At one point, he began to suffer spastic contractions in the muscles of his legs. As though he had expected this, with no reaction of surprise or fear, he hung down one leg at a time until the contractions eased. Then he started climbing again.
He lost all sense of time. Life had diminished to the climb. There was nothing else but the climb. He forgot about Doug, about Marian, about his very existence. There was only one thing. Climbing to the top of this wall. Slowly. Carefully. Patiently. Methodically. Reaching the top.
Nothing else mattered.
When he reached the crest of the rock face and raised his head above the edge, he found himself looking directly into the dead eyes of an enormous rattlesnake.
Expressionless, he stared at the snake as its tail buzzed loudly, vibrating back and forth so rapidly he couldn't follow the movement.
This is too much, the thought came quietly. It can't be true. I made the climb just to end like this?
He didn't move. The rattling of the snake's tail slowed.
Remembering the bear, then, he began to speak.
"Listen," he said, "I'm not going to hurt you." As if I could, added his mind. "And you're not going to hurt me. Just . . . turn around and move away so I can get up here. Come on. You're just scared to see me. You don't want to hurt me. Just turn around and go away. That's a boy."
The snake remained motionless. Its tail was still now. It didn't move though. Its lifeless eyes kept staring into Bob's.
"Come on now," he told the snake in as gentle a voice as he could summon being breathless, his throat dry.
The standoff seemed to continue for minutes but Bob was sure it hadn't been that long before the snake abruptly uncoiled itself and glided away, disappearing into some brush.
Bob crawled weakly onto the crest of the rock wall and fell on his back, breathing with difficulty. Jesus, he kept thinking. Jesus. I did it again. First the black bear. Now the rattlesnake. What am I, some animal guru?
For some reason, he began to think about karma. He believed in it, didn't he? That being the case, what in the hell had he done in his last lifetime or lifetimes to justify all these things happening to him? Who was he, Judas Iscariot for God's sake?
He realized then that, as far as he knew, snakes probably couldn't hear. They kept sticking their tongues out— why, to smell or what? They could probably feel vibrations. But hear? Not likely, and there he'd been emoting philosophy to the snake. "Jesus Christ," he muttered. Don't make a spiritual experience of this, Hansen. He hissed, shaking his head. What a dimwit.
He made himself look over the side of the rock wall. It was a cliff, by God, that's what it was. He gaped down at the floor of the canyon far below. My God, he thought. I climbed up here? Me, the worst-conditioned man in California?
It seemed an inappropriate time for laughter but he couldn't help it. And Doug would have to climb it carrying all that crap on his back! It was hysterical. He couldn't stop laughing at the thought, his body shaking, tears running down his cheeks. Unbelievable, he thought again and again. Unbelievable.
After several minutes, he checked his watch.
It had taken him more than an hour to make the climb. No time to rest.
He had to move on.
6:37 PM
The sun was going down now. How soon before darkness? he wondered. That would be a fearful time. Should he keep going in the dark? It might gain him time over Doug. But was it safe? Animals came out at night. He might inadvertently step on a rattlesnake. He might slip and fall, break a bone. Anything might happen.
He'd think about it later. While it was still light, he had to put some distance between himself and Doug. Despite a body that felt more exhausted and aching with every passing hour, he had to keep going. For a short while after successfully climbing the rock face, he'd felt exhilarated, as though he was getting his second wind.
Not now. He knew exactly how tired he felt, how many aches and pains he felt. When he'd pulled the tape off his hands— he should have left it on— he'd pulled away loose skin. Now his palms were partially raw, still oozing blood. He'd put a bit of Bactine on them, stinging them, but did it help any? Maybe he'd try to bandage them later if there was time.
He walked infirmly through shadowy ravines and canyons. He suspected that some of the plants he was thrashing through were poison ivy or poison oak because of their three-leaf pattern. All I need, he thought, smiling despite the uneasiness of the thought.
Trudging through a spruce and hemlock grove, he heard the sound of moving water ahead. Thank God, he thought. He'd finished what little water he'd left in his bottle. He'd been desperately afraid of finding no more water. That would be a real catastrophe. The packets of water wouldn't last long at all.
Emerging from the grove of trees, he saw a quickly moving stream ahead, its current splashing over gray rocks, spraying in the air.
Moving down to the stream, he lay in front of it gingerly and used his hands to ladle water into his mouth. It was icy cold and the taste of it made him groan with pleasure. It felt good on his hands as well.
He filled his water bottle, added two iodine tablets— he hoped he hadn't made a mistake drinking directly from the stream— then slumped down to sit beside the stream, hissing at the biting pain in his rectum. Bastard, he thought.
Where was Doug now? he wondered. It was the first time in hours he'd allowed himself to estimate how close Doug might be behind him. He was behind, wasn't he? He had to be. If he had really abided by the rules of his demented game, he'd given Bob a three-hour head start. The main question now was: Did he also climb that rock face? Or did he backtrack, knowing a faster way to overtake Bob? If that was the case . . .
He shivered convulsively. There was the problem. He couldn't outthink Doug. He simply didn't understand him. He was sure of only one thing: that Doug would persist in this madness until the very end. He probably wasn't even allowing himself to consider that what he was doing was insane. He's crossed the line and feels justified, Bob thought.
And, of course, he couldn't let Bob live now; not after everything that had happened.
Bob had to die.
He swallowed dryly, took another swallow of the cold water from his bottle.
Or Doug had to die, the reverse thought came.
One of them wasn't going to survive this insanity, that was certain.
I really should move on, he thought. But he was so tired. He had to rest awhile longer, he just had to. I'm so tired, so damn tired, he thought. And I hurt so much. He'd like to just give up. If I was single, I would, he realized. But he had to get to Marian before Doug could reach her.
Get some goddamn energy inside yourself for chrissake, he told himself suddenly.
"Yes," he said. Unzipping his jacket he took out an energy bar and some dried fruit, began to eat. What else was there? He felt around in his shirt and, feeling the booklet, drew it out. He took the folding glasses from his jacket pocket and put them on.
" 'Survival in the wilderness,' " he read aloud, adding, "Subtitle: With Some Crazy Bastard Chasing You. Life Support Technology, Inc."
He opened the booklet and read the copyright date: 1969. Right up to date, perfect, he reacted. He looked at the opposite page. Although we may be unable to control our circumstances, it read, we can control how we operate and live within them. True, he thought. But will I be capable of doing that?
He turned to the next page and read: "The purpose of this booklet is to aid and insure your survival and rescue under wilderness conditions in North America."
Reassuring, he thought. Except that the booklet lacks a chapter entitled What to Do If a Maniac Is Chasing You to Kill You.
The introduction mentioned five basic needs. Water. Food. Heat. Shelter. The last one surprised him. Spiritual Needs. Sounds good, he thought, although I'd be glad to exchange all those needs for a loaded rifle. Whoever wrote the booklet simply hadn't prepared it for a prey in flight. He drew in deep, trembling breaths. Maybe Spiritual Needs was a necessity.
He'd hold that in abeyance.
Remember, the booklet read, we tend to magnify the hazards of strange and unfamiliar surroundings. True enough, he thought. But how was it possible to overmagnify Doug chasing him with a bow and arrow through these unfamiliar surroundings.
"Oh, well," he said. Another trembling breath. The booklet wasn't designed for that sort of thing. What it was designed for could well be of value to him. Bless Marian for secreting it in the pocket of his shirt. It might make all the difference.
He ran his gaze down the list of basic suggestions. Treat injuries. Shelter and fire of prime concern. Select a site close to water. Signal fires? Hardly. Assume that you are going to have a few days' wait for rescue. Double hardly. He had to keep on moving.
"Stay clean," he read. A daily shower with hot water and soap. Keep underwear and socks as clean as possible. Keep your hands clean. Avoid handling food with the hands. Sterilize heating utensils. Hardly again. He just wanted to make it alive and first to Doug's cabin, then drive away with Marian like a bat out of hell. A shower a day with hot water and soap? Sure.
" 'Fear of the unknown weakens one's ability to think and plan,' " he read aloud. That I buy, he thought. I'm not going to let that happen though.
He turned the pages rapidly. No point in studying anything until (or unless) the need came up. Snow Blindness and Frostbite. Not likely he'd need to consult that section. Snake Bite. He hoped he wouldn't need that entry. Fire Starting. Absolutely. Bless you again, Marian. Water. Undoubtedly. Temperature and Wind Chill Chart. Doubtful. Shelters. More than likely. Food. Definitely; he hoped the booklet described wild food he might run across— berries, seeds, roots, plants. On that the booklet could prove invaluable. Signaling. Not very likely. Snares. Wouldn't it be wonderful if he could catch Doug in one of the illustrated ones— the hanging snare, the dead fall, the "twitch up" trigger snare. But they were all for smaller game. And how could he possibly guess exactly which way Doug was going to come? Moreover, even if he set up a snare, Doug would certainly recognize it in an instant and all that careful preparation would turn out to be a waste of time.
Fishing Hints. Definitely a possibility. He was going to need some solid food if he was going to maintain the strength to reach the cabin. Knots. Probably useless— unless he could get one of them around Doug's neck. Didn't he wish.
"Travel" was the last section. He saw the opening sentence. the best advice is: stay put.
"Sorry," he said. "Bad advice."
He turned to the last page and, despite all weariness and anxiety, had to chuckle at the titles of reference books by Euell Gibbons. Stalking the Wild Asparagus; Stalking the Blue-Eyed Scallop; Stalking the Healthful Herbs.
"Those are the titles I really need," he said.
He stiffened abruptly at a noise across the stream.
Frozen, heart beginning to throb jerkingly, he saw, in a clearing some fifteen yards distant, a bear with two cubs.
He assumed that she was a black bear— didn't Doug say they were the only bears in this region? This bear was cinnamon-brown though and while one of the cubs was the same color, the second one was dark brown with orange tips on its ears.
What do I do now? he thought. He saw no answer but one— to remain immobile. If he jumped up and ran, the mother bear, thinking to protect her cubs, would likely pursue him. He doubted if shouting at it and waving his arms would dissuade a mother bear. And certainly he could not expect to speak it out of attacking. All this thought in a few seconds as he sat unmoving, afraid he might cough or sneeze or make the slightest noise.
A swooping movement in the air caused his gaze to jerk upward. A huge bald eagle was descending quickly in a shallow glide, then hovering above the bears. The cubs scattered in terror, followed protectively by their mother.
But the eagle wasn't interested in them. Could it have possibly lifted one of them if it had been interested? Bob wondered.
It paid no attention to the cubs though, instead suddenly sweeping over the stream, braking wildly, then dropping like a stone into the water to grab a large fish in its talons.
Bob twitched as the mother bear came charging across the clearing, heading for the stream. As it thrashed into the water in an ungainly lunge, the eagle tried desperately to rise and carry away the flopping, struggling fish. It wasn't strong enough however and as the mother bear came too close, it let go of the fish and soared up rapidly into the air. The bear braked clumsily in a splash of water and seized the fish in her mouth, then carried it back to her cubs.
As the three of them disappeared into the woods to supper on the fish, Bob stood on unexpectedly shaky legs, braced himself, then started along the bank of the stream as quickly as he could.
He'd cross it later. When he was— hopefully— well out of range of mother bear and her cubs.
7:22 PM
How soon would it be dark now? he wondered. Did he have another hour of light— or, at least, enough light to see his way? He'd have to hope and pray for that. Pray? he reacted. Somehow, the notion struck him as hypocritically absurd. He had to make this on his own. Whatever his beliefs, he had to go it alone. There was no other way. Prayer would only distract him now— or worse, give him false hope.
Up ahead, he heard the sound of water. This was much louder than the sound of the stream; rough and rushing water, how wide he couldn't imagine. Would it even be possible to cross?
Four minutes later, he knew. This was a river, more than twenty feet wide, its current so rapid that he knew immediately he couldn't ford it as he and Doug had done yesterday. There was no possible way he could wade across it; he'd be instantly swept away in the racing current.
Did he have to cross it? he wondered suddenly. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he took out the compass and checked it.
His cheeks puffed out as he released a dismal exhalation. "Naturally," he muttered. The river had to be crossed. Unless Doug had given him inaccurate instructions about using the compass. Was that possible? He found himself unable to believe it. Above all, Doug would want this chase to be authentic. It would be of no satisfaction at all to him to win this game by cheating. He didn't have to cheat anyway. Bob was sure that Doug had total confidence in his ability to win this awful game.
But how was he to cross the river? There seemed only one way and that a perilous one— to step— or jump— from one boulder to another. But where? He moved along the bank of the river— its current sounded thunderous to him— looking for a grouping of boulders that might serve his need.
About fifty yards down he came across a spot where the river seemed somewhat narrower and a possible crossing existed in a pattern of boulders. He stared at them uneasily. They were certainly big enough to step on but all of them looked wet from the rush of water splashing over them. Keep looking, he thought. He couldn't though. There wasn't time for a leisurely search of the river, looking for possible crossing spots. How far could he assume that Doug was behind him? Had he climbed the same rock face? Or had he taken another route? An easier route.
A faster route.
Shuddering, Bob realized that he had to make up his mind immediately. He'd try stepping— once jumping— from boulder to boulder. What else could he do?
He stood motionless by the bank of the torrentlike river and tried to brace himself for the attempt at crossing. He couldn't fall in; that was out of the question. Out of the question? he thought with a bitter smile. It wasn't out of the question at all. It was a matter of life or death. If he fell into the river, he'd be drowned or smashed to pieces against a boulder.
He sighed exhaustedly, almost allowing himself the option of simply sitting down and waiting for Doug to overtake him, kill him. God knew it would be easier than what he was planning to do on the slippery boulders. An arrow in his chest— more likely in his back— and it would all be over. This part of the torment anyway. He knew that he'd survive his death. What came afterward, he'd have to face, have to accept.
But then, again— always again— there was Maria
n. He simply couldn't leave her to be victimized by Doug. He had no doubt whatever that Doug would do exactly as he said— cajole and sympathize, pull out every performing stop until he'd finally managed to convince Marian that he had died accidentally, that Doug felt desolate about it, that he'd start to move in on her, psychologically at first, then physically.
Bob felt his body tensing at the image— No, goddamn it, he thought. "No, goddamn it!" he said furiously. It wasn't going to happen that way. He was going to live. Dying was too easy. He wasn't going to take that route. That route was surrender.
He untied the sleeping bag and removed it. It would throw him off balance on his back. He hung it loosely around his neck— when he got far enough across the river he'd toss the bag to the opposite bank. He had to keep his boots on; he knew that. Barefooted, he'd slip on the boulder tops almost immediately.
He emptied his water bottle. That took some weight off him. Maybe he could throw the bottle to the opposite bank as well when he'd gotten close enough to it.
What else? Any other weight he could eliminate? No, there was nothing. It was time to go.
The first boulder was about five feet from the bank. Too far to jump. He'd have to get his boots and socks wet, no help for that. The current along the bank was slower than it was in the center of the river— a massive boulder farther back divided the current and decreased its rushing impetus.
Taking a deep breath (Okay, if I really do have a guardian angel, this is the time for you to help me out, the thought flitted across his mind), he stepped into the water and moved quickly to the first boulder, clambered onto it with both knees. The water was, as expected, icy cold and the boulder slippery wet. He wavered to the right and left, until he'd managed to get balanced.