Hunted Past Reason

9:37 AM

Bob opened his eyes and stared sleepily at the tent wall. After a few moments, he thought: Well, good, I woke up by myself today. No need for Doug to rouse me with a jostle. He smiled faintly. Is it possible I’m catching on to this thing?

He took his left arm out of the sleeping bag and held it up to see what time it was.

At first, he thought his watch had gone wrong. Almost twenty minutes to ten.

He blinked and shook his head to make sure. The second hand was still turning. It was almost twenty to ten.

“What the hell?” he mumbled. What happened to getting up at the crack of dawn, getting an early start? Yesterday, by seven o’clock, Doug was waking him up impatiently, everything ready to go, the campsite disassembled except for the tent. Doug wouldn’t even let him have a cup of hot coffee before leaving. Now this?

He twisted around and sat up, startled to see that Doug was still asleep, breathing heavily.

Bob looked at him, half curious, half worried. What time had Doug finally gone to sleep? And how much brandy had he drunk?

More to the point, he thought, what now? Should he just let Doug sleep? Sleep it off, you mean, his mind added. Or should he wake him up?

He thought about Marian waiting for him. Obviously, their schedule was way behind what Doug had intended. How long was it actually going to take to reach the cabin? He felt extremely uneasy about Marian alone there, undoubtedly to worry when he didn’t show up in time.

He scratched his head. Clearly, Doug had stayed awake a long time. This was totally in opposition to his backpacking, let’s-get-on-with-it persona. That worried him too. How disturbed was Doug by their conversations? Certainly enough to let their disciplined schedule lapse completely.

Jesus Christ, what now? he thought.

Well, there was no help for it, he decided. He couldn’t just let Doug sleep on uninterruptedly. They had to get going.

Reaching out his right hand, he laid it on Doug’s uncovered right shoulder—Doug was lying on his left side—and shook it gently. “Doug?” he said.

Doug didn’t stir, his sleep was so heavy. Great, Bob thought. He drew in a deep breath and moved his hand a little harder on Doug’s shoulder. “Doug,” he said.

Doug made a grumbling sound but didn’t move. Shit, he must have polished off that brandy, Bob thought. Here we go on yet another first-class backpacking day.

“Doug,” he said more loudly. He shook Doug’s shoulder even harder.

Doug twisted around with an angry sound. Bob stared at his face. Even in sleep, it looked morose now. Was he dreaming badly?

Well, to hell with it, he thought. We have got to get on our way.

“Doug, wake up.” He gripped Doug’s left shoulder and shook it.

Doug’s eyes fluttered open and he stared at Bob as though he hadn’t the remotest idea who he was.

“We have to get going,” Bob told him. “It’s almost ten o’clock.”

He expected Doug to jolt up in surprise. Jesus Christ, we gotta get out o’here then, he heard Doug’s voice in his mind.

Doug only looked at him with the same expression, that of a man regarding a complete stranger.

“Doug. Did you hear what I said? It’s almost ten o’clock.”

Doug cleared his throat. “So?” he muttered.

“Well—” Bob’s voice broke off. Doug’s reply had flabbergasted him. “I thought—” Again, he broke off.

“Thought what?” Doug said. His voice was guttural, raspy.

Bob tried to smile. “That we had to get on because it’s—taking too long. Because I’ve been holding things up,” he added, trying to put the blame on himself.

Doug sat up and rubbed his face with both hands. He hissed, feeling at his right shoulder.

“Shoulder hurt?” Bob asked sympathetically.

“What d’ you think?” Doug asked through clenched teeth.

“I’m sorry,” Bob said. He tried to smile again. “I’ve got quite a few sore spots myself.”

“Yeah,” Doug muttered as though he couldn’t have cared less.

Was Doug going back to sleep again? he wondered. They did have to leave. Otherwise, they’d never reach the cabin when Marian was expecting them.

“I… saw you sitting by the fire last night,” he said to prevent Doug from dozing off again. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“Don’t need that much sleep, I told you,” Doug muttered. “Three twenty-minute naps better than an hour’s sleep. You saw me take a ten-minute nap yesterday, do it all the time. Don’t need that much sleep. I’ve gone for days on two hours sleep a night.”

“That’s… very impressive,” Bob said. He braced himself. “But shouldn’t we get going? Marian will—”

He broke off as Doug made a growling sound, got out of his sleeping bag, and crawled from the tent. Bob started to follow him, almost bumping into him. Doug was standing just outside the tent, urinating on the ground. What happened to sanitation? Bob thought.

When Doug was through, Bob got out of the tent and moved to the hanging clothes, feeling them. “Not bad,” he said. “A little damp.” He started pulling on his trousers, expecting Doug to do the same.

His expression glum, Doug was stirring the coals to build up the fire. Why’s he doing that? Bob wondered.

He watched as Doug moved over to the rope that held up the food bag and untied it. The food bag thumped on the ground as he let it fall the last few feet.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Doug said, giving Bob a stony look.

“Well…” Bob finished with the fasteners on his jacket. “I don’t know, Doug.”

“You don’t know?” Doug said caustically. “You’re the one who wants a piping hot breakfast before taking off.”

“Well… yes. I do,” Bob said. “But yesterday, you wouldn’t even let me have a cup of hot coffee before we left, and that was seven o’clock in the morning.”

“Yesterday was yesterday,” Doug muttered. He was taking what looked like flour and dried milk from his food supply. He got his jacket and put it on—the morning air was chilly—then poured some of the powders into a small metal bowl, added water to it, and began to mix it all together with a wooden spoon. Bob watched him in concern. How long was this going to take?

“Well, what are you looking at?” Doug said.

“I’m… just wondering what you’re—”

“—making?” Doug interrupted. “Isn’t that obvious? We’re having pancakes. Now make us some coffee.”

Oh, Jesus, Bob thought. This is going to be one hell of a day, I can see it coming.

“Sorry, I don’t have any Canadian bacon to go with your pancakes,” Doug said scornfully.

Bob sighed. Just don’t speak, he told himself. No matter what you say, he’ll take it the wrong way, that’s for certain.

He finished dressing and put on his jacket. He sat down to pull on his socks and boots.

“Well, how about the coffee, Bobby boy?” Doug snapped.

“As soon as I get my boots on,” Bob told him.

“I don’t have my boots on,” Doug said.

Well, what the hell am I supposed to do about that? Bob thought. Utter a lament?

He finished lacing his boots. Doug had placed the frying pan on the grate and added some oil to it. It still had fragments of trout in it. Shouldn’t we clean it first? he heard himself asking Doug. That would be a mistake. So he’d eat his pancakes with trout fragments in them. Better that than agitating Doug any more than he was already agitated.

“You want a little orange juice?” he asked.

“No thanks,” Doug responded flatly. “I would like a cup of fucking coffee though.”

Jesus, he is pissed, Bob thought. At what though? Everything? Was this day going to be a total nightmare?

He poured some water in his pan and put it on the grate next to the frying pan. He almost winced, seeing the bubbling pancake batter because the frying pan looked so begrimed. But would he dare tell Doug he’d rather not have any pancakes? That would only set Doug off again.

He opened one of his small boxes of orange juice and drank some. It tasted very good to him, tart and refreshing. He washed down a multivitamin with a second swallow.

“Sure you don’t want some of this orange juice?” he asked, trying to be amiable.

“Did I say no?” Doug demanded.

Bob was going to repress his reaction. Then abruptly, he decided that the two of them simply could not go on like this for days on end.

“Doug, what’s the matter?” he asked.

Doug didn’t answer, flipping over the greasy-looking pancakes with his small spatula.

“If it’s something I’ve said, I apologize,” Bob told him, wondering if he really felt a genuine concern or was just trying to mollify Doug because he was becoming more and more unnerved by him.

Doug said nothing, his lips pressed together. Bob drew in a quick breath. Let it go? he thought. Or confront it?

He chose the latter, even though it troubled him to consider the possibility that it would only rile Doug further.

“Doug, we can’t just go on like this for the rest of the hike,” he said.

“The hike?” Doug snickered. “What hike?”

“Doug, I know I’m a total flop as a backpacker, but—”

“That you are,” Doug cut him off. “Total.”

Bob felt himself getting angry now. Menace or not, he couldn’t see himself enduring these endless gibes from Doug.

“All right,” he said. “A total flop. But we still have to get along for the next two or three—”

“Why?” Doug demanded.

Bob stared at him in disbelief. “Why?” he repeated Doug’s challenge. “Are you prepared to let it go like this the rest of the time? Nothing but tension?”

Doug didn’t answer. He poured some instant coffee in his cup and added hot water, wincing as the lifting of the pot of water made his shoulder hurt.

Bob made himself a cup of coffee and took a sip. Now what? he thought. Should he pursue this? Or was it better just to leave it alone? Get through the next few days in alien silence? Somehow manage to survive it as it was?

Doug put two of the small pancakes on a paper plate and tossed it on the ground in front of Bob. “There you go,” he said. “Specialité de la maison.” One of the pancakes flopped onto the ground.

“Thanks,” Bob muttered.

He tried to eat one of the pancakes but it was still doughy, almost tasteless except for the fragments of trout.

Doug obviously noticed his distaste for the pancake. “What’s the matter?” he asked. “Not up to your usual gastronomic expectations?” For some reason, Bob felt that Doug was quoting a line from some movie or teleplay he’d been in, maybe a stage play. He wasn’t used to hearing such fancy language from Doug.

“Doug,” he said.

“Mr. Hansen,” Doug responded.

“What the hell is wrong?” Bob said. “Why are you acting like this?”

“Like what?” Doug countered.

“Doug, you’re acting like you hate my guts. That the way it is? If so—”

“Oh, shit,” Doug muttered, looking past Bob.

Bob turned to see what Doug was looking at.

A black bear was standing near the edge of the clearing staring at them.

“Oh, my,” Bob whispered. He felt as though his breath had stopped.

Doug shoved to his feet, screaming, causing Bob to twitch in startlement. “Get out o’here, you son of a bitch!” Doug shouted, waving his arms. “Get the hell out o’ here!”

The bear drew back a little but didn’t leave, answering Doug’s shouts with low, moaning growls and a popping of its teeth, a noise that sounded like dead sticks breaking. Doug picked up a stone and hurled it at the bear. It flew past the bear’s head, making it snarl.

“Well, help me for Christ’s sake!” Doug snapped, picking up another stone and pitching it at the bear. Bob tried to stand but his legs went limp beneath him and he fell back on the ground. He’d never seen a wild animal so close before. This wasn’t zoo time, this was real.

Doug kept yelling at the bear and throwing stones in vain. The bear began to pace, back and forth, swinging its head from side to side, grunting like a pig.

“Get out o’ here, you black bastard!” Doug yelled at it. “Go on! Go on! Get out o’ here!” He glared at Bob. “Well?!” he demanded.

Bob managed to get to his feet and started to wave his arms at the bear. Doug glared at him, teeth clenched. “Yeah, that’s going to help a lot,” he said. He threw another stone that hit the bear on the shoulder and made it jerk back, baring its teeth and growling.

“Well, why the fuck won’t you go, you bastard?!” Doug shouted at it.

“Go on, go away,” Bob said, his voice sounding thin.

“Yeah, that’s gonna scare the shit out of him,” Doug said furiously. He hurled another stone. “Goddamn you, beat it!” he yelled at the bear. “Get out o’ here!”

The bear moved forward slightly, growling.

“Son of a bitch, they don’t usually act this way,” Doug muttered. He screamed at the top of his voice, waved his arms wildly, threw two more stones. In vain. The bear wouldn’t leave. It started edging forward again.

“Fuck it, I’m gonna kill the bastard,” Doug said breathlessly, moving quickly toward the tent.

“Kill it?” Bob look at him in disbelief. “No,” he muttered. “No.”

He never knew what made him behave as he did. It wasn’t that a sudden burst of daring had filled him. It was more, he conjectured later, that the idea of the bear being killed for doing what came naturally to it was too painful for him to accept.

Whatever the reason, he found himself walking forward toward the bear, arms at his sides. “You have to go,” he told it. “You’ll be killed if you stay. Go on. Please leave. Please.” He wondered later at the gentle, soothing quality of his voice as well. Basically, he knew that he was terrified. Maybe it was the kind of mad reaction terror sometimes brought on. But he simply couldn’t bear the idea of the bear lying dead and bloody with arrows sticking out of it. He kept on walking slowly but steadily toward the bear. I’m going to die, it’s going to kill me, he thought. But he couldn’t stop himself, kept approaching the bear with small steps, speaking to it constantly. “Go on. Please go. I don’t want to see you killed. Just go. Turn around and walk away. Please.”

The bear growled, pawing at the ground. Then it started walking to and fro, emitting odd coughs and high-pitched growls, gnashing its teeth and raising and lowering its upper lip in what looked like ominous grins.

“Please go away,” Bob told it, “just go away.”

The bear made huffing, puffing noises now, body lurching back and forth with small jerking motions, clawing at the ground brush like a bull. He’s getting ready to attack, Bob thought numbly. Why was he still approaching the bear? It seemed totally insane but something kept him advancing, slowly but steadily. “Don’t hurt me. Please,” he said. “Just go. If you stay, you’ll die. I don’t want you to die. This is your home. You live here. Go—please go.”

The bear stopped growling now and stared at him in what seemed to Bob to be confusion.

“Go on now. Go,” Bob told it quietly.

Then Doug yelled from behind him. “Get the fuck out of the way, you idiot!” he said. “You want the arrow in you?!”

Deliberately, Bob eased to the right so that he’d be blocking Doug’s line of fire. “Go, please go,” he said to the bear. “I don’t want to see you killed.”

“Goddamn it, Bobby, I am going to shoot!” Doug threatened.

Bob gazed intently into the bear’s eyes. “Go,” he pleaded. “Go. Please go.”

To his astonishment—he realized later that he had never really expected it—the bear turned abruptly and moved off into the forest.

Bob felt his legs suddenly lose strength beneath him and he flopped down into an awkward half-sitting, half-lying position. Jesus, he thought. Jesus Christ. What did I do?

He flinched as Doug ran by him holding the bow with an arrow set in it.

“Don’t!” Bob found the strength to cry. “He’s gone!”

Doug ran a few yards into the forest, stopped, stood motionless for twenty seconds, then turned back, a look of incredulous disgust on his face.

“Are you fucking crazy?” he said. It certainly wasn’t a question. Obviously, Doug thought that he was crazy. He wasn’t so sure it wasn’t true.

“Who the fuck do you think you are, Doctor Fucking Doolittle or something?” Doug demanded angrily. “I could have killed you, you dumb bastard.”

“I didn’t want you to kill the bear,” Bob told him, his voice shaking.

“And almost got yourself killed instead,” Doug said with angry scorn.

The look on Doug’s face, the tone of his voice, the emotional reaction to what he’d just done suddenly caused an eruption of fury in Bob. It felt like something hot and thick rushing up from his insides.

“What’s the matter, are you upset that you couldn’t kill it?!” he raged. “Did I spoil your goddamn sport?!”

Doug didn’t respond in kind. The look he gave Bob caused a chill to snake up his back.

“You really think you’re hot shit, don’t you?” Doug said in a soft, cold voice.

The rage had vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. “No, I don’t think I’m ‘hot shit’ as you put it so colorfully,” Bob said. “I was just trying to save the bear’s life, that’s all. It lives here. It was only doing what comes naturally to it.”

“Oh, now you’re a fucking wildlife expert,” Doug responded acidly. “I’m impressed. Where did you pick up all this wildlife lore? At the Bel Air Hotel having a power breakfast with some big-time producer?”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Doug, let’s not go into that kind of talk again,” Bob said. He tried to push to his feet.

To his startlement, Doug pushed him back so that he landed hard on his tailbone. “Ow!” he said. “What are you doing?”

“I wanna talk about it,” Doug said angrily. “About your big-time career in the biz. About how you could give a shit if I succeed or not.”

“Wait a second, wait a second, what are you talking about?” Bob demanded. Again, he tried to stand up and, again, Doug pushed him back. “Goddamn it, stop that,” he said. “What the hell’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing you can help,” Doug told him. “Nothing you’d care to help.”

“What are you saying?” Bob asked, trying to understand. “That I’m somehow responsible for you having trouble in the business?”

“You haven’t been any help, that’s for sure,” Doug snarled.

“Doug, I have tried to help you—”

“Bullshit!” Doug cut him off. “You’ve said you tried to help me, but I don’t remember any jobs I got because of your help. You think I’m not aware of all the parts I might have played in your scripts that I never got called on to audition for? All you ever recommended me for were a few Mickey Mouse bit parts, a few lines here, a few lines there.”

“Doug, I recommended you for any role I thought you were right for, no matter what the length.”

“Bullshit,” Doug said, scowling. “You never recommended me for any part worth a damn.”

The anger, hot and unavoidable, was surging up in Bob again.

“Maybe if you didn’t always come on like the greatest fucking actor in the world, you might have gotten some of those roles.”

“Oh, so now it’s my fault,” Doug snarled through gritted teeth.

“No, Doug. No. Of course not. Nothing at all in your life is your fault. It’s all been just rotten luck. Your marriage, your career, your kids, everything. Someone else is to blame, not you. Just rotten luck, that’s all. Just crappy karma slapping you down at every turn.” Bob knew he was jeopardizing their relationship but couldn’t stop himself. He was fed up with Doug’s everyone’s-responsible-but-me attitude.

He had no idea how much he’d jeopardized their relationship. Not until Doug said quietly, in a malignant voice, “You’re right, Bobby. I do hate your guts.”

Bob was conscious that his mouth had fallen open in reaction to what Doug had said. He couldn’t speak at first. Then he swallowed dryly, trying to draw himself together.

“Well, that’s great,” he said. “Just great.” He drew in labored breath. “How many days left to reach the cabin? Two? Three?”

Doug didn’t answer. He kept staring at Bob, his expression hard, disquieting.

Bob inhaled again. He seemed to be having difficulty getting enough air in his lungs.

“I suggest we pack up and get on our way,” he said. “Go as far as we can before dark. I’ll try to hold myself together so you won’t be inconvenienced anymore. I suggest we travel and don’t talk. We seem—”

“Oh, is that what you suggest?” Doug broke in. “You’re running the show now? How odd. I thought I was running it.”

Bob fought for patience. “Doug, you are running it. I’m just trying to suggest how—”

“Well, don’t suggest,” Doug said with a sneer, and Bob became even more distressed.

“Doug, anything you say,” Bob told him. “Just let’s get going. When we reach the cabin, we’ll go back to Los Angeles. Or if you want to stay at your cabin, I’ll phone for a car.”

“A limo, of course,” Doug said contemptuously.

“Jesus, Doug,” Bob pleaded. “Can’t we—?”

“Well, there is no phone,” Doug interrupted. “It’s not a fucking lodge, you know. I’m not successful enough to afford a phone.”

Bob tried to reply patiently but firmly, “Then you can drive us to the nearest town and leave us there,” he said.

“Oh, is that what I can do?” Doug asked. Amazing how his questions were rarely questions, Bob thought.

“I’ll get ready,” he said, starting to push up.

Doug flat-handed him on the shoulder, knocking him back on the ground.

“Is that necessary?” Bob asked quietly.

Doug didn’t respond.

“Let’s just get out of here,” Bob said. He pushed to his feet and started toward the tent. Again, Doug flat-handed him, this time on the back, this time with greater force. Bob lost his balance, stumbling forward. It took several yards before he could regain his footing. He turned angrily. “Is that really necessary?” he demanded.

“Maybe it is.” My God, was that a smile on Doug’s lips? “Maybe it is, Bobby boy.”

“Oh, God,” Bob muttered.

“He can’t help you here, big man,” Doug said. “Your income doesn’t matter here. Neither does your big success.”

“Oh, Jesus, Doug,” Bob said, turning back toward the campsite.

“Oh, Jesus, what, big man?”

Bob heard Doug moving toward him and twisted around.

This time Doug flat-handed him so hard on the chest, it made him reel back and topple over, landing on his hands; he hissed at the pain on his infected palm.

“What the—?” he began, then broke off, tightening as Doug lurched toward him. Grabbing Bob by the jacket collar, he hauled him to his feet.

“Is this the way it’s going to be?” Bob asked, but before he’d finished the sentence, Doug had slapped him hard across the left cheek, wincing at the pain it caused him on his shoulder.

“Bastard,” Doug snapped. Bob wasn’t sure if Doug meant him or the pain.

He stared at Doug incredulously. “What the hell is happening?” he asked, his voice shaken. “Are you—?”

He gasped in surprise and pain as Doug slapped him again.

“What’s the matter, haven’t you got the balls to defend yourself?” Doug challenged scornfully.

“What the hell are we, two kids in a schoolyard?” Bob demanded. “Are we supposed to—?”

He broke off with a cry of stunned pain as Doug slapped him again, his face contorting from the pain it caused him in his shoulder.

“Goddamn it, cut it out,” Bob cried, shoving out his palm at Doug’s face.

Was it just bad luck, he wondered later, that the flat of his palm hit Doug squarely on the nose? Doug cried out, startled, blood starting to spurt from both nostrils.

“Son of a bitch,” Doug snarled, jerking up his left index finger to press beneath his bleeding nostrils.

The blow caught Bob completely by surprise. Fisting his right hand, Doug hit Bob violently in the stomach, doubling him over. Bob couldn’t make a sound at the pain, his breath knocked out. Gasping for air, he hitched up slowly, an expression of astonishment on his face. “What the hell are you—?” he started, his voice wheezing.

He cried out in dumbfounded shock as Doug hit him again in the stomach. Gagging, he flopped over quickly, pressing both hands at his stomach, unable to breathe, shooting pain in his stomach. Everything went blurry as his eyes teared. He tried to hold himself rigid in case Doug meant to hit him again.

After almost a minute had passed, he straightened up, sucking feebly at the air. His eyes, filled with tears, saw Doug as a watery figure standing in front of him.

“Well, are you going to defend yourself, pussy?” Doug asked, his voice sounding completely vicious now. “Or are you just going to stand there, crying like a baby?”

Bob realized that tears were running down his cheeks and reached up to brush them away, his fingers trembling. “Are you crazy?” he said, barely able to speak.

“Right, I’m crazy, little man.”

Bob tried to back off as Doug moved toward him suddenly. He could only stumble back a foot or so before Doug was on him, knocking him over. Bob grunted as he fell, then cried out in pain as he crashed to the ground, Doug on top of him.

“You aren’t going to fight, you gutless shit?” Doug said, his features twisted. “Why don’t I just kill you then, put you out of your fucking misery?”

“Why?” Bob asked in agony, staring up at Doug’s distorted face. Dark blood was running over Doug’s chin.

“Why?” Doug jolted once on Bob, making him sob in agony again. “Why, you pitiful son of a bitch? I’ll tell you why. You already know why. I hate your fucking guts. I hate everything about you. You think you shit gold, don’t you?” Bob’s face jerked to the side as Doug slapped him again. “You’re everything I despise in a man. Man, my ass. You’re a pussy, a coward.” He sniffed hard, running fingers under his nose. “After life, you superstitious mother fucker? Reincarnation? I’ll give you a fast trip there and you and Artie can sit around on a fucking cloud, discussing what a bastard I am.”

Bob tried to pull Doug’s hands away but couldn’t, they were too strong, clamping hard around his neck. “You thought I was joking, did you, Bobby boy, Bobby fucking boy? I’ll show you how much I was joking, motherfucker.”

Bob clutched at Doug’s tightening hands, thrashing helplessly beneath him. He couldn’t breathe, darkness crowding at the corners of his vision. “Doug,” he pleaded in a barely audible whisper. I’m going to die, the thought ran through his mind. It seemed completely unbelievable to him even as it was taking place.

Doug jerked his hands away. “Oh, no,” he said, “oh, no. Too easy. Much too fast. I’ll kill you but I want it to last—and last. Having trouble breathing, Bobby boy?”

Bob made faint choking sounds in his throat. He looked up at Doug, not knowing him at all. Doug’s face was totally unfamiliar, now the face of some demented stranger. How could this be happening? he thought. How in the name of God could this be happening? He kept trying to swallow, to clear what felt like dry obstruction in his throat. Doug looked down at him, smiling. “Time for fun,” he said with relish. “Time for big fun, Bobby boy.”

Jumping to his feet, Doug jerked a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and dabbed at his nostrils. “Son of a bitch,” he said. “You’ll pay for this.”

Bending over, he grabbed Bob’s jacket and hauled him to his feet, beginning to drag him across the ground. Bob tried to struggle with him but he still felt dizzy, weak, unable to breathe. “Doug, don’t,” he mumbled.

“Doug, don’t. Doug, don’t,” Doug repeated in a mocking, falsetto voice. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you, my pretty. And your little penis too.” Bob felt swallowed in some nightmare dream. Had Doug just imitated Margaret Hamilton, paraphrasing her speech from The Wizard of Oz? Had he gone completely insane?

He tried to pull away from Doug but couldn’t. Half stumbling, half dragged, he was pulled over to a tree and shoved against it. “Don’t move now,” Doug told him. He was actually amused by all of this, Bob realized. He had gone insane. Dear God.

Feeling Doug let go of him, he tried to back off from the tree.

“I said—!” Doug snarled.

Bob almost screamed as Doug punched him hard below the ribs, driving lines of sharp pain through his back and chest.

“Now do what Daddy says and don’t move, little boy,” Doug ordered. “If you move again, I’ll really have to hurt you and I certainly wouldn’t want to do that because you’re my friend, aren’t you, Bobby boy? You’re my good friend.”

Bob gasped as Doug grabbed his hair and jerked his head back. “Aren’t you, Bobby boy?”

Bob could only sob, grimacing with agony, tears dribbling down his cheeks.

“That’s a good boy. I’ll be right back,” Doug told him. “Stay right there now.”

Bob held on to the tree, his body a cluster of shifting pains. He still couldn’t breathe normally. What am I going to do? he wondered. He couldn’t just let Doug torture him like this. The realization made him shudder violently. That was what Doug was doing, torturing him.

He started to look around to see what Doug was up to. “Anh-anh-anh,” Doug warned him. “Don’t you move now, Bobby boy, or Doug will get pissed at you.”

A few moments later, Bob heard Doug’s returning footsteps. “Doug, whatever you have in mind—” he started weakly.

“Just shut up, pussy,” Doug interrupted. “Whatever I have in mind is what I’ll do, you get it? Pussy?”

“Doug, don’t do this!” Bob said, pleading.

Doug didn’t reply and Bob reacted with a gasp of alarm as Doug began to run the thin rope around his back, then around the tree.

“For Christ’s sake, Doug, what are you doing?”

“Shut up, Bobby,” Doug answered in a singsong voice.

“Doug, please. We’re grown-up men, we’re not—”

He broke off with a gasping cry as Doug flat-handed the back of his head, making him jerk forward, his forehead hitting the rough bark of the tree. “Jesus!” he cried, grimacing in pain.

He said no more, trying to restore his breathing as Doug kept wrapping the thin rope around his back and around the tree. How could this be happening? he kept on thinking. How could Doug have hidden all these years the hatred he was showing now? He wanted to try to reason with Doug, try to bring him back to his senses but he hurt too much in too many places, he didn’t dare speak again.

Doug finished tying him to the tree, tightening the rope so much that his breath was cut off again. “I can’t breathe,” he said in a wheezing voice.

“Oh, sorry,” Doug said as though he really was.

Bob cried out weakly as Doug pulled the rope even tighter.

“All right, kill me then!” Bob cried hoarsely.

“I will, big boy,” Doug told him. “But not right away.”

Bob sucked in a choking breath as Doug loosened the ropes, then used the ends to tie Bob’s hands together by the wrists. “There we go,” he said. He sounded pleased.

Bob leaned his forehead against the tree and closed his eyes. What now? he thought. Oh, God, what now? For a few moments, he had a vision of Marian standing in the clearing, staring at Doug, aghast at what he’d done.

“All right, Bobby boy,” Doug said. “It’s time to clear out the bullshit.”

Bob stiffened as Doug pulled down his pants a few inches and lifted up the bottom of his jacket. “Now,” he said.

Bob’s breath cut off with a gasp as he felt something sharp pressing at his back. “I guess you know what that is,” Doug said. “My trusty ol’ golak. One hard shove and you’re a dead pussy. So tell me, Bobby boy, you think you’ll just be fast-forwarded to paradise? Or only be a corpse hanging off this tree?”

Bob drew in shaking breath. “What do you want me to say?” he asked.

“The truth, baby, the truth. You’re as scared of dying as the rest of us. Your goddamn stupid philosophy doesn’t mean doodley-squat to you right now with the point of my golak right at your back.” Bob hissed as he felt the sharp point of the blade breaking his skin. “Does it, Bobby boy?”

Bob closed his eyes, teeth clenched. “You’re wrong,” he said. “You—”

He cried out faintly as Doug jabbed the blade end into his flesh. The flare of pain made him press his teeth together tightly.

“You’re wrong,” he said in a sudden blind rage. “You want me to renege—”

“Want you to what?” Doug demanded. He hitched the blade to the right. Bob sobbed at the pain and felt a trickle of blood down his back.

I won’t, he thought. He wasn’t going to give Doug satisfaction.

“Killing me won’t change what I believe,” he said in a tense, guttural voice. “I’ll go to afterlife, I still believe that. You’re the one who’ll really suffer in the long run.” He could barely finish as Doug turned the blade tip again, making him groan at the pain. “Go on!” he cried, mindless with fury. “Do it! Murder me! I’ll still believe what I believe! I won’t be dead, but you’ll be damned!”

He waited for the final thrust, the burst of pain, the darkness of death.

It didn’t come.

“Well, well, well,” Doug said. “I must say I’m impressed. You really do believe in afterlife. I admire your conviction, Bobby boy.”

Bob felt the tip of the golak blade removed. The pain decreased but he could still feel warm blood dribbling down his back.

“So you’re not afraid of dying,” Doug went on. “Well, I can understand that. Even if you didn’t believe in afterlife, dying would end the pain.”

Bob felt himself tightening. What was Doug talking about now?

He knew immediately as Doug said, “Maybe living is something you’d rather not do. Maybe I was offering you an easy way out by threatening to impale you on my golak. Maybe staying alive is worse than dying. Right, Bobby boy? Maybe living… but with pain.”

Bob braced himself for the beating he was sure Doug was about to inflict on him. He closed his eyes and pressed his lips together tightly. Maybe—if the beating was severe—he’d pass out. It was all he could hope for. And Doug was wrong if he thought he could just keep beating him and not end up by killing him.

He twitched as Doug jerked down his pants until they were bunched around his ankles.

“I forgot to mention,” Doug said—was he smiling cruelly as he spoke—“pain and humiliation.”

No, Bob thought. Doug couldn’t mean what he thought he did.

“Then maybe not,” Doug said. Bob heard a rustling of clothes behind him. “Maybe it wouldn’t be humiliation at all. Maybe you’d enjoy it. Maybe it’s exactly what you’ve been dying for ever since we started out.”

The rustling of clothes ended. Bob heard Doug making tiny sensual noises behind him. “Gotta get it ready for you, baby. Hot and ready.”

“Doug, for Christ’s sake…”

“No, no, not him,” Doug said with amusement. “He was straight.” He chuckled. “I think.” He laughed. “Wouldn’t that be a kick in the ass to the Church if they found out that their Son of God liked to take it up the ass.”

“Doug, you are destroying your life!” Bob cried.

“Oh, no, babe, I’m destroying yours,” Doug answered.

Bob turned his head as Doug moved into view. He made a feeble noise of disbelief, grimacing at the sight of Doug. Except for his boots, he was completely naked, gripping his erected penis with his left hand. Bob felt a chill at the size of it, knowing now what Doug intended to do.

“I saw the way you looked at me the other night when I was naked,” Doug told him. “I used to see the way you looked at my bathing suit when Nicole and I were swimming at your house. As though you were dying to jerk it down and put my cock in your mouth.”

“Oh, God, Doug, God.” Bob shook his head.

“He isn’t here, I keep telling you, babe,” Doug said.

He moved out of sight now, Bob saw as he opened his eyes.

“Doug, for Christ’s sake, don’t do this,” he said.

“Looking forward to it, are you, Bobby boy?” Doug said. “I know I am. I’m going to shove my cock all the way up your hot, virginal asshole and I’m gonna love it. Once I’m in there, let’s see what your damn spiritual insight can do to comfort you. Nothing, I suspect. It’s just gonna hurt like hell. And the hornier I get, the more it’s gonna hurt. Mmm, I can hardly wait.”

“Doug, for Christ’s sake, don’t do this!” Bob cried.

“Oh, now it’s for his sake,” Doug said; he sounded amused. “You’re regressing, Bobby. Did you just become a born-again Christian? Give yourself to Jesus and all will be hunky-dory? I don’t think so,” he finished in a singsong voice.

“By the way,” he added. “If there’s no such thing as an accident, that must mean I intended to fuck your asshole right from the start.”

“Doug, don’t. Please.” His voice sounded weak and pitiable, now.

He heard Doug doing something behind him. Then Doug came back. “Gonna make it easy for you, babe,” he said.

Bob jerked, gasping, as he felt Doug’s fingers start to probe into his rectum; there was something wet on his fingers. “Just a spoonful of olive oil makes the dicky-wick go in, the dicky-wick go in, the dicky-wick go in,” Bob sang, paraphrasing Mary Poppins’s song. He’s gone insane, he really has, Bob thought in horror, gritting his teeth as Doug continued probing with his fingers, moving them deeper into Bob. “Just a little preview, Bobby. A coming attraction.”

His fingers pulled out and Bob made a sound of fright as Doug was suddenly behind him, clutching at his sides with digging fingers. “And now,” he said, sounding aroused. “Now, Bobby boy. The pièce de résistance.” His laugh was like a bark. “Although you can’t resist my piece, can you?” Bob twitched as Doug kissed his shoulder. “Not that you’d resist at all. I don’t have to tie you to this tree. If I untied you, you’d be on your knees in a second, begging for my cock inside you.”

As he spoke, he pressed the head of his penis between Bob’s buttocks and began to push. The pain began immediately. “Doug, don’t,” Bob pleaded desperately. “For God’s sake, stop this.”

“Too late, Bobby boy,” Doug said.

Bob caught his breath with a dry gasp. “Oh, goody.” Doug sounded delighted. “The head just popped in. Mm.” He writhed against Bob. “And now—” he said.

With a snarling sound, he jammed himself against Bob’s body, entering him all the way. Bob cried out in anguish, his head thrown back, his closed eyes flowing tears as he felt the tearing of tissues inside himself.

“Now I just move back and forth, back and forth,” Doug said. He started kissing Bob’s neck and shoulders, grunting with excitement. “Oh, God, take it, baby, take it.”

Bob couldn’t speak. He could only utter feeble sounds of pain as Doug slowly sodomized him, groaning, grunting, licking the back of Bob’s neck, saliva running off his tongue. “Oh, God,” he muttered. “God.”

“Did you know Nicole talked about you all the time?” Doug said, breathing hard. “I think she wanted to suck you off. You think Marian wanted to suck me off? Ooh, I bet she did, I bet she did.”

Bob’s face became a rigid mask of resistance to the pain. It has to end, it has to end, he kept telling himself.

Doug’s breathing became more rapid now. “Oh, Bobby boy, this feels so good. It’s like the hottest, tightest pussy in the world, the world, the world.” Each repetition of the word was accompanied by a spasmed shove inside Bob, making him moan in pain.

“Wouldn’t you have loved a nice, hot, drunken, bisexual orgy with the four of us?” Doug said, gasping for breath now. “Wouldn’t you have loved to watch Nicole and Marian eating each other while you and I were sixty-nining next to them? Oh, yeah, you would, you’d have loved it—loved it.”

“Oh, my God,” Bob murmured. Doug’s penis was beginning to swell, increasing the pain more with each second. “I’m gonna cum inside your asshole, Bobby boy,” Doug said, panting for breath. “I’m gonna fill your asshole with hot, white cum. You’ll love it, Bobby boy. You’ll love it.”

A few seconds later, Doug cried out dementedly, his fingers gouging into Bob’s hip flesh, his body jammed up tight against Bob as he had his orgasm. Bob felt the hot liquid spurting into his rectum. I’m going to kill him, he suddenly thought. I don’t care what I believe, I’m going to kill the son of a bitch!

When Doug had finished coming, he drew back. Bob winced and gagged at the feeling. Then the pain was gone, replaced by a burning ache inside him. He felt Doug’s semen running down the back of his legs. Fuck philosophy, he thought with mindless hate. Fuck the meaning of life. Fuck afterlife and reincarnation and all of it.

As soon as he could he was going to murder Doug.

11:21 AM

Doug kept him tied to the tree while he dressed leisurely, humming to himself, “I could have danced all night.” He seemed at peace now, totally relaxed. Sated, Bob thought with trembling rage. Like a well-rutted animal.

“You know, I don’t think I planned on this right from the start,” Doug said, stopping the song, “I think it just came up.” A laugh burst from him. “There I go again,” he said, imitating Ronald Reagan. “Can’t control those double entendres. Naughty, naughty. That nasty old subconscious.”

After he’d dressed, he untied the rope and released Bob. Bob’s legs felt limp at first, almost giving out beneath him. Then he straightened up and, bending over, pulled up his pants.

“Don’t you want to douche first?” Doug asked lightly. “Might get pregnant otherwise. That would be embarrassing.”

Bob didn’t speak. He stared at Doug who was sitting with the golak lying across his lap.

“What’s the matter, afraid I’ll attack you?” Bob asked coldly.

“I presume you don’t mean sexually,” Doug said.

Bob only stared at him.

“Well…” Doug gestured with his hands. “Never can tell. You might go nuts. After all I’ve violated the sanctity of your virginal asshole.”

Bob felt his stomach muscles tensing in. Should he make a run at Doug? He hated him enough to do it. But he knew, his brain still intact and functioning, that Doug could kill him with a single slash of the golak. He remembered the deep, flesh-exposing cut he’d made on the doe. He’d have to bide his time.

Carefully, he sat down on the ground, making an involuntary sound of pain.

“Hurts a little, doesn’t it?” Doug said as though sympathizing. “It’s like that the first time. You’ll get used to it.”

Bob’s muscles seemed to tighten of their own accord. The first time? Was Doug planning on doing it again? He’ll have to kill me first, he resolved.

Doug chuckled. “I can see what you’re thinking, Bobby. You can relax though. You aren’t that good a fuck. There were guys in the reformatory who could screw you under the table.”

“I thought you beat up the ‘big guy’ in the reformatory so they’d leave you alone,” Bob said.

“I did,” Doug said. “And they did.” He grinned. “I didn’t say I left them alone, though.” He squeezed his groin with a sensual sound. “Got so I really liked it. In the mouth, in the ass, you name it. I tried to talk Nicole into letting me fuck her ass but she wouldn’t do it. Too bad. She might’ve liked it.”

He picked up the golak and pointed it at Bob. “Sure you wouldn’t like to stay and have more fun with me?”

“Fun?” He glared at Doug. If I had a gun, he thought, I’d risk my soul to blow him away. Right now.

“No, I guess not,” Doug said pityingly. “You’re as straight as a fucking arrow. It’s Marian or no one, right?”

Bob didn’t answer, trying hard to think how he could do something to get the advantage over Doug.

“Besides,” Doug said with a mocking grin, “it’s karma, isn’t it? There are no accidents, you said so. Which means you probably raped some poor slob in the nineteenth century, or earlier. Maybe you were the guy who buggered Jesus. And now you’ve paid the price, right? An ass for an ass.” He threw his head back with a coarse laugh. “Pretty good. That just came out o’ me by accident. An ass for an ass. That’s marvelous. I’ll have to remember that.”

He laughed again. “Which means it was my fucking karma too.” Another laugh with his head thrown back. “Jesus Christ, I did it again. Fucking karma. That’s what it was. Fucking karma. I had no control. What did Malkovich say in that movie? ‘It’s out of my control’?” He laughed again. “Oh, God, I’m really rolling now.

“You know,” he went on as though contributing to his half of an amiable chat, “this really shouldn’t surprise you, considering that you’re such a cynic about this life and see injustice everywhere.”

“I never saw it in you,” Bob told him somberly. “I trusted you. I thought you were my friend.”

“And now you’ve found out that I’m actually your karma. How about that? Is that injustice or what?”

Bob didn’t answer.

Doug sighed. “I could use another cup of coffee. I’ll make some after you’ve gone. With brandy, of course.”

Bob felt himself going rigid. After you’ve gone?

“It’s just as well you don’t want to hang around and have a party. It would just spoil the game.”

The game? Bob wanted to ask it aloud but couldn’t speak.

Doug rubbed his shoulder, wincing. “Hurts like hell,” he said. “Gives you a slight advantage anyway. Not much of one but—any port in a storm, hanh?” He took out his handkerchief and dabbed at his nostrils. “Nose still hurts too. But that won’t be an advantage. That’ll just make me more intent on catching you.”

“You just don’t see what you’re doing to your soul, do you?” Bob said.

“No, Daddy, tell me. What am I doing to my soul?”

“Blackening it,” Bob told him.

“Ooh.” Doug made a mock face of fear. “And that means?”

“That means payment will come due,” Bob said.

“Payment.” Doug nodded, looking bored. “Oh, you mean, in my next life.” He grimaced melodramatically. “Or my next. Or my next. Or who the hell knows?”

“Or this life,” Bob told him.

“Really.” Doug pretended to look fascinated. “And who’ll do that? Who’ll make me pay?” He leaned forward, an expression of dark glee on his face. “You, Bobby? You’re the one who’ll make my payment come due? I don’t think so!” he finished jeeringly, using the singsong voice again.

Bob knew there was no point in discussing this with Doug. The subject was completely out of Doug’s realm of thinking. He thought it was all bullshit. He’d said so. No matter. He’d said what he had to say. Let the rest go.

“Okay, now,” Doug said cheerfully, acting as though their relationship was perfectly equitable. “As to details. It’s a contest. I give you a two-hour head start, three if you insist, it won’t matter any. You take with you anything you want”—he grinned—“other than the golak and the bow and arrows, of course. Anything else though. Food. Water. Toilet articles if you want them. Your ground pad and your sleeping bag, of course. Although you may not last long enough to need your sleeping bag.”

Bob shuddered, staring wordlessly at Doug.

“But let’s assume the best scenario,” Doug said. He seemed to be reciting the rules of some intriguing game. “You stay ahead of me. The cabin’s about two days from here, moving fast that is—I suggest you move fast, of course. There’s the Wiley place a few miles down the hill from my cabin. Good landmark. I’ll let you have the compass, by the way. You just keep moving southeast and you’ll be all right. You with me so far?”

Bob didn’t speak. I haven’t been with you since the day we met, he thought.

“Okay,” Doug said. He clapped his hands together once. “You reach the cabin first, you win. I catch you first, you lose.” He smiled benignly. “And, of course, you know what that means.”

Bob had to ask. “And if I win, what then? You apologize for raping me? You tell Marian you’re sorry that you raped me? You perform social work to make up for raping me? You get therapy because you raped me?”

“Whoa, whoa,” Doug said, chuckling. “You’re not going to win. You really think you can outrun me? The klutz backpacker of the century? Please. Give me a break. Or, as they used to say when I was a kid, ‘No way, José.’”

They sat in silence for almost a minute, looking intently at each other. I mustn’t blink. For some inane reason, it was all Bob could think.

“So when do you want to leave?” Doug asked. “You want a little more to eat first? A cup or two of coffee to brace you? Name it, Bobby boy, you’ve got it.”

Bob didn’t speak. Doug’s features tightened. “Well?” he said.

Another few moments of silence.

“When do you want to leave?” Doug demanded.

“Never.”

Doug looked honestly taken back. “What?” he asked.

“You seem to forget,” Bob told him. “You’ve picked the wrong guy… Douglas. Your threat to kill me doesn’t mean a thing to me. Remember me? I’m the guy who’s not afraid of death.”

He managed a chuckle. “You look confounded,” he said, almost amused.

Doug was expressionless for several seconds. Then he said, “Let me get this straight—as they say in the beginning of every stupid letter to the editor… if I were to pick up my golak now and make a move toward you, you wouldn’t do a thing about it?”

“I didn’t say that,” Bob responded. “If you make a move toward me, I’d defend myself—and hurt you any way I could. Kill you if I could.”

Doug seemed to brush that possibility aside as not worth consideration. “You mean, if I picked up my bow and put an arrow in it and said I was going to shoot it straight into your heart, you’d let me? You wouldn’t say, okay, I’ll take the head start, just don’t kill me?”

Bob only gazed at him. Odd, he thought, that at this moment of complete vulnerability to Doug, he felt, somehow, superior to him.

“You’ve already done your worst,” he said. “Kill me if it pleases you. My soul will just move on. Yours will enter an eternal night.” He finished almost fiercely.

“Oh, dear,” Doug said. “You know, I think you really mean what you say. You’re not afraid of dying. I could make you hurt, give you lots of pain—but eventually you’d die and I’d lose my game.”

“I’m sorry if I’m ruining your day,” Bob told him with an icy tone.

“Oh, you’re not, you’re not,” Doug said. “Because you’ve overlooked a key part of our little game.”

He smiled at Bob, obviously waiting for him to ask, What part? Bob wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

“Okay, I guess I’ll have to satisfy your unspoken curiosity,” Doug said. Bob felt a coldness on his back that made him shiver.

“The key part of our little game, audience?” Doug said as though he were a game-show host. A pause. His smile was almost merry. “Right!” he said. “The key part of our little game is—Marian!”

Bob seemed to feel every muscle in his body becoming taut. He looked at Doug with hatred. “What are you planning to do?” he asked in a low, trembling voice. “Rape her? Hurt her?”

“Oh, no.” Doug sounded as though the question had hurt his feelings. “No, not at all. I wouldn’t hurt Marian. I like Marian.” His smile grew venomous. “You might say that I love her.”

Despite the golak, Bob could barely restrain himself from lunging forward and grabbing Doug by the throat. Only at the last second, did his mind warn him: You can’t help her if you’re dead.

“You see, I have a much more interesting scenario in mind,” Doug went on. “You might say”—he grinned—“the performance of my life.”

“What do you mean?” He had to know, immediately. Even if he had to ask.

“Well, here’s the plot,” Doug said as though he were making a story pitch to a producer. “I catch you—as I will, of course. I kill you—as I will, of course. I cut you into pieces and bury them far apart from each other. Some parts may be dug up by a bear and eaten. That would only enhance the plot, you see, because, later on, they might find a leg bone or an arm bone or something. I hightail it to the cabin; I can make it in a day if I really rush, get there by late tonight.” He smiled again as though looking for Bob’s approval of the clever plot he’d created.

“Now,” he said, holding up the index finger of his right hand, “comes the good part. The Academy Award part. I show up at the cabin in a state of near hysteria. I cry, I groan, I blame myself for everything. You went out in the dark to go to the bathroom and I never saw you again. I should have gone with you. I searched everywhere but couldn’t find a sign of you. A bear or a mountain lion must have gotten you. We’ll call the forest rangers and initiate a search—I won’t tell them where we were, of course, I’ll take them someplace else. I’ll keep on crying, sobbing, not too much of course, just enough to be convincing. Oscar-caliber, believe me.” He leaned forward, looking fascinated. “They never find your remains, of course. Finally, I drive Marian home. I stay with her to comfort her. I’m always with her. She can lean on me, trust me. I’m a damn good actor, maybe you don’t know that. She’ll buy it; she’ll be totally convinced that I’ve been traumatized. I was supposed to take care of you and I didn’t do my job. I’ll cry some more. I’ll drink, she’ll drink. I’ll be the—what’s the fucking word?—oh, yes, I’ll be the epitome of caring, the fucking quintessence—ooh, I got that right away—the quintessence—love that word—the quintessence of compassion. In time, Marian will come to depend on me, to need me, to—dare I speak the word?—to love me. We’ll get married—” His eyelids lowered halfway, his smile gone sardonic. “And I’ll fuck her asshole legally. Won’t that be a gas?”

Bob was unable to speak. He could only stare at Doug, believing himself to be in the presence of a madman. A madman he had to kill, somehow, someway.

Finally, Doug spoke.

“That puts a slightly different complexion on the game, doesn’t it, Bobby boy?” he said. “Still want me to kill you now?”

The murderous fury he’d felt while Doug was sodomizing him erupted so suddenly that the words spewed forth without thought. “You miserable son of a bitch!”

Before the sentence was finished he’d lunged to his feet and flung himself at Doug, hitting him so fast and hard that Doug, completely caught off guard, was unable to grab the golak from his lap.

Knocking Doug back with the impetus of his charge, Bob started pounding at his face as hard as he could. Doug raised his arms to block the punches but couldn’t prevent some of them from driving into his cheeks, his eyes, his mouth. “Damn!” he snarled.

Bob couldn’t speak. Fueled by his rage, he only wanted to keep hitting Doug, pounding him unconscious, killing him if necessary. Thought was gone. He could only concentrate on one thing: stopping Doug, now. It gave him a wild, perverse pleasure to see the look of startled amazement on Doug’s face, hear the muffled flooding of curses from him. Hit him, hit him! The words were shouted in his brain by a voice he’d never heard before.

Then Doug’s knee was driven up into his groin and, with an instant flare of pain, the fight was ended. Rolling on his side with a groaning cry Bob drew up his legs with convulsive suddenness and, abruptly, lay in a taut fetal position, unable to catch his breath, eyes slitted, teeth bared in a grimace of agony. Vision blurred, he watched Doug stagger to his feet. “Motherfucker,” he was mumbling. “Motherfucker.”

Now Doug loomed over him, nose bleeding, cheeks bruised, an expression of demented malice on his face. “You bastard,” he muttered, “you dumb fucking bastard.” Bob watched his right arm raise up, the golak clutched in his hand. “Now you die.”

Bob closed his eyes, tensed for the violent stroke of the golak that would end his life. Protect Marian, he thought, having no idea to whom the plea was being sent. Please protect her!

When the blow from the golak didn’t come, he opened his eyes and looked up in pained curiosity.

“Oh, no,” Doug was saying. “No. Too easy, motherfucker. You are going to die but not this easy, not this easy. Oh, no, not this easy, motherfucker, not this easy.”

Reaching down, he grabbed Bob by the hair with his left hand and yanked him to his feet. Before he was up, Doug had reared back his right fist and driven it as hard as he could into Bob’s jaw.

Bob reeled back and fell, collapsing to the ground, darkness flooding across his brain. He felt Doug drag him up by the left arm and drive another violent blow to his abdomen. As he doubled over, gagging, Doug jarred him erect with an uppercut to his jaw. Now the darkness was almost complete. He felt himself sinking into it, his face and body almost numbed by pain. As though through a film he saw Doug’s face, his twisted look of fury. Then, unexpectedly, somehow more horrible than the expression of malevolence, a smile of fierce pleasure.

“Now the game begins,” he said.

He let go of Bob who crumpled to the ground, legs drawn up again, soft groans of pain filling his throat.

“You hear me, Bobby boy?” Doug asked. He sounded almost happy. “Now the game begins.”

1:48 PM

He had to stop and rest for a while. He’d been trying to walk rapidly, sometimes trot, but he simply couldn’t manage it. The backpack was considerably lighter—just the bare minimum of equipment and supplies to keep him going—but it still dragged at his back; and his body and head still ached where Doug had punched him so sadistically.

Taking off his pack, he lay down on his back and started doing stretching exercises he hadn’t done in years—pelvic thrusts, raising his legs one at a time, then both together, drawing up his knees. He groaned in misery as he exercised. How the hell am I going to make this? he wondered. Doug was fit and strong; he was unfit and covered with pains and aches. For a while, a rush of despair engulfed him. It was hopeless. He was kidding himself. Outrun Doug? Nothing in the world seemed less possible to him at the moment.

His legs fell heavily to the ground and he groaned, partially in pain, mostly in despondent recognition. There was just no way—

“Shut up!” he ordered himself. He had to survive—for Marian’s sake if not his own. Doug’s diabolical scenario must never take place. Never.

He looked at his wristwatch. He’d been gone a little more than an hour now. Would Doug really wait three hours before following him? Or had that been a cruel joke?

He jerked his head around, hearing a noise to his left, a crackling sound. Was Doug already here? He sat up fast, wincing at the pain it caused. Listening intently, he sat without moving.

Then he thought, no, Doug wouldn’t make any noise. He’d come stealing up like an Indian tracking prey. He’d never hear a sound. The first thing he’d know Doug’s presence would be the whistling streak of an arrow and the final pain of it burying itself in his back—or his chest, depending on which way he was facing.

For several minutes, he tried to convince himself that Doug wouldn’t actually stoop to murder. The rape he understood—to agonize and humiliate him. But actually kill him? Surely, Doug had no such intention.

He scowled at his Pollyanna figment. Doug would kill him all right. He said he would, and if he caught up, that was exactly what he’d do.

He groaned again as he stood. I am in such miserable shape, he thought disgustedly; a regular goddamn athlete.

“Well, what do you expect?” he assailed himself. “You hadn’t planned on being chased by a homicidal maniac.” The remark made him grunt with a humorless smile. If I wrote this in a spec script, they’d throw me out of the office.

But it was really happening, that was the rub. Truth really is stranger than fiction, he thought. As far-fetched as it was in a creative way, it was darkly, horribly true. It was happening. The man who was going to take him on a pleasant research backpacking hike was now intending to murder him. Cut me up in pieces for Christ’s sake! he thought. He is a fucking maniac. He is.

He pressed down gingerly on his right foot. The blister was still there, probably broken open by now. He’d have to put a clean bandage on it later. Sure, he thought in bitter amusement. Got to protect yourself from that lethal blister.

He put on his pack again, took a drink from his water bottle, and started off. Was he going to have enough water to last him? He couldn’t ration it too much; Doug had made that point clear enough. But was he going to run across drinkable water? That Doug hadn’t told him as he’d left.

“Much he cares,” Bob muttered as he tried to walk in long, even strides.

He stopped walking suddenly. He’d never manage to outrun Doug and there was only one alternative.

He had to lay in wait for Doug, attack him somehow, kill him. It was the only possibility. He felt too weak and sick to outdistance Doug’s pursuit.

But how? he asked himself. How?

Again, there was only one possibility.

Taking off his backpack, he pulled out his hunting knife and looked around for a branch thin enough for him to cut into a cudgel he could hit Doug in the face with, lunging out from behind a tree.

As he searched, he considered the possibility of improvising a spear with the knife and a branch, fastening the knife to the branch with shoelaces. Immediately, he discarded the notion. What if the knife wasn’t fastened to the branch tightly enough, slipping off or, at best, shifting to one side as he tried to drive it into Doug’s chest. No, a cudgel was the only way. Smashing Doug across the face. A lunge from behind a tree and smashing him across the bridge of the nose, trying for an instant kill.

Instant kill. The words were sickening to him. Still, there was no other choice. He was too weak to move out quickly. It was self-defense: kill or be killed. Not just for himself. It was to protect Marian from Doug’s deranged plan. That was what he had to do; no choice. No choice whatever.

Blanking his mind, he kept looking until he’d found a fallen tree, a small branch jutting up from its surface. Slowly, grimacing at the weakness in his arm, he began to hack and saw away at the base of the branch. Doug had been right. His knife seemed almost worthless. He wished to God he had a golak too. With a few hard strokes, the branch would be off. Hell, the thought occurred. If he had a golak, he wouldn’t need the cudgel. He could drive the golak blade across Doug’s face, plunge it into his chest. Involuntarily, he found the vision deeply shocking. No choice, Bob, he commanded himself. No choice at all.

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.

All right, he thought, I can’t just sit here, waiting for my murderer to reach me. There was still Marian. He had to reach her and protect her.

“Okay,” he told himself determinedly. “Go down and get your water and move on—fast. That son of a bitch is probably bounding through the woods like Bambi.”

The image made him smile despite the sense of near futility he felt.

Carefully, he worked his way down the remainder of the slope, using his boot heels to dig into the ground and prevent another slide. He tried to feel what new bruises and scrapes he’d added to the list he’d already had. Fuck it, he thought. What’s the difference? If I can move, I’ll keep on going—and I can move.

The slope became a more gradual decline now, and in less than fifteen minutes, he had reached the edge of the lake. Had Doug actually heard him before? That wouldn’t help the cause. Not at all.

Kneeling on the bank of the lake, he took a long swig from his bottle—the new batch wouldn’t taste so good with iodine tablets in it—then pushed it below the surface of the water until it bubbled, full.

He added two iodine tablets to the bottle, recapped it, and returned it to his pack. A lot heavier now, he thought. Well, there was no help for that either. He had to have water. He’d keep the small water packets for an emergency.

He chewed on dried fruit—apricots, peaches, and pears—and an energy bar as he started around the lake. I should have brought dried prunes, he thought. Or even prune juice. Again, too late for regrets.

As he turned around the headland of the cove, he saw the dock.

“Oh, wow,” he said. Was it possible that the launch made regular crossings and he could get a later one before Doug got here? Grinning hopefully, he saw himself sitting on the launch as it crossed the lake, telling the driver (the captain?) what had happened to him. On the other side, there had to be a telephone. Hell, the driver of the boat might even have a cellular phone; practically everyone did these days. He could call the state police, have them waiting at the cabin when Doug got there, and incarceration. Perfect!

He moved as quickly as he could toward the small dock. There was what looked like a bulletin board attached to the dock. The schedule, he thought. It had to be once an hour, something like that. He could be out of here long before that bastard reached this point.

He got to the dock and moved to the bulletin board, his heart beating heavily. Every hour, he primed himself. It has to be every hour. That made sense.

He stood in front of the bulletin board, staring at it blankly.

There was another pickup time.

At six o’clock.

That glacial sinking in his stomach again. He looked at his watch, already knowing the answer.

Three-sixteen.

Doug would get here before the launch.

He couldn’t wait for it.

He closed his eyes. Goddamn it, don’t cry again! he ordered himself. He felt like crying though. Hopelessness was like an icy shroud weighing him down. I’m not going to make it, he thought, frightened and incredulous.

I am simply not going to make it.

4:09 PM

He kept on going as long as he could. Finally, he had to rest. Locating a small glade surrounded by high bushes, he put down his ground pad—the earth was still damp from the rain-storm—and lay down on his back, resting the pack against a fallen tree. Sighing, he closed his eyes.

Almost immediately, he felt darkness begin to cloud his brain. He opened his eyes abruptly. No sleep, no sleep, he told himself urgently. You can’t afford the time. Not with that crazy man in pursuit of him. He scowled. Why do I try to lighten things by calling him “that crazy man”? It wasn’t serious enough by half. Doug had to be considered insane by any standard. No matter how many times he tried to convince himself that maybe it was all a joke, a prank, a game, he couldn’t do it. Of one thing he was—and had to be—convinced.

If Doug overtook him, he’d use his bow and arrow. Or, worse, his golak. His last moments would be horrible. That was a given. It had to be if he was to survive.

He wished that he could settle on one state of mind. It was disconcerting if not completely distressing to keep fluctuating between total resolution and total surrender. He had to survive; for Marian if not himself. For his kids.

He did believe that he’d survive death however horrific that death might be. But he couldn’t leave Marian behind, subject to the demented blandishments of Doug. He had no doubt that Doug would do exactly what he said in regard to Marian. The image of it chilled him and enraged him at once.

God, if I had a gun, he thought. Me, the sturdy advocate of gun control. I wish I had one now. For one use. To blow a goddamn hole through Doug. If there was punishment later for his murdering Doug, he’d accept it willingly. Self-defense, he thought. That would get him off the hook on this plane. Beyond… well, he’d accept whatever came his way.

He slipped out of his pack and took out his supply of food. Much good most of it would do him now. He knew now why Doug snickered as he watched Bob pack his food for the flight. He glared at the packets for almost a minute before crawling over to them quickly and picking them up. You are stupid, he told himself. Environmental concerns when your life is in jeopardy?

He put the envelopes back in his pack and made himself a cheese sandwich, starting to eat it with some nuts. It tasted good; he was hungrier than he realized. He took sips of water between his bites and swallows.

For dessert, he had an orange and an energy bar. Gourmet dining, he thought. Well, at least it was nourishing and filling him. He washed it all down with a big swallow of water, put the food supply in his backpack, and leaned back against it.

He threw the orange peels away. I’m not going to take them with me. Sue me, forest rangers. Anyway, they’d rot in time. So would you, his brain insisted on tormenting him. For several seconds, he could not prevent himself from visualizing his corpse lying on the forest floor, most of its flesh gone, eaten by bears or mountain lions.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, lay off, will you?” he pleaded with his noncooperating brain.

It had always been like that. The writer’s mind, he thought. Victim of its own imagination. Not only story notions but personal ones as well, occasionally gratifying, mostly dark and negative. Shut up, he told it, knowing that it wouldn’t, that it would patiently lie in wait, always prepared to pounce on him with some disturbing vision.

He tried to blank out his mind by staring up at the sky. After a while, he saw a lone hawk wheeling and banking gracefully, floating on the currents of air, looking down for prey—a mouse, a rabbit, whatever.

Like Doug, he thought… Patiently moving, waiting to dive down on his prey. No mouse or rabbit. Robert Hansen, freelance quarry.

Oh, for God’s sake, shut up, please, he told his brain with angry depression.

As he thought it, he saw the hawk suddenly dive to its right. Then he saw the small bird trying to escape; in vain. The hawk’s talons clamped onto it and the hawk swept out of sight. To dine in a treetop no doubt, he thought.

A most encouraging sight for a man on the run.

“Oh, God,” he murmured.

Again, he tried to blank his mind but, in moments, found himself thinking about Doug again.

Doug had always maintained such a careful image. Dressed well, earned money, seemed to live a life beyond reproach. Well, not excessive reproach at any rate.

But it was pretense. Who was it that coined the phrase “people of the lie.” Dr. Peck. Well, that was Doug. Was he aware at all of the darkness in his mind? He doubted it. Doug had, he believed, always built a shell of nonawareness around himself. He’d simply shunted aside any evidence of imperfection. Dr. Peck had called it “malignant narcissism.” Perfect description of Doug’s state of consciousness. He could, if he chose, avoid all this by backing off. But of course, he wouldn’t. Not now.

If Doug had any perception of the hidden malignities within himself, how could he have done what he did this morning? How could he be doing what he was doing now? He had to be blinding himself to his own profound and murderous sickness. He had to force himself to be motivated by self-justification.

Killing Bob simply had to be done.

Hunted past reason, he thought. He winced at the phrase, wondering where it had come from.

He remembered then. Somewhere in King Lear. A perfect description of what he was going through.

He stretched his legs and arms, groaning at the multiple pains and aches he felt. How can I possibly outrun him? he thought.

Just don’t think, he ordered himself. Just… stare up at the blue sky and the white clouds. Just rest awhile and then move on. You have a three-hour head start. If Doug had told the truth, of course. He had to have told the truth. This was a game to him. He’d played games by the rules.

The sky, the clouds, he thought. The sky, the clouds.

4:47 PM

He jolted spasmodically and opened his eyes. “Oh, God, no,” he muttered, not even aware of speaking. He jerked up his left arm, wincing at the pain it caused. Oh, Christ, he’d slept more than twenty-five minutes!

“No good, no good,” he said. I can’t afford to do this. God knew how he was going to sleep at night, considering that Doug might well keep going in the darkness, using his flashlight. But he definitely could not afford to nap in the daytime. “Jesus, get up and move,” he told himself.

It was a strain to get to his feet. What if he’d slept for an hour, more than an hour? He’d be dead already. Doug was undoubtedly coursing through the forest like a long-skilled Indian. He’d been here before as well. “Oh, Christ, move on,” he told himself. “And fast.”

Hastily, he put away his ground pad. It was wet on the side that had been on the ground but there was no time to worry about that. Slipping on the pack—at least he could do that efficiently now—he started walking quickly through the forest, mostly pine now, towering above him.

He stopped for a few moments to check the compass, reset himself again, and move on. The forest was too thick for him to see the mountain he’d been using as a landmark. Maybe later. He willed himself into a steady pace, striding as rapidly as he could, teeth gritted as he tried to ignore the constant flares and stabs of pain in his body and legs. I am in pitiful condition, he thought.

So what?! he countered angrily. You still have to move and move fast. Just grin and bear it, Chauncey.

His smile was scarcely one of amusement. I’ll bear it but I damn sure won’t grin, he informed his annoying mind.

He was crossing a sedge-covered meadow, the high growth slapping against his legs. What if I step on a rattlesnake? he thought. He kept staring at the ground, listening hard for the warning buzz of a rattlesnake tail. At least they did that. The “gentleman snake,” he thought. Where had he read that? Or was it something Marian had said? On those rare occasions when they’d seen a rattler on their property, she would never allow him to kill it or phone the fire department for them to come and kill it. “It’ll go away,” she always said, “it’s more afraid of us than we are of it.” Unfailingly, he’d smile and shake his head at her kind regard for all living things, including rattlesnakes and tarantulas. She was frightened terribly by tarantulas but wouldn’t kill them either or allow him to kill them.

Looking up, he saw that he was headed into a canyon bordered by dark pines. He wondered where it led. He hoped that—

“Whoa,” he muttered.

A porcupine was waddling across the ground in front of him. He stared at it, wincing as he thought of what might have happened if he hadn’t caught sight of it in time. Those quills looked awfully sharp. That would be all he needed to enrich the day, a bunch of porcupine quills imbedded in his legs.

He was going to say something to the porcupine like—“the right of way is yours, pal”—then changed his mind. The sound of his voice might alarm it.

After the porcupine had disappeared, he continued on, leaving the meadow and moving into the canyon.

He noticed that the ground on each side of his movement was rising, more and more precipitously as he walked. He thought of turning back and looking for another, more open route, but didn’t dare. He couldn’t afford to backtrack. He had to keep going forward.

Which made the moment all the more dismaying and disheartening to him as he moved into an open area of ground and discovered that he’d been advancing unwittingly along a dead-end pass.

Ahead of him lay a rocky wall, mostly bare with an occasional clump of manzanita or grass clumps growing out of its crevices.

He couldn’t go back. It would be far too time-consuming. He might well run directly into Doug if he was getting close.

He was trapped.

A cold wave of panic swept through him. My God, I’m going to die, he thought.

“Jesus Christ.” His voice was faint and trembling. Doug had won this awful game already.

He stood rooted to the spot, racked by convulsive shudders. He had never felt so helpless in his life. What now? his mind kept asking like a terror-stricken boy. What now? What now?

Then reason set in. Or what passed for reason, it occurred to him.

Was he just going to stand here and let death come visiting? Without resistance of any kind? What about Marian?

He drew in a deep, laboring breath.

“All right,” he said. “All right, goddamn it.”

He’d climb the fucking wall.

What?! his mind screamed. Climb it? Are you out of your goddamn mind?!

“Well, what would you like me to do, you idiot?” he growled at it. “Just stand here until transfixed by goddamn arrows, chopped to pieces by that goddamn golak?”

Okay, okay, his mind submitted. I guess it’s better to die trying than doing nothing.

For a few moments, he thought excitedly that if he could make it to the top and Doug showed up down here, he could roll a boulder from the top, hit Doug, maybe even start a landslide—a goddamn avalanche.

“Well, don’t go overboard,” he told himself. “Just get up the damn wall first.” He felt amused, almost exultant that he’d resolved to try to climb the wall. Doug wasn’t going to paralyze him with fear, goddamn it! He was going to make it up this goddamn wall. “Damn right,” he said. “Damn right.”

Until he took a closer—more practical—look at the stone wall.

It was exactly that, a wall. Granted there were clefts in it, fissures, indentations, places he could place his feet, grab with his hands. But he had no experience at this kind of thing.

He had to be successful on his very first climb. There was no such thing as a second chance here.

“Shit,” he muttered. If he only had that long rope Doug had—the memory made him wince—tied him up with. That way, he could fasten one end to his pack, climb with only the other end of the rope to worry about, haul up the pack after he’d reached the top.

That was impossible though. Nor could he just leave the pack behind. He couldn’t survive without his food and water, sleeping bag and pad, medical supplies. They had to go with him.

First of all though, he had to examine the wall ahead of him to try to calculate a route to the top. He couldn’t just start up blindly, find himself stranded halfway up.

It wasn’t a smooth face, thank God. There were ridges and indentations, and he could see, on close examination, that it wasn’t totally vertical after all but rose more at an angle. A steep angle, yes, but not a vertical one. And halfway up was a ledge he could rest on. If you reach it, that is, the mocking voice addressed his mind. Oh, just shut up, he answered it.

There were also bushes growing out of the wall that looked secure enough to support his weight if he took hold of them. Nodding to himself, he ran his gaze over the irregularities in the wall, some of them long cracks he could slip his feet into. He visualized a basic route for himself. With luck, he could make it. Never mind luck, he told himself. He had to make it.

Doug was never going to get his hands on Marian.

He realized now, however, that he had to lighten the load on his back. He’d never make it with this heavy pack dragging him down. He’d have to leave behind anything of severe weight.

First of all, the water bottle. Unscrewing its cap, he took a long drink, then emptied out almost all the remaining contents of the bottle. Was this a bad mistake? he worried. What if he didn’t run across more water? Dying of thirst was not a risk he wanted to take.

He scowled at himself. First things first, he told himself. You have to make it up this wall or be caught by Doug. Nothing else mattered. Worry about water later. If you make it; the mocking voice again. Shut up! he told it angrily.

All right, what next? he thought. What did he absolutely have to take with him? The sleeping bag, of course. He couldn’t possibly reach the cabin today; hopefully tomorrow. So he’d be sleeping out tonight; he needed the sleeping bag’s warmth. He could probably do without the pad but he had to have the sleeping bag.

What else? he thought. Light stuff. Water packets. Dried fruit. Candy. Nuts, raisins. Energy bars. Jerky. Some bread. One mini-bottle of vodka. And, of course, your turkey tetrazzini, he mocked himself consciously. Yeah, he responded. Get back to reality now. Granola. Powdered milk. He’d pour out half of them. And coffee? Definitely; even if he had to drink it cold in the metal cup. He’d put the packages in his shirt pockets, under his shirt if there wasn’t enough room in his pockets. It might all weigh down the front part of his body, but that would be the part against the wall. As little as possible on his back so he wouldn’t be overweighted there. The sleeping bag, nothing more. He’d put the water bottle in his jacket pocket.

What else? He thought hard. The compass naturally. Sunglasses. Matches. The first-aid kit. Binoculars. Eyeglasses. The flashlight; he’d put that in his jacket pocket too. And his knife, of course.

That would have to do him.

He had his pack off now. Removing the sleeping bag, he started to roll it tight. Don’t roll it, Doug’s reminder struck him; ruins the fibers. Yeah, sure, he thought. I wouldn’t want to ruin the fibers.

With his knife, he cut off the waist, shoulder, and sternum straps from the pack, tied them around the sleeping bag and fastened it to his upper back, a strap under each arm. Then put all the food bags and packets in his shirt and under it.

The discards he stuffed into his backpack, which he pushed behind some bushes. Why bother? he asked himself. Doug would undoubtedly find it. He shivered. Was he starting to imbue Doug with superhuman skill at tracking? He wasn’t that good, was he? He had to have a few defects. Count on it anyway, he told himself. Maybe Doug wouldn’t find the hidden pack or maybe he’d be astonished at the idea of his pathetic prey ascending this wall. Maybe.

He’d try to believe it anyway.

In the shirt pocket where he’d put it, he found the little booklet Marian had given him: Survival in the Wilderness. Of any value to him? he wondered. “Oh, what the hell,” he muttered, sliding it back into his pocket. He drew in a deep breath. He was ready to go.

As ready as I’ll ever be, the thought chilled him.

5:14 PM

The wall really wasn’t as vertical as it first appeared but it was steep enough, Bob saw as he started climbing, carefully searching for, then using foot-and handholds in the rock. He tried to find handholds no higher than his head; somehow, it seemed to him that handholds higher than that would be more difficult to navigate. He climbed slowly and, as best he could manage, methodically. The weight of the tightly rolled sleeping bag on his back felt minimal. He’d made a good choice lightening his load that way.

It soon became clear to him that he only felt safe moving one hand or one foot at a time. He made certain that he kept his body in balance before releasing a hand or foot. The careful, snaillike progression of his upward movements pleased him somehow. Now he was intelligently fighting for his life. That was good.

He tried not to let himself become disturbed by the fact that he was getting thirsty. He could scarcely stop for a drink. Hold on ’til you reach the top, he told himself, forcing himself to believe that he was confident he’d reach the crest of the wall. Every time a twinge of doubt threatened to undo this certainty, he willfully blanked it out.

After a while, he stopped to rest although it hardly seemed like rest, clinging to a rock face like some ungainly insect. Still…

Against his preplan, he looked down, shutting his eyes immediately and hissing, teeth clenched. Jesus Christ, he thought. He had to be at least thirty feet above the floor of the canyon. He felt his heartbeat quicken, his breath labor, his stomach writhe. Easy, he ordered himself. Don’t—look—down. You’re going to make it. And if Doug comes this way—which he undoubtedly will, he’ll have to climb this wall as well. With his full pack, tent, sleeping bag, grate, bow and arrow, et al.

The vision managed to amuse him. Then again, would Doug do the same thing he did, scrap everything but absolute necessities? No. He couldn’t see Doug getting rid of all that expensive equipment, which would make this climb ten times as difficult. Maybe he wouldn’t even attempt it, go back down the canyon, looking for an alternate route, lose time.

Better still, maybe he would attempt the climb, slip, fall, and crack his damn head open on the rocks below. That image pleased him even more. Let it be that way, he thought.

The handhold above him looked unsound. How was he going to test it?

After a minute or two of thought, he decided to hit the handhold with the heel of his right hand. Reaching up, he carefully did so, gasping as, momentarily, he felt as though he was going to fall backward. He pressed against the stone wall as hard as he could. Easy, easy, he told himself, swallowing dryly. Thirsty, he thought. He scowled. Just climb, he ordered. Forget about water.

After several moments, he reached up again and hit the handhold more cautiously with the heel of his right hand. The rock sounded hollow to him. No good, he thought, seeing himself for several seconds, as some canny mountaineer. Yes, yes, he heard himself lecturing his novice class. If the handhold sounds hollow when you hit it with the heel of your hand, it is inferior, you must find another handhold to replace it. Selah.

He grimaced, realizing suddenly how sore the palm of his right hand felt. He looked at it, wincing at the sight of the bruised skin, some of it oozing blood. He should have worn something over his hands. What, gloves, you idiot? he castigated the notion. Well, something, his mind defended. He’d think about it. If he ever got the chance to do anything, of course. Maybe clean off his palms—both of them were dirty and abraded he now saw—with some Bactine, put a little salve on them.

Which would make them slippery, you moron, scorned his mind. He sighed heavily; for a few long moments suffered a surge of negative despair washing over him.

The sun came out from behind white clouds as he continued climbing. He hadn’t been aware of it but the climb, until now, had been a relatively cool if difficult one. Now he felt the heat gathering under his jacket and was glad he still had the hat on. He probably should have brought the sunscreen along as well. But, you didn’t, so just forget it! he thought angrily. He felt sweat beginning to trickle across his temples and down the back of his neck. Just climb, he told himself. Ignore everything but the climb. Concentrate, Hansen.

A bush above him. He reached up and took hold of it, pulling downward.

No good! The bush pulled loose, raining dirt on his hat. It bounced off his head, making him gasp with pain. He pulled it off himself and tossed it away. So much for the aid of bushes, he thought in angry submission. He reached up carefully with his left hand and took off his hat, shaking off the dirt collected on its crown. At least, he hadn’t lost his balance.

Looking up, he saw a small growth of rock jutting out just above eye level. He took hold of it with a tight, clinging grip, then lifted his right leg to the next foothold and forced himself upward, groaning at the ache in his leg. Am I really going to make this? he wondered.

He elected not to think about an answer to the question.

Just above him, he saw the ledge he’d picked out when he’d mapped his climbing route before starting out. Thank God, he thought. A chance to rest. He reached up eagerly to pull himself onto the ledge.

Moving too fast, he started losing his balance. “No!” he cried out, panicked, pressing himself against the rock face as tightly as he could, wavering between balance and loss of it. Gasping for breath, he clutched as hard as he could at a rocky outcrop on the ledge. Don’t fall, don’t fall, he told himself, jamming both feet in their holds as rigidly as he could. Don’t fall!

Balance returned at long last and slowly, carefully, using his legs more than his arms, he worked his way onto the ledge and eased himself over onto his back. He shifted the sleeping bag upward to form a pillow and groaned in relief, eyes shut, mouth open as he sucked in air. It seemed harder to breathe now. Was it because he was up higher or was it just his exhaustion? No answer to that, he realized.

After several minutes, he unzipped his jacket and felt around in his shirt pockets until he located the small bottle of Bactine. My God, they’re shaking, he thought in dismay, looking at his hands. He’d never make it to the top if he couldn’t control that.

He put down the bottle on the ledge and stretched out his arms, shaking them to restore circulation. Then he opened the bottle of Bactine and rubbed some on both palms, wincing at the sting. Putting away the bottle, he wondered what else he could do for his palms since rubbing salve on them would be stupidly impractical.

Tape, he thought, wondering where the notion came from. He reached around inside his jacket again until he’d located the roll of bandage tape. Removing it, he tried to find the end of it; it seemed impossible with his shaking hands. “Come on, come on,” he muttered. “Where the hell are you?”

It took him more than a minute to find the end of the tape. Pulling it loose, he began to turn the roll tightly around his right hand, grimacing as the tape was pressed across the palm. Okay, that’s enough, he thought, do the left hand now.

The tape ran out when he had only wrapped a few turns around his left hand. “Damn,” he said. Why didn’t he bring a new tape instead of taking the used one from the bathroom cabinet? “Shouldn’t you be buying yourself a new first-aid kit?” he remembered Marian saying. “Honey, I’m only going to be hiking for a few days, I’m not going to need major medical attention,” he’d replied.

“Yeah, sure,” he said. “Idiot.” He tossed the used tape roll off the ledge, heard it bounce once off a rock below then heard no more. Messing the environment, Dougie boy, he thought. So sorry.

He drew in a long, shuddering breath of air and stared up at the sky. It was brilliantly blue with puffy white clouds drifting slowly. Beautiful, the thought came, unbidden. Immediately, he reacted against it. What the hell does natural beauty matter when a crazy man is tracking me to kill me?

He sighed wearily. Should he try a ten-minute nap? the thought occurred. Sure, that’s a good idea, he told himself. Turn on your left side to get comfortable and plummet to your death.

Bracing himself, he forced his gaze downward. “Jesus,” he muttered. He must be more than a hundred feet up by now. Quickly, he averted his eyes, feeling his heartbeat jolt, his stomach roil again. Don’t-look-down-for-chrissake, he ordered himself. Yessir, he answered.

He considered, for a few moments, getting one of his water packets out, vetoing the idea almost immediately. He might need that water desperately later on. And he couldn’t assume that he was going to run across some water later—a lake, a river, a stream, a creek, a pond even. No, he’d wait, be sensible.

He caught his breath as he looked up at the sky again. A butterfly was fluttering a few yards above the ledge. It was multicolored, its wings looking as though they had been painted by some artist with a stunning taste in color and design. He saw green and brown and yellow, even tiny spots of red.

Well, hell, he thought. It’s beautiful, no other word for it. It was ironic that at this perilous moment in his life, this exquisite life form should be fluttering above him like this. It’s a sign, he imagined. Something is telling me that there’s still beauty in the world so I won’t give up, so I’ll keep trying.

His smile was sad but accepting. No sign, he thought. No message from the cosmos. Nonetheless, it did provide a brief, pleasurable moment for him. It was true.

In spite of everything, there was still beauty in the world.

Standing carefully, he ran his gaze across the rock face just above him, then placed his right foot in an opening in the rock just above his knee. The opening was deep and gratefully he pushed his entire foot inside it, wedging it there.

The handhold above was a wide vertical crack in the granite. Tentatively, he put his hand inside it, trying to locate a grip. But the opening was too wide. After several moments, he fisted his hand, his palm facing the left side of the crack. He did the same with his left hand, then started to lift his right foot.

It wouldn’t move, it was stuck.

“Oh, God,” he murmured. What now? He realized that he shouldn’t have put his entire foot into the opening. He wiggled his boot, trying to free it, realizing that his left leg was now forced outward, that he was losing balance. No, he thought. After all this? To fall now? It was too much.

“No, goddamn it, no,” he said, enraged and terrified at once. “I am not going to fall. I’m not!”

He moved his right boot more strenuously, trying to release it from its trap. His fisted hands began to ache. He ignored them. Get the goddamn foot out first, he told himself.

The right boot jerked out from its hold and suddenly he was hanging in space, held up only by the two fisted hands inside the vertical crack. The pain in them was agonizing, the pull on his arms excruciating. All right, this is it, he thought abruptly. Give it up. Forget it. Just let go. Fall. Die. There’ll be pain but then it will all be over. You’ll survive, move on. Time to test your beliefs, boy. Let go, maybe this won’t qualify as suicide.

But the entire time he thought it, to his astonishment, his legs were straining upward, right foot feeling for the hold it had been in before.

He found it and instantly the pain in his fisted hands and hanging arms was eased and he was standing against the wall again, still alive. Son of a bitch, he thought. Son of a bitch. I really don’t want to die. To die would be too easy actually. He had responsibilities.

He found himself chuckling at the notion, amused at himself, amused at life. One clung to it as hard as possible. Funny. Crazy. But funny.

He gritted his teeth. All right, he thought. Pain and all, he was going to keep on climbing. He was going to reach the top. He was going to protect his wife. He was going to kill Doug Crowley. Many responsibilities, he thought. Too many to let yourself die. Forge on. You’re a total mess but forge on.

Slowly, teeth remaining gritted every moment, he climbed the vertical crack, using his fisted hands—the tape did help somewhat he was glad to note—and, very guardedly, putting his right foot, then his left into the crack, twisting them slightly to strengthen their hold but careful not to wedge them in too tightly and make them difficult to pull free.

He fell into a slow, unthinking rhythm of movements as he ascended the crack. Right foot, right hand, left foot, left hand. Maybe I’ll go into rock climbing, he thought once. Then, after scorning the idea, shutting down his brain again and keeping himself a slow, laborious climbing machine, inching his way up the rock face.

At one point, he began to suffer spastic contractions in the muscles of his legs. As though he had expected this, with no reaction of surprise or fear, he hung down one leg at a time until the contractions eased. Then he started climbing again.

He lost all sense of time. Life had diminished to the climb. There was nothing else but the climb. He forgot about Doug, about Marian, about his very existence. There was only one thing. Climbing to the top of this wall. Slowly. Carefully. Patiently. Methodically. Reaching the top.

Nothing else mattered.

When he reached the crest of the rock face and raised his head above the edge, he found himself looking directly into the dead eyes of an enormous rattlesnake.

Expressionless, he stared at the snake as its tail buzzed loudly, vibrating back and forth so rapidly he couldn’t follow the movement.

This is too much, the thought came quietly. It can’t be true. I made the climb just to end like this?

He didn’t move. The rattling of the snake’s tail slowed.

Remembering the bear, then, he began to speak.

“Listen,” he said, “I’m not going to hurt you.” As if I could, added his mind. “And you’re not going to hurt me. Just… turn around and move away so I can get up here. Come on. You’re just scared to see me. You don’t want to hurt me. Just turn around and go away. That’s a boy.”

The snake remained motionless. Its tail was still now. It didn’t move though. Its lifeless eyes kept staring into Bob’s.

“Come on now,” he told the snake in as gentle a voice as he could summon being breathless, his throat dry.

The standoff seemed to continue for minutes but Bob was sure it hadn’t been that long before the snake abruptly uncoiled itself and glided away, disappearing into some brush.

Bob crawled weakly onto the crest of the rock wall and fell on his back, breathing with difficulty. Jesus, he kept thinking. Jesus. I did it again. First the black bear. Now the rattlesnake. What am I, some animal guru?

For some reason, he began to think about karma. He believed in it, didn’t he? That being the case, what in the hell had he done in his last lifetime or lifetimes to justify all these things happening to him? Who was he, Judas Iscariot for God’s sake?

He realized then that, as far as he knew, snakes probably couldn’t hear. They kept sticking their tongues out—why, to smell or what? They could probably feel vibrations. But hear? Not likely, and there he’d been emoting philosophy to the snake. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered. Don’t make a spiritual experience of this, Hansen. He hissed, shaking his head. What a dimwit.

He made himself look over the side of the rock wall. It was a cliff, by God, that’s what it was. He gaped down at the floor of the canyon far below. My God, he thought. I climbed up here? Me, the worst-conditioned man in California?

It seemed an inappropriate time for laughter but he couldn’t help it. And Doug would have to climb it carrying all that crap on his back! It was hysterical. He couldn’t stop laughing at the thought, his body shaking, tears running down his cheeks. Unbelievable, he thought again and again. Unbelievable.

After several minutes, he checked his watch.

It had taken him more than an hour to make the climb. No time to rest.

He had to move on.

6:37 PM

The sun was going down now. How soon before darkness? he wondered. That would be a fearful time. Should he keep going in the dark? It might gain him time over Doug. But was it safe? Animals came out at night. He might inadvertently step on a rattlesnake. He might slip and fall, break a bone. Anything might happen.

He’d think about it later. While it was still light, he had to put some distance between himself and Doug. Despite a body that felt more exhausted and aching with every passing hour, he had to keep going. For a short while after successfully climbing the rock face, he’d felt exhilarated, as though he was getting his second wind.

Not now. He knew exactly how tired he felt, how many aches and pains he felt. When he’d pulled the tape off his hands—he should have left it on—he’d pulled away loose skin. Now his palms were partially raw, still oozing blood. He’d put a bit of Bactine on them, stinging them, but did it help any? Maybe he’d try to bandage them later if there was time.

He walked infirmly through shadowy ravines and canyons. He suspected that some of the plants he was thrashing through were poison ivy or poison oak because of their three-leaf pattern. All I need, he thought, smiling despite the uneasiness of the thought.

Trudging through a spruce and hemlock grove, he heard the sound of moving water ahead. Thank God, he thought. He’d finished what little water he’d left in his bottle. He’d been desperately afraid of finding no more water. That would be a real catastrophe. The packets of water wouldn’t last long at all.

Emerging from the grove of trees, he saw a quickly moving stream ahead, its current splashing over gray rocks, spraying in the air.

Moving down to the stream, he lay in front of it gingerly and used his hands to ladle water into his mouth. It was icy cold and the taste of it made him groan with pleasure. It felt good on his hands as well.

He filled his water bottle, added two iodine tablets—he hoped he hadn’t made a mistake drinking directly from the stream—then slumped down to sit beside the stream, hissing at the biting pain in his rectum. Bastard, he thought.

Where was Doug now? he wondered. It was the first time in hours he’d allowed himself to estimate how close Doug might be behind him. He was behind, wasn’t he? He had to be. If he had really abided by the rules of his demented game, he’d given Bob a three-hour head start. The main question now was: Did he also climb that rock face? Or did he backtrack, knowing a faster way to overtake Bob? If that was the case…

He shivered convulsively. There was the problem. He couldn’t outthink Doug. He simply didn’t understand him. He was sure of only one thing: that Doug would persist in this madness until the very end. He probably wasn’t even allowing himself to consider that what he was doing was insane. He’s crossed the line and feels justified, Bob thought.

And, of course, he couldn’t let Bob live now; not after everything that had happened.

Bob had to die.

He swallowed dryly, took another swallow of the cold water from his bottle.

Or Doug had to die, the reverse thought came.

One of them wasn’t going to survive this insanity, that was certain.

I really should move on, he thought. But he was so tired. He had to rest awhile longer, he just had to. I’m so tired, so damn tired, he thought. And I hurt so much. He’d like to just give up. If I was single, I would, he realized. But he had to get to Marian before Doug could reach her.

Get some goddamn energy inside yourself for chrissake, he told himself suddenly.

“Yes,” he said. Unzipping his jacket he took out an energy bar and some dried fruit, began to eat. What else was there? He felt around in his shirt and, feeling the booklet, drew it out. He took the folding glasses from his jacket pocket and put them on.

“‘Survival in the wilderness,’” he read aloud, adding, “Subtitle: With Some Crazy Bastard Chasing You. Life Support Technology, Inc.”

He opened the booklet and read the copyright date: 1969. Right up to date, perfect, he reacted. He looked at the opposite page. Although we may be unable to control our circumstances, it read, we can control how we operate and live within them. True, he thought. But will I be capable of doing that?

He turned to the next page and read: “The purpose of this booklet is to aid and insure your survival and rescue under wilderness conditions in North America.”

Reassuring, he thought. Except that the booklet lacks a chapter entitled What to Do If a Maniac Is Chasing You to Kill You.

The introduction mentioned five basic needs. Water. Food. Heat. Shelter. The last one surprised him. Spiritual Needs. Sounds good, he thought, although I’d be glad to exchange all those needs for a loaded rifle. Whoever wrote the booklet simply hadn’t prepared it for a prey in flight. He drew in deep, trembling breaths. Maybe Spiritual Needs was a necessity. He’d hold that in abeyance.

Remember, the booklet read, we tend to magnify the hazards of strange and unfamiliar surroundings. True enough, he thought. But how was it possible to overmagnify Doug chasing him with a bow and arrow through these unfamiliar surroundings.

“Oh, well,” he said. Another trembling breath. The booklet wasn’t designed for that sort of thing. What it was designed for could well be of value to him. Bless Marian for secreting it in the pocket of his shirt. It might make all the difference.

He ran his gaze down the list of basic suggestions. Treat injuries. Shelter and fire of prime concern. Select a site close to water. Signal fires? Hardly. Assume that you are going to have a few days’ wait for rescue. Double hardly. He had to keep on moving.

“Stay clean,” he read. A daily shower with hot water and soap. Keep underwear and socks as clean as possible. Keep your hands clean. Avoid handling food with the hands. Sterilize heating utensils. Hardly again. He just wanted to make it alive and first to Doug’s cabin, then drive away with Marian like a bat out of hell. A shower a day with hot water and soap? Sure.

“‘Fear of the unknown weakens one’s ability to think and plan,’” he read aloud. That I buy, he thought. I’m not going to let that happen though.

He turned the pages rapidly. No point in studying anything until (or unless) the need came up. Snow Blindness and Frostbite. Not likely he’d need to consult that section. Snake Bite. He hoped he wouldn’t need that entry. Fire Starting. Absolutely. Bless you again, Marian. Water. Undoubtedly. Temperature and Wind Chill Chart. Doubtful. Shelters. More than likely. Food. Definitely; he hoped the booklet described wild food he might run across—berries, seeds, roots, plants. On that the booklet could prove invaluable. Signaling. Not very likely. Snares. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if he could catch Doug in one of the illustrated ones—the hanging snare, the dead fall, the “twitch up” trigger snare. But they were all for smaller game. And how could he possibly guess exactly which way Doug was going to come? Moreover, even if he set up a snare, Doug would certainly recognize it in an instant and all that careful preparation would turn out to be a waste of time.

Fishing Hints. Definitely a possibility. He was going to need some solid food if he was going to maintain the strength to reach the cabin. Knots. Probably useless—unless he could get one of them around Doug’s neck. Didn’t he wish.

“Travel” was the last section. He saw the opening sentence. the best advice is: stay put.

“Sorry,” he said. “Bad advice.”

He turned to the last page and, despite all weariness and anxiety, had to chuckle at the titles of reference books by Euell Gibbons. Stalking the Wild Asparagus; Stalking the Blue-Eyed Scallop; Stalking the Healthful Herbs.

“Those are the titles I really need,” he said.

He stiffened abruptly at a noise across the stream.

Frozen, heart beginning to throb jerkingly, he saw, in a clearing some fifteen yards distant, a bear with two cubs.

He assumed that she was a black bear—didn’t Doug say they were the only bears in this region? This bear was cinnamon-brown though and while one of the cubs was the same color, the second one was dark brown with orange tips on its ears.

What do I do now? he thought. He saw no answer but one—to remain immobile. If he jumped up and ran, the mother bear, thinking to protect her cubs, would likely pursue him. He doubted if shouting at it and waving his arms would dissuade a mother bear. And certainly he could not expect to speak it out of attacking. All this thought in a few seconds as he sat unmoving, afraid he might cough or sneeze or make the slightest noise.

A swooping movement in the air caused his gaze to jerk upward. A huge bald eagle was descending quickly in a shallow glide, then hovering above the bears. The cubs scattered in terror, followed protectively by their mother.

But the eagle wasn’t interested in them. Could it have possibly lifted one of them if it had been interested? Bob wondered.

It paid no attention to the cubs though, instead suddenly sweeping over the stream, braking wildly, then dropping like a stone into the water to grab a large fish in its talons.

Bob twitched as the mother bear came charging across the clearing, heading for the stream. As it thrashed into the water in an ungainly lunge, the eagle tried desperately to rise and carry away the flopping, struggling fish. It wasn’t strong enough however and as the mother bear came too close, it let go of the fish and soared up rapidly into the air. The bear braked clumsily in a splash of water and seized the fish in her mouth, then carried it back to her cubs.

As the three of them disappeared into the woods to supper on the fish, Bob stood on unexpectedly shaky legs, braced himself, then started along the bank of the stream as quickly as he could.

He’d cross it later. When he was—hopefully—well out of range of mother bear and her cubs.

7:22 PM

How soon would it be dark now? he wondered. Did he have another hour of light—or, at least, enough light to see his way? He’d have to hope and pray for that. Pray? he reacted. Somehow, the notion struck him as hypocritically absurd. He had to make this on his own. Whatever his beliefs, he had to go it alone. There was no other way. Prayer would only distract him now—or worse, give him false hope.

Up ahead, he heard the sound of water. This was much louder than the sound of the stream; rough and rushing water, how wide he couldn’t imagine. Would it even be possible to cross?

Four minutes later, he knew. This was a river, more than twenty feet wide, its current so rapid that he knew immediately he couldn’t ford it as he and Doug had done yesterday. There was no possible way he could wade across it; he’d be instantly swept away in the racing current.

Did he have to cross it? he wondered suddenly. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he took out the compass and checked it.

His cheeks puffed out as he released a dismal exhalation. “Naturally,” he muttered. The river had to be crossed. Unless Doug had given him inaccurate instructions about using the compass. Was that possible? He found himself unable to believe it. Above all, Doug would want this chase to be authentic. It would be of no satisfaction at all to him to win this game by cheating. He didn’t have to cheat anyway. Bob was sure that Doug had total confidence in his ability to win this awful game.

But how was he to cross the river? There seemed only one way and that a perilous one—to step—or jump—from one boulder to another. But where? He moved along the bank of the river—its current sounded thunderous to him—looking for a grouping of boulders that might serve his need.

About fifty yards down he came across a spot where the river seemed somewhat narrower and a possible crossing existed in a pattern of boulders. He stared at them uneasily. They were certainly big enough to step on but all of them looked wet from the rush of water splashing over them. Keep looking, he thought. He couldn’t though. There wasn’t time for a leisurely search of the river, looking for possible crossing spots. How far could he assume that Doug was behind him? Had he climbed the same rock face? Or had he taken another route? An easier route.

A faster route.

Shuddering, Bob realized that he had to make up his mind immediately. He’d try stepping—once jumping—from boulder to boulder. What else could he do?

He stood motionless by the bank of the torrentlike river and tried to brace himself for the attempt at crossing. He couldn’t fall in; that was out of the question. Out of the question? he thought with a bitter smile. It wasn’t out of the question at all. It was a matter of life or death. If he fell into the river, he’d be drowned or smashed to pieces against a boulder.

He sighed exhaustedly, almost allowing himself the option of simply sitting down and waiting for Doug to overtake him, kill him. God knew it would be easier than what he was planning to do on the slippery boulders. An arrow in his chest—more likely in his back—and it would all be over. This part of the torment anyway. He knew that he’d survive his death. What came afterward, he’d have to face, have to accept.

But then, again—always again—there was Marian. He simply couldn’t leave her to be victimized by Doug. He had no doubt whatever that Doug would do exactly as he said—cajole and sympathize, pull out every performing stop until he’d finally managed to convince Marian that he had died accidentally, that Doug felt desolate about it, that he’d start to move in on her, psychologically at first, then physically.

Bob felt his body tensing at the image—No, goddamn it, he thought. “No, goddamn it!” he said furiously. It wasn’t going to happen that way. He was going to live. Dying was too easy. He wasn’t going to take that route. That route was surrender.

He untied the sleeping bag and removed it. It would throw him off balance on his back. He hung it loosely around his neck—when he got far enough across the river he’d toss the bag to the opposite bank. He had to keep his boots on; he knew that. Barefooted, he’d slip on the boulder tops almost immediately.

He emptied his water bottle. That took some weight off him. Maybe he could throw the bottle to the opposite bank as well when he’d gotten close enough to it.

What else? Any other weight he could eliminate? No, there was nothing. It was time to go.

The first boulder was about five feet from the bank. Too far to jump. He’d have to get his boots and socks wet, no help for that. The current along the bank was slower than it was in the center of the river—a massive boulder farther back divided the current and decreased its rushing impetus.

Taking a deep breath (Okay, if I really do have a guardian angel, this is the time for you to help me out, the thought flitted across his mind), he stepped into the water and moved quickly to the first boulder, clambered onto it with both knees. The water was, as expected, icy cold and the boulder slippery wet. He wavered to the right and left, until he’d managed to get balanced.

Okay, first step, he thought. It was amazing to him what a sense of satisfaction he felt. Like the feeling he’d gotten after successfully climbing that rock face. I’ll beat you yet, you son of a bitch, his mind addressed Doug.

Now the current of the river was at full speed. With infinite slowness, he braced himself on one foot, then the other and stood, holding both arms extended to help him maintain his balance. Next step, he told himself.

He drew in several deep breaths and stepped across the small gap onto the next boulder. Here we go, he thought.

He gasped in sudden shock as his right boot sole slipped on the wet boulder top. “No!” he cried, falling to his knees on the boulder and rocking back and forth, arms extended again, rising and lowering quickly like the wings of a bird in a frantic attempt to gain his balance.

When he felt secure, he drew in deep, shivering breaths and stared at the plunging movement of the river in front of him. I’m not going to make it, he thought. The next boulder was more than two feet away, the one beyond that even farther away.

A wave of despair made him groan. For moments, he had an urge to throw himself in the water and let the river take him where it chose, whether to safety or, more probably, to battered death. He had to struggle against the urge. Live! he ordered himself. You have to live! This time the order almost didn’t take, he felt so helpless, so completely desolate.

Only after several minutes of crouching on the boulder had passed did he reacquire enough resolution to go on. Inching himself around, he took several chest-filling breaths, then raised himself slowly and after several moments’ hesitation, stepped back to the boulder he’d left. This time, he didn’t slip. He considered jumping to the bank, then dropped the idea. Why bother? he thought. My shoes and socks are already wet anyway.

Stepping down into the cold water, he regained the bank, thinking one word, over and over.

Retreat.

He had to walk along the riverbank for almost twenty minutes before he came across the fallen tree. It lay like a bridge across the now slightly narrower river, its pulled-up roots on one side, its foliage on the other. The foliage was still fully grown; the tree must have fallen recently. Good luck for me, he thought. Maybe I have a guardian angel after all.

The problem was that light was fading quickly now. Up above the forest growth, it was probably still daylight. But under the heavy growth of fir and spruce, shadows were darkening. He had to cross the river fast. His compass heading was still the same.

Fortunately, the huge roots on the bank and the limbed and branched foliage on the opposite bank held the trunk of the tree well above the surging current. It looked as though he could ease along the trunk, a leg on each side, his boots a few inches above the swift movement of the water.

He checked his watch. It was getting close to eight o’clock. Thank God for daylight saving, he thought again. But it was going to be dark soon. He’d have to stop, try to light a fire Doug couldn’t spot, try to get some sleep and be off again at the first moment of dawn.

Climbing over the damp, gnarled roots of the tree, he crawled out onto the trunk, then straddled it. He’d guessed—barely accurate—that the darting surface of the river was several inches below the bottoms of his boots.

Methodically, he began to inch his way along the rough texture of the trunk, wincing at the pain each movement caused, particularly on the rawness of his palms. Why did he pull off the tape before? He could have left it on until he reached the cabin.

Reached the cabin… he thought. Was it really going to happen?

“Well, if it isn’t, what the hell are you going to all this trouble for?” he snarled at himself. Get with it, Hansen. You’re crossing the river successfully. You’re still ahead of Doug. You may ache and throb and smart and God knows what but you’re still alive. That’s what counts, isn’t it?

He saw now that he was close enough to the opposite bank of the river to throw his sleeping bag there, his water bottle. Stopping, he carefully removed the sleeping bag from around his neck and began to fasten the straps around it as tightly as he could so that it wouldn’t open up when he threw it.

First, he threw his water bottle across the remaining space, gasping in dread as it bounced off the tree foliage; for a few seconds, it looked as though it was going to be deflected into the river. Then it fell to the ground of the bank and he groaned with relief. He had to be more careful with the strapped-up sleeping bag.

It was easier than he thought it would be—although the tree trunk shifted slightly under him as he raised his right arm to fling the sleeping bag, the tightly strapped bag flew past the edge of the tree foliage and landed smartly on the riverbank. Good! he thought. Maybe things are going my way at last.

Then it happened.

Stunned, his hands jerked off the tree trunk and he toppled to his right as, in the distance, high and echoing, he heard Doug shouting “Bobby!”

The second echo was engulfed by roaring water as he plunged beneath its leaping, frigid surface. Instantly he was swept along by the swirling, plummeting current, feeling the icy cold of it knifing through his clothes. He fought to reach the surface and, for a flash of seconds, was able to gulp in air. Then he was beneath the water again, kicking and flailing helplessly against its surging pull.

He surfaced again and watched in shock as he was hurtled by a huge jagged rock. If I’d hit it! The horrifying thought coursed his mind. Then his brain was blanked as he continued tumbling over and under the rushing water, trying in vain to struggle toward the riverbank. He had to reach the bank. If he kept on tumbling this way, he’d be pounded to death on the jagged boulders all along the river.

He had no control though. Like a weighted cork, he was flung above and beneath the turbulent velocity of the water. He had to get to the other bank. If he stayed in the river, sooner or later he was bound to be smashed against a boulder or a sunken tree.

Suddenly the river swept him into a boulder-rimmed pool where he was dragged into an overhang and felt himself being tugged down by the cold, dark water. He tried to lift his legs but it seemed as though a huge magnet were holding them down. Unable to fight his way up, he felt the maelstrom sucking him down. Abruptly he was dragged down more then ten feet and his ears began to pop. I’m dead! he thought. It’s over!

With unexpected suddenness, he heard a voice shout in his ears, “Swim out of it!”

Unquestioning, he forced himself onto his stomach and began to kick as powerfully as he could, breast-stroking with all the strength he could summon. His lungs and chest ached from held breath, his eyes were wide and staring, terrified.

Abruptly he was flung from the whirlpool as though some unseen force had grabbed his body and hurled him through the water.

He gasped in air as he burst through the surface. Just in front of him, he saw another fallen tree, a number of logs trapped against it. Frantically, he clutched at a branch of the tree, breath laboring, his expression blank as he looked around expecting to see Doug on the riverbank; someone; anyone. There was no one though. He stared into the confusion of his mind and thought: Who shouted at me?

9:09 PM

When he had dragged himself infirmly from the river, he found himself unable to stand. He tried repeatedly; in vain. His legs felt devoid of strength and he kept flopping over like some hapless rag doll.

Finally, shaking with cold, his entire body aching from his harrowing experience in the river, he half crawled, half pulled himself away from the riverbank until he reached a fallen tree. Working his way beneath its trunk, with weak, fitful movements, he pulled as many dead leaves around himself as he could reach. It helped a little to abate his chilled body. Shivering, with occasional violent spasms, he lay beneath the tree, his body feeling so heavy he was sure he would never be able to move on again.

Only his brain kept moving.

Had it been an actual voice? Had something beyond himself come to his rescue?

He didn’t realize that he was smiling cynically at the concept. What he had heard, undoubtedly, was an audible expression of his own subconscious. Somewhere along the line, he had read that the only way to escape a whirlpool was to swim out of it. Now that he recalled, it was Randy who had told him that. He’d gone on a river rafting trip, been tossed from the raft, and sucked down into a whirlpool. He must have read about swimming out of it and had done so, thank God.

Anyway, he’d told his father about it and, obviously, Bob had remembered it and, in the extreme peril of the moment, had produced what seemed to be an audible voice telling him to swim out of the whirlpool. It would be comforting to believe that a guardian angel had saved him. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t allow himself to slip into such a deluding state of conviction. He’d become dependent on it. God forbid, complaisant in it. And that was out of the question, unacceptable. He still had to depend on himself to reach Marian. And there was a far more serious threat extant than whirlpools.

There was Doug.

A shudder racked his body. God, he was cold! He was going to have to move and soon. He had to retrieve his sleeping bag and water bottle, try to light a fire, attempt to dry his clothes—or, at least, dry them as much as he could. He hated having to go back up the river. He must have been swept along for quite a distance, perhaps gaining an unlooked for gain on Doug. But there was no help for it. He had to have the sleeping bag or he’d never make it through the night.

He tried to avoid thinking about where Doug was but it was impossible for him to do it.

He couldn’t believe—he mustn’t let himself believe—that Doug had actually seen him crossing the river on the fallen tree. The forest growth was just too thick—and Doug’s echoing shout had come from high above.

Most likely—he hoped—Doug had been high on a ridge and had—with terrifying coincidence—shouted Bob’s name simply to remind him that the pursuit was still on. Not that he needed reminding. He knew Doug had no intention of abandoning the chase.

The thing was—the question made Bob shudder uncontrollably—how far behind was Doug?

Leaving the question that preyed on his mind almost every moment, consciously or otherwise.

Was he going to make it?

By the time he’d found the sleeping bag and water bottle, darkness had fallen.

Fortunately, his flashlight still worked. If it hadn’t he would never have been able to locate the sleeping bag.

He unstrapped it, opened it up, and put it across his shoulders to try to warm himself a little. As the darkness deepened, the air grew more and more chilly, making him shiver almost constantly. I’m going to get sick if I don’t start getting some warmth in my system. God, but he could use Doug’s brandy flask right now. He’d save his one bottle of vodka.

Filling his water bottle from the river and adding two iodine tablets to it, he moved away from the river, into the forest, shining the flashlight beam on the ground so he wouldn’t accidentally run across a rattlesnake or step on a rock or into a hole and damage himself worse than he already was.

His mind wandered uncontrollably as he moved through the forest. Could Doug see his flashlight beam? Was Doug evil? Anagram: vile. And evil spelled backward is live. Any meaning there? Probably not. Is it evil to live? Evil not to live?

A wet sneeze broke his idle train of thought. Great! he thought. Next stop, pneumonia.

He heard Marian’s voice in his mind, telling him, “Now you know you’re going to enjoy it, Bob.”

Right, Marian, he answered her mentally. Loving every moment of it. Wish you were here.

He sneezed again, more loudly. Damn it! his mind raged.

Well, forget the anger, he ordered himself. Find a place where you can stop for the night, get a small fire going, eat some food, start to dry your clothes as best you can.

He realized, for the first time, that his hat was gone. Oh, big surprise, he mocked himself. It probably went the first second you fell into the river.

He ran across a patch of berries and checked the survival booklet. They were blackberries, edible. He stopped long enough to eat some and put a few handfuls of them in his jacket pocket. Stalking the Wild Blackberry, his mind felt compelled to observe. Oh, shut up, he responded irritably.

He came across a ring of boulders near a steep rise. Perfect, he thought. He climbed inside. Was it just his imagination or was it warmer there? Possible, he thought. The boulders might have been in sunlight all or most of the day and, now, were radiating some of the absorbed heat. Whatever the case—he’d even accept imagination if it came to that—it did feel slightly warmer inside the boulder ring. Maybe it was because there was no movement of air. Whatever, he thought. It felt good.

As quickly as he could, he clambered out of the ring, leaving his water bottle and sleeping bag there and, hastily, gathered some dry grass and twigs for kindling, a few small branches. Did he dare look for a log? He shook his head. He could only afford to burn a fire—and a small one at that—for a short while; long enough to help him dry his clothes a little bit. He had no hope of drying everything completely; they were too wet—especially his boots.

Returning to the ring of boulders with his fire makings, he scraped and dug a hole with his knife and lay the dry grass in its bottom. Happily, the match container had remained dry and he ignited the dry grass, laying the twigs across it one by one until all of them were burning. The smoke stung his eyes a little but he ignored it, the warmth of the flames felt so good to him.

As fast as he could move, he removed his jacket shirt and undershirt and wrung them out over a boulder, squeezing as much water out of them as he possibly could. The open sleeping bag wrapped around him, he began to dry first the undershirt, then the shirt. He had removed all the food packets from his shirt and jacket pockets. Most of it was intact except for the bread, which had been turned into a soggy mess by the river. He tossed it over his shoulder, thinking how nice it would be if some stern-visaged environmentalist would suddenly materialize to scold him for tossing away the bread so carelessly.

“I’m sorry about that,” he heard himself addressing the nonexistent environmentalist. “By the way, could you help me to escape a maniac who’s chasing me?”

While he did what he could to dry his wrung-out undershirt and shirt, he ate an energy bar, some turkey jerky, the rest of the cheese, and some blackberries, washing it all down with cold water. He hoped he wasn’t eating too much. How much more was he going to need? Was he going to reach the cabin tomorrow?

He fantasized briefly about roast chicken. The way Marian made it, with apricot sauce. How he’d love to have some of it right now. Was it possible that he could catch a trout tomorrow? That would taste wonderful. He remembered how delicious it had been when Doug fried one up.

Somehow, that seemed ages ago, the thought occurred. It was almost impossible for him to recollect. The two of them sitting together, well fed, brandy-laced coffee to drink, conversing amiably—well, almost amiably.

And now Doug was chasing him like some hunter tracking an animal.

He couldn’t help shaking his head. How could he have known Doug all these years, yet never had a hint, an inkling, of what lurked beneath that bluff, seemingly affable demeanor?

The answer, of course, was obvious now. He’d never really known Doug at all. Doug was an actor after all, and in life, he played as convincing a role as he had, many times, in television, films, or on little theater stages.

Add to that the fact that their relationship had been completely superficial, based almost entirely on casual socializing with Doug and Nicole.

Now he could consider it all with more depth.

Doug was overly proud. He denied—to himself and certainly to others—whatever moral imperfections he had. He had developed an arrogance—disguised as pretension-laced humor—that made him reject—even personally attack—any evidence of those imperfections. What did Peck call it?

In a few moments, he remembered, nodding. “Malignant narcissism.” Everybody out of step but you.

Every submission to the dark temptations engendered by his moral imperfections undoubtedly made Doug weaker by the year, constantly opening the path to further—darker—temptations. Now he had submitted to these temptations without recognizing them as submissions. He had lost his freedom of choice. Good was lost as an option. Only evil remained.

Was it the cold or the thought that made Bob shudder so convulsively? He didn’t know. But was that the actual answer? That Doug was uncontrollably evil now?

Did evil run in families? Was it passed along from generation to generation by some terrible genetic regression? Had it been Doug’s father? His mother? Was he actually not to blame for all this, in essence a victim of a dark transmission of genes he knew nothing about?

Was Doug suffering for any of this? He didn’t seem to be. Or maybe it was all willpower, a determination not to allow himself to suffer. To maintain an unyielding conviction that he was in total control, “on top of things.”

Yet, somewhere, deep inside—how deep only God knew—there might well be some kind of fear, a dread that his constant pretense would break down and be lost. That he would then be forced to come face-to-face with the actuality of his nature.

No. Bob shook his head. He couldn’t believe it. Doug had surrendered any possibility of self-awareness. His conscience had been, to all intents and purposes, obliterated. Only his will was left.

The fire didn’t burn very long. And Bob felt too exhausted to climb out of the ring and find more branches. He had managed to almost dry his undershirt, underpants, and socks, half dry his shirt and trousers. His jacket would have to stay wet. In the warmth of the day tomorrow—God help me if it rains, he thought—the jacket might not be too uncomfortable. If it was warm enough he could even drape it over his shoulders and hope the sun would dry it.

As for his boots—hopeless.

He was getting sleepy now; it was almost ten o’clock. But he thought it advisable—maybe it was little more than a ghoulish impulse—to take an inventory of his physical afflictions.

1. His right wrist still aching from when Doug had dragged him out of the water.

2. His right palm bruised and infected, his left palm abraded, both of them scabbing.

3. His back and stomach still hurting from where Doug had punched him.

4. His right side still aching from his fall on Sunday.

5. His right arm and shoulder still hurting from grabbing onto that branch when he slid down that slope.

6. His back hurting where Doug had jabbed him with his golak.

7. His forehead aching where Doug had knocked it against that tree trunk.

8. His rectum aching badly from the rape.

9. A blister on his right toe and two more on the heels of his feet, the raw centers of them ringed with blue.

10. His right cheek stinging, undoubtedly infected. The rest of his face feeling sunburned.

11. Overall, every muscle in his body aching and totally exhausted.

God but he felt like an idiot for having developed his metaphysical muscles so well and let his physical muscles go to hell.

He was thinking that when, the fire out, his body huddled in his zipped-up sleeping bag, he felt the bottom drop out of his consciousness and fell into a dark, troubled sleep.

Despite his exhaustion, he couldn’t stay asleep; he woke up, his brain churning out dreads, apprehensions, dark imaginings. His mind seemed alive with thoughts, like maddened ants racing across it; it seemed as though he could almost feel them moving there.

Where was Doug now? Was he stalking through the darkness, using his flashlight? Had he climbed the same cliff? Was he sleeping at all? Or subsisting on those ten-and twenty-minute naps he’d mentioned? He had to rest sometime; he really wasn’t Superman. What was Marian doing? What were Randy and Lise doing? How would they react if they found out about what was happening to their father?

He began to think about Randy and Lise, what it was like when they were born, what it was like raising them. What lovely children they were, how well they did in school despite occasional, expected slips. How he and Marian had enjoyed them both, how satisfying—yet, somehow saddening—to see them growing into teenagers, then college students, both of them at U.C.L.A., Lise planning to act (for her sake, he disliked the idea, knowing from personal experience what a draining lifestyle it could be), Randy drawn to writing. (Another possibly draining lifestyle but he couldn’t very well try to talk him out of it, any more than he could try to discourage Lise. Especially when Marian was so supportive of them.)

He grimaced, trying not to think about Marian and the kids. In some unnerving way, it was as though he was mentally saying good-bye to them.

He tried to shake himself out of thinking at all. He had to sleep. God only knew what kind of day tomorrow was going to be. He thought again of giving up—or, with probably hopeless reasoning—waiting for Doug and trying to talk him out of this madness.

His thoughts were broken off by the sound of something moving in the darkness.

Had Doug caught up to him already?

Then he heard the huffing cough of a bear and stiffened, face a mask of dread. Should he have tried to hang up his food? he wondered, then realized that he had no way of hanging it up. Anyway, all he had in his pockets was dry food. Surely, the bear couldn’t smell that.

He lay motionless except for his uncontrollable spasms of shivering, waiting for the bear to go away. Fighting off the perverse image of the bear climbing into the ring of boulders and tearing him to pieces.

He didn’t know how long it took for the bear to go away. At last, it did though and with startling suddenness Bob felt a cloud of sleep enveloping him.