Hunted Past Reason (7 page)

"Oh, my," he said. It was seven minutes after seven. This time of year, it was going to be dark soon now. Thank God they hadn't left after daylight savings time had ended or it'd be dark already. Damn you, Doug, he thought. Why did you do this to me on the very first day? It was unconscionable, really unconscionable.

He became aware that he was limping slightly as he walked. All I need, he thought. Days of hiking ahead and a limp. "Swell," he muttered. He was really getting angry with Doug now. What the hell right did he think he had to leave him alone on the first day of their hike?

His anger kept mounting as he limped along the trail. By the time he saw the glow of the campfire ahead, there was nothing left in him to react with relief at the sight. He was all anger.

"Hey, there he is," Doug said as Bob walked up to the campsite.

"Don't-ever-do-that-to-me-again,"
Bob told him in a low-pitched, shaking voice.

"What?" Doug looked perplexed.

"Do you have any idea what I've been through?" Bob demanded. "You don't tell me there's no way to cross that stream at the trail. You don't tell me there's a goddamn
split
in the trail."

"Bob—" Doug said.

"So I go down the right-hand trail and fall because it's so damn steep! I hurt my back, I scrape my palm! I find the lake and there's nothing there but water!"

"Bob!" Doug cried. "Take it easy. Let me—"

"Take it easy?!" Bob almost yelled. "I was fucking terrified out there! Terrified! I screamed your name as loud as I could! I blew your goddamn whistle until I was out of breath!" He knew his voice was breaking and he sounded on the verge of crying but he didn't care. "What the hell was wrong with you, leaving me alone like that?! You know I've never done this sort of thing before! You know it goddamn well!"

Doug tried to grab Bob's arm. "Bob, will you kindly let me—"

"Why didn't you tell me there was a split in the trail?!" Bob shouted.

"I didn't remember that there was!" Doug answered sharply.

"Oh, well, great, great!" Bob said. "What was I supposed to do, guess which trail to follow?"

"No, Bobby, no," Doug said, sounding angry now. "I did mark the left-hand trail! I
did
mark it!"

Bob felt struck dumb by Doug's words. Then suspicion struck again. "How?" he demanded. "There was no note, no piece of paper, no piece of rag."

"Did you look at the ground?" Doug demanded back.

"The ground?! It was so dark there I could barely
see
the ground!"

"Well, if you had— if you'd thought for a moment to shine your flashlight at the ground, you'd have seen that I made an arrow out of stones there! Pointing toward the left-hand trail!" Doug was glaring at him now.

Bob stared at him, speechless.

"And even if you
hadn't
seen it— which you obviously didn't— I'd have gone back to find you after a while. Do you think I'd have just
left
you out there, for Christ's sake?!"

How strange, was all Bob could think. How instantaneously rage could turn to guilt.

He tried to speak but couldn't; his throat felt so dry and raw. He took a sip of water, noting that his hand shook holding the bottle.

Then he drew in trembling breaths.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't know, I didn't understand." He couldn't lose all his anger though. "You really shouldn't have left me alone though. I was scared to death, Doug. Alone in the dark forest? Jesus Christ. I didn't know
what
to do."

Doug's expression had softened now. "Okay," he said, "I probably shouldn't have left you alone. You just weren't up to it."

That's right, make sure you get a little dig in, have the final word. Bob pushed aside the thought, he was so relieved now that the nightmare (albeit minor) had ended.

"I know what it's like in the forest after dark," Doug said. "Although it wasn't really dark yet. It's just getting dark now."

"Under those trees it was dark," Bob said.

"Granted." Doug nodded. "It can be hair-raising. All the noises."

Bob managed a weak chuckle. "I even imagined that mountain lion getting me," he said.

Doug's smile was perfunctory. "I told you they don't want anything to do with us."

Bob sighed. "I know you did," he said. Can't help getting in one more little lecture, can you? he thought.

"Here, let's get that pack off you," Doug said.

Bob groaned with intense pleasure as Doug removed the pack and put it on the ground. "Now I know what Quasimodo must have gone through," he said.

He saw that Doug didn't get the point and let it go.

"Here, let me get that scrape on your cheek," Doug told him.

"Scrape on my cheek?" Bob looked confused. "Didn't know I had one." He'd forgotten all about it.

He sank down with another groan of pleasure as Doug got a small plastic bottle of alcohol, a cotton ball, and a tube of ointment from his pack. "That for me to drink?" Bob asked.

Doug made a sound of vague amusement and got down on one knee before Bob. "Take your cap off," he said.

Bob removed his cap and lay it on the ground as Doug opened the small bottle of alcohol and, up-ending it, wet the cotton ball.

"This'll sting," he said.

Bob stiffened with a faint cry as Doug wiped the cotton ball over his cheek. "Not too bad a scratch," Doug told him.

Bob nodded as Doug took hold of his right hand and lifted it up, palm raised. "This is going to sting too," he said.

"Oh!" Bob jerked, eyes closed, teeth clenching as Doug wiped the cotton ball over his palm. Are you enjoying this? he thought, then frowned at himself for the uncharitable thought.

He sat quietly, gazing at Doug's intent expression as he spread salve on the cheek and palm. I've wronged him, he thought. He never meant for me to come to harm. It was my own fault. It would have been better if Doug had stayed with him. Still, there
was
a camp now. Doug's tent was up. He saw their sleeping bags inside, the pads underneath them. And, of course, the fire. The crackling yellow-orange flames and radiating warmth were really comforting. Especially after what he'd been through.

Doug finished applying the salve and looked up with a slight grin. "That should do it," he said. "Try not to fall down again."

Bob thought for a moment that Doug was razzing him. Then he let it go, smiling at Doug. "Thank you, Doctor," he said.

"No problem," Doug answered, "I'm sure the Writers Guild insurance will pay for it."

"Yeah." Bob chuckled, taking it for granted that Doug was joking.

"Well, I guess you could use one of your little bottles of vodka right now," Doug said.

You got that right, Bob thought.

8:23 PM

Bob leaned back against his pack with a sound part groan, part sigh of pleasure. "I feel alive again," he said. He took a sip of the instant mocha coffee he'd brought along. They had cooked and shared the chicken à la king, two slices of bread, and, for dessert, two cookies and an apple each. He hadn't even minded that Doug had made fun of him for putting some of the condiments that Marian had packed for him on the chicken à la king.

"A little bit of civilization in the north woods, eh?" Doug had said with a teasing smile.

He hadn't even responded.

"Too bad you didn't bring a pair of slippers," Doug said; he had brought a pair and was wearing them.

"Yeah." Bob nodded. Of course you never told me to, he thought, but then I suppose I should have thought of it myself.

"How's the blister?" Doug asked.

When Bob'd taken off his boots, he'd become aware of the blister on his right big toe. Doug had put a bandage on it, one with a hole in its middle so as not to irritate the blister itself. While he was putting it on, Bob asked him, only half jokingly, if there was anything about backpacking he didn't know.

"Not much," Doug replied and proceeded to inform him of ways of knowing direction while hiking.

Moss grew more thickly on the shadiest side of the tree, which would be the north side of trees that were fairly out in the open where sunlight could reach them all day.

Vegetation grew larger and more openly on northern slopes, smaller and more densely on southern slopes.

You could prevent yourself from traveling in circles by always keeping two trees lined up in front of you.

Then, at night, there was the north star . . .

"Enough," Bob said, chuckling. "I'll never remember any of it."

"Well, you might need it someday," Doug told him, "you never know."

"I know," Bob said. "This is my one and only backpacking hike."

"Oh." Doug nodded, an expression of remote acknowledgment on his face.

Bob tried to soften what he'd said by remarking that he could see how wonderful backpacking must be; he was just not inclined toward it, but Doug's nod was no more than cursory.

Doug had been quiet for a while, staring into the fire, and Bob decided that he really must have offended him by so casually negating any possibility of him ever backpacking again. Doug didn't have to do this; it had been and was a generous offer. He had to try to say something to lighten Doug's mood.

"What made you pick this spot for a campsite?" he asked.

"Oh." Doug shrugged. "A number of things."

"Like what?"

"You're not really interested," Doug told him.

"Yes. I am," Bob insisted. "I know I'm a dud as a hiker but I
would
like to know as much as I can for my novel."

"Your novel," Doug said. He looked at Bob without expression. "Is there a movie in it?" he asked.

Ah, Bob thought. The entrée to peace. "Probably," he said, "there are four good male roles in it, two females."

"Why not just do it as a screenplay then?" Doug asked.

"Oh, no," Bob said. "I don't want to put you through all this just for a screenplay. If it gets fucked up— assuming it gets made at all— there's nothing left to show for it. But if there's a novel . . ."

"Yeah." Doug nodded, conceding. "I understand. That way, if it's good, you make money from both the novel
and
the screenplay."

"Right." It wasn't what he'd meant but he let it go. "And, when the time comes— as I hope it will— for the story to be filmed, I'll certainly suggest you for one of the parts," he said, playing his trump card.

"Well, I'd love to read the screenplay when you've written it," Doug said, sounding considerably more cheerful now.

"Sure," Bob said, nodding. "There
is
a good part for a villain, but he's a man in his sixties."

"That's nothing," Doug said quickly, "I played a father in
Our Town
and he had to be a man in his late fifties."

"Oh." Bob nodded. "I'll remember that."

Doug nodded back, smiling, then made a clucking sound. "So you need to know about what constitutes a good campsite."

"Yes, I'd like to."

"Okay." Doug seemed to think about it for a few seconds, then began.

"Well, to start with," he said, "it was no problem in the nineteenth century, even the early part of this century. You could cut brush for a campfire, cut logs, drink and wash in the water, have all the room in the world because there were so few campers. Now—" He made a hissing sound of disgust. "Thousands of people every year, screwing up everything."

"I know." Bob nodded glumly. "Ruining the environment."

"I'm not talking about the environment," Doug said, "I'm talking about camping and backpacking."

"Oh." Bob nodded. Should have known, he thought.

"Well, anyway, first of all, proximity to water," Doug said, "that's a must, absolutely basic, which is why we're by a lake. Also the site should be on a gradual slope— well drained. That way, if it rains—"

"You think it's going to rain?"

"No, no." Doug waved his hand impatiently. "Just let me finish."

"Sorry," Bob apologized.

"If it does rain for any reason, you're safe from runoff. A meadow would be a bad place to camp, for example. Also, there's a nice breeze here. Keeps away the bugs."

"My God, you think of everything," Bob said.

"Better than being miserable," Doug replied. "But shut up, I'm a long way from being done."

"Sorry again," Bob said, smiling.

"Surrounding trees to break up any wind that rises," Doug continued.

"I apologize for interrupting," Bob said, "but why are we so far away from the lake?"

"So there isn't any chance of contaminating it," Doug told him. "A lot of idiots camp right by the water and piss and crap all over, polluting what's supposed to be fresh water."

Bob nodded. "Got ya." I should be taking notes, he thought. Was he going to be able to remember all this?

"Open ground," Doug went on, "no vegetation, rotted trees."

Bob wanted to ask about the rotted trees but decided to remain silent as Doug continued.

"Up a little high to avoid cold air, which flows downward. Slope facing east, protected from a west wind and getting the sun in the morning, which you'll find makes it a lot easier to get up."

"Douglas, I am damned impressed by your knowledge," Bob broke in, thinking that Doug wouldn't object to being interrupted in that way.

"Tricks of the trade, Bobby." Doug grinned at him. I was right, Bob thought.

"Tent needs to be well staked, of course," Doug said, "so the wind won't blow it away. Use one with a dome top; gives with the wind. Double wall. Full-cover rain fly."

I won't even
try
to find out what
that
is, Bob thought.

"Outer shell waterproofed," Doug continued. "Repels rain and prevents condensation from forming on the inner walls. Curved walls to prevent wind flap, a vestibule to keep rain from blowing in."

"A vestibule?" Bob asked, visualizing the vestibule of an apartment house in Brooklyn he'd lived in when he was a boy.

"Need a little entryway," Doug told him. "Wind and rain can blow in through a simple opening. As for the ground cloth, it should be exactly the size of the tent floor. If it sticks outside and it rains, the ground cloth can direct water under the tent. Did you put your iodine tablets in your water?"