Hunted Past Reason (33 page)

All he knew was that— with a sudden, maniacal snarl— he shoved the bureau directly at Doug; he hadn't realized that it was set on wheels. Shoved with such violence, it rolled quickly across the floor and struck Doug head on, knocking him back.

With a hollow cry of astonished dismay, Doug fell into the hole and disappeared. Bob heard the crash of his body in the room below. The bureau, too big to fall through the hole, sagged over on its edge, wheels still spinning.

At first, he couldn't move. After all he'd been through, he could not believe that it was over, even more impossible to believe that he had won, that he had beaten Doug.

After several minutes of paralyzed debility, he found the strength to walk infirmly to the hole and looked down.

It was too dark below for him to see anything, and for several moments, he had the horrified apprehension that Doug wasn't there, that he'd fallen on something soft and was already coming up again.

Then— miraculously it seemed— he remembered his flashlight and switched it on, pointing it downward through the hole.

Doug was lying on his back, eyes closed, a twisted expression of pain on his face. Bob tried to see if there was movement on his chest. He saw none. The fall had to have killed him.

At first, he cried out with a sense of rabid exultation. His tormentor was dead! Good! Good!

Then revulsion came, sadness, even guilt. All right, it had been self-defense; no doubt of that.

But he had never killed in his life, not even an animal. Now this.

"Oh, Jesus Christ," he muttered, feeling nauseous. "Why did we ever come up here. Why?"

He took out the small bottle of vodka and drained it in a swallow. It didn't help. It only made him cough.

4:59 PM

What do I tell her? he wondered as he struggled up the hill. That I killed Doug? The details of the last three days swamped his mind. Where do I begin?

He gulped in air and belched dryly as he was forced to bend forward to make it up a rock-strewn slope. No matter, he thought. We have all the way back to Los Angeles for me to tell her all the details of Doug's increasingly insane behavior since Sunday.

Then again, of course they'd have to stop at the first police or sheriff's station they came to, let them know what happened. They probably wouldn't be going back to Los Angeles after all. Not for a while at least. They'd probably have to come back here; there would likely be a forest ranger with the police or sheriff's men. They'd have to find Doug's body, later on search for the hunter's corpse.

Reaching into his jacket pocket, he drew out the note Doug had left him. Thank God he hadn't left it behind. He couldn't imagine why he'd taken it along. God knew, he'd never thought, for an instant, that he'd be using that note as evidence against Doug. What point was there in evidence now anyway? There couldn't be a trial with Doug killed. But at least, the note would allay any suspicion against him for causing Doug's death.

"Oh, God," he said in an exhausted voice. All he wanted to do was go home with Marian and try to forget everything that had happened. Impossible, of course. There was no way of estimating how complicated and time-consuming the investigation would prove to be after he reported what had taken place. They probably wouldn't be allowed to return to Los Angeles for some time; they might have to stay in a local motel until things were settled.

"Okay," he muttered. Even that would be acceptable. A hot shower, cuts and bruises treated, splinters removed, a decent meal— and then a long sleep lying next to Marian. It sounded like heaven.

The hill seemed to get steeper now. Instead of straining up it, leaning forward, he was forced to climb, reaching ahead to pull himself upward, using bushes, boulders, scrub-growth trees. His breath grew more and more labored, his chest heaving with gasped-in breaths. No matter, he told himself. The cabin would be at the top of the hill. Marian. Safety.

Escape from the nightmare.

Reaching the top of the hill, he straightened up, panting, looking around for the cabin.

There was no sign of it.

"Oh, no," he said. "Oh, no." He felt tears rising in his eyes. It couldn't be. It mustn't be. The cabin wasn't here? Doug had lied to him right from the start?

"No. No," he muttered, refusing to believe. It couldn't be true. He'd followed the compass setting. Hadn't he found the lodge? Why should Doug have told him about the lodge, then lied about the cabin being up the hill behind it?

"Doesn't make sense," he mumbled. "No. It simply doesn't make sense."

He twisted his head around, a look of crazed, incredulous panic on his face. "It doesn't make sense!" he cried, his voice hoarse and trembling.

Fingers almost vibrating they shook so badly, he took out the compass and checked it. He was a few degrees off but not enough so he would fail to see the cabin if it was anywhere in the vicinity.

It wasn't.

Doug had lied to him. He had no idea whatever where the cabin was.

He was lost again.

His legs gave out beneath him and he sank down on the hard rock surface of the hilltop, slumping there, a sense of total hopelessness assailing him again. He'd thought the nightmare was over, that the cabin would be up here, Marian waiting for him.

"Oh, God," he muttered, half sobbing the words. After everything he'd gone through, he was little better off than he'd been from the start. All right, Doug was dead, he didn't have to dread being murdered.

But now he was lost, without an inkling of which way to go. He could still die. His food was virtually gone, all he had was water. That would sustain him for a while.

But which way was he to go?

He could go hopelessly wrong in whatever direction he took. Become so lost that no one would ever find him.

For several moments, he had a vision of his body lying dead in the woods, eyes staring, face mummylike, mouth ajar, an expression of terrified surrender printed on his features. He'd described such things in novels and in scripts. It had never crossed his mind that he was describing his own demise, preparing his own epitaph. here lies robert hansen / perished in the wilderness. A grotesque, staring corpse in the forest. Probably— the thought made him shudder and groan— eaten by bears or mountain lions. His writer's mind, even in this moment of utter despair, could imagine the mountain lion he'd saved dining on his flesh and gnawing on his bones.

"Oh, shut up!" he raged. He pushed up dizzily, almost fell again, then staggered and regained his balance. You're not dead yet, he berated himself. Keep moving. You'll see something, find some way to escape all this. He'd thought himself helpless to defend himself against Doug, hadn't he? Well, he'd won that battle, Doug was dead. He'd win this battle too. Goddamn it if he wouldn't.

He started along the crest of the hill, knowing very well that he was whistling in the dark. Trying to ignore that feeling though, repress his sense of helplessness, keep going on. I will, he told himself. I will. I will. I will.

As he moved around a clump of boulders, he saw the three coyotes standing twenty feet ahead of him. They were staring at him, bodies tensed, lips drawn back from pointed teeth, deep growls rumbling in their throats and chests.

He stood frozen in his tracks, staring back at them. They're going to attack, an insanely calm voice addressed his mind.

He didn't know until it was over exactly what had happened. All he knew was that, abruptly, there was one thought in his head.

After everything I've been through,
this
?

Something snapped inside him and suddenly he went berserk, rushing at the coyotes, a demented, animal like scream of fury pouring from his open mouth, his arms thrown up, his fingers curved like talons.

The three coyotes twitched back, growling. Then abruptly they jumped around and ran away from him.

Bob stopped, scarcely able to catch his breath. That's right, you crazy bastards, run away from me before I kill you, he thought.

Then sanity returned and he was shivering from head to toe. My God, I went insane there, totally insane. But I wasn't going to let it all end by being killed by a trio of damn coyotes. I just wasn't.

His shoulders slumped, he exhaled hard.

Then, suddenly, he whirled, a look of startled amazement on his face. A distant voice, very faint.

Marian's
.

"Bob?!" she was shouting. "Bob?!"

He broke into a shambling run toward the sound of her voice. "Yes!" he called. But his tongue was too raspy, he had used up his voice screaming at the three coyotes. Nonetheless, he cried out again in answer to her. "Yes! I'm here!" He couldn't believe she'd hear the hoarse croaking of his voice but kept on shouting anyway. "I'm here! I'm here!"

"Bob?!" Her voice was closer now, clearer. "Bob?!"

"I'm coming!" he cried.

She kept calling his name, the sound of her voice becoming more distinct each time she called his name. "Oh, God, I'm here," he said, legs moving under him like pistons, totally without strength, driven on by joy and exultation. He had found her!

Now, through the trees, he caught sight of the Bronco, then, beside it, the cabin. On its deck, Marian was standing.
"Bob!"
she cried out, catching sight of him now. "Oh, my God!
Bob!
"

She was running down the deck steps now, rushing to meet him. Oh, thank God, thank God, he thought. He stumbled, almost fell, then caught his balance once more and ran on.

They came together so hard they almost collided. Suddenly she was in his arms, her arms clutching at him; she was crying helplessly as he was. "God, oh, God, Bob, I was so
afraid
," she said, her voice shaking, almost impossible to understand.

"Marian."
He held her as tightly as he could. "I thought I'd never see you again."

Their lips were crushing at each other's, arms wrapped rigidly around each other.

"It's all right, you're safe now, safe," she told him, sobbing.

"If you only knew what I've been through," he said.

"I know, I know. Oh, God, I am so glad to see you, I was
so afraid
."

"So was I," he said.

"You look
terrible
," she said.

"You look wonderful," he told her.

They kissed each other's lips and cheeks and necks, clinging to each other tightly.

"Well, you
made
it, Bobby! What a big relief!"

Bob twitched violently, looking toward the cabin deck.

Doug stood there, smiling at him.

"You really had me worried, buddy," he said cheerfully.

At first, he couldn't speak he was so stunned. All he could do was murmur a faint, incredulous "Wha'?"

"What is it, Bob?" she asked.

His voice returned then and he muttered, "Hold me, hold me." He embraced her tensely. "Put your arms around me. I don't want him coming down here."

"What is it?" she repeated, sounding even more concerned.

His mind was racing with a jumble of thoughts. He didn't know which one to start with.

He heard himself ask, "How long has he been here?"

"About . . . thirty minutes. Why?"

"What did he tell you?"

"He's really been disturbed that you were lost. He kept on searching for you—"

"Stop." He cut her off, his voice almost falsetto with throttled fury.

"Bob, what
is
it?" she asked again.

"I thought he was dead, I thought I'd killed him," he blurted, still not knowing how to tell her everything.

"What?" It was her turn now to look and sound incredulous.

"He must have—"

"Hey, lovebirds, come on up! We have a lot to talk about!" Doug called, breaking into Bob's attempt to speak.

"He must have come to, he knew how to get here faster, beat me to it." The words ran together as he spoke.

"Bob, for God's sake,
what is going on
?"

"Listen to me, I can't give you every detail but he's been chasing me since yesterday morning, intending to kill me."

"What?"
Her voice sounded too loud to him and he quickly cut her off. "
Shh
. Don't talk, just listen. He is crazy, Marian. He raped me yesterday morning—"

"What?"
She couldn't seem to take it all in, looking at him as though she thought him mentally disturbed.

"He gave me a head start, then chased me. He even caught up to me last night while I was sleeping, could have killed me then but left me a note, I have it in my pocket, he's
crazy
, Marian, I'm telling you."

"My God,"
she whispered.

"He killed a hunter earlier today, shot an arrow through his neck."

"Bob, are you—?"

"Crazy too? No. This really happened, Marian. We have to get away from him. Where are the car keys?"

"In the ignition." Her voice was trembling now. "What are we going to
do
?"

"Play along with him; we have to. I don't know what he has in mind, why he came here after everything he's done, why he didn't try to get away somewhere."

"Oh,
lovebirds
!" Doug called. "Enough smooching! Come on up!"

"Does he have his golak?" Bob asked quickly.

"His
what
?"

"Golak. That big knife, like a machete."

"Yes," she answered shakily.

"Too bad," he murmured, wincing. "We better go on up, I don't know what he'll do if he thinks we're plotting against him. He's crazy, absolutely crazy. Let me do the talking. Try not to look as panicky as both of us are feeling."

"Yes," she murmured weakly.

Bob felt numb as they walked toward the cabin. Shouldn't they run for the Bronco, hoping to reach it before Doug could catch them? He knew it wasn't possible. Doug was too fast, too clever. And he had the golak in his belt. He realized that everything he'd gone through in the past two days had given him a mindless fear of Doug, a conviction that no matter what he did, Doug would always counter it.

As they reached the deck, to his horror, Doug embraced him tightly. "
Bobby
boy!" he said in a delighted voice. "You're safe, you're really safe!"