Hunted Past Reason

  "You believe in life after death, don't you?" Doug surprised him by asking.

  He hesitated for a few moments, then nodded. "Yes, I do."

  "So tell me"— Doug was looking at him almost challengingly— "you think Artie's there, okay then?"

  Bob swallowed. "Yes, of course he's there," he said. He'd never tell Doug what he believed about suicides.

  "Even though he was a druggie?" Doug asked.

  "It doesn't matter what he was," Bob told him. "He's still there." Where that "there" was he hated to consider. But he could, in honesty, say that he believed in Artie's survival.

  "You've been reading about this stuff for a long time, haven't you?" Doug said.

  "A long time," Bob agreed. "Hundreds of books."

  "And you're convinced of this . . . survival thing," Doug probed.

  "Totally," Bob answered. "I believe that we're more than body and brain, that we possess a higher self that survives death."

  "Survives for what?" Doug asked.

  "To come back and try again," Bob answered.

  "Oh, shit," Doug said. "We have to go through everything again?"

  "It'll be different," Bob said. "We'll be different people. But we'll still be the same basic soul working out our problems. Trying to anyway."

  Doug grunted and took a sip of his coffee. He bared his teeth, remembering. "That means I'll have to pay the price for what I did to Artie," he said. "Or what I didn't do."

  "We all have problems that we need to solve," Bob said.

  "Not you," Doug said, his hostile tone startling Bob. "Your life is a fucking utopia compared to mine. A wife who loves you. Two kids doing well. A successful career. You're even handsome, for Christ's sake. Who the hell were you in your last lifetime, the fucking son of God?"

  Bob tried to react as though Doug wasn't being totally serious even though he knew that he was. Did Doug resent him that much? Was that why he'd been so rough on him? Was it going to get worse? The thought appalled him. Out here, he was completely at the mercy of Doug's backpacking skills.

  "Well," he said, forcing a smile. "My life isn't quite that perfect."

  "Has your wife walked out on you?" Doug demanded. "Has your daughter written you off completely? Has your career gone into the toilet? Has your son put a pistol in his mouth and blown his fucking brains out?"

  "Doug, take it easy, will you?" Bob tried to calm him down. "I know you're having problems in your life, I know—"

  "Problems?" Doug almost snarled. "Is that what they are? Fucking problems? Something I can solve with a fucking slide rule?!"

  Bob didn't answer. He returned Doug's glare with what he hoped was a sympathetic look, at least unprovoked. Finally, he said, "I'm sorry if my life infuriates you. I didn't design it that way."

  "It doesn't infuriate me," Doug said, obviously lying. "I just don't think you know what misery feels like. Not with the way your life has gone."

  "I'm sorry, Doug," Bob told him quietly. "I really am. If I've said anything stupid or anything that hurt you, I'm sorry, I apologize."

  He'd hoped that his words would mollify Doug. It only made him fall into a morose silence, sitting and sipping his coffee, staring out through the cave entrance, his expression one of bleak depression. Bob didn't dare say any more. He sat in silence himself, hoping— almost praying— that the rest of the hike wasn't going to be jeopardized because of this conversation.

  Doug, I hope this isn't going to spoil the rest of our hike, he imagined himself saying to Doug. And Doug replying: Don't bet on it, Bobby.

  2:24 PM

  Something hit him smartly on the chest and his eyes popped open. Doug was looking at him with a stiff expression. "Gotta go," he said.

  Bob looked at him confusedly. "What did I do, fall asleep?"

  "Naturally." Doug's tone was critical.

  "I'm sorry, I—"

  "Come on, we have to move," Doug cut him off.

  Bob looked groggily toward the entrance of the cave. "Has the rain stopped?" he asked.

  "Enough," Doug said. "Come on. Let's go."

  "Okay. Okay." Bob frowned. Are we starting in again? he thought.

  He looked around. Doug had already packed the sleeping bags and pads. How did he get them out from under me? he wondered. Was I sleeping that heavily?

  "Let's get your pack on," Doug told him. His movements were hurried as he pushed Bob's arms through the strap loops. "Oh." Bob winced as Doug twisted his right arm.

  "Sorry," Doug said. He didn't sound it.

  The pack felt heavier than ever. Because it was wet? Bob looked worried. "Isn't the ground outside muddy?" he asked.

  "Bob, we cannot stay here all day," Doug told him. "We have to reach a campsite before it gets dark."

  Why? Bob thought. Why not stay right here until the rain stops? Even if it means staying here all night. It's warm, it's comfortable.

  "All right, let's move," Doug said.

  Bob tried to lift himself, then fell back, feeling slightly dizzy. "Whoa," he said. "That lightning must have done more to me than I thought."

  Doug looked at him without expression. What? Bob thought. Am I supposed to feel guilty about getting splashed by lightning now?

  The way Doug was looking at him— almost with contempt it seemed— made Bob's temper snap abruptly.

  "All right, for Christ's sake, go on without me then. I'd rather be lost than badgered to death."

  "Who the hell is badgering you?" Doug looked surprised.

  "You are," Bob said. "You're taking advantage of the fact that you know exactly what to do out here and I don't know the first damn thing about it." As he spoke he felt a sudden coldness in his stomach. What in God's name would he do if Doug took him at his word?

  "Calm down, for Christ's sake," Doug told him. "You're just feeling rattled because of the lightning splash."

  "Maybe so," Bob answered. "I'm sorry. I do feel rattled."

  "Listen. Bob," Doug said, "I have an idea."

  "What?" Bob asked, uneasily.

  "Why don't you go back to where we started from? I'll move on fast to the cabin, get the Bronco, and come back and pick you up."

  At first, it sounded like a good idea. Then Bob remembered all the ground they'd covered. He'd undoubtedly get lost. Immediately, he said so.

  "No, you wouldn't," Doug said as though addressing a child. "I'll give you the compass. You follow it and you'll be back there by dark."

  "How could I possibly be?" Bob demanded, his voice rising in panic. "It took us more than a day to get here."

  "So you'll sleep one night in the woods, it won't kill you."

  A collage of bears and mountain lions and coyotes painted itself across his mind. "Doug, that is ridiculous," he said. "I'd never make it."

  "Bob, you just asked me to leave you here."

  "I didn't mean it, for Christ's sake. I just lost my temper."

  Doug nodded, looking unconvinced.

  "Bob, this isn't working out," he said. "It could take us three, four days more the way we're going. Your wife is going to lose her mind, worrying about you."

  "She'll lose her mind a lot more if I get eaten by a goddamn mountain lion," Bob retorted.

  "Oh, jeez, the mountain lion thing again. You aren't going to run into a mountain lion. All you have to do is—"

  "No," Bob interrupted adamantly. "You saw what happened to me yesterday. I'm not going to let you dump me again."

  "Dump you?" Doug looked incredulous. "I'm trying to help you. This hike was a mistake, you know that. You aren't up to it."

  "I will be up to it," Bob said, sounding almost frightened now. "Just don't leave me on my own again. It scared the hell out of me."

  Doug didn't reply. He looked at Bob as though regarding the child who wouldn't listen to reason. Is that the look you gave Artie all the time? the thought occurred to Bob.

  Doug's cheeks puffed as he blew out a surrendering breath. "Okay. Okay," he said. "So it takes us a week to reach the cabin. So we'll run out of
food and have to eat squirrels. So your wife will become convinced that you were eaten by a mountain lion. If that's what you want, okay, so be it."

  He pointed at Bob. "Which doesn't mean I'm going to slow down to a crawl," he warned. "We still have to move at a reasonable clip if we're going to make that campsite by dark."

  "Okay." Bob nodded, feeling such relief that he didn't even think of how difficult it was going to be to keep up with Doug. As long as he wasn't alone, that was what mattered. He never wanted to be alone in the forest again.

  He braced himself against the slight dizziness and continuing weariness as he made his way out of the cave. It wasn't raining hard, something slightly more than a drizzle. They put on their ponchos and Bob drew in a deep breath. He was not going to give Doug any more reason to be aggravated with him. He'd make this damn hike and make it successfully, then go home and burn the backpack, sleeping bag, ground pad, and every other damn piece of equipment he'd bought. I'll dance around the bonfire, naked, he visualized himself, repressing a smile. I'll bellow a farewell chant to all of it and stay in luxury lodges in the future if I ever want to be exposed to Mother Nature again.

  "All right, let's go," he said crisply. At least, he tried to make it sound crisp. He had no idea how convincing it was to Doug.

  Probably not at all.

  They were crossing a tree-dripping glade, Bob twenty feet behind, when Doug suddenly stopped and, reaching back across his shoulder, snatched an arrow from its quiver. Oh, my God, he's going to kill me! Bob thought in shock. Freezing in his tracks, he stared aghast as Doug grabbed his bow and quickly fitted the arrow's neck into the bowstring.

  Instead of whirling though, Doug kept looking ahead, drew back the string quickly, and shot the arrow at something Bob couldn't see.

  He moved up to where Doug remained standing. "Why'd you do that?" he asked.

  Doug pointed toward the ground ahead and Bob looked in that direction.

  Lying on the ground, twitching feebly as it died, was a large raccoon. Its fur is so beautiful, was the first thing Bob thought. "How come you killed it?" he asked, trying not to sound in the least bit critical.

  "Rabies," Doug told him.

  "How do you know it had rabies?" Bob asked.

  "Raccoons aren't in the habit of coming straight at you in broad daylight," Doug said. "And doing it fast. They avoid people; they don't attack them."

  "He was attacking?" Bob asked, incredulous.

  "My call, Bobby," Doug said curtly. "I didn't care to take the chance that it was just being friendly."

  Bob nodded immediately. "I understand," he said.

  "Do you?" Doug responded. "Do you know that wildlife-related cases of rabies have more than doubled in the last ten years? Do you know what a rabies attack can be like? Hallucinations? Swallowing so painful you can't eat or drink? Muscle spasms in the face and neck? A raging fever? Probable death? You wonder why I killed the damn raccoon?"

  "No, no— I understand," Bob said hastily. God forbid he got Doug ranting again. "You did the right thing."

  "Damn right." Doug slung the bow across his shoulder and, without another word, started quickly across the glade.

  Bob stopped for a few moments to look down at the dead raccoon. It looked as though it had been in perfect health. He couldn't get over how beautiful its fur was— all silvery and black.

  As he started after Doug he was unable to prevent himself from wondering if the raccoon really did have rabies or whether Doug was trying to impress him— hell, intimidate him— with his skill at using the bow and arrow. Oh, don't be paranoid, for chrissake, he told himself— but he couldn't help mulling over the suspicion. Was he missing something here? Was Doug actually a menace to him? He didn't want to believe that for a moment. Still, the tension between them seemed to be increasing all the time. Just how did Doug feel about him? It had better be benign because if it was something more, he was a pretty helpless prey.

  Oh, come on, he ordered himself angrily. Just because you're having arguments doesn't translate into murderous intent on Doug's part. For Christ's sake, Doug may well have saved your life if the raccoon really was rabid.

  It was rabid, he tried to convince himself. Shape up, Hansen. By the weekend you'll be home with Marian and all this will be nothing more than an unpleasant memory.

  Doug had stopped at the base of a steep slope, waiting for Bob to catch up.

  What now? Bob thought, looking up the slope. It was much steeper than the one they'd climbed to reach the cave. "What are we—?" he started.

  "We have two choices," Doug interrupted. "Either we go around this and add miles to the hike before we stop. Or we climb it and save ourselves a lot of time."

  Bob drew in a shaking breath. "Well, I'm not too confident in my ability to do mountain climbing," he said.

  "Mountain climbing?" Doug sounded as though he couldn't believe what Bob had said. "Jesus Christ, this is a slope, not a mountain."

  Bob didn't want to try it. But, even less, did he want to generate another conflict between them. So he nodded unconvincingly and said, even more unconvincingly, "Okay, let's do it."

  He was sure Doug knew that he didn't mean a word of it but acted as though he wasn't aware of it. "Good," Doug said. "Use that rest step I told you about and it won't be too hard." Without another word, he started up the slope.

  Bob followed, boots slipping on the brush, roots, and mud surface of the slope. Jesus, are my clothes going to be filthy, he thought. He kept trying the rest step but the ground was just too slippery for it to work; he kept falling to his knees, getting mud on his hands, hurting his right palm.

  As he labored up the slope— the backpack starting to feel like an anvil on his back again— he recalled the pleasure with which he'd accepted Doug's offer to take him on a backpacking trip. That was a great decision, Hansen, he derided himself. One of the best you ever made.

  Looking up, he saw that Doug had stopped and was looking back at him. "Going to make it?" Doug asked dubiously.

  "I'll be fine," he answered breathlessly.

  He stiffened, seeing a boulder, loosened by the rain, rolling directly at Doug.

  "Look out!" he cried.

  Doug jerked around and saw the boulder rolling down at him. He made a sudden move to avoid it and slipped, banging his elbow against a rock, hissing at the pain.

  Bob had no idea where the strength came from. But, surging upward abruptly, he grabbed Doug's pack and jerked him out of the way of the boulder. Not all the way though. As the boulder rumbled past, it grazed Doug's right shoulder, hitting his backpack and jolting him around in a quarter spin. "Jesus!" Doug cried.

  They crouched together on the muddy soil, looking at each other. Doug kept wincing at the pain in his shoulder and elbow. "Damn," he muttered. "Damn it."

  "You all right?" Bob asked. He panted a little as he spoke.

  "I dunno," Doug said. He rubbed his elbow, grimacing. "Shit," he said.

  Bob struggled to his feet, thinking: Well, don't thank me, Doug, I only saved your life.

  To his amazement, Doug didn't thank him. "That was really something," was the closest he came.

  "Yeah. It was," Bob said. He was astounded that Doug expressed not one scintilla of gratitude. Instead, Doug got up and said, "We'd better move or it'll be dark before we reach the campsite."

  Yeah, right, Bob thought. Your appreciation really warms the cockles of my heart, Douglas.

  As though to prove that the injuries had no serious effect on him, Doug moved on up the slope at an even faster pace than he'd been going before. Jesus God, what kind of childhood did he really have? Bob wondered. Proving his mettle seemed to outweigh everything else, even gratitude for someone who may have saved him from critical injury.

  He couldn't restrain himself. "Doug, I might have just saved your life, you know."

  "No, no, I would have gotten out of the way by myself," Doug answered casually.

  Why, you ungrateful son of a bitch, Bob thought. I should have le
t the fucking boulder crush you into jam.

  Shaking his head, he continued climbing the slope. Incredible, he kept thinking. Simply incredible.

  "There, you see?" Doug was at the top of the slope now, pointing at the ground.

  Bob reached the top and found Doug standing beside another dead raccoon. This one was swarming with maggots. Bob made a sickened noise and averted his face.

  "Rabies," Doug told him.

  Bob nodded, starting past him. After a few paces, he stopped abruptly at a loud, clashing sound in the distance. "What's that?" he asked, turning back to Doug.

  "Probably a couple of horny stags fighting for a female. They butt their heads together, it makes their antlers clatter."

  That's right, lecture me again, Bob thought disgruntledly. Can't get enough of that, can you?

  He waited until Doug had passed by him, then followed, looking at the back of Doug's head with a resentful glare.

  4:32 PM

  It was more than a stream this time. Closer to being a river, Bob thought. Fast-moving, frothing, and bubbling, its current so rapid that in striking boulders it flung up explosive sprays of water drops. It looked very cold and threatening to him. "No log bridge here," he said.

  "No more log bridges, buddy," Doug told him, "we're backpacking now, not taking a stroll through the park."

  Bob sighed. You already said that, Doug, he thought. "So what do we do?" he asked.

  "We cross, what else?" Doug said.

  "How?"

  Doug looked at him as though he couldn't believe that Bob had asked the question. "Wade, Bobby, wade," he said.

  "Wade," Bob murmured. He couldn't see how they could possibly wade across such a rushing stream.

  Doug started to remove his backpack.

  "Think it might be less wide a little farther downstream?" Bob asked hopefully.

  "I presume you mean upstream." Doug's smile was thin.

  "Upstream, downstream, what's the difference?" Bob snapped.

  "Upstream gets narrower; downstream gets wider," Doug told him.

  "Okay, okay, it'll be less wide in one of those directions."

  "Not necessarily," Doug said. "Take off your pack."

  "How do you know?" Bob asked.