed directly toward the cliff. He couldn’t possibly climb down that. Had it been a ruse on Doug’s part after all? A ghoulish trick to lead him to this hopeless end?

“No, wait,” he muttered. “Wait.” Doug had told Marian that she’d enjoy the cabin’s deck, which overlooked forest and mountains. This had to be the view he was describing to her. He must have drifted to the left or right, probably the left, he decided. Looking into the distance, he saw what appeared to be a turn to the cliff top. At this right turn, the forest continued. He’d keep moving into it. Eventually, the cliff would turn toward the north and the compass reading would lead him on correctly. He had to believe that anyway.

He went back into the forest and kept on walking as rapidly as he could. If the cliff was here, maybe the lodge Doug had mentioned was just ahead.

He was sitting in a blackberry patch, eating some of them, when a black bear pushed its way into the patch.

“Oh, my God,” he muttered.

Without thinking, he immediately rolled himself into as tight a fetal position as he could, thinking about having his flesh clawed open.

Ignoring him completely, the bear turned and ambled out of the blackberry patch.

Bob unrolled himself and sat up. “It wasn’t a grizzly bear, it was—”

His words broke as he began to laugh softly and uncontrollably. It didn’t even pay attention to him for chrissake! It must have thought: Who in the hell is that idiot rolling himself into a ball? Bob laughed until tears were running down his cheeks.

Then he went on eating blackberries and washing them down with water.

A few minutes later, his bowels moved so quickly, he barely had time to pull down his pants and assume a squatting position.

He’d been moving steadily for the last hour, walking as fast as he could, deliberately ignoring the aches and pains he felt. Taking three aspirins had helped. He didn’t dare take any more and risk possibly falling asleep.

At least, he seemed to be still ahead of Doug. To say the least, it was encouraging. Maybe he’d reach the cabin today after all. If his luck held out.

He was traversing a slope with a ten-to fifteen-degree decline toward the cliff edge. He leaned away from the edge as he walked, feeling edgy at being so close to that tremendous drop.

Suddenly, catching him completely by surprise, a burst of wind hit him, throwing him down to the rocky ground, tearing the cudgel from his grip. My God, where did that come from? he thought.

He started to stand, then found himself slipping on the layer of pine needles on the slope. He struggled up to his knees and tried to stand again. The pine needles slipped out beneath him again and he fell on his chest and stomach.

To his horror, every move to stand he made caused him to fall again and begin sliding backward toward the cliff edge. “Oh, no,” he muttered. Was this the way it was going to end, falling thousands of feet to a horrible, crushing death?

He tried to crawl away from the cliff edge and found himself slipping backward again, the pine needles shifting constantly beneath him.

“No,” he said, terrified. He tried again, more desperately this time, to crawl up the slope. The movement only caused him to slip even more.

Spread eagle, the thought came abruptly. He stretched his legs and arms to the side, lying motionless, feeling his heartbeat pounding at the slope.

Now what? he wondered. He thought hard, then, very slowly, using his right hand, he brushed away the pine needles in front of him.

His gaze scanned the rocky face. With the pine needles gone, he could see that the surface of the slope was uneven, cracks here and there.

Very carefully, again as slowly as possible, he reached up and curled the fingers of his right hand into the tiny crevice. His fingers dug in tightly, and grunting from the effort, he pulled himself up to the crack, using only the strength of his right arm to get him there, the pain in his right wrist, arm, and shoulder making him groan.

Reaching forward, he brushed away more pine needles. This time there was a crevice nearer his left arm and reaching forward he dug the fingers of his left hand into the crack and pulled himself forward, this time forgetting and trying to use his feet, causing himself to begin sliding back again. He grasped at the crack as hard as he could and, with straining effort, pulled himself forward again.

In this way, with agonizing slowness, he managed to reach the top of the slope and regained his footing.

The explosive shot rang out ahead of him and suddenly the tree beside him was gouged by a bullet, detonating splintered fragments of bark by his face, some of them shooting into his cheeks, making him cry out in pain. He fell to the ground in shock, his thoughts a tangle of confused feelings, the main one being—totally stunned—Where did Doug get a rifle?

When there were no further shots, he pushed up on his elbows and half crawled, half pulled himself across the rough ground until he reached a clump of bushes. Pushing his way through them, he got a glimpse of the slope.

A man was standing by a boulder, wearing a plaid jacket and hat, a rifle poised in his hand as though in readiness to finish off his prey.

“Goddamn it, what’s the matter with you?!” Bob yelled. Even as he did, he wondered why he was yelling at a man who could save his life.

The man’s eyes squinted as he looked toward the bushes. “Where are you?” he asked; his tone more irritated than repentant.

“Here,” Bob said, “don’t shoot at me again for Christ’s sake.”

“Well, I thought you were an animal,” the man said grumpily.

Bob struggled to his feet and limped toward the man. “Do I look like a fucking animal?” he demanded, still unable to understand how he could speak so furiously to a man who might well be his salvation. “This is not a hunting area, you know! It’s a national forest!”

“Well, no one told me that,” the man answered resentfully.

As Bob neared him, the man grimaced in revulsion. “Jesus Christ, what happened to you?” he asked. Bob winced, realizing how terrible he must look.

“Listen,” he said. “I need your help.”

“You sure as hell look as though you could use somebody’s help,” the man responded, still making a face at Bob’s appearance.

“There’s a man chasing me,” Bob told him. “He intends to kill me with a bow and arrow—or a golak.”

The man’s expression made it clear that what he had just been told didn’t really register on his mind. “What?” he asked.

“A man is chasing me,” Bob said. “He means to kill me.”

“Why?” the man asked, still looking confused.

“That’s besides the point,” Bob told him urgently. “I need your protection.”

“My protection.” Now the man looked suddenly alarmed and cautious.

“I need your rifle to protect me. Don’t you understand?”

“My rifle?” The man’s seeming inability to understand what he was being told incensed Bob.

“Yes!” he cried. “I either need you to protect me or I need your rifle!”

“I’m not giving you my rifle,” the man said, sounding offended.

“Then protect me!” Bob said furiously. Was the man an idiot?

“From what?” the man demanded.

“I’ve already told you! There’s a man chasing me who means to—!”

“I know what you told me!” the man interrupted, suddenly angry himself. “How do I know what you’re telling me is true?”

“It is true, damnit!” Bob raged at him. “Do I look like I’m crazy?”

“You look worse than crazy, pal!” the man said; he seemed to be regaining confidence now.

“Goddamn it!” Bob abruptly struggled for composure. It was obvious that the more he ranted, the less the man would believe him. He noticed the man’s guarded look at his cudgel and threw it down.

“Listen to me,” he said. “My name is Robert Hansen. I’m here from Los Angeles. I came out here to backpack with a friend of mine—”

“A friend?” the man said suspiciously.

“I thought he was my friend.” Bob felt himself losing control of his temper again and fought to hold it in check. “He’s not my friend. He’s crazy. He’s chasing me—”

“I know; you told me,” the man said. Bob felt incredulous. The sound in the man’s voice was cynically dismissive now. He couldn’t believe what was happening. The man had a rifle, he could bring down Doug and end all this.

“Listen,” he said, as calmly as he could. “You have got to shoot this man before he can kill me.”

“What?” The man’s voice was querulous now, his expression unbelieving. “Shoot a perfect stranger? Are you nuts or something?”

“No, he’s nuts,” Bob snapped back. He was not going to be able to control his anger much longer, he knew. “Listen,” he said. “Sell me your rifle then.”

“What?” The tone even more querulous, the expression incredulous.

“I’ll pay you any price you ask,” Bob told him. “I’m a writer, I have lots of money.”

“Writers don’t make money,” the man said contemptuously.

This is a fucking nightmare, Bob thought. The man didn’t understand any of this, was totally unwilling to help him.

Abruptly he grabbed the rifle by its barrel. “I’m sorry, I have to have this,” he said, his voice trembling.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” the man said, his tone aghast. “Are you nuts?”

“I need to kill this man,” Bob said, teeth clenched. “It isn’t only me he’s after, it’s my wife as well.”

“Oh, well, you’re insane, man.” The hunter pulled back at the rifle. “You belong in a nuthouse.”

“Goddamn it, I need your rifle!” Bob screamed in his face.

They were wrestling for possession of the rifle, boots scraping and stumbling on the ground, when the buzzing sound streaked past Bob’s ear. The man’s cry was startled, like a child’s.

Imbedded in his neck, its bloody point protruding from behind, was an arrow.

Bob recoiled in shock, staring blankly at the man, whose expression was dazed, confused. “What the—?” he began to say.

The next instant, he had toppled backward, the rifle still grasped in his hands. He was dead before he hit the ground.

Bob whirled and stared into the forest. There was no sign of Doug. And yet he had to be there. Was that a movement in the distant brush?

Abruptly he twisted around and, dropping to his knees, tried to pull the rifle from the dead man’s hands. His grip had frozen on the rifle though. Bob pulled at it desperately.

Another buzzing sound, an arrow hitting the ground several inches away, head buried in the soil. Dear God! Bob thought. He pulled at the rifle in panicked anguish. He had to have it or he was finished!

Another buzzing sound, the arrow shooting past him to imbed itself beside the last one. Then Doug’s voice, shouting from the forest. “Better run, Bob! You aren’t going to get that rifle!”

A burst of mindless terror drove Bob to his feet. He stumbled, almost pitched forward, then was able to regain his balance and break into a run for the nearest trees.

“That’s right, Bobby! Run like crazy! I’ll be with you in a little while!”

Bob lost all sense of time and direction as he fled through the woods, stumbling more than once, once falling across a tree root, gasping with pain. Ignoring the pain, he struggled to his feet and ran again, unthinking, stupefied, a brainless, fleeing animal.

Finally, he had to stop, he couldn’t find the breath to continue.

Panting, sweat running down his face, mouth hanging open, eyes staring sightlessly, he turned. He had to know if Doug was running after him.

There was no sign of Doug. Where was he? Beside him in the forest? Ahead of him?

He had to know. He simply had to know.

With what remaining strength he had, he managed to pull himself up into a tree that had branches he could step on starting close to the ground. He kept climbing, visualizing, as he did, Doug appearing just below, looking up with a grin as he notched his arrow into the bowstring, aimed, drew back the string, and shot an arrow into his heart.

Using his tiny binoculars, he looked down, surprised that he could see the dead hunter.

What else he saw made his skin crawl and his stomach almost lose its contents. He made a gagging sound, spit out wet pieces of rabbit, and stared at what Doug was doing: removing the arrow from the dead hunter’s throat, pulling it out from the front so the barbs of the arrowhead wouldn’t get caught in the man’s flesh.

As he watched, he saw Doug—teeth gritted with the effort—yanking at the arrow until it suddenly came free, its feathered end soaked with the hunter’s blood.

Doug poured some water on the feathers and the arrowhead, cleaned them off with his fingers, and slipped the arrow back into its quiver; the two other arrows were already there. The rifle was nowhere to be seen. Doug must have flung it off the cliff.

“No,” Bob murmured, his expression suddenly twisted, sickened.

Doug had taken the hunter’s boots in his hands and was dragging him to the slope that ended at the edge of the cliff.

“You son of a bitch,” he murmured weakly. “You goddamn son of a bitch.” Slip on the pine needles the way I did, he thought. Fall to your death.

But Doug seemed to know about the pine needles. He stopped dragging the dead hunter to the place where the pine needles became a problem and laid the body parallel to the edge and sat down close to it, pressing his boots against the hunter’s side.

With a sudden lunge of his boots, he shoved at the body violently. It rolled over and over, sliding on the pine needles until it reached the cliff edge.

Then it was gone.

Bob’s stomach convulsed and, opening his mouth wide, he vomited, gasping, groaning.

If there had ever been the remotest chance that Doug would change his mind, relent, that chance was gone now.

If he failed—and how in God’s name could he succeed?—to kill Doug, Doug was certainly going to kill him.

It seemed as though, for the first time since all this had begun, he felt the actual, icy presence of death gathered around him.

With a sob, he threw his head back, staring at the sky through tear-blurred eyes.

“You aren’t going to help me, are you?” he said in a choking voice. “You’re there but you aren’t going to help me. I have to do it all myself, don’t I? All the lip service I give you isn’t worth a damn, is it? I save myself or I die.” He was crying now, disabled by fear. “Well, thanks a lot,” he sobbed. “You’ve been a great help.” His teeth clenched in an expression of rabid fury. “Guardian angel, my ass!” he snarled. “Ever-present consciousness, my ass! Wherever you are, you’re not worth a pile of shit to me!”

He leaned his forehead against the tree, weeping bitterly, no longer certain if he could conceivably survive this. Suffering with a sense of horror at the idea of leaving Marian to Doug’s insanity, but totally unable to believe that he could do a thing to stop it.

4:22 PM

Nevertheless, I go on, he thought as he walked unevenly, almost staggeringly through the forest. He simply could not stay in that tree and wait for death. Once his initial sense of despairing submission had eased, he’d climbed back down. Doug was obviously confident in his ability to overtake him. Bob’s last view of him was Doug sitting on the boulder the hunter had been standing by, casually eating.

He is insane, Bob thought as he continued through the forest. He just murdered a man, yet there he sits calmly, eating. There were probably blood splashes all around him. Did they bother Doug? He had to assume that they didn’t. He’d just pushed the hunter’s corpse off the cliff. Why should a few bloodstains bother him?

It was clear now that Doug did not intend to pay the price for either the hunter’s death or his. He’d find a way to dispose of his body as well. Then on to the cabin and the performance of his life—anguish, guilt, tears, sobs of utter desolation.

He could almost see Doug telling Marian the heartbreaking story—Bob getting lost, Doug searching in vain for him, then finally rushing to the cabin so they could drive for help; more of his stellar portrayal of the broken man to the authorities. That was the horror of it. Anyone else would arouse suspicion. Doug was not just anyone though, lying unconvincingly. He was an actor playing a chosen role. Not to the hilt either. No, he’d gauge it perfectly, keep it under skillful control.

And where will I be? Bob wondered. No doubt off the same cliff as the murdered hunter. Two corpses shattered on the rocks below, probably never to be found. And even if they were eventually found, would there be any way to implicate Doug? For all he knew—now that it occurred to him, it seemed obvious—Doug had thrown his bow and arrow off the cliff as well; less evidence against him.

Bob scowled. Then why remove the arrow from the hunter’s neck? Unless—more than possible—he’d thrown, or would throw, the bow and arrow off the cliff far from where the hunter’s remains lay splattered on the rocks.

He might even bury the bow and arrows, kill Bob with the golak; it seemed obvious, for some time, that he’d prefer to murder Bob that way. When he tossed Bob’s body off the cliff, the broken and bloody appearance of his body would most likely obscure the golak slashes.

Then on to the cabin, he thought again. Marian. The performance. Anger made him tremble at the image in his mind. But what could he do to defend himself? He was beyond exhaustion now, on the verge of collapse. It seemed as though only mindless habit kept him going.

He had been so engrossed in dark thoughts that he didn’t see the lodge until he was almost up to it.

A sudden burst of hope mantled his mind and body. My God, it’s there, he thought. I’ve made it. If Doug had told the truth, the cabin was on the steep hill beyond the lodge. He might make it after all. He couldn’t understand how he was still ahead of Doug but never mind, he thought. He still had a chance to reach Marian and get her out of the cabin, away from Doug.

His burst of eager optimism was dispelled in an instant.

“Well, I see you made it, Bobby boy!” Doug’s voice rang out behind him.

He jerked around, breath catching in his throat.

Doug stood about fifty yards away, grinning like a happy kid. Bob saw that he was right. The bow and arrow were no longer evident; he had gotten rid of them.

His heartbeat lurched inside him as he saw Doug shuck his backpack and toss it aside, then slowly draw the golak from its sheath.

“Time to say bye-bye, Bobby,” he said, still grinning. “I’m about to cut you up in little pieces now.”

He started forward.

Bob whirled and ran toward the lodge, terror fueling his body with adrenalined strength.

“Oh, you can’t get away from me now!” Doug called. “You’ve had it! I’m surprised you made it this far but it’s the end of the line now, Bobby! You are finished!”

Bob dashed inside the lodge, tripping over a raised board and sprawling onto the floor. Shoving up with a gasp, he looked around the shadowy, rancid-smelling entry hall and saw a flight of stairs across the way. Why don’t I have that club now?! his mind cried.

“Here I come, ready or not!” Doug called outside. Bob heard the crackle of his boots as Doug came walking through the dry grass toward the lodge.

He started up the stairs, trying to manage two steps at a time. Halfway up, his right boot crashed through a rotted step, his leg plunging down to its knee; he felt long splinters driven into his leg through his pants.

“Time to find out if there really is an afterlife, Bobby!” Doug called. “Aren’t you excited?!”

Bob fought to lift his leg from the jagged hole in the step. At first, he couldn’t pull it up because his pants leg was pierced by the splinters. Oh, God, not like this! the terrified thought exploded in his mind. He jerked up at his leg convulsively.

“Here I come, Bobby boy!” Doug called.

With a hiss of frenzy, Bob yanked up his leg again, tearing his pants free and pulling himself loose. He started running up the steps again, now sticking to their sides, using his grip on the banister to pull himself faster, hissing as his palm and fingers were imbedded with more splinters—

“Bobby!”

Bob jerked his head around to see that Doug had just run in below. At first, Doug didn’t see him, looking around with quick movements of his head.

Then he saw Bob near the head of the stairs and said, with joyous expectation, “Ah! That’s good there, Bobby boy! Don’t make it too easy for me, that wouldn’t be any fun. Act three, baby. Needs to wind up with a bang.” His laugh was more a breathless croak. “And when I say a bang, you know exactly what I mean. I’m getting hard already.”

Bob twisted around and dashed along the second-floor hall.

“Look out, look out, wherever you are!” Doug called. Bob heard his footsteps thumping slowly, loudly on the stairs. “Here comes a candle to light you to bed!” Doug said with obvious relish. “Here comes a golak to chop off your head!” His laugh chilled Bob as he reached the door to a room and ran inside.

It had obviously been the master bedroom of the lodge, he saw, about twenty feet long and fifteen wide. There was still some furniture inside it, a rickety chair and, against the far wall, a heavy bureau.

Hastily, he reached down for the chair. One of its legs was almost broken off. He grabbed it and pulled hard, teeth bared. The leg broke off. Okay, he thought, you’ll have to fight me now, I won’t just stand here, waiting.

He started across the floor, only, at the last moment, seeing that the large, moth-eaten rug was sagging in the middle. There had to be a hole in the floor.

“Here I come, lover!” Doug was in the hallway now.

As quickly as he could, Bob pulled the edge of the rug until it lay flat, hiding the hole that had to be beneath its center.

He moved around the rug as quickly as he could and moved to the end of the room. The bureau stood several feet from the wall; it looked enormously heavy. He moved behind it, staring toward the hallway door. His heartbeat pounded, drumlike, in his chest. If Doug would cross the rug, he thought.

Doug entered the room. “You in here, Bobby boy?” he asked. He peered across the shadowy room. “Oh, there you are, you little devil, hiding behind—what is that, a bureau?” His chuckle made Bob shudder. “Isn’t going to save you, baby. Nothing’s going to save you now.” His voice grew suddenly vicious. “You’re a dead man, Bobby. I am going to fuck your dead ass, then go up the hill and fuck—oh, no.” His tone abruptly lightened again. “I’ll fuck her, yeah, but not until we’re married. Won’t that be a kick in the head, Bobby boy?”

He started forward slowly, the golak in his hand.

“You notice that I haven’t got the bow and arrow. Might make bad evidence against me if they find that stupid hunter.”

He brandished the golak in front of him. “But this will do the trick.”

Step on the rug, Bob thought. Just step on the rug.

“Oh, this is going to be a ball,” Doug said. “First I kill you, then I fuck you. Doesn’t that sound yummy? Jesus, I am getting hard. I can hardly wait to jam it up your ass again.”

The rug, Bob thought. Cross the rug.

“This shouldn’t bother you too much,” Doug said. “A little pain and then you’ll be in paradise, schlepping around in a purple robe. Won’t that be a gas? While I’m down here, sliding my cock in and out of your hot ass.” He laughed. “Before it gets cold, of course.”

That’s it, Bob thought. The rug. Come right across the rug.

“If you feel the need to offer up a prayer, now’s the time to do it, Bobby boy. Because I’m gonna—oh, now, wait a second.”

Bob looked at him in sick dread as Doug stopped and looked down at the rug.

“You trying to fool me, Bobby boy? You clever bastard you. Oh, my.”

Bending over, Doug put down the golak and grabbed the edge of the rug. He yanked it hard across the floor, revealing the gaping hole. “Oh, nasty, nasty,” he scolded. “You meant for Dougie boy to go right through this hole, didn’t you?” His voice hardened as he picked up his golak. “Didn’t you, you stupid fuck?”

He started across the floor again, moving around the hole. “You really thought you could fool me, didn’t you? Well, that’ll make it all the more delicious hacking you to pieces… you stupid, fucking son of a bitch.”

Bob slung the chair leg at him, hitting him on the chest and knocking him back. Doug cried out in shock, then pain. He lost his footing for a few moments, staggering toward the hole. Fall! Bob’s mind screamed. Fall, you bastard!

Doug regained his balance now and rubbed his chest, grimacing. “You son of a bitch,” he muttered. “You really think you’re going to live? Oh, no. Oh, no. You’re going to die. In agony. I’ll make it last a long time, babe. A long time,” he repeated, his voice shaking. Slowly, he advanced on Bob, the golak raised to strike.

Where the strength came from, Bob never knew. Terror? Fear of dying? Determination to save Marian? No way of knowing.

All he knew was that—with a sudden, maniacal snarl—he shoved the bureau directly at Doug; he hadn’t realized that it was set on wheels. Shoved with such violence, it rolled quickly across the floor and struck Doug head on, knocking him back.

With a hollow cry of astonished dismay, Doug fell into the hole and disappeared. Bob heard the crash of his body in the room below. The bureau, too big to fall through the hole, sagged over on its edge, wheels still spinning.

At first, he couldn’t move. After all he’d been through, he could not believe that it was over, even more impossible to believe that he had won, that he had beaten Doug.

After several minutes of paralyzed debility, he found the strength to walk infirmly to the hole and looked down.

It was too dark below for him to see anything, and for several moments, he had the horrified apprehension that Doug wasn’t there, that he’d fallen on something soft and was already coming up again.

Then—miraculously it seemed—he remembered his flashlight and switched it on, pointing it downward through the hole.

Doug was lying on his back, eyes closed, a twisted expression of pain on his face. Bob tried to see if there was movement on his chest. He saw none. The fall had to have killed him.

At first, he cried out with a sense of rabid exultation. His tormentor was dead! Good! Good!

Then revulsion came, sadness, even guilt. All right, it had been self-defense; no doubt of that.

But he had never killed in his life, not even an animal. Now this.

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” he muttered, feeling nauseous. “Why did we ever come up here. Why?”

He took out the small bottle of vodka and drained it in a swallow. It didn’t help. It only made him cough.

4:59 PM

What do I tell her? he wondered as he struggled up the hill. That I killed Doug? The details of the last three days swamped his mind. Where do I begin?

He gulped in air and belched dryly as he was forced to bend forward to make it up a rock-strewn slope. No matter, he thought. We have all the way back to Los Angeles for me to tell her all the details of Doug’s increasingly insane behavior since Sunday.

Then again, of course they’d have to stop at the first police or sheriff’s station they came to, let them know what happened. They probably wouldn’t be going back to Los Angeles after all. Not for a while at least. They’d probably have to come back here; there would likely be a forest ranger with the police or sheriff’s men. They’d have to find Doug’s body, later on search for the hunter’s corpse.

Reaching into his jacket pocket, he drew out the note Doug had left him. Thank God he hadn’t left it behind. He couldn’t imagine why he’d taken it along. God knew, he’d never thought, for an instant, that he’d be using that note as evidence against Doug. What point was there in evidence now anyway? There couldn’t be a trial with Doug killed. But at least, the note would allay any suspicion against him for causing Doug’s death.

“Oh, God,” he said in an exhausted voice. All he wanted to do was go home with Marian and try to forget everything that had happened. Impossible, of course. There was no way of estimating how complicated and time-consuming the investigation would prove to be after he reported what had taken place. They probably wouldn’t be allowed to return to Los Angeles for some time; they might have to stay in a local motel until things were settled.

“Okay,” he muttered. Even that would be acceptable. A hot shower, cuts and bruises treated, splinters removed, a decent meal—and then a long sleep lying next to Marian. It sounded like heaven.

The hill seemed to get steeper now. Instead of straining up it, leaning forward, he was forced to climb, reaching ahead to pull himself upward, using bushes, boulders, scrub-growth trees. His breath grew more and more labored, his chest heaving with gasped-in breaths. No matter, he told himself. The cabin would be at the top of the hill. Marian. Safety.

Escape from the nightmare.

Reaching the top of the hill, he straightened up, panting, looking around for the cabin.

There was no sign of it.

“Oh, no,” he said. “Oh, no.” He felt tears rising in his eyes. It couldn’t be. It mustn’t be. The cabin wasn’t here? Doug had lied to him right from the start?

“No. No,” he muttered, refusing to believe. It couldn’t be true. He’d followed the compass setting. Hadn’t he found the lodge? Why should Doug have told him about the lodge, then lied about the cabin being up the hill behind it?

“Doesn’t make sense,” he mumbled. “No. It simply doesn’t make sense.”

He twisted his head around, a look of crazed, incredulous panic on his face. “It doesn’t make sense!” he cried, his voice hoarse and trembling.

Fingers almost vibrating they shook so badly, he took out the compass and checked it. He was a few degrees off but not enough so he would fail to see the cabin if it was anywhere in the vicinity.

It wasn’t.

Doug had lied to him. He had no idea whatever where the cabin was.

He was lost again.

His legs gave out beneath him and he sank down on the hard rock surface of the hilltop, slumping there, a sense of total hopelessness assailing him again. He’d thought the nightmare was over, that the cabin would be up here, Marian waiting for him.

“Oh, God,” he muttered, half sobbing the words. After everything he’d gone through, he was little better off than he’d been from the start. All right, Doug was dead, he didn’t have to dread being murdered.

But now he was lost, without an inkling of which way to go. He could still die. His food was virtually gone, all he had was water. That would sustain him for a while.

But which way was he to go?

He could go hopelessly wrong in whatever direction he took. Become so lost that no one would ever find him.

For several moments, he had a vision of his body lying dead in the woods, eyes staring, face mummylike, mouth ajar, an expression of terrified surrender printed on his features. He’d described such things in novels and in scripts. It had never crossed his mind that he was describing his own demise, preparing his own epitaph. here lies robert hansen / perished in the wilderness. A grotesque, staring corpse in the forest. Probably—the thought made him shudder and groan—eaten by bears or mountain lions. His writer’s mind, even in this moment of utter despair, could imagine the mountain lion he’d saved dining on his flesh and gnawing on his bones.

“Oh, shut up!” he raged. He pushed up dizzily, almost fell again, then staggered and regained his balance. You’re not dead yet, he berated himself. Keep moving. You’ll see something, find some way to escape all this. He’d thought himself helpless to defend himself against Doug, hadn’t he? Well, he’d won that battle, Doug was dead. He’d win this battle too. Goddamn it if he wouldn’t.

He started along the crest of the hill, knowing very well that he was whistling in the dark. Trying to ignore that feeling though, repress his sense of helplessness, keep going on. I will, he told himself. I will. I will. I will.

As he moved around a clump of boulders, he saw the three coyotes standing twenty feet ahead of him. They were staring at him, bodies tensed, lips drawn back from pointed teeth, deep growls rumbling in their throats and chests.

He stood frozen in his tracks, staring back at them. They’re going to attack, an insanely calm voice addressed his mind.

He didn’t know until it was over exactly what had happened. All he knew was that, abruptly, there was one thought in his head.

After everything I’ve been through, this?

Something snapped inside him and suddenly he went berserk, rushing at the coyotes, a demented, animal like scream of fury pouring from his open mouth, his arms thrown up, his fingers curved like talons.

The three coyotes twitched back, growling. Then abruptly they jumped around and ran away from him.

Bob stopped, scarcely able to catch his breath. That’s right, you crazy bastards, run away from me before I kill you, he thought.

Then sanity returned and he was shivering from head to toe. My God, I went insane there, totally insane. But I wasn’t going to let it all end by being killed by a trio of damn coyotes. I just wasn’t.

His shoulders slumped, he exhaled hard.

Then, suddenly, he whirled, a look of startled amazement on his face. A distant voice, very faint.

Marian’s.

“Bob?!” she was shouting. “Bob?!”

He broke into a shambling run toward the sound of her voice. “Yes!” he called. But his tongue was too raspy, he had used up his voice screaming at the three coyotes. Nonetheless, he cried out again in answer to her. “Yes! I’m here!” He couldn’t believe she’d hear the hoarse croaking of his voice but kept on shouting anyway. “I’m here! I’m here!”

“Bob?!” Her voice was closer now, clearer. “Bob?!”

“I’m coming!” he cried.

She kept calling his name, the sound of her voice becoming more distinct each time she called his name. “Oh, God, I’m here,” he said, legs moving under him like pistons, totally without strength, driven on by joy and exultation. He had found her!

Now, through the trees, he caught sight of the Bronco, then, beside it, the cabin. On its deck, Marian was standing. “Bob!” she cried out, catching sight of him now. “Oh, my God! Bob!”

She was running down the deck steps now, rushing to meet him. Oh, thank God, thank God, he thought. He stumbled, almost fell, then caught his balance once more and ran on.

They came together so hard they almost collided. Suddenly she was in his arms, her arms clutching at him; she was crying helplessly as he was. “God, oh, God, Bob, I was so afraid,” she said, her voice shaking, almost impossible to understand.

“Marian.” He held her as tightly as he could. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

Their lips were crushing at each other’s, arms wrapped rigidly around each other.

“It’s all right, you’re safe now, safe,” she told him, sobbing.

“If you only knew what I’ve been through,” he said.

“I know, I know. Oh, God, I am so glad to see you, I was so afraid.”

“So was I,” he said.

“You look terrible,” she said.

“You look wonderful,” he told her.

They kissed each other’s lips and cheeks and necks, clinging to each other tightly.

“Well, you made it, Bobby! What a big relief!”

Bob twitched violently, looking toward the cabin deck.

Doug stood there, smiling at him.

“You really had me worried, buddy,” he said cheerfully.

At first, he couldn’t speak he was so stunned. All he could do was murmur a faint, incredulous “Wha’?”

“What is it, Bob?” she asked.

His voice returned then and he muttered, “Hold me, hold me.” He embraced her tensely. “Put your arms around me. I don’t want him coming down here.”

“What is it?” she repeated, sounding even more concerned.

His mind was racing with a jumble of thoughts. He didn’t know which one to start with.

He heard himself ask, “How long has he been here?”

“About… thirty minutes. Why?”

“What did he tell you?”

“He’s really been disturbed that you were lost. He kept on searching for you—”

“Stop.” He cut her off, his voice almost falsetto with throttled fury.

“Bob, what is it?” she asked again.

“I thought he was dead, I thought I’d killed him,” he blurted, still not knowing how to tell her everything.

“What?” It was her turn now to look and sound incredulous.

“He must have—”

“Hey, lovebirds, come on up! We have a lot to talk about!” Doug called, breaking into Bob’s attempt to speak.

“He must have come to, he knew how to get here faster, beat me to it.” The words ran together as he spoke.

“Bob, for God’s sake, what is going on?”

“Listen to me, I can’t give you every detail but he’s been chasing me since yesterday morning, intending to kill me.”

“What?” Her voice sounded too loud to him and he quickly cut her off. “Shh. Don’t talk, just listen. He is crazy, Marian. He raped me yesterday morning—”

“What?” She couldn’t seem to take it all in, looking at him as though she thought him mentally disturbed.

“He gave me a head start, then chased me. He even caught up to me last night while I was sleeping, could have killed me then but left me a note, I have it in my pocket, he’s crazy, Marian, I’m telling you.”

“My God,” she whispered.

“He killed a hunter earlier today, shot an arrow through his neck.”

“Bob, are you—?”

“Crazy too? No. This really happened, Marian. We have to get away from him. Where are the car keys?”

“In the ignition.” Her voice was trembling now. “What are we going to do?”

“Play along with him; we have to. I don’t know what he has in mind, why he came here after everything he’s done, why he didn’t try to get away somewhere.”

“Oh, lovebirds!” Doug called. “Enough smooching! Come on up!”

“Does he have his golak?” Bob asked quickly.

“His what?”

“Golak. That big knife, like a machete.”

“Yes,” she answered shakily.

“Too bad,” he murmured, wincing. “We better go on up, I don’t know what he’ll do if he thinks we’re plotting against him. He’s crazy, absolutely crazy. Let me do the talking. Try not to look as panicky as both of us are feeling.”

“Yes,” she murmured weakly.

Bob felt numb as they walked toward the cabin. Shouldn’t they run for the Bronco, hoping to reach it before Doug could catch them? He knew it wasn’t possible. Doug was too fast, too clever. And he had the golak in his belt. He realized that everything he’d gone through in the past two days had given him a mindless fear of Doug, a conviction that no matter what he did, Doug would always counter it.

As they reached the deck, to his horror, Doug embraced him tightly. “Bobby boy!” he said in a delighted voice. “You’re safe, you’re really safe!”

Bob could see that Marian was trying to control the sickened dread she obviously felt. She even managed a smile, not a convincing one but nonetheless a smile. “You both look like hell,” she said. Good! Bob thought. Throw him off. Let him think he’s still in charge of everything.

Doug laughed as though her words had thoroughly amused him. “That’s no lie,” he said. “After everything we’ve been through. Remind me never to take your husband backpacking again.”

No fear of that, Bob thought.

“Man, I’m glad to see you safe and sound!” Doug said. He laughed again. “Well, not exactly sound. Marian is right, we do both look like hell. I know you do anyway, I can see it with my own eyes. And when I get a chance to look in a mirror, I know I’ll see how shitty I look too.” He babbled happily as though all problems had been solved. The actor, Bob thought. Giving his penultimate performance.

“Well, the two of you must be starving,” Marian said. Bob was amazed at the controlled tone of her voice. She’s marvelous, he thought.

“Yes, we are,” he said. “I know I am anyway.”

“Me too,” Doug said as though in high spirits now. “You want to make us something, Marian?”

“How about some eggs?” she asked. Again, Bob felt a rush of admiration for her. With her help, they were going to get out of this, he vowed.

“Sounds good,” Doug told her, smiling.

“Very good,” Bob added.

“I’ll get them right away,” she said.

For an instant, Bob felt his stomach drop as she turned and went into the cabin, leaving him alone with Doug.

He started to follow her, then froze as Doug’s fingers clamped on his arm.

“I hope you haven’t told her anything,” Doug said quietly.

“No,” Bob lied. “I haven’t.

“Don’t know whether to believe you, Bobby boy,” Doug said. “But if you’re lying, she goes too.”

Doug’s last words made him tense convulsively. “Don’t hurt her,” he said.

“Warning me?” Doug said, sounding amused. “Me?”

“I know you want me dead. You have to kill me now because I know about the hunter; but leave her alone.”

“Listen, Bobby.” That same maddeningly cheerful tone. “If she doesn’t know anything about what happened, I’m not going to kill her, I’m going to marry her, don’t you remember?”

Bob drew in a shaking breath. “Oh, God, you’re such a bastard,” he said.

“That I am,” Doug answered lightly. “But a clever one, you must admit. You almost got me down there at the lodge. But I landed on some sofa cushions or something. Otherwise, you would have won. But now that’s out of the question, isn’t it?”

“You planning to kill me in front of her?” Bob asked. “You think she’ll—?”

“Oh, no, no, no,” Doug interrupted. “I’ll figure out some way to make it look like an accident. You wouldn’t want me to kill you in front of her. Then I’d have to kill her too and you don’t want that, do you, Bobby boy? So watch yourself when we’re inside. Remember it’s her life at risk as well as yours.”

“I’ll remember,” Bob replied. That hopeless feeling again. Doug was invincible. There was no way to beat him. He’d even survived that fall. What chance was there that, weaponless, he and Marian could overcome him?

When they went inside, Marian was at the stove, breaking eggs into a cast-iron skillet.

“Hate to put you boys to work after what you’ve been through but would you mind setting the table while I fry the eggs?”

“You bet!” Doug told her, grinning.

Bob followed him to the cupboard and watched him open the doors and draw out three plates. They were cheerful-looking plates, rimmed by flowers.

He opened a drawer to find some silverware, tensing as he saw the carving knife inside.

Doug seemed to read his mind. He reached into the drawer and pulled out three forks, waggling his finger, a look of blithe warning on his face. “No, no, no,” he murmured. “Leave that in there.”

“What?” Marian asked at the stove.

“Bob was taking out spoons instead of forks,” Doug told her, smiling.

“Oh.” She held the skillet with a pot holder, tilting it to run the melted butter underneath the eggs. “Who’s for over, who’s for sunny side up?” she asked. Bob could scarcely believe how nonchalant she sounded.

Doug put the plates and forks on the table. “Napkins over there, Bobby,” he said, pointing.

It was impossible for Bob to register that this domestic scene was taking place when, all the time, Doug was planning to kill him somehow, somewhere, “accidentally.”

“We’d better wash our hands at least,” Doug said. “Come on, Bobby.”

His mind unable to function clearly, Bob walked after Doug into the bathroom.

In silence, Doug’s eyes unmoving as he stared at Bob’s reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror, they washed their hands; Bob wincing and hissing at the sting of the soap on his raw palms. “Hurt?” was all Doug said. Bob grunted, unable to answer.

They dried their hands and returned to the kitchen, sat at the table.

“I made you both some toast,” Marian told them, putting the platter on the table.

For a few crazed moments, Bob imagined that she’d known about this from the start, that she wanted him to die, wanted to marry Doug and—

Oh, for God’s sake, stop it! he raged at the writer in his mind. He was being as insane as Doug now. Marian was playing along with Doug as he was, waiting for the right moment.

Which came suddenly. As Doug began to butter his toast, smiling contentedly, Marian carried the skillet across the room and, twisting it abruptly so the eggs and melted butter splattered on the floor, smashed the heavy cast-iron skillet on the side of Doug’s head.

With a startled cry, Doug toppled from his chair and sprawled on the floor. With a dazed look, he began to push up on one elbow. Standing so quickly that his chair fell back, Bob grabbed the skillet out of Marian’s hand, dropping it with a hiss of pain as the handle burned his palm.

Doug started pushing to his knees. “Bitch,” he muttered. “Bitch.”

Bob braced himself and grabbed up the cast-iron skillet again, ignoring the handle’s heat as he smashed it as hard as he could on Doug’s head. Doug went sprawling again, unconscious now.

“The car,” Bob gasped.

The two of them rushed to the kitchen door and Bob flung it open. Racing across the deck, they half ran, half jumped down the steps. Bob’s legs collapsed beneath him and he pitched forward on the ground, Marian crying out in alarm as he did. He shoved up quickly. “I’m all right,” he gasped as they continued running toward the Bronco.

They jerked open the doors and flung themselves inside.

“Oh, no!” she cried.

The ignition key was gone.

“What do we do?” she asked in dread.

For several moments, Bob sat motionless, his mind frozen. Then he tightened, catching his breath. “Doug,” he said.

He shoved open the door and slid out quickly. Glancing aside, he saw Marian getting out. “Stay here!” he ordered. “I’ll get the keys!”

He raced unevenly across the ground. A pinecone rolled beneath his right boot and he staggered, almost falling. “Bob!” she called out anxiously.

“I’m all right!” Bob waved her off and kept on running. Rushing up the steps two at a time, adrenaline pumping strength into his legs, he reached the deck and sprinted across it, lunging into the kitchen.

Doug was starting to stand, a dazed look on his face. Seeing Bob, he bared his teeth in a grimace of hatred. “Son of a bitch,” he mumbled, reaching for his golak.

Bob ran to the skillet, snatched it up, and crashed it down on Doug’s head. Doug groaned in pain, stumbling back and falling to the floor again.

Bob dropped to his knees beside him and started ransacking his pockets. He felt Doug’s fingers grabbing feebly at his shirt and flung them off. “Bastard,” Doug mumbled.

The keys were in his trouser pocket. Yanking them out, Bob started to his feet. Once more, half conscious, Doug clutched weakly at his shirt.

With a look of rabid satisfaction, Bob clenched his right fist and struck Doug’s jaw as hard as he could. “I’m not going to die, you are,” he said fiercely.

He staggered to his feet and ran across the kitchen.

“Bastard!” Doug cried faintly behind him.

Bob rushed out of the kitchen and across the deck. He descended the stairs as rapidly as he could, his legs now feeling weak again.

Marian was standing beside the Bronco, looking anxiously toward the house. Seeing him, her expression brightened to a look of hope. “Get in!” he called.

She got into the car and slammed the door.

Reaching the Bronco, Bob pulled open the door and got in hurriedly. He slid the ignition key into its slot and twisted it. The engine started instantly. We’re safe! he thought.

“Where was it?” Marian asked.

“In his pocket. I should have known he’d take it.”

Sliding the transmission lever into reverse, Bob started backing up, looking across his shoulder.

“Is he unconscious?” Marian asked.

“Just about,” he said. “I wish I’d killed him.”

“No, you’re not that way,” she said.

Her words were like a balm to his mind. I’m not that way, he thought. My beliefs are still intact, God bless ’em.

He turned the steering wheel, backing along the curving dirt entrance. “How do you get out of here?” he asked.

“I had to drive in straight,” she said, “I didn’t see a place to turn around. You’ll have to back up all the way to the road.”

“Damn,” he muttered.

He backed the Bronco as quickly as he could around the corner of the cabin. Up above, he saw the road. They’d be there in a few moments.

Then away as fast as he could drive.

“I can’t believe it’s over,” he said.

“What will he do now?” she asked.

“Make a run for it, what else? Canada or Mexico. He’s finished as a—”

He broke off with a hollow cry at the explosive detonation to his right.

“Oh, God,” she said.

Suddenly the Bronco lurched. He tried to get control of it but it side slipped, crashing into a dirt bank, its engine stalling.

He looked toward the house in shock.

With a look of crazed elation on his face, Doug was limping toward the car.

A shotgun in his hands.

5:12 PM

Bob’s eyelids fluttered up, he gazed up blurrily. Shooting pains racked through his head where Doug had struck him with the shotgun butt.

His eyes focused on Marian. She was standing over him, pressing a wet cloth to his forehead. For a moment, he thought it was over, that, somehow, she’d done something to stop Doug.

Then he realized that he was sitting on one of the kitchen chairs and, standing several yards behind Marian, Doug was watching them, the shotgun still in his hands.

“Does your head hurt terribly?” Marian whispered.

“I… don’t—” he muttered, unable to answer clearly.

“Bobby boy is back with us,” Doug said, chuckling.

“Oh, God, if I could kill him,” Marian’s whisper trembled.

“No more whispered messages,” Doug said. “Don’t like that.”

Bob shook his head, hissing at the pain, teeth bared. “What are you going to do?” he asked, even though he felt sure he already knew.

“Oh, I have a dandy plan,” Doug said; his smile was more animal like than human. “A dandy plan.”

“Whatever you do, you aren’t going to get away with it,” Bob said.

“Oh, you mean my next lifetime, Bobby? No problem. I can wait for that.”

“I mean this lifetime, you son of a bitch. You’ve already murdered one man—”

“Yeah, that was a shame,” Doug broke in casually. “Didn’t mean to kill the fucker, just meant to put an arrow in his arm or shoulder. Better take more shooting lessons.” He clucked. “Well, at least he died fast. And they’ll never find his body down there. It’ll probably get eaten.” His laugh was guttural. “Maybe by one of those mountain lions you were always worried about.”

“Doug, I know you’re going to kill me but leave Marian alone, please,” Bob said.

“Oh, I’m not going to kill her,” Doug said. “Not yet anyway. I have to fuck her first.”

“What?” Marian’s voice was faint, incredulous.

“Goddamn you,” Bob said. “Let me fight you hand to hand. I know you’d rather kill me that way than—”

“Oh, I’m sick of you,” Doug said disgustedly. “I’m going to blow your fucking brains out right now.”

He moved toward Bob, the shotgun barrel extended.

“No!” Marian lunged for him and grabbed the shotgun barrel. “Don’t!”

Doug backhanded her across the face, and with a cry of pain, she staggered to her left and fell on the floor. Doug came close to Bob and pressed the end of the shotgun barrel against his forehead. “Bye, bye, Bobby,” he said. Bob closed his eyes, heart pounding. Marian screamed. Bob’s mind pleaded, Please watch over her!

The loud click of the shotgun trigger made him twitch, then open his eyes to stare at Doug, a blank expression on his face.

Doug threw back his head with a piercing laugh.

“Fooled ya, didn’t I?” he said. “I only had one shell left. Lucky shot I hit the Bronco tire.”

Bob stared at him wondering if it was truly possible to hate anyone as much as he hated Doug.

“You monster,” Marian said in a shaking voice. “You god damned monster.”

Doug grinned. “I love you too. Strip down.”

She stood up slowly, looking at him as though she hadn’t heard what he said.

“Strip down, baby,” Doug ordered her. “I’m going to fuck you.”

“No, you’re not,” she said.

“Oh, no?” Doug’s smile vanished and he slung aside the shotgun. Pulling the golak from his belt, he turned toward Bob. “No!” she cried, blocking his way.

He slammed his right arm against her, gasping at the pain in his shoulder as she lurched to the side, fighting to remain on her feet.

Reaching Bob, he yanked back his head by pulling at his hair. He pressed the golak blade against Bob’s throat. “Take your choice, babe,” he said, his tone coldly merciless. “Either strip or watch me hack your hubby’s throat to the spine.”

“No, don’t!” she begged. “All right, all right.”

Doug let go of Bob’s hair with a thin smile. “Isn’t she accommodating, Bobby?” He looked at Bob with hooded eyes. “Didn’t want to kill you anyway. Want you to watch. Watch me shove my cock right up into her hot cunt. N’est-çe pas?” he added, laughing at his humor.

Bob couldn’t speak. If only he could attack Doug, golak or no golak. But he was still dazed and weak. He considered standing quickly, and trying to hit Doug with the chair but knew it wouldn’t work, Doug would be too fast, able to sidestep easily. Then what? Hack open Bob’s throat right away? He shook his head involuntarily. He had to wait for a better chance. He couldn’t leave Marian alone with Doug.

Doug had placed another of the kitchen chairs facing the one he was in, putting it next to the table. He lay the golak on the table and unbuckling his trousers, dropped them to the floor, then dropped his underpants. “Ooh, lookie, Marian. He’s getting hard already, dying to get buried in your sultry snatch, Hey, that’s like poetry, aren’t you impressed?”

Marian had only taken off her jeans and unbuttoned her blouse.

“Goddamn it, I said strip!” Doug told her savagely. “I want you naked, understand. Completely naked.”

Marian looked over at Bob with a pleading expression.

“Marian, he’s going to kill me anyway, don’t let him do this to you,” he said.

“Goddamn it, I am going to cut your fucking throat right now!” Doug said, infuriated.

“No!” she cried. “I’ll strip.”

Doug grinned at her, teeth bared. “Now that’s a good girl. Do it fast. I want to see all of you.”

Moving quickly, Marian removed her blouse and dropped it to the floor. Reaching back, she unhooked her brassiere and dropped it beside the blouse. Doug groaned. “Look at those luscious tits,” he said. “Why couldn’t Nicole have had a pair like that? I’m going to suck them dry.”

“Doug, goddamn it, please don’t do this!” Bob cried out in anguish.

“Don’t do it? Are you crazy, man? I’m going to do it ’til she screams.”

Marian took off her pants and dropped them. “Nice and bushy,” Doug said. His face grew suddenly angry. “The fucking shoes and socks, I said naked!” he told her.

Bending over, she quickly untied the laces of her Reeboks and pushed them off, pulled at her socks. “Ooh, ooh, ooh, look at that ass,” Doug said, staring at her. “That comes second.”

Marian stood on the floor, immobile, shivering. Bob closed his eyes, then opened them again. He couldn’t watch this. But he had to. No. He couldn’t.

“Open your eyes, Bobby boy,” Doug told him. “This show is for you.”

“Oh, God, but I despise you,” Bob said, through clenching teeth.

“Oh, dear, dear, dear. How unspiritual. I thought you loved all mankind.”

Despite his semiconscious condition Bob tried to stand, his face a mask of hatred.

“Wouldn’t do that, Bobby boy,” Doug warned. “Unless you want to see the golak sticking out through Marian’s chest.”

Bob sank down on the chair, shaking his head, struggling to regain consciousness. I can’t let this happen, he thought. I have to stop it.

Doug sat down on the other kitchen chair and shook off the logs of his trousers. Leaning back, he spread his legs apart.

“Come sit on Daddy’s lap now, little girl,” Doug told her. “Don’t straddle me, sit with your back to me, I want hubby to see you getting fucked by a real man, not some pussy who keeps babbling about afterlife and reincarnation and all that stupid shit.”

Marian avoided Bob’s eyes, her expression one of agonized shame.

“That’s it, sit on Daddy’s cock. A little more. A little more. Ooh, your wife is all wet, Bobby boy,” he said mockingly. “She’s just dying to—”

Abruptly Marian lurched back, knocking Doug off balance so the chair began to fall. Before it hit the floor, Marian was on her feet, grabbing for the golak.

With a snarl of rage, Doug twisted around to get up. By then, Marian had the handle of the golak gripped in her right hand. She slashed down violently at Doug’s back, in her desperate rage only managing to hit the edge of his left shoulder. Doug cried out in astonished pain.

Marian tried to pull the golak loose, but the blade was stuck in Doug’s shoulder. She looked around with a groan of desperation, then suddenly rushed toward the front door. Bob’s mouth fell open. “Marian,” he called, unable to believe that she was leaving him. He struggled to his feet, an incredulous look on his face.

Doug was stumbling around the room now, making sounds of animal pain, trying to reach the golak. Every time he turned Bob saw blood running down his back. If he gets the golak… he thought, still stunned by Marian’s deserting him.

On shaking legs, he hobbled toward the cupboard to get the carving knife, but Doug’s stumbling lurches blocked his way and, turning, Bob weaved over to the shotgun and, falling to his knees, picked it up.

“Now,” he heard Doug say in a hoarse, choking voice.

Jerking around, Bob saw Doug moving at him slowly, obviously only half conscious but fiercely determined, the golak gripped tightly in his right hand. The end of the blade was dripping his blood. Bob extended the shotgun to defend himself.

“You go first,” Doug muttered groggily. “I am going to cut your fucking head off.” He was breathing hard, eyes going in and out of focus. “Then your bitch wife. I am going to jam this golak up her cunt so far it’ll come out her mouth. Get ready to get butchered, you son of a bitch.”

He raised his arm, wincing at the pain in his shoulder, and slashed the golak down at Bob. Throwing up the shotgun barrel, Bob was able to block the downward slash, grunting at the impact.

“Wanna duel, huh?” Doug muttered, teeth clenched with pain. He swung the golak sideways and Bob just managed to twist the shotgun barrel down to deflect the golak blade.

“Might as well give up, you motherfucker,” Doug gasped. With shaking hands, he gripped the golak with both of them and started to raise it for another blow.

They both jerked around as Marian came running back inside.

“All right, you die first then,” Doug told her, barely able to speak now. He staggered around.

“Wrong,” she said, gasping for breath.

Bob hadn’t noticed what she carried. Suddenly she raised the flare and pulled its cord, igniting it. Lunging forward, she held it up to Doug’s face. He screamed in pain and lurched back, throwing up his arms to protect his face, the golak flying from his hand.

A look of remorseless fury on her face, Marian kept moving at him, pointing the hot white sparking of the flare at his face. Doug screamed again, then, tripping over the fallen chair, toppled backward, landing hard.

Marian held the flare pointed at his chest as he twisted and writhed on the floor, shrieking with pain.

Bob shifted the shotgun around so that he held the barrel in his hands. He swung at Doug’s head as hard as he could. The shotgun’s butt end struck Doug’s temple squarely and he crumpled to the floor. With a crazed sound, Bob snatched up the golak to kill him.

Marian shouted his name and he looked at her, his expression maddened.

“You’re not like him!” she cried.

He stared at her in silence, breathing hard. Then, exhaustedly, he placed the golak on the table. She ran to him and he held her tightly, eyes shut. “God,” he murmured. “Oh, dear God.”

6:29 PM

Bob had almost finished lashing him to the bars on the Bronco roof when Doug’s eyelids fluttered. As Bob tightened the final knot, Doug stared at him. “What do you think you’re doing?” he muttered, his expression distorted by pain, his face and chest burned by the flare. Bob had tied him naked to the roof, his right shoulder bandaged tightly.

“I don’t think, I know,” Bob told him. “Hunters tie their trophies to their car roofs, don’t they? You’re my trophy and I’m carrying you away from here. I doubt if we’ll get very far before a sheriff’s car stops us. But far enough to satisfy me.”

Doug twisted on the rooftop. “Cut me loose, you bastard. Or kill me. You’re entitled. I raped you and almost raped Marian, I killed that hunter. I deserve to die. Send me to the hell you’re sure I’m going to.”

“No,” Bob answered. “You have debts to pay on this side first. Later on, you’ll pay a second time.”

Doug replied through gritted teeth. “If they don’t execute me, Bobby boy,” he said, “I’ll get out somehow and kill you. You’d better hope they execute me because the next time—”

He broke off with a grunt of pain as Bob clutched at his hair and banged his head down on the Bronco top. “If there’s a next time,” he said, “I may not be able to stop myself from killing you.”

“What, and blacken your soul?” Doug said, drawing back his burned, blood-crusted lips in a deranged smile.

Bob answered, “It might just be worth it.”

Stepping down, he got into the front seat of the Bronco next to Marian.

“Is it the only way?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said, “I’m not going to kill him but this is what I want. It’s the least he deserves. It’s the least I deserve.” He made a sound of strained amusement. “Don’t worry, it isn’t going to last too long. As soon as we’re sighted…”

He sighed heavily.

“I should have gagged him, he may scream.” He grimaced angrily. “But that’s all right too, let him scream. Oh, Jesus Christ.”

She put her hand on his arm. “What?” she asked.

“Maybe he won after all,” Bob said.

“I don’t understand.”

“Much good my belief system did me,” he said. “I finally had to descend to his level to beat him.”

“You had no other choice, Bob,” she said. “Neither did I. It doesn’t mean we sank to his level.”

He thought about it; sighed. “I hope you’re right,” he said.

He glanced at her. “What made you think of that flare anyway?”

“I saw them in the Bronco when we first arrived on Sunday. It just… came to me.”

“You saved me, Marian.”

“We saved each other.” She squeezed his arm. “How are you, sweetheart? You’ve been through a horrible time, I know. How are you?”

His smile was one of weary satisfaction.

“I’m alive,” he said.