Hunted Past Reason (28 page)

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.

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.)