Hunted Past Reason

  "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?"

  "Yeah?" Bob more asked than said.

  "Don't forget to do that all the time," Doug told him, "Giardia lamblia can kill."

  "Jesus, what's that?"

  "Parasite," Doug answered. "Deadly little bastards. Use your iodine tablets always."

  "Ooh," Bob said.

  "What's wrong?" Doug asked.

  "The chicken à la king has done its job," Bob answered, making a face.

  "Just as well," Doug told him. "Good time to teach you bathroom regulations anyway."

  "Regulations?" Bob laughed softly.

  "Oh, yeah," Doug said, "very important." He got up. "I'll show you where to go. Come on."

  "Okay." Bob winced a little at the pressure in his bowels. "Not too far, I hope."

  "Far enough," Doug said.

  Bob pulled on his boots and got to his feet with a groan. "Stiff," he said.

  "You'll loosen up," Doug told him. "Get your flashlight and toilet paper."

  He led Bob away from the camp, walking up the slight rise. He walked and walked. "How far are we going?" Bob asked.

  "Far enough," Doug said again.

  Bob couldn't believe how far they were walking away from the campsite. "Jesus, I'll need a compass to find my way back," he said, grimacing; he really had to go now.

  "Okay, this should do," Doug said. Turning, he looked back at the faint glow of the campfire. "About two hundred or so yards," he estimated. He held out his trowel; Bob hadn't noticed that he'd brought it with him.

  "Okay," he said, "behind that boulder would be good. Dig a cat hole six to ten inches deep. Squat over the hole and shit. Then, when you're done, fill the hole back up and tamp the soil down good."

  "What about the toilet paper?" Bob asked.

  "That you can't bury," Doug told him. "Either you burn it at the campsite or you pack it out."

  "Pack it out?" Bob stared at him incredulously.

  "So burn it," Doug said. "Just make sure the smoke isn't blowing in my direction."

  Bob nodded. "What if the ground's too hard for digging?"

  "Cover your crap with dirt or leaves or dead bark or whatever you can find. Just don't leave it uncovered. Some animals might eat it."

  "Oh, Jesus," Bob said, moving behind the boulder. He started to undo his trousers, watching Doug's form moving back toward the camp.

  "What if I have to take a leak during the night?" he called after him. "Do I have to schlepp all the way back here?"

  "No," Doug said across his shoulder. "Just move a decent distance from the campsite." After a few moments, he added, "And try to pee downwind."

  Fifteen minutes later, Bob gave up trying to move his bowels. Maybe tomorrow, he told himself.

  When he got back to the camp, except for his slippers, Doug was completely naked.

  "Whoa! What's going on?" were the first words that occurred to Bob.

  Doug chuckled. "Bath time," he said. "What did you think, I was going to seduce you?"

  "Uh . . . try to seduce me," Bob replied.

  Doug laughed. "Right," he said.

  "Bath time?" Bob asked.

  "I like to do it every night," Doug told him. Bob noticed that he'd filled a cooking pot with water and was heating it on the grate.

  "I thought we slept in our clothes," Bob said.

  "You can." Doug's tone was dubious. "But dirt and body oil can collect on the inside of your sleeping bag that way. Eventually find its way into the fabric, eventually into the fill and break down the bag's insulation ability."

  "Ah." Bob nodded, averting his eyes.

  "This embarrass you?" Doug asked him.

  "No. I just—" He broke off. Don't be so polite, he thought. "Well . . . yes, sort of. Outside of my son, I haven't seen a naked man since college gymnasium."

  "Don't know what you been missing," Doug said. Bob glanced up at him. What the hell did that mean?
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  Doug laughed again. "Jesus Christ, Bob, I'm just kidding."

  "Oh, okay." Bob nodded, trying to smile.

  "If I'd known this was going to bother you, I'd have done it behind a tree. It's a little warmer by the fire though."

  "Yes. Of course." Bob was aware of trying to sound casual and failing.

  "Not that I need the fire," Doug told him. "I'm exothermic; it's easy for me to release heat. My hands and feet are always warm."

  "Not Marian," Bob said, still averting his gaze, "her hands and feet are always cold."

  "She's endothermic then," Doug told him.

  "Ah-ha."

  Doug said no more but took the pot off the grate, using his washrag for a pot holder. Setting it on the ground, he soaked the washcloth in the water. "Whoa. Hot," he said. Taking the washrag out of the pot, he wrung it out gingerly, then started rubbing soap on it.

  "You gonna do this?" he asked.

  Bob sighed. "I dunno. If we were going out for a couple of weeks, I suppose so. But three or four days . . ."

  "More likely four or five the way we're going," Doug told him.

  Again, the little jab, Bob thought. "Isn't this where you were planning to camp the first night?" he asked.

  "Yeah," Doug said, soaping under his arms and over his chest. "But only because I figured we'd never get any farther." He chuckled. "You almost didn't make it here."

  "Mmm." Bob had sat down by the fire now.

  When Doug didn't respond he glanced up. Doug was soaping his stomach and groin, leaning forward slightly. Bob had seen him in a Speedo bathing suit when Doug and Nicole came over to the house to swim. Seeing him entirely naked though made him aware of how muscular Doug was, his stomach flat, his abdomen muscles clearly defined.

  For a moment, he thought of telling Doug how well built he was, then decided against it. He wasn't sure how Doug would react to such a comment. He was aware of how uncomfortable he felt.

  Doug seemed to read his mind. "Sorry if this makes you uncomfortable," he said.

  "No, no. It just . . . caught me by surprise, that's all."

  "How do you plan to wash up?" Doug inquired. "It's not a good idea to keep wearing the same underwear. You do have some extra long johns packed, don't you?"

  "Sure." Bob nodded. "And some packages of moist towelettes to wash myself off with."

  "Well, that'll have to do if it's all you want," Doug said. He was bending over now, soaping up his legs and ankles, then his feet.

  The silence bothered Bob again.

  "I, uh, see that that boulder over there is kind of black. Why didn't you use that same spot for the fire?" he asked.

  "Stupid thing to do," Doug said. He was rinsing the soap off his body now. "That black will be there for centuries. That's why I make a fire ring with stones. Which I'll dismantle in the morning. You'll be helping with the fires so remember never to use wet stones, they can explode in a fire."

  "Oh, my God." Bob winced a little.

  Silence again. He glanced up involuntarily and saw Doug drying himself with a towel, arms raised. He swallowed, wondering if Doug had done this deliberately to embarrass him.

  Oh, don't be stupid, he told himself.

  "I notice that you didn't dig a fire pit," he said to break the silence and divert his mind from more uncharitable thoughts.

  Doug chuckled. "You've been reading," he said.

  "Yeah, well . . . yeah, it did say that in the backpacking book I read."

  "It's a good idea in windy weather," Doug said. He was getting into a clean pair of long underwear now. "It's also less visible and won't bother other campers. But since it isn't windy and there are no other campers, there's no need for a fire pit."

  "Got ya," Bob said.

  Doug put on his slippers again and crouched by the fire, palms extended to the heat.

  "You use only squaw wood to burn," he said.

  "Squaw wood?"

  "I guess they call it that because Indian squaws made the fires," Doug answered. "It's wood that's lying on the ground. You never use living growth for burning. Start the fire with fallen leaves or twigs or pine needles. And if there's not enough dead wood on the ground, break off dead limbs or branches on fallen trees. Or living ones; just make sure the limbs or branches are dead. Got that?"

  "Got it," Bob said. I hope, he thought.

  "You notice that I built a small wall of stones on that side of the fire," Doug said, pointing. "That's to keep the smoke rising in that direction. Don't ask me why that works, I have no idea. It does though."

  Bob smiled. "I didn't notice that before," he said.

  "Tricks of the trade, Bobby," Doug said. "By the way, don't ever try to put out a fire by pouring water over it. That can make rocks explode too. Knew a guy who got blinded that way."

  "Jesus." Bob grimaced.

  "Fires are tricky," Doug said. "Getting them lit is one thing, keeping them lit is another. They'll do anything you want— burn slow, fast, anything— but you have to know what you're doing. Flick the coals one way and it's a goner. Flick them the right way and you've got a fire that'll burn for hours."

  "Well, you're the expert, I leave campfires up to you."

  "No, no, it'll be one of your chores," Doug said. "I'll show you how to start a fire tomorrow."

  "My chores," Bob said.

  "Sure, you didn't think this was going to be a free ride, did you?" Doug said, his tone hardening slightly. "You'll do the fires, do cleanup work. I'll take care of the sleeping arrangements, keep us supplied with purified water." His smile seemed vaguely unpleasant, Bob thought. "In addition to being your guide and protector."

  Bob only nodded. "Okay," he said then.

  "I think from now on we'll use my grate to cook on," Doug said. "Easier than your stove."

  "You mean I brought it for nothing?" Bob asked, looking pained.

  "Well, Bobby, I didn't tell you to buy it, did I?"

  "No." Bob's tone was glum. "That damn salesman . . ."

  "You can use the stove on your own if you want," Doug said. "There's just not much point to it."

  "Yeah." Bob nodded. Sighed. "And I suppose I can't just leave it here," he said.

  "No, no. What you pack in—"

  "—you pack out," Bob finished.

  "Exactly," Doug said.

  9:38 PM

  The fire was low now, little more than glowing embers with a few small tongues of flame licking upward.

  "Have you checked for ticks?" Doug asked.

  "Ticks?" Bob answered, wincing.

  "Yeah, ticks," Doug said. "If you find any attached to your body, cover them with something that'll cut off their air supply— Vaseline, oil, tree sap if you have nothing better. That'll make the tick release its grip and you can remove it. Make sure you get the whole tick though. Grasp it where the mouth parts are attached to the skin. Don't squeeze its body. And wash your hands after touching it. It has fluids that cause lyme disease."

  "Oh, Jesus Christ," Bob said grimly.

  Doug chuckled. "Don't despair. It probably won't happen. You have on long pants and a long sleeve jacket, a hat. Tuck the hems of your pants into your socks for protection."

  Now he tells me, Bob thought. "I can see it all. I'll get lyme disease, catch rabies from some demented squirrel, get bitten by a rattlesnake, torn to pieces by a mountain lion."

  Doug laughed loudly. "Well, you have a lot to look forward to, don't you?"

  "A lot."

  "See, there's one," Doug said. Reaching out he brushed a tick off Bob's hat. "All there is to it. Now get out all your food."

  "What?" Bob looked at him, not understanding.

  "Your food, your food," Doug said, "we have to hang it up so the bears can't get at it."

  "Oh, Jesus, bears too?" Bob reacted. "How many of them are out here?"

  "Not that many," Doug told him, "but they can smell food if it's anywhere around."

  Bob swallowed, nodding. He felt as though he were sinking into a pit. What next? Attack by Indians
? An earthquake? A volcanic eruption?

  He opened his pack and started taking out the food he had in plastic bags. "Plastic bottles too?" he asked.

  "May as well," Doug said, "I've seen bears open bottles with their teeth. I don't know how they can smell what's in the bottles but . . ."

  His voice faded as he started removing plastic sacks from his pack.

  "Why the different colors?" Bob asked.

  "Breakfast, lunch, snack, and dinner," Doug told him. "And coffee, of course. All double-sacked; I notice you didn't do that."

  You never told me to, Mr. Crowley, sir, he heard himself kvetching in his mind.

  "You can also put different kinds of food in different sacks— soup powder, beans, whatever."

  By now, he had taken two heavy cloth bags and a quarter-inch nylon rope from his pack. He tossed one of the bags to Bob. "Put your food in there," he said. "They're called stuff packs. For an obvious reason, I guess."

  He was finished filling and tying up his pack before Bob. Taking hold of the rope, he coiled it and began tossing the end of it at an oak limb about twenty feet above them. On the third try, he got the rope end over the branch so that it hung down in two lengths in front of them.

  "You notice I'm putting the rope about ten feet from the trunk," he said. "Not that that'll stop a really acrobatic bear but it's better than hanging the bags close to the trunk."

  He chuckled. "I've never seen it myself but some guy I met once told me that he saw a mother bear stand on her hind feet and her cub stand on her shoulders, trying to knock down a food bag."

  "No," Bob said incredulously.

  "That's what the guy told me."

  Bob laughed. "What a sight that must have been."

  Doug nodded, chuckling again. "That's for sure," he said. "Like some greaser kid trying to knock down a pinñata."

  Greaser kid, Bob thought, frowning. Just how prejudiced was Doug? They'd never had a conversation revealing it in any way. Was that because Marian was almost always there?

  Tying his bag to one end of the rope now, Doug pulled it up close to the limb. Then, taking Bob's sack, he tied it to the other length of the rope, reaching up as high as he could and looping up the excess rope. Bob noticed that there was a monofilament line on that end of the rope. "What's that for?" he asked.