"Not so crazy about the Jews myself," Doug said. "After all the shit I've gone through with them in the business."
Oh, God, dear God, Bob thought.
"All right, look at me," Doug said. What was he going into now? Bob wondered. "If I did evil things, wouldn't people say, 'Well, it was all because his old man was a boozer and beat the shit out of his son and hated everything in the world and that's why Douglas Crowley is an evil son of a bitch.' "
"I don't believe you're evil," Bob told him, aware of a certain lack of conviction in his voice.
"Well, that's where you're wrong," Doug said. "Didn't you know I brought you up here to kill you?"
Bob had never felt so cold so quickly in his life. He could not repress a convulsive shiver. "That's not very funny," he said.
"Oh, I wouldn't just do it," Doug said. "I'd give you a good head start, and if you reached the cabin before I caught up with you, I'd let you live. Otherwise—"
"For Christ's sake, Doug," Bob broke in. "Haven't we had enough friction without you—"
"Oh, you think I'm kidding," Doug interrupted. "Bobby boy, I'm not."
Bob felt his stomach muscles spasming. He couldn't speak. Dear God. It was all he could think.
He started at the sudden glare of Doug's flashlight.
Doug laughed, sounding delighted. "Just wanted to see the look on your face," he said. "I can see you really believed me."
Bob exhaled shakily, averting his face. "For Christ's sake," he said. "Why did you do that?"
"Did I scare you, Bobby boy?"
"Of course you scared me. What do you think?" Bob shuddered. Jesus Christ, he thought.
"It was just a joke," Doug told him.
"Some joke."
Bob gasped as Doug grabbed him by the arm. "But I really meant it!" Doug cried.
Bob gaped at him. Doug was silent for a moment, then threw back his head, laughing raucously. "Oh, shit, you're too easy to fool," he said. Letting go of Bob's arm, he switched off the flashlight and lay back down. "Good night, old boy," he said.
Bob lay motionless, feeling the heavy, rapid beat of his heart. For God's sake, he thought. What kind of man was Doug that he could do such a thing?
Despite the exhaustion, it took him more than an hour to fall asleep.
1:19 AM
Bob twisted around in his sleeping bag. His right arm had come out of the bag and it flopped over to where he believed Doug was sleeping.
His arm hit the ground. His eyes popped open and he looked around uneasily, suddenly wide awake.
Sitting up, he leaned over and drew back the tent flap. Doug was hunched over by the low-burning fire, staring into the coals.
As he watched, he saw Doug raise the flask to his lips and take a sip of brandy. How much had he been drinking? Bob wondered. And why wasn't he sleeping? Why was he sitting up this late, just staring into the fire like that?
He raised his wrist and read the luminous dial. Close to one-thirty in the morning. My God, he thought. Was Doug going to wake him up at the crack of dawn even though he wasn't getting any sleep?
He twitched as a log fell into the fire, shooting sparks into the air. As the fire flared momentarily, he saw Doug's expression. It was not a reassuring one.
After several minutes, he laid back down again and began to shiver in spasmodic waves. Was it the cold?
He knew it wasn't.
9:37 AM
Bob opened his eyes and stared sleepily at the tent wall. After a few moments, he thought: Well, good, I woke up by myself today. No need for Doug to rouse me with a jostle. He smiled faintly. Is it possible I'm catching on to this thing?
He took his left arm out of the sleeping bag and held it up to see what time it was.
At first, he thought his watch had gone wrong. Almost twenty minutes to ten.
He blinked and shook his head to make sure. The second hand was still turning. It was almost twenty to ten.
"What the hell?" he mumbled. What happened to getting up at the crack of dawn, getting an early start? Yesterday, by seven o'clock, Doug was waking him up impatiently, everything ready to go, the campsite disassembled except for the tent. Doug wouldn't even let him have a cup of hot coffee before leaving. Now this?
He twisted around and sat up, startled to see that Doug was still asleep, breathing heavily.
Bob looked at him, half curious, half worried. What time had Doug finally gone to sleep? And how much brandy had he drunk?
More to the point, he thought, what now? Should he just let Doug sleep? Sleep it off, you mean, his mind added. Or should he wake him up?
He thought about Marian waiting for him. Obviously, their schedule was way behind what Doug had intended. How long was it actually going to take to reach the cabin? He felt extremely uneasy about Marian alone there, undoubtedly to worry when he didn't show up in time.
He scratched his head. Clearly, Doug had stayed awake a long time. This was totally in opposition to his backpacking, let's-get-on-with-it persona. That worried him too. How disturbed was Doug by their conversations? Certainly enough to let their disciplined schedule lapse completely.
Jesus Christ, what now? he thought.
Well, there was no help for it, he decided. He couldn't just let Doug sleep on uninterruptedly. They had to get going.
Reaching out his right hand, he laid it on Doug's uncovered right shoulder— Doug was lying on his left side— and shook it gently. "Doug?" he said.
Doug didn't stir, his sleep was so heavy. Great, Bob thought. He drew in a deep breath and moved his hand a little harder on Doug's shoulder. "Doug," he said.
Doug made a grumbling sound but didn't move. Shit, he must have polished off that brandy, Bob thought. Here we go on yet another first-class backpacking day.
"Doug," he said more loudly. He shook Doug's shoulder even harder.
Doug twisted around with an angry sound. Bob stared at his face. Even in sleep, it looked morose now. Was he dreaming badly?
Well, to hell with it, he thought. We have got to get on our way.
"Doug, wake up." He gripped Doug's left shoulder and shook it.
Doug's eyes fluttered open and he stared at Bob as though he hadn't the remotest idea who he was.
"We have to get going," Bob told him. "It's almost ten o'clock."
He expected Doug to jolt up in surprise. Jesus Christ, we gotta get out o'here then, he heard Doug's voice in his mind.
Doug only looked at him with the same expression, that of a man regarding a complete stranger.
"Doug. Did you hear what I said? It's almost ten o'clock."
Doug cleared his throat. "So?" he muttered.
"Well—" Bob's voice broke off. Doug's reply had flabbergasted him. "I thought—" Again, he broke off.
"Thought what?" Doug said. His voice was guttural, raspy.
Bob tried to smile. "That we had to get on because it's— taking too long. Because I've been holding things up," he added, trying to put the blame on himself.
Doug sat up and rubbed his face with both hands. He hissed, feeling at his right shoulder.
"Shoulder hurt?" Bob asked sympathetically.
"What d' you think?" Doug asked through clenched teeth.
"I'm sorry," Bob said. He tried to smile again. "I've got quite a few sore spots myself."
"Yeah," Doug muttered as though he couldn't have cared less.
Was Doug going back to sleep again? he wondered. They did have to leave. Otherwise, they'd never reach the cabin when Marian was expecting them.
"I . . . saw you sitting by the fire last night," he said to prevent Doug from dozing off again. "Couldn't sleep?"
"Don't need that much sleep, I told you," Doug muttered. "Three twenty-minute naps better than an hour's sleep. You saw me take a ten-minute nap yesterday, do it all the time. Don't need that much sleep. I've gone for days on two hours sleep a night."
"That's . . . very impressive," Bob said. He braced himself. "But shouldn't we get going? Marian will—"
&nb
sp; He broke off as Doug made a growling sound, got out of his sleeping bag, and crawled from the tent. Bob started to follow him, almost bumping into him. Doug was standing just outside the tent, urinating on the ground. What happened to sanitation? Bob thought.
When Doug was through, Bob got out of the tent and moved to the hanging clothes, feeling them. "Not bad," he said. "A little damp." He started pulling on his trousers, expecting Doug to do the same.
His expression glum, Doug was stirring the coals to build up the fire. Why's he doing that? Bob wondered.
He watched as Doug moved over to the rope that held up the food bag and untied it. The food bag thumped on the ground as he let it fall the last few feet.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"What does it look like I'm doing?" Doug said, giving Bob a stony look.
"Well . . ." Bob finished with the fasteners on his jacket. "I don't know, Doug."
"You don't know?" Doug said caustically. "You're the one who wants a piping hot breakfast before taking off."
"Well . . . yes. I do," Bob said. "But yesterday, you wouldn't even let me have a cup of hot coffee before we left, and that was seven o'clock in the morning."
"Yesterday was yesterday," Doug muttered. He was taking what looked like flour and dried milk from his food supply. He got his jacket and put it on— the morning air was chilly— then poured some of the powders into a small metal bowl, added water to it, and began to mix it all together with a wooden spoon. Bob watched him in concern. How long was this going to take?
"Well, what are you looking at?" Doug said.
"I'm . . . just wondering what you're—"
"—making?" Doug interrupted. "Isn't that obvious? We're having pancakes. Now make us some coffee."
Oh, Jesus, Bob thought. This is going to be one hell of a day, I can see it coming.
"Sorry, I don't have any Canadian bacon to go with your pancakes," Doug said scornfully.
Bob sighed. Just don't speak, he told himself. No matter what you say, he'll take it the wrong way, that's for certain.
He finished dressing and put on his jacket. He sat down to pull on his socks and boots.
"Well, how about the coffee, Bobby boy?" Doug snapped.
"As soon as I get my boots on," Bob told him.
"I don't have my boots on," Doug said.
Well, what the hell am I supposed to do about that? Bob thought. Utter a lament?
He finished lacing his boots. Doug had placed the frying pan on the grate and added some oil to it. It still had fragments of trout in it. Shouldn't we clean it first? he heard himself asking Doug. That would be a mistake. So he'd eat his pancakes with trout fragments in them. Better that than agitating Doug any more than he was already agitated.
"You want a little orange juice?" he asked.
"No thanks," Doug responded flatly. "I would like a cup of fucking coffee though."
Jesus, he is pissed, Bob thought. At what though? Everything? Was this day going to be a total nightmare?
He poured some water in his pan and put it on the grate next to the frying pan. He almost winced, seeing the bubbling pancake batter because the frying pan looked so begrimed. But would he dare tell Doug he'd rather not have any pancakes? That would only set Doug off again.
He opened one of his small boxes of orange juice and drank some. It tasted very good to him, tart and refreshing. He washed down a multivitamin with a second swallow.
"Sure you don't want some of this orange juice?" he asked, trying to be amiable.
"Did I say no?" Doug demanded.
Bob was going to repress his reaction. Then abruptly, he decided that the two of them simply could not go on like this for days on end.
"Doug, what's the matter?" he asked.
Doug didn't answer, flipping over the greasy-looking pancakes with his small spatula.
"If it's something I've said, I apologize," Bob told him, wondering if he really felt a genuine concern or was just trying to mollify Doug because he was becoming more and more unnerved by him.
Doug said nothing, his lips pressed together. Bob drew in a quick breath. Let it go? he thought. Or confront it?
He chose the latter, even though it troubled him to consider the possibility that it would only rile Doug further.
"Doug, we can't just go on like this for the rest of the hike," he said.
"The hike?" Doug snickered. "What hike?"
"Doug, I know I'm a total flop as a backpacker, but—"
"That you are," Doug cut him off. "Total."
Bob felt himself getting angry now. Menace or not, he couldn't see himself enduring these endless gibes from Doug.
"All right," he said. "A total flop. But we still have to get along for the next two or three—"
"Why?" Doug demanded.
Bob stared at him in disbelief. "Why?" he repeated Doug's challenge. "Are you prepared to let it go like this the rest of the time? Nothing but tension?"
Doug didn't answer. He poured some instant coffee in his cup and added hot water, wincing as the lifting of the pot of water made his shoulder hurt.
Bob made himself a cup of coffee and took a sip. Now what? he thought. Should he pursue this? Or was it better just to leave it alone? Get through the next few days in alien silence? Somehow manage to survive it as it was?
Doug put two of the small pancakes on a paper plate and tossed it on the ground in front of Bob. "There you go," he said. "Specialité de la maison." One of the pancakes flopped onto the ground.
"Thanks," Bob muttered.
He tried to eat one of the pancakes but it was still doughy, almost tasteless except for the fragments of trout.
Doug obviously noticed his distaste for the pancake. "What's the matter?" he asked. "Not up to your usual gastronomic expectations?" For some reason, Bob felt that Doug was quoting a line from some movie or teleplay he'd been in, maybe a stage play. He wasn't used to hearing such fancy language from Doug.
"Doug," he said.
"Mr. Hansen," Doug responded.
"What the hell is wrong?" Bob said. "Why are you acting like this?"
"Like what?" Doug countered.
"Doug, you're acting like you hate my guts. That the way it is? If so—"
"Oh, shit," Doug muttered, looking past Bob.
Bob turned to see what Doug was looking at.
A black bear was standing near the edge of the clearing staring at them.
"Oh, my," Bob whispered. He felt as though his breath had stopped.
Doug shoved to his feet, screaming, causing Bob to twitch in startlement. "Get out o'here, you son of a bitch!" Doug shouted, waving his arms. "Get the hell out o' here!"
The bear drew back a little but didn't leave, answering Doug's shouts with low, moaning growls and a popping of its teeth, a noise that sounded like dead sticks breaking. Doug picked up a stone and hurled it at the bear. It flew past the bear's head, making it snarl.
"Well, help me for Christ's sake!" Doug snapped, picking up another stone and pitching it at the bear. Bob tried to stand but his legs went limp beneath him and he fell back on the ground. He'd never seen a wild animal so close before. This wasn't zoo time, this was real.
Doug kept yelling at the bear and throwing stones in vain. The bear began to pace, back and forth, swinging its head from side to side, grunting like a pig.
"Get out o' here, you black bastard!" Doug yelled at it. "Go on! Go on! Get out o' here!" He glared at Bob. "Well?!" he demanded.
Bob managed to get to his feet and started to wave his arms at the bear. Doug glared at him, teeth clenched. "Yeah, that's going to help a lot," he said. He threw another stone that hit the bear on the shoulder and made it jerk back, baring its teeth and growling.
"Well, why the fuck won't you go, you bastard?!" Doug shouted at it.
"Go on, go away," Bob said, his voice sounding thin.
"Yeah, that's gonna scare the shit out of him," Doug said furiously. He hurled another stone. "Goddamn you, beat it!" he yelled at the bear. "
Get out o' here!"
The bear moved forward slightly, growling.
"Son of a bitch, they don't usually act this way," Doug muttered. He screamed at the top of his voice, waved his arms wildly, threw two more stones. In vain. The bear wouldn't leave. It started edging forward again.
"Fuck it, I'm gonna kill the bastard," Doug said breathlessly, moving quickly toward the tent.
"Kill it?" Bob look at him in disbelief. "No," he muttered. "No."
He never knew what made him behave as he did. It wasn't that a sudden burst of daring had filled him. It was more, he conjectured later, that the idea of the bear being killed for doing what came naturally to it was too painful for him to accept.
Whatever the reason, he found himself walking forward toward the bear, arms at his sides. "You have to go," he told it. "You'll be killed if you stay. Go on. Please leave. Please." He wondered later at the gentle, soothing quality of his voice as well. Basically, he knew that he was terrified. Maybe it was the kind of mad reaction terror sometimes brought on. But he simply couldn't bear the idea of the bear lying dead and bloody with arrows sticking out of it. He kept on walking slowly but steadily toward the bear. I'm going to die, it's going to kill me, he thought. But he couldn't stop himself, kept approaching the bear with small steps, speaking to it constantly. "Go on. Please go. I don't want to see you killed. Just go. Turn around and walk away. Please."
The bear growled, pawing at the ground. Then it started walking to and fro, emitting odd coughs and high-pitched growls, gnashing its teeth and raising and lowering its upper lip in what looked like ominous grins.
"Please go away," Bob told it, "just go away."
The bear made huffing, puffing noises now, body lurching back and forth with small jerking motions, clawing at the ground brush like a bull. He's getting ready to attack, Bob thought numbly. Why was he still approaching the bear? It seemed totally insane but something kept him advancing, slowly but steadily. "Don't hurt me. Please," he said. "Just go. If you stay, you'll die. I don't want you to die. This is your home. You live here. Go— please go."
The bear stopped growling now and stared at him in what seemed to Bob to be confusion.
"Go on now. Go," Bob told it quietly.
Then Doug yelled from behind him. "Get the fuck out of the way, you idiot!" he said. "You want the arrow in you?!"