Hunted Past Reason (19 page)

"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."