Hunted Past Reason (6 page)

"Oh, for God's sake, shut the hell up," he ordered himself. Drawing in a deep, he hoped, restoring breath, he continued walking.

As he got into a rhythmic stride, he began to think about Doug.

Was it really necessary for him to go on ahead and leave me behind? he wondered. After all, how much more difficult would it have been to set up camp if they'd gotten to the place together, wherever it was?

This was their first day out too. Doug knew he was uneasy. He knew that Marian was uneasy. Was it really thoughtful of him to hurry on ahead to make camp? Or had there been something mean about it, something actually a little cruel under the circumstances?

He thought about the few years they had known Doug and Nicole, then, limitedly, Doug by himself. They were never really close. They'd had a few laughs together but their personalities didn't really blend that well. Nicole was pleasant enough, very beautiful (she'd been a model), but a little cut off and remote. And, from the very start, she'd obviously been unhappy about her marriage to Doug. The death of Artie had really torn what threads were left intact in their relationship.

What Doug and he had shared most in common was their knowledge and attitudes toward the motion picture and television business. They were both highly dissatisfied and frustrated by it, Doug more than him because, as relative as the pain was, actors did have it worse than writers. He could, at least, submerge his disappointments by writing a short story or a novel. Doug could only do a little theater that while creatively fulfilling involved no monetary satisfaction at all.

In other words, Bob thought— in other words, had there always been an edge of envy, even resentment in Doug? And had he just demonstrated a small bit of that by leaving him behind in the woods?

"The forest," he said. "The
forest
."

It wasn't any charming, sweet, endearing woods.

It was BIG. Powerful. Unyielding. A massive, silent being that could and had swallowed men alive.

That's a charming image, he thought.

But he couldn't dispel it.

Well, here's another goddamn thing he didn't tell me about, he thought.

He stared glumly at the fast-moving stream in front of him. On its opposite shore, the path obviously continued.

Now what? he thought. It was definitely getting darker and there was no way he could see to cross the stream: no fallen tree trunk, no stepping-stone boulders.

"Well, what am I supposed to do
now
, Dougie boy?" he asked loudly.

Breaking a tiny piece of twig off his staff, he tossed it into the stream and watched it be swept away by the bubbling, splashing current. Great, he thought, his face a mask of annoyance. Now I know it's moving fast. Thank you, Douglas, for that enlightening bit of woodlore. It changes everything.

He drew in a quick, convulsive breath. This isn't funny, Bob, he told himself. What was he supposed to do,
walk
across the stream, get his boots and socks and trousers soaking wet? Screw that.

"Well . . ." Grimacing, he started walking along the edge of the stream, hoping to find a narrower part of it.

Up above, a wind was starting to blow in the high pines. Great, he thought, a storm.

He shook that away with a scowl. Stop being a baby, he told himself. Doug got across the damn stream, so can I.

For a while, he imagined Doug coming up with a rope from his pack, hurling one end of it across the stream, encircling a branch with it, and swinging across like Tarzan.

"Not likely," he muttered, moving guardedly along the stream edge so he wouldn't stumble on a stone.

About twenty yards down, he came across a tree trunk fallen across the stream. "Ah," he said. "Ah." You might have mentioned it to me, he said to Doug in his mind. You know this goddamn forest, I don't.

As he crossed the trunk, it shifted with him. "
Oh
, God," he muttered. Flailing at the air for balance, he lost hold of the staff and dropped it in the stream. By the time he'd fallen to one knee on the tree trunk, grabbed hold of it, and regained his balance, the staff was long gone, washed downstream by the leaping current. Great, he thought as he made it finally to the other side of the stream. Easy come, easy go.

He walked back along the stream until he reached the trail and started along it again. This is a goddamn national forest, he thought as he walked. Why didn't they put some kind of bridge on the stream so the trail could be followed more easily? It might have been considerate to novices like me.

He concentrated on walking erect, not slumping, lifting his feet, keeping a steady stride. Well, he should be at the campsite soon. He swallowed uneasily. He'd better be. The light was fading fast. At least, it seemed to be. Maybe it was because of the thick tree growth.

Just keep going, he told himself. Erect. Feet lifted. Steady stride. He walked through the deep, silent forest, trying to remain convinced that he would reach Doug soon, have that vodka, dine on chicken à la king, and, most of all, rest his weary bones.

5:13 PM

"Good God," he muttered.

Just ahead of him, the trail split.

He stared at it in utter dismay. For the first time since he'd started after Doug he felt a genuine sense of fear. What was he supposed to do now? Doug did it on purpose, he found himself thinking.

He'd gone on ahead, not to set up a camp but to leave him behind, hopelessly lost.

A spasm of coldness shook his body. No, you're being paranoid, he thought. Would Doug have taken him all the way up here for some kind of terrible revenge? Revenge for what? Envy, okay, maybe so. A little jealousy. But this?

"No," he said. "No. No." He shook his head. He was being ridiculous. There was some other reason. Doug hadn't been up here for a long time. He'd forgotten that the trail split, that was all.

"In that case . . ." he murmured.

He looked at the bushes and trees around the dividing trail. A piece of paper, a note, a scrap of rag. Something to mark the trail he was supposed to follow.

There was nothing. It was shadowy beneath the trees but surely he'd see a rag or piece of paper if Doug had placed one to mark his way.

He drew in a deep, trembling breath. Dear God, he thought. He really didn't know which way to go. And Doug had not left any sign to help him.

He swallowed dryly. His throat felt parched. Removing the top of his water bottle, he took a sip. Not too much, he cautioned himself. You don't want to run out of water.

"Sure," he said cynically. That's what really matters. I can be totally lost in the forest, but so long as I have water, I'll be fine. "Damn," he muttered. "Stupid idiot."

All right. All right. He straightened up, a look of determination on his face. Maybe this was a test, a goddamn test. That sort of thing Doug
would
do. He was setting up a situation where logic could tell him which half of the trail to follow.

All right, think, he thought; think, you moron.

The right-hand trail looked as though it was beginning to angle downward. That would indicate that it was heading toward the lake Doug had mentioned. Was the answer as simple as that?

No, the left-hand trail could also be leading to the lake. Couldn't it? The lake could be to the left, not the right.

Which leaves me right back where I started, he thought. He tried to find some measure of amusement in the thought but couldn't really do it; the situation was too potentially serious to be amusing in any way.

Well, for Christ's sake, make up your mind! he ordered himself. He couldn't just stand here like a bump on a log and—

He had to snicker at the memory. A bump on a log? He hadn't thought of that phrase since he was a boy. His mother had used it often.

"All right," he said firmly, "which way, Hansen, right or left?"

The right-hand path seemed the most likely. It
was
angling down and that would indicate it heading toward the lake. And Doug
had
said it might take him less than an hour to reach the campsite. So the right path was the most logical one to take. There you go, Bobby, he imagined Doug telling him when he reached the campsite. You just passed your first test in Woodlore I.

"Yeah, yeah," he muttered, starting forward onto the right-hand trail.

The trail kept getting steeper as he moved along. He found himself tending to lean back, trying to center the weight of the pack so it wouldn't pull him forward.

The path was also getting darker as he walked. Looking up, he could see, through rifts in the tree foliage, that it was still light. You'd never know it down here, he thought.

He kept looking to the right, trying to catch a glimpse of the lake. But all he saw was endless forest. Was this the right way after all? Had he made a mistake? Maybe—

He gasped out in shock as something rolled beneath his right boot and he found himself lurching helplessly to his left. "No!" he cried, starting to fall, thrashing, into some brush.

His right palm, flung down automatically to brace himself against the fall, hit the ground and was scraped across it, making him hiss in pain. A jagged streak of pain stabbed at the right side of his back as he thudded to a halt, a bush twig raking across his right cheek, making him hiss again.

He lay motionless in the brush, gasping for breath. Oh, Jesus, what if I've broken something? he thought, terrified. What if I'm on the wrong path and I've broken a bone?

The sound he made, intended to be a despairing laugh, came out, instead, as a sob. "Jesus, Jesus, Jesus," he murmured, eyes tearing. What am I doing here? he thought. His throat felt dry again. He lay immobile, aware of his body twisted into a heap. I'm finished, he thought. I'm gone.

He forced air into his lungs. Shut up, he told himself. Just shut up. He'd taken a clumsy tumble, nothing more. It's not as if that mountain lion is about to pounce on me and bite off my face.

He grimaced at the thought. Great imaging, he told himself.

"All right, get up, for chrissake," he said irritably. "Get off your ass— or whatever you're lying on. Night is going to fall too if you don't get moving."

Laboriously, with slow, groaning movements, he struggled to his feet. His back felt sore and tender, his right palm hurt. But, at least, he didn't appear to have any broken bones.

He got back on the trail and stood still, wondering what to do.

"Doug?!" he shouted. He had to clear his throat, took a sip of water, then shouted again. "Doug! Doug!"

Was that an answer? he thought, suddenly excited. He shouted Doug's name again and again, finally realizing that what he was hearing was the echo of his own voice.

"Oh . . . shit," he muttered.

The whistle! he thought suddenly.

Fumbling through his jacket pockets until he found it, he blew on it as hard as he could. He had to drink more water; his mouth felt dry. He blew on the whistle again, struggling to make the sound as loud as possible.

There was no response.

"You bastard," he muttered. "You lousy bastard."

He continued down the path, moving with cautious steps. What the hell had rolled beneath his boot anyway? A twig? A rock? A pinecone? Whatever it was, it had sure made him take a real flop into the brush. For a few moments, he visualized John Muir accosting him and saying, "Bob, if I were you, I'd go back to Los Angeles, you really don't belong out here," and him replying, "Mr. Muir, how right you are."

Twelve minutes later, he reached the lake and the end of the trail. The open area of water made the light brighter; it wasn't that close to darkness after all.

Neither was it any spot for a campsite. There was thick growth all the way to the shore, no possible flat, open areas anywhere in sight. So the trail had been the wrong one after all. Great. Sorry, Bobby, you just failed test number one in your Woodlore course, Doug told him in his imagination. Try again.

"You son of a bitch," he said. "You miserable son of a bitch, not letting me know which trail to take."

He winced as he realized how his right palm hurt. Looking at it, he saw dried blood streaks across it, imbedded dirt, scrapes, and scratches.

Kneeling— the movement sent a streak of pain across the right side of his back that made him cry out softly— he put his palm in the cold water of the lake, and removing his handkerchief, he rubbed it on the palm as gently as he could to clean it off. "Oh . . . Jesus," he said, his face contorted from the stinging pain.

How am I supposed to write a convincing novel about backpacking if I've never backpacked once, he heard himself telling Marian. He sighed heavily. Would that I
had
written that novel about Hawaii she suggested I write, he thought.

He straightened up with a grunt of pain and effort.

"Doug!" he shouted. "Damn it, where
are
you?!"

This time, the echo was more distinct. What, the open water? he wondered.

"What's the difference?" he said as he started back up the trail. Now how long was it going to take to reach the campsite? he thought. Would it be dark by then? He blew out hissing breath. Good ol' Doug, he thought. My pal.

He stopped to take another sip of water, then continued up the trail, leaning forward to keep the weight of the backpack centered. His water was really getting low now. What if he still wasn't able to find Doug? What if Doug
did
do all this to lose him? He shivered, grimacing. Come on, he told himself. Don't be goddamn paranoid. You do this all the time. What was that song Mel Brooks composed for
The Twelve Chairs
? "Hope for the best; expect the worst," he sang softly. Something like that. And that was him. "You're a goddamn pessimist, Bob," he informed himself. As if I didn't know, he thought.

When he reached the split in the path and started along the left one, he tried to see what time it was but it was too dark in the heavy shade for him to read the watch face. He stopped and retrieved his flashlight. Don't forget to reverse the batteries, he thought. Oh, fuck you, he answered himself, switching on the flashlight and pointing the beam at the face of his wristwatch.