Hunted Past Reason (18 page)

"That's it?" Was that disdainful smile on Doug's face again? "Pain and suffering inflicted for no reason, that's evil?"

"That's my opinion, anyway," Bob said.

"Well, my opinion is that someday— I'm convinced of it— evil people will all be explained away in terms of heredity and environment, period. The word 'evil' will be scrapped. 'Evil' people will all be called dysfunctional people, nothing more."

"Possible," Bob said. "An interesting notion, anyway."

"Tell me this—" Doug started. Bob was relieved to hear that Doug sounded interested now, not just scornful. "Why are evil people more interesting than good people?"

"Good question," Bob answered. "I don't really know. Except that they arouse more dark reactions in people than good people do. They . . . how shall I put it . . . stir up . . . activate whatever deep-seated, negative emotions people have. And those emotions are more . . . colorful, you might say. More intriguing."

"Damn right," Doug said. "I've played good guys and bad guys in films and on television. Guess who audiences always—
always
— find more interesting?"

"Well, of course," Bob said. "Who do audiences find more interesting? Hamlet or Richard the Third? Romeo or Macbeth? Othello or Iago?"

"No contest," Doug agreed. He was really into the discussion now, Bob saw— and thank God for that. "I played Iago in a little theater once and I'll tell you,
he
was the one the audience responded to, not that— goddamn moonstruck Moor."

Bob heard Doug moving and glanced around, seeing Doug's dark shadow raised on one elbow. He
was
really into it— and definitely thank God for it. Maybe they could spend the remaining days in stimulating discussions and avoid the other stuff, the friction-laden stuff.

"Audiences like to call these people 'evil,' " Doug went on, "but they enjoy the hell out of watching them. They relish all their monstrous deeds but convince themselves that those 'evil' people are different from them— even though they're not. They're all hypocrites, pretending to be above the villains they love to watch. And they're not."

Bob was impressed by Doug's insight; it had come unexpectedly. Maybe the next few days would really be interesting after all.

"You know what I don't like about your so-called philosophy of life?" Doug said.

So-called, Bob thought. They weren't out of the personal woods yet. "What?" he asked.

"I don't believe in an outside system of justice and law," Doug said. "I believe that will— individual will— is what counts in this world.
Triumph of the Will
that film was called by that German actress. Not that I'm defending Hitler, for Christ's sake. You want evil, there you got it, big time. But it's evolution, not divine law. Survival of the fittest. The strong win. The weak lose. Simple as that. As far as our so-called system of morality goes, it isn't written in stone. It's an agreement. A contract. And those who are strong enough to break that contract get away with it until somebody stronger puts them down."

"But no— outside rule?" Bob said. "No higher imposition of justice?"

"Right," Doug said. "You know what the Holocaust was? Political reality. Nothing more. Imposition of will. The Germans won, the Jews lost. Evil had nothing to do with it."

Bob felt his skin goose-fleshing. "You really
believe
that?" he asked. "You don't think it was evil? You think it was just a matter of political reality, political will?"

"You got it," Doug said.

Oh, Jesus, Bob thought. The prospect of interesting discussions in the next few days had just collapsed like a house of cards in a high wind.

"Too bad Hitler was a maniac," Doug went on. "With his power of will, he could have accomplished anything."

"He did enough," Bob said quietly.

"Sure as hell did," Doug answered. "Conquered most of Europe. If he hadn't made the same dumb-ass mistake as Napoleon and invaded Russia, he might well have won the war and our fucking national anthem would be—" Abruptly, Doug sang,
"Deutschland, Deutschland, Uber Alles,"
then laughed sardonically. Oh, God, Bob thought. Who am I out here with?

"Not so crazy about the Jews myself," Doug said. "After all the shit I've gone through with them in the business."

Oh, God, dear God, Bob thought.

"All right, look at me," Doug said. What was he going into now? Bob wondered. "If I did evil things, wouldn't people say, 'Well, it was all because his old man was a boozer and beat the shit out of his son and hated everything in the world and that's why Douglas Crowley is an evil son of a bitch.' "

"I don't believe you're evil," Bob told him, aware of a certain lack of conviction in his voice.

"Well, that's where you're wrong," Doug said. "Didn't you know I brought you up here to kill you?"

Bob had never felt so cold so quickly in his life. He could not repress a convulsive shiver. "That's not very funny," he said.

"Oh, I wouldn't just
do
it," Doug said. "I'd give you a good head start, and if you reached the cabin before I caught up with you, I'd let you live. Otherwise—"

"For Christ's sake, Doug," Bob broke in. "Haven't we had enough friction without you—"

"Oh, you think I'm kidding," Doug interrupted. "Bobby boy, I'm not."

Bob felt his stomach muscles spasming. He couldn't speak. Dear God. It was all he could think.

He started at the sudden glare of Doug's flashlight.

Doug laughed, sounding delighted. "Just wanted to see the look on your face," he said. "I can see you really believed me."

Bob exhaled shakily, averting his face. "For Christ's sake," he said. "Why did you do that?"

"Did I scare you, Bobby boy?"

"Of course you scared me. What do you think?" Bob shuddered. Jesus Christ, he thought.

"It was just a joke," Doug told him.

"Some joke."

Bob gasped as Doug grabbed him by the arm. "But I really meant it!" Doug cried.

Bob gaped at him. Doug was silent for a moment, then threw back his head, laughing raucously. "Oh, shit, you're too easy to fool," he said. Letting go of Bob's arm, he switched off the flashlight and lay back down. "Good night, old boy," he said.

Bob lay motionless, feeling the heavy, rapid beat of his heart. For God's sake, he thought. What kind of man
was
Doug that he could do such a thing?

Despite the exhaustion, it took him more than an hour to fall asleep.

1:19 AM

Bob twisted around in his sleeping bag. His right arm had come out of the bag and it flopped over to where he believed Doug was sleeping.

His arm hit the ground. His eyes popped open and he looked around uneasily, suddenly wide awake.

Sitting up, he leaned over and drew back the tent flap. Doug was hunched over by the low-burning fire, staring into the coals.

As he watched, he saw Doug raise the flask to his lips and take a sip of brandy. How much had he been drinking? Bob wondered. And why wasn't he sleeping? Why was he sitting up this late, just staring into the fire like that?

He raised his wrist and read the luminous dial. Close to one-thirty in the morning. My God, he thought. Was Doug going to wake him up at the crack of dawn even though he wasn't getting any sleep?

He twitched as a log fell into the fire, shooting sparks into the air. As the fire flared momentarily, he saw Doug's expression. It was not a reassuring one.

After several minutes, he laid back down again and began to shiver in spasmodic waves. Was it the cold?

He knew it wasn't.

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."