Hunted Past Reason

  Okay, first step, he thought. It was amazing to him what a sense of satisfaction he felt. Like the feeling he'd gotten after successfully climbing that rock face. I'll beat you yet, you son of a bitch, his mind addressed Doug.

  Now the current of the river was at full speed. With infinite slowness, he braced himself on one foot, then the other and stood, holding both arms extended to help him maintain his balance. Next step, he told himself.

  He drew in several deep breaths and stepped across the small gap onto the next boulder. Here we go, he thought.

  He gasped in sudden shock as his right boot sole slipped on the wet boulder top. "No!" he cried, falling to his knees on the boulder and rocking back and forth, arms extended again, rising and lowering quickly like the wings of a bird in a frantic attempt to gain his balance.

  When he felt secure, he drew in deep, shivering breaths and stared at the plunging movement of the river in front of him. I'm not going to make it, he thought. The next boulder was more than two feet away, the one beyond that even farther away.

  A wave of despair made him groan. For moments, he had an urge to throw himself in the water and let the river take him where it chose, whether to safety or, more probably, to battered death. He had to struggle against the urge. Live! he ordered himself. You have to live! This time the order almost didn't take, he felt so helpless, so completely desolate.

  Only after several minutes of crouching on the boulder had passed did he reacquire enough resolution to go on. Inching himself around, he took several chest-filling breaths, then raised himself slowly and after several moments' hesitation, stepped back to the boulder he'd left. This time, he didn't slip. He considered jumping to the bank, then dropped the idea. Why bother? he thought. My shoes and socks are already wet anyway.

  Stepping down into the cold water, he regained the bank, thinking one word, over and over.

  Retreat.

  He had to walk along the riverbank for almost twenty minutes before he came across the fallen tree. It lay like a bridge across the now slightly narrower river, its pulled-up roots on one side, its foliage on the other. The foliage was still fully grown; the tree must have fallen recently. Good luck for me, he thought. Maybe I have a guardian angel after all.

  The problem was that light was fading quickly now. Up above the forest growth, it was probably still daylight. But under the heavy growth of fir and spruce, shadows were darkening. He had to cross the river fast. His compass heading was still the same.

  Fortunately, the huge roots on the bank and the limbed and branched foliage on the opposite bank held the trunk of the tree well above the surging current. It looked as though he could ease along the trunk, a leg on each side, his boots a few inches above the swift movement of the water.

  He checked his watch. It was getting close to eight o'clock. Thank God for daylight saving, he thought again. But it was going to be dark soon. He'd have to stop, try to light a fire Doug couldn't spot, try to get some sleep and be off again at the first moment of dawn.

  Climbing over the damp, gnarled roots of the tree, he crawled out onto the trunk, then straddled it. He'd guessed— barely accurate— that the darting surface of the river was several inches below the bottoms of his boots.

  Methodically, he began to inch his way along the rough texture of the trunk, wincing at the pain each movement caused, particularly on the rawness of his palms. Why did he pull off the tape before? He could have left it on until he reached the cabin.

  Reached the cabin . . . he thought. Was it really going to happen?

  "Well, if it isn't, what the hell are you going to all this trouble for?" he snarled at himself. Get with it, Hansen. You're crossing the river successfully. You're still ahead of Doug. You may ache and throb and smart and God knows what but you're still alive. That's what counts, isn't it?

  He saw now that he was close enough to the opposite bank of the river to throw his sleeping bag there, his water bottle. Stopping, he carefully removed the sleeping bag from around his neck and began to fasten the straps around it as tightly as he could so that it wouldn't open up when he threw it.

  First, he threw his water bottle across the remaining space, gasping in dread as it bounced off the tree foliage; for a few seconds, it looked as though it was going to be deflected into the river. Then it fell to the ground of the bank and he groaned with relief. He had to be more careful with the strapped-up sleeping bag.

  It was easier than he thought it would be— although the tree trunk shifted slightly under him as he raised his right arm to fling the sleeping bag, the tightly strapped bag flew past the edge of the tree foliage and landed smartly on the riverbank. Good! he thought. Maybe things are going my way at last.

  Then it happened.

  Stunned, his hands jerked off the tree trunk and he toppled to his right as, in the distance, high and echoing, he heard Doug shouting "Bobby!"

  The second echo was engulfed by roaring water as he plunged beneath its leaping, frigid surface. Instantly he was swept along by the swirling, plummeting current, feeling the icy cold of it knifing through his clothes. He fought to reach the surface and, for a flash of seconds, was able to gulp in air. Then he was beneath the water again, kicking and flailing helplessly against its surging pull.

  He surfaced again and watched in shock as he was hurtled by a huge jagged rock. If I'd hit it! The horrifying thought coursed his mind. Then his brain was blanked as he continued tumbling over and under the rushing water, trying in vain to struggle toward the riverbank. He had to reach the bank. If he kept on tumbling this way, he'd be pounded to death on the jagged boulders all along the river.

  He had no control though. Like a weighted cork, he was flung above and beneath the turbulent velocity of the water. He had to get to the other bank. If he stayed in the river, sooner or later he was bound to be smashed against a boulder or a sunken tree.

  Suddenly the river swept him into a boulder-rimmed pool where he was dragged into an overhang and felt himself being tugged down by the cold, dark water. He tried to lift his legs but it seemed as though a huge magnet were holding them down. Unable to fight his way up, he felt the maelstrom sucking him down. Abruptly he was dragged down more then ten feet and his ears began to pop. I'm dead! he thought. It's over!

  With unexpected suddenness, he heard a voice shout in his ears, "Swim out of it!"

  Unquestioning, he forced himself onto his stomach and began to kick as powerfully as he could, breast-stroking with all the strength he could summon. His lungs and chest ached from held breath, his eyes were wide and staring, terrified.

  Abruptly he was flung from the whirlpool as though some unseen force had grabbed his body and hurled him through the water.

  He gasped in air as he burst through the surface. Just in front of him, he saw another fallen tree, a number of logs trapped against it. Frantically, he clutched at a branch of the tree, breath laboring, his expression blank as he looked around expecting to see Doug on the riverbank; someone; anyone. There was no one though. He stared into the confusion of his mind and thought: Who shouted at me?

  9:09 PM

  When he had dragged himself infirmly from the river, he found himself unable to stand. He tried repeatedly; in vain. His legs felt devoid of strength and he kept flopping over like some hapless rag doll.

  Finally, shaking with cold, his entire body aching from his harrowing experience in the river, he half crawled, half pulled himself away from the riverbank until he reached a fallen tree. Working his way beneath its trunk, with weak, fitful movements, he pulled as many dead leaves around himself as he could reach. It helped a little to abate his chilled body. Shivering, with occasional violent spasms, he lay beneath the tree, his body feeling so heavy he was sure he would never be able to move on again.

  Only his brain kept moving.

  Had it been an actual voice? Had something beyond himself come to his rescue?

  He didn't realize that he was smiling cynically at the concept. What he had heard, undoubtedly, was a
n audible expression of his own subconscious. Somewhere along the line, he had read that the only way to escape a whirlpool was to swim out of it. Now that he recalled, it was Randy who had told him that. He'd gone on a river rafting trip, been tossed from the raft, and sucked down into a whirlpool. He must have read about swimming out of it and had done so, thank God.

  Anyway, he'd told his father about it and, obviously, Bob had remembered it and, in the extreme peril of the moment, had produced what seemed to be an audible voice telling him to swim out of the whirlpool. It would be comforting to believe that a guardian angel had saved him. But he couldn't. He couldn't allow himself to slip into such a deluding state of conviction. He'd become dependent on it. God forbid, complaisant in it. And that was out of the question, unacceptable. He still had to depend on himself to reach Marian. And there was a far more serious threat extant than whirlpools.

  There was Doug.

  A shudder racked his body. God, he was cold! He was going to have to move and soon. He had to retrieve his sleeping bag and water bottle, try to light a fire, attempt to dry his clothes— or, at least, dry them as much as he could. He hated having to go back up the river. He must have been swept along for quite a distance, perhaps gaining an unlooked for gain on Doug. But there was no help for it. He had to have the sleeping bag or he'd never make it through the night.

  He tried to avoid thinking about where Doug was but it was impossible for him to do it.

  He couldn't believe— he mustn't let himself believe— that Doug had actually seen him crossing the river on the fallen tree. The forest growth was just too thick— and Doug's echoing shout had come from high above.

  Most likely— he hoped— Doug had been high on a ridge and had— with terrifying coincidence— shouted Bob's name simply to remind him that the pursuit was still on. Not that he needed reminding. He knew Doug had no intention of abandoning the chase.

  The thing was— the question made Bob shudder uncontrollably— how far behind was Doug?

  Leaving the question that preyed on his mind almost every moment, consciously or otherwise.

  Was he going to make it?

  By the time he'd found the sleeping bag and water bottle, darkness had fallen.

  Fortunately, his flashlight still worked. If it hadn't he would never have been able to locate the sleeping bag.

  He unstrapped it, opened it up, and put it across his shoulders to try to warm himself a little. As the darkness deepened, the air grew more and more chilly, making him shiver almost constantly. I'm going to get sick if I don't start getting some warmth in my system. God, but he could use Doug's brandy flask right now. He'd save his one bottle of vodka.

  Filling his water bottle from the river and adding two iodine tablets to it, he moved away from the river, into the forest, shining the flashlight beam on the ground so he wouldn't accidentally run across a rattlesnake or step on a rock or into a hole and damage himself worse than he already was.

  His mind wandered uncontrollably as he moved through the forest. Could Doug see his flashlight beam? Was Doug evil? Anagram: vile. And evil spelled backward is live. Any meaning there? Probably not. Is it evil to live? Evil not to live?

  A wet sneeze broke his idle train of thought. Great! he thought. Next stop, pneumonia.

  He heard Marian's voice in his mind, telling him, "Now you know you're going to enjoy it, Bob."

  Right, Marian, he answered her mentally. Loving every moment of it. Wish you were here.

  He sneezed again, more loudly. Damn it! his mind raged.

  Well, forget the anger, he ordered himself. Find a place where you can stop for the night, get a small fire going, eat some food, start to dry your clothes as best you can.

  He realized, for the first time, that his hat was gone. Oh, big surprise, he mocked himself. It probably went the first second you fell into the river.

  He ran across a patch of berries and checked the survival booklet. They were blackberries, edible. He stopped long enough to eat some and put a few handfuls of them in his jacket pocket. Stalking the Wild Blackberry, his mind felt compelled to observe. Oh, shut up, he responded irritably.

  He came across a ring of boulders near a steep rise. Perfect, he thought. He climbed inside. Was it just his imagination or was it warmer there? Possible, he thought. The boulders might have been in sunlight all or most of the day and, now, were radiating some of the absorbed heat. Whatever the case— he'd even accept imagination if it came to that— it did feel slightly warmer inside the boulder ring. Maybe it was because there was no movement of air. Whatever, he thought. It felt good.

  As quickly as he could, he clambered out of the ring, leaving his water bottle and sleeping bag there and, hastily, gathered some dry grass and twigs for kindling, a few small branches. Did he dare look for a log? He shook his head. He could only afford to burn a fire— and a small one at that— for a short while; long enough to help him dry his clothes a little bit. He had no hope of drying everything completely; they were too wet— especially his boots.

  Returning to the ring of boulders with his fire makings, he scraped and dug a hole with his knife and lay the dry grass in its bottom. Happily, the match container had remained dry and he ignited the dry grass, laying the twigs across it one by one until all of them were burning. The smoke stung his eyes a little but he ignored it, the warmth of the flames felt so good to him.

  As fast as he could move, he removed his jacket shirt and undershirt and wrung them out over a boulder, squeezing as much water out of them as he possibly could. The open sleeping bag wrapped around him, he began to dry first the undershirt, then the shirt. He had removed all the food packets from his shirt and jacket pockets. Most of it was intact except for the bread, which had been turned into a soggy mess by the river. He tossed it over his shoulder, thinking how nice it would be if some stern-visaged environmentalist would suddenly materialize to scold him for tossing away the bread so carelessly.

  "I'm sorry about that," he heard himself addressing the nonexistent environmentalist. "By the way, could you help me to escape a maniac who's chasing me?"

  While he did what he could to dry his wrung-out undershirt and shirt, he ate an energy bar, some turkey jerky, the rest of the cheese, and some blackberries, washing it all down with cold water. He hoped he wasn't eating too much. How much more was he going to need? Was he going to reach the cabin tomorrow?

  He fantasized briefly about roast chicken. The way Marian made it, with apricot sauce. How he'd love to have some of it right now. Was it possible that he could catch a trout tomorrow? That would taste wonderful. He remembered how delicious it had been when Doug fried one up.

  Somehow, that seemed ages ago, the thought occurred. It was almost impossible for him to recollect. The two of them sitting together, well fed, brandy-laced coffee to drink, conversing amiably— well, almost amiably.

  And now Doug was chasing him like some hunter tracking an animal.

  He couldn't help shaking his head. How could he have known Doug all these years, yet never had a hint, an inkling, of what lurked beneath that bluff, seemingly affable demeanor?

  The answer, of course, was obvious now. He'd never really known Doug at all. Doug was an actor after all, and in life, he played as convincing a role as he had, many times, in television, films, or on little theater stages.

  Add to that the fact that their relationship had been completely superficial, based almost entirely on casual socializing with Doug and Nicole.

  Now he could consider it all with more depth.

  Doug was overly proud. He denied— to himself and certainly to others— whatever moral imperfections he had. He had developed an arrogance— disguised as pretension-laced humor— that made him reject— even personally attack— any evidence of those imperfections. What did Peck call it?

  In a few moments, he remembered, nodding. "Malignant narcissism." Everybody out of step but you.

  Every submission to the dark temptations engendered by his moral imperfections undoubtedly
made Doug weaker by the year, constantly opening the path to further— darker— temptations. Now he had submitted to these temptations without recognizing them as submissions. He had lost his freedom of choice. Good was lost as an option. Only evil remained.

  Was it the cold or the thought that made Bob shudder so convulsively? He didn't know. But was that the actual answer? That Doug was uncontrollably evil now?

  Did evil run in families? Was it passed along from generation to generation by some terrible genetic regression? Had it been Doug's father? His mother? Was he actually not to blame for all this, in essence a victim of a dark transmission of genes he knew nothing about?

  Was Doug suffering for any of this? He didn't seem to be. Or maybe it was all willpower, a determination not to allow himself to suffer. To maintain an unyielding conviction that he was in total control, "on top of things."

  Yet, somewhere, deep inside— how deep only God knew— there might well be some kind of fear, a dread that his constant pretense would break down and be lost. That he would then be forced to come face-to-face with the actuality of his nature.

  No. Bob shook his head. He couldn't believe it. Doug had surrendered any possibility of self-awareness. His conscience had been, to all intents and purposes, obliterated. Only his will was left.

  The fire didn't burn very long. And Bob felt too exhausted to climb out of the ring and find more branches. He had managed to almost dry his undershirt, underpants, and socks, half dry his shirt and trousers. His jacket would have to stay wet. In the warmth of the day tomorrow— God help me if it rains, he thought— the jacket might not be too uncomfortable. If it was warm enough he could even drape it over his shoulders and hope the sun would dry it.

  As for his boots— hopeless.

  He was getting sleepy now; it was almost ten o'clock. But he thought it advisable— maybe it was little more than a ghoulish impulse— to take an inventory of his physical afflictions.

  1. His right wrist still aching from when Doug had dragged him out of the water.