Hunted Past Reason Page 4

  "I hope you've done a lot of walking to toughen up your legs," Doug told him.

  "Quite a bit," Bob lied.

  "Well, let's be on our way," Doug said. "Got to keep moving or your muscles will cramp."

  Muscles? Bob thought.

  The stream was wide and fast-moving, a fallen tree across it covered with deep crosshatches. "Makes it easier to cross," Doug said. "Incidentally, since you're so curious about trees, those cinnamon-colored bark ones are incense cedars."

  Bob nodded. Thank you, Professor, he thought.

  Doug bent over and broke a twig off the tree. "Watch," he told Bob, tossing the twig into the stream. It was almost immediately swept out of sight. "That can tell you how fast the water's moving," Doug said. "So if the stream looks deep to you, don't try to cross it, the current might knock you down. Keep going farther downstream and look for a spot where you can cross diagonally."

  He shook his head with a grim smile, remembering. "That's how I lost my backpack that time I mentioned before," he said, "I loosened my straps and unhooked my hip belt, of course, you're supposed to do that. But I miscalculated the velocity of the stream; it was probably a small river actually. And boom! I was in headlong and my pack was gone, washed over a damn waterfall. I was lucky I held on to my bow case." He grinned. "That's when I shot the rabbit for food. Okay, let's cross."

  Bob tried to be as careful as he could but the weight of his pack pulled him off balance and he started to fall. Doug, close behind, grabbed him and pushed him across the tree trunk. He was startled by the ease with which Doug moved him. "Easy does it, Roberto," Doug said, laughing a little.

  As they continued along the trail, not only did Bob's back ache and his legs feel heavy, he started getting breathless as well.

  "You should be getting your second wind by tomorrow," Doug told him.

  And now you'll tell me what that is, Bob thought.

  "It's a surge of energy that follows the period of time it takes you to get used to hard exercise," Doug said. "You'll feel more comfortable, be able to move faster."

  "I'm looking forward to it," Bob said wearily.

  Doug laughed. "You are in piss-poor condition, aren't you?" he said.

  Bob didn't feel like arguing. "Yes, I am," he agreed. "Can we move a little slower?" he asked, "I'm losing my first breath."

  "We're getting up a little higher, that's why," Doug explained casually.

  Bob kept laboring for breath. That's it? he thought. We're up a little higher? I'm still having trouble breathing.

  "Doug, I gotta stop again," he said.

  "What, already? The water's running through you like a sieve."

  "No, it's not that, I just need to rest a little while."

  "Oh." Doug's tone was remote. He's already sorry he invited me on this hike, Bob thought.

  Doug looked at his watch as they sat down. "Getting late," he said.

  "I know, I'm sorry," Bob answered guiltily. He leaned his back against a tree trunk, groaning uncontrollably.

  "You really think you're going to make this, Bob?" Doug sounded honestly curious, marginally concerned.

  "I will, I will, I just—" Bob swallowed and closed his eyes. "How fast do you usually go?" he asked, feeling that he ought to, at least, maintain some level of conversation, especially if it gave Doug a chance to brag a little.

  "At least a dozen miles a day," Doug told him. Bob wondered if he knew why he'd asked the question. "Beginners usually . . . a mile a day, no more," he added, sounding bored.

  "Always measured in miles?" Bob asked. He really didn't care to know but still felt compelled to let Doug be impressive.

  "Not always," Doug said; he sounded a little more interested now. "It can be hours a day too. Most packers give out after four or five hours. I've hiked ten to twelve with no problem."

  "Ten to twelve?" Bob opened his eyes and stared at Doug with genuine awe.

  "Once I went sixteen, once nineteen," Doug told him.

  "That's amazing, Doug." He wasn't trying to cater to Doug now, he was truly impressed.

  Doug seemed to lighten up at that. "I know it's hard for you," he said, "but I'm really trying to take it easy on you, give your muscles a chance to loosen up, get your pulse rate up to snuff."

  "I appreciate that, Doug," Bob told him.

  "You might try relacing your boots," Doug suggested. "See if they're on too tight; you don't want to pinch your feet."

  "Okay, I will. Thanks."

  He started at the strange noise overhead, deep, throbbing, uneven. "What in the hell is that?" he asked.

  "Blue grouse again," Doug told him, "up on the mountain."

  Bob felt himself going to sleep.

  There were at least seven coyotes circling them, maybe eight. There were no trees to climb. The ground was open and bare.

  "What do we do now?" he asked fearfully, turning to Doug.

  Doug wasn't there.

  "Oh, Jesus, only he'd know what to do," he muttered.

  He stared at the growling, slavering coyotes as they moved in slowly.

  He jolted and opened his eyes. Doug had just shaken him by the shoulder. Bob stared at him groggily.

  "You fell asleep," Doug told him.

  "Oh, jeez, I'm sorry, Doug," Bob said, a pained expression on his face.

  "Look," Doug said, "what I'm going to do is go on by myself, set up camp for us."

  Bob stared at him blankly. "I don't understand," he murmured.

  "It's getting late," Doug said. "It takes a while to set up camp. I can go on ahead and get it ready."

  "Well . . ." Bob looked alarmed. "Leave me alone?"

  "Bob, all you have to do is follow the trail," Doug said with a chuckle. "You can't get lost. And when you get to the camp, the fire will be burning, the tent set up, the sleeping bags ready. I'll take yours with me— and your stove, give you less weight to carry. I'll even take some of your damn chicken à la king with me so it'll be ready to eat by the time you arrive. Take you maybe two hours to get there. Maybe less."

  "But . . ."

  "Have to do it this way, buddy," Doug said. "We're behind schedule."

  "What if I get lost?" He was aware of sounding like "Bobby" now, a panicking ten-year-old.

  "Bobby, you can't get lost," Doug said. "Just follow the trail. Okay?" It was more a demand than a question.

  "Okay." His voice sounded timid to him. He swallowed dryly. "There's no chance I could wander off the trail?"

  "None," Doug said, "and if it gets a little dark, use your flashlight. You reversed your batteries, didn't you?"

  "What?" Bob felt helpless and stupid. "What do you—?"

  "Keeps them from running down if the flashlight accidentally gets turned on," Doug told him.

  "Oh." Was he going to just agree to this, let Doug leave him behind in the woods— hell, the forest!— the very first afternoon they were out?

  He tried to struggle up but the pack was too heavy on him and pulled him back; he thudded against the tree trunk.

  "You'll have less weight now," Doug told him, strapping Bob's stove and sleeping bag on his pack. "You'll be fine— able to move a little faster."

  Bob felt as though his mouth was hanging open, his expression appalled as Doug turned away and started walking briskly along the trail. Don't! a voice cried in his brain. What about the mountain lion?!

  That seemed to break the spell of dread. The mountain lion, for Christ's sake? he thought. What did he think, the mountain lion was going to trail him and have him for supper? Grow up, Hansen, he ordered himself. Grow up, get up, and move your ass. This isn't goddamn Deliverance, you know.

  Maybe if I start after him right away and move as fast as I can, I'll be able to catch up to him, he thought abruptly. Good idea. Doug couldn't be walking that fast.

  He tried to stand quickly and fell back, landing clumsily. Yeah, that's great, Hansen, he mocked himself. Real deft.

  He tried again and fell back awkwardly once more. Jesus Christ, he said he took so
me weight off my pack! he thought. It feels as though he added rocks to it instead.

  No. No. He calmed himself. On your knees first, then stand slowly. Got it? He drew in a quick breath, nodding. Got it, he answered.

  Carefully, he turned himself and rose to his knees, then slowly, arms outstretched to keep himself in balance, rose to his feet. There, he thought. That wasn't so difficult now, was it? He tried not to pay attention to the painful drag of the pack on his back, the aching in his legs. Go, he told himself. Move.

  He started to walk along the trail as rapidly as he could. Stand erect, he reminded himself. Don't slump. Don't lift your feet too high. Walk with a steady stride.

  His brain reacted with unexpected irritation. Goddamn it, how am I supposed to remember all that crap? What am I, John Muir? No. He tried to settle his mind. It's already been established that you definitely aren't John Muir. Just walk erect, don't slump, steady stride. It's not that fucking hard, you idiot. Thanks for the kind words, he thought and had to grin.

  He concentrated on keeping a steady stride. Doug was right, that did work better. But then Doug was right about everything. Backpacking-wise anyway. Life? A little different.

  Odd how the forest, which had seemed exquisite and inspiring before, was now beginning to take on the aspects of an ominous entity around him. The tall, thin pines looked like spears, their foliage thick and gray-green, large, scaly cones on the ground beneath them. The huge leaves of the maple trees now looked like random splashes of yellow amid the dark green canopy. Was the green really that dark or was the light starting to fade? That would be all he needed: to be alone in the forest in the dark. Wonderful, he thought. He tried to visualize the possibility with amusement but his involuntary shiver belied it. Great, he thought. Alone in the forest in the dark. And I don't even have my sleeping bag now! he suddenly realized. I'd goddamn freeze to death! They'd find my skeleton twenty years from now, lying under—

  Oh, shut up! he commanded himself. And straighten up for Christ's sake, you're slumping! "Oh," he muttered gloomily. He fought away anxiety. Just— follow— the— goddamn— path; that was all he had to do. He wasn't in the great North Woods. This was a national park in California and he was on a trail. A trail, Hansen, he reminded himself.

  No, wait. Goddamn it, I am slumping again! There must be some way to control—

  Yes! His face lit up as he moved to a fallen tree and found a branch on it with the right thickness. Taking out his hunting knife, he started to saw away at it so that it would be about five feet long. Oh, great, he thought, the knife was just about sharp enough to slice its way through butter.

  He hacked and pulled at the branch until it broke off, then cut off the twigs (sure, those the damn knife can cut off, he thought) and did the best he could to level the end of the branch.

  He began to walk again, using the branch as a staff. Not bad, he thought. It did help keep him more erect. Now just move at a steady pace and you'll—

  "Jesus Christ!" He stopped and jerked around as something rustled noisily in the brush to his left. Just before it vanished, he saw that it was a fleeing rabbit.

  "Oh . . . God." He swallowed dryly, then opened his bottle and took a drink of water. His heartbeat was still pounding. Is it going to be like this the whole time? he wondered. I thought it was something big, something dangerous. A rabbit, for chrissake. He groaned at his vulnerability. Just keep going, will you, Hansen? he suggested. Yes, by all means, he replied politely to himself.

  He started walking again. It did seem easier to stay erect and keep a steady pace using the staff. For a few moments, he visualized himself as a proficient woodsman striding through his familiar wilderness. After all, he had only to follow the very obvious trail. Soon enough, he'd reach the campsite. Doug would be waiting there, a cozy fire burning. Dehydration or no dehydration, he would partake of one of his little bottles of vodka.

  He seemed to be going uphill more now. At least the strain of walking seemed to be increasing and it was becoming more and more laborious to breathe. Well, he could manage that. If only it wasn't getting so shadowy. The more shadowy it became, the more menacing the silence seemed.

  Ordinarily, he loved silence. Where Marian and he lived in Agoura Hills, it was deathly silent, far from the freeway noises; and he enjoyed it immensely, they both did. Sitting on their deck at sunset, having drinks, they often commented on how quiet it was. There, quiet seemed peaceful and comforting. Here . . .

  Well, it's the unknown, he tried to reason with himself. Just . . . keep moving and stop worrying about it. It ain't gonna kill you.

  "I hope," he muttered. He frowned at himself. "Shut up," he said.

  He had to stop and empty his bladder again, then take another drink of water. The bottle was getting pretty empty, he saw. What if he got lost and ran out of water?

  "Oh, for God's sake, shut the hell up," he ordered himself. Drawing in a deep, he hoped, restoring breath, he continued walking.

  As he got into a rhythmic stride, he began to think about Doug.

  Was it really necessary for him to go on ahead and leave me behind? he wondered. After all, how much more difficult would it have been to set up camp if they'd gotten to the place together, wherever it was?

  This was their first day out too. Doug knew he was uneasy. He knew that Marian was uneasy. Was it really thoughtful of him to hurry on ahead to make camp? Or had there been something mean about it, something actually a little cruel under the circumstances?

  He thought about the few years they had known Doug and Nicole, then, limitedly, Doug by himself. They were never really close. They'd had a few laughs together but their personalities didn't really blend that well. Nicole was pleasant enough, very beautiful (she'd been a model), but a little cut off and remote. And, from the very start, she'd obviously been unhappy about her marriage to Doug. The death of Artie had really torn what threads were left intact in their relationship.

  What Doug and he had shared most in common was their knowledge and attitudes toward the motion picture and television business. They were both highly dissatisfied and frustrated by it, Doug more than him because, as relative as the pain was, actors did have it worse than writers. He could, at least, submerge his disappointments by writing a short story or a novel. Doug could only do a little theater that while creatively fulfilling involved no monetary satisfaction at all.

  In other words, Bob thought— in other words, had there always been an edge of envy, even resentment in Doug? And had he just demonstrated a small bit of that by leaving him behind in the woods?

  "The forest," he said. "The forest."

  It wasn't any charming, sweet, endearing woods.

  It was BIG. Powerful. Unyielding. A massive, silent being that could and had swallowed men alive.

  That's a charming image, he thought.

  But he couldn't dispel it.

  Well, here's another goddamn thing he didn't tell me about, he thought.

  He stared glumly at the fast-moving stream in front of him. On its opposite shore, the path obviously continued.

  Now what? he thought. It was definitely getting darker and there was no way he could see to cross the stream: no fallen tree trunk, no stepping-stone boulders.

  "Well, what am I supposed to do now, Dougie boy?" he asked loudly.

  Breaking a tiny piece of twig off his staff, he tossed it into the stream and watched it be swept away by the bubbling, splashing current. Great, he thought, his face a mask of annoyance. Now I know it's moving fast. Thank you, Douglas, for that enlightening bit of woodlore. It changes everything.

  He drew in a quick, convulsive breath. This isn't funny, Bob, he told himself. What was he supposed to do, walk across the stream, get his boots and socks and trousers soaking wet? Screw that.

  "Well . . ." Grimacing, he started walking along the edge of the stream, hoping to find a narrower part of it.

  Up above, a wind was starting to blow in the high pines. Great, he thought, a storm.

  He sh
ook that away with a scowl. Stop being a baby, he told himself. Doug got across the damn stream, so can I.

  For a while, he imagined Doug coming up with a rope from his pack, hurling one end of it across the stream, encircling a branch with it, and swinging across like Tarzan.

  "Not likely," he muttered, moving guardedly along the stream edge so he wouldn't stumble on a stone.

  About twenty yards down, he came across a tree trunk fallen across the stream. "Ah," he said. "Ah." You might have mentioned it to me, he said to Doug in his mind. You know this goddamn forest, I don't.

  As he crossed the trunk, it shifted with him. "Oh, God," he muttered. Flailing at the air for balance, he lost hold of the staff and dropped it in the stream. By the time he'd fallen to one knee on the tree trunk, grabbed hold of it, and regained his balance, the staff was long gone, washed downstream by the leaping current. Great, he thought as he made it finally to the other side of the stream. Easy come, easy go.

  He walked back along the stream until he reached the trail and started along it again. This is a goddamn national forest, he thought as he walked. Why didn't they put some kind of bridge on the stream so the trail could be followed more easily? It might have been considerate to novices like me.

  He concentrated on walking erect, not slumping, lifting his feet, keeping a steady stride. Well, he should be at the campsite soon. He swallowed uneasily. He'd better be. The light was fading fast. At least, it seemed to be. Maybe it was because of the thick tree growth.

  Just keep going, he told himself. Erect. Feet lifted. Steady stride. He walked through the deep, silent forest, trying to remain convinced that he would reach Doug soon, have that vodka, dine on chicken à la king, and, most of all, rest his weary bones.

  5:13 PM

  "Good God," he muttered.

  Just ahead of him, the trail split.

  He stared at it in utter dismay. For the first time since he'd started after Doug he felt a genuine sense of fear. What was he supposed to do now? Doug did it on purpose, he found himself thinking.

  He'd gone on ahead, not to set up a camp but to leave him behind, hopelessly lost.