Hunted Past Reason (26 page)

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.