Hunted Past Reason Read online

  A spasm of coldness shook his body. No, you're being paranoid, he thought. Would Doug have taken him all the way up here for some kind of terrible revenge? Revenge for what? Envy, okay, maybe so. A little jealousy. But this?

  "No," he said. "No. No." He shook his head. He was being ridiculous. There was some other reason. Doug hadn't been up here for a long time. He'd forgotten that the trail split, that was all.

  "In that case . . ." he murmured.

  He looked at the bushes and trees around the dividing trail. A piece of paper, a note, a scrap of rag. Something to mark the trail he was supposed to follow.

  There was nothing. It was shadowy beneath the trees but surely he'd see a rag or piece of paper if Doug had placed one to mark his way.

  He drew in a deep, trembling breath. Dear God, he thought. He really didn't know which way to go. And Doug had not left any sign to help him.

  He swallowed dryly. His throat felt parched. Removing the top of his water bottle, he took a sip. Not too much, he cautioned himself. You don't want to run out of water.

  "Sure," he said cynically. That's what really matters. I can be totally lost in the forest, but so long as I have water, I'll be fine. "Damn," he muttered. "Stupid idiot."

  All right. All right. He straightened up, a look of determination on his face. Maybe this was a test, a goddamn test. That sort of thing Doug would do. He was setting up a situation where logic could tell him which half of the trail to follow.

  All right, think, he thought; think, you moron.

  The right-hand trail looked as though it was beginning to angle downward. That would indicate that it was heading toward the lake Doug had mentioned. Was the answer as simple as that?

  No, the left-hand trail could also be leading to the lake. Couldn't it? The lake could be to the left, not the right.

  Which leaves me right back where I started, he thought. He tried to find some measure of amusement in the thought but couldn't really do it; the situation was too potentially serious to be amusing in any way.

  Well, for Christ's sake, make up your mind! he ordered himself. He couldn't just stand here like a bump on a log and—

  He had to snicker at the memory. A bump on a log? He hadn't thought of that phrase since he was a boy. His mother had used it often.

  "All right," he said firmly, "which way, Hansen, right or left?"

  The right-hand path seemed the most likely. It was angling down and that would indicate it heading toward the lake. And Doug had said it might take him less than an hour to reach the campsite. So the right path was the most logical one to take. There you go, Bobby, he imagined Doug telling him when he reached the campsite. You just passed your first test in Woodlore I.

  "Yeah, yeah," he muttered, starting forward onto the right-hand trail.

  The trail kept getting steeper as he moved along. He found himself tending to lean back, trying to center the weight of the pack so it wouldn't pull him forward.

  The path was also getting darker as he walked. Looking up, he could see, through rifts in the tree foliage, that it was still light. You'd never know it down here, he thought.

  He kept looking to the right, trying to catch a glimpse of the lake. But all he saw was endless forest. Was this the right way after all? Had he made a mistake? Maybe—

  He gasped out in shock as something rolled beneath his right boot and he found himself lurching helplessly to his left. "No!" he cried, starting to fall, thrashing, into some brush.

  His right palm, flung down automatically to brace himself against the fall, hit the ground and was scraped across it, making him hiss in pain. A jagged streak of pain stabbed at the right side of his back as he thudded to a halt, a bush twig raking across his right cheek, making him hiss again.

  He lay motionless in the brush, gasping for breath. Oh, Jesus, what if I've broken something? he thought, terrified. What if I'm on the wrong path and I've broken a bone?

  The sound he made, intended to be a despairing laugh, came out, instead, as a sob. "Jesus, Jesus, Jesus," he murmured, eyes tearing. What am I doing here? he thought. His throat felt dry again. He lay immobile, aware of his body twisted into a heap. I'm finished, he thought. I'm gone.

  He forced air into his lungs. Shut up, he told himself. Just shut up. He'd taken a clumsy tumble, nothing more. It's not as if that mountain lion is about to pounce on me and bite off my face.

  He grimaced at the thought. Great imaging, he told himself.

  "All right, get up, for chrissake," he said irritably. "Get off your ass— or whatever you're lying on. Night is going to fall too if you don't get moving."

  Laboriously, with slow, groaning movements, he struggled to his feet. His back felt sore and tender, his right palm hurt. But, at least, he didn't appear to have any broken bones.

  He got back on the trail and stood still, wondering what to do.

  "Doug?!" he shouted. He had to clear his throat, took a sip of water, then shouted again. "Doug! Doug!"

  Was that an answer? he thought, suddenly excited. He shouted Doug's name again and again, finally realizing that what he was hearing was the echo of his own voice.

  "Oh . . . shit," he muttered.

  The whistle! he thought suddenly.

  Fumbling through his jacket pockets until he found it, he blew on it as hard as he could. He had to drink more water; his mouth felt dry. He blew on the whistle again, struggling to make the sound as loud as possible.

  There was no response.

  "You bastard," he muttered. "You lousy bastard."

  He continued down the path, moving with cautious steps. What the hell had rolled beneath his boot anyway? A twig? A rock? A pinecone? Whatever it was, it had sure made him take a real flop into the brush. For a few moments, he visualized John Muir accosting him and saying, "Bob, if I were you, I'd go back to Los Angeles, you really don't belong out here," and him replying, "Mr. Muir, how right you are."

  Twelve minutes later, he reached the lake and the end of the trail. The open area of water made the light brighter; it wasn't that close to darkness after all.

  Neither was it any spot for a campsite. There was thick growth all the way to the shore, no possible flat, open areas anywhere in sight. So the trail had been the wrong one after all. Great. Sorry, Bobby, you just failed test number one in your Woodlore course, Doug told him in his imagination. Try again.

  "You son of a bitch," he said. "You miserable son of a bitch, not letting me know which trail to take."

  He winced as he realized how his right palm hurt. Looking at it, he saw dried blood streaks across it, imbedded dirt, scrapes, and scratches.

  Kneeling— the movement sent a streak of pain across the right side of his back that made him cry out softly— he put his palm in the cold water of the lake, and removing his handkerchief, he rubbed it on the palm as gently as he could to clean it off. "Oh . . . Jesus," he said, his face contorted from the stinging pain.

  How am I supposed to write a convincing novel about backpacking if I've never backpacked once, he heard himself telling Marian. He sighed heavily. Would that I had written that novel about Hawaii she suggested I write, he thought.

  He straightened up with a grunt of pain and effort.

  "Doug!" he shouted. "Damn it, where are you?!"

  This time, the echo was more distinct. What, the open water? he wondered.

  "What's the difference?" he said as he started back up the trail. Now how long was it going to take to reach the campsite? he thought. Would it be dark by then? He blew out hissing breath. Good ol' Doug, he thought. My pal.

  He stopped to take another sip of water, then continued up the trail, leaning forward to keep the weight of the backpack centered. His water was really getting low now. What if he still wasn't able to find Doug? What if Doug did do all this to lose him? He shivered, grimacing. Come on, he told himself. Don't be goddamn paranoid. You do this all the time. What was that song Mel Brooks composed for The Twelve Chairs? "Hope for the best; expect the worst," he sang softly. Something
like that. And that was him. "You're a goddamn pessimist, Bob," he informed himself. As if I didn't know, he thought.

  When he reached the split in the path and started along the left one, he tried to see what time it was but it was too dark in the heavy shade for him to read the watch face. He stopped and retrieved his flashlight. Don't forget to reverse the batteries, he thought. Oh, fuck you, he answered himself, switching on the flashlight and pointing the beam at the face of his wristwatch.

  "Oh, my," he said. It was seven minutes after seven. This time of year, it was going to be dark soon now. Thank God they hadn't left after daylight savings time had ended or it'd be dark already. Damn you, Doug, he thought. Why did you do this to me on the very first day? It was unconscionable, really unconscionable.

  He became aware that he was limping slightly as he walked. All I need, he thought. Days of hiking ahead and a limp. "Swell," he muttered. He was really getting angry with Doug now. What the hell right did he think he had to leave him alone on the first day of their hike?

  His anger kept mounting as he limped along the trail. By the time he saw the glow of the campfire ahead, there was nothing left in him to react with relief at the sight. He was all anger.

  "Hey, there he is," Doug said as Bob walked up to the campsite.

  "Don't-ever-do-that-to-me-again," Bob told him in a low-pitched, shaking voice.

  "What?" Doug looked perplexed.

  "Do you have any idea what I've been through?" Bob demanded. "You don't tell me there's no way to cross that stream at the trail. You don't tell me there's a goddamn split in the trail."

  "Bob—" Doug said.

  "So I go down the right-hand trail and fall because it's so damn steep! I hurt my back, I scrape my palm! I find the lake and there's nothing there but water!"

  "Bob!" Doug cried. "Take it easy. Let me—"

  "Take it easy?!" Bob almost yelled. "I was fucking terrified out there! Terrified! I screamed your name as loud as I could! I blew your goddamn whistle until I was out of breath!" He knew his voice was breaking and he sounded on the verge of crying but he didn't care. "What the hell was wrong with you, leaving me alone like that?! You know I've never done this sort of thing before! You know it goddamn well!"

  Doug tried to grab Bob's arm. "Bob, will you kindly let me—"

  "Why didn't you tell me there was a split in the trail?!" Bob shouted.

  "I didn't remember that there was!" Doug answered sharply.

  "Oh, well, great, great!" Bob said. "What was I supposed to do, guess which trail to follow?"

  "No, Bobby, no," Doug said, sounding angry now. "I did mark the left-hand trail! I did mark it!"

  Bob felt struck dumb by Doug's words. Then suspicion struck again. "How?" he demanded. "There was no note, no piece of paper, no piece of rag."

  "Did you look at the ground?" Doug demanded back.

  "The ground?! It was so dark there I could barely see the ground!"

  "Well, if you had— if you'd thought for a moment to shine your flashlight at the ground, you'd have seen that I made an arrow out of stones there! Pointing toward the left-hand trail!" Doug was glaring at him now.

  Bob stared at him, speechless.

  "And even if you hadn't seen it— which you obviously didn't— I'd have gone back to find you after a while. Do you think I'd have just left you out there, for Christ's sake?!"

  How strange, was all Bob could think. How instantaneously rage could turn to guilt.

  He tried to speak but couldn't; his throat felt so dry and raw. He took a sip of water, noting that his hand shook holding the bottle.

  Then he drew in trembling breaths.

  "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't know, I didn't understand." He couldn't lose all his anger though. "You really shouldn't have left me alone though. I was scared to death, Doug. Alone in the dark forest? Jesus Christ. I didn't know what to do."

  Doug's expression had softened now. "Okay," he said, "I probably shouldn't have left you alone. You just weren't up to it."

  That's right, make sure you get a little dig in, have the final word. Bob pushed aside the thought, he was so relieved now that the nightmare (albeit minor) had ended.

  "I know what it's like in the forest after dark," Doug said. "Although it wasn't really dark yet. It's just getting dark now."

  "Under those trees it was dark," Bob said.

  "Granted." Doug nodded. "It can be hair-raising. All the noises."

  Bob managed a weak chuckle. "I even imagined that mountain lion getting me," he said.

  Doug's smile was perfunctory. "I told you they don't want anything to do with us."

  Bob sighed. "I know you did," he said. Can't help getting in one more little lecture, can you? he thought.

  "Here, let's get that pack off you," Doug said.

  Bob groaned with intense pleasure as Doug removed the pack and put it on the ground. "Now I know what Quasimodo must have gone through," he said.

  He saw that Doug didn't get the point and let it go.

  "Here, let me get that scrape on your cheek," Doug told him.

  "Scrape on my cheek?" Bob looked confused. "Didn't know I had one." He'd forgotten all about it.

  He sank down with another groan of pleasure as Doug got a small plastic bottle of alcohol, a cotton ball, and a tube of ointment from his pack. "That for me to drink?" Bob asked.

  Doug made a sound of vague amusement and got down on one knee before Bob. "Take your cap off," he said.

  Bob removed his cap and lay it on the ground as Doug opened the small bottle of alcohol and, up-ending it, wet the cotton ball.

  "This'll sting," he said.

  Bob stiffened with a faint cry as Doug wiped the cotton ball over his cheek. "Not too bad a scratch," Doug told him.

  Bob nodded as Doug took hold of his right hand and lifted it up, palm raised. "This is going to sting too," he said.

  "Oh!" Bob jerked, eyes closed, teeth clenching as Doug wiped the cotton ball over his palm. Are you enjoying this? he thought, then frowned at himself for the uncharitable thought.

  He sat quietly, gazing at Doug's intent expression as he spread salve on the cheek and palm. I've wronged him, he thought. He never meant for me to come to harm. It was my own fault. It would have been better if Doug had stayed with him. Still, there was a camp now. Doug's tent was up. He saw their sleeping bags inside, the pads underneath them. And, of course, the fire. The crackling yellow-orange flames and radiating warmth were really comforting. Especially after what he'd been through.

  Doug finished applying the salve and looked up with a slight grin. "That should do it," he said. "Try not to fall down again."

  Bob thought for a moment that Doug was razzing him. Then he let it go, smiling at Doug. "Thank you, Doctor," he said.

  "No problem," Doug answered, "I'm sure the Writers Guild insurance will pay for it."

  "Yeah." Bob chuckled, taking it for granted that Doug was joking.

  "Well, I guess you could use one of your little bottles of vodka right now," Doug said.

  You got that right, Bob thought.

  8:23 PM

  Bob leaned back against his pack with a sound part groan, part sigh of pleasure. "I feel alive again," he said. He took a sip of the instant mocha coffee he'd brought along. They had cooked and shared the chicken à la king, two slices of bread, and, for dessert, two cookies and an apple each. He hadn't even minded that Doug had made fun of him for putting some of the condiments that Marian had packed for him on the chicken à la king.

  "A little bit of civilization in the north woods, eh?" Doug had said with a teasing smile.

  He hadn't even responded.

  "Too bad you didn't bring a pair of slippers," Doug said; he had brought a pair and was wearing them.

  "Yeah." Bob nodded. Of course you never told me to, he thought, but then I suppose I should have thought of it myself.

  "How's the blister?" Doug asked.

  When Bob'd taken off his boots, he'd become aware of the blister on his right big
toe. Doug had put a bandage on it, one with a hole in its middle so as not to irritate the blister itself. While he was putting it on, Bob asked him, only half jokingly, if there was anything about backpacking he didn't know.

  "Not much," Doug replied and proceeded to inform him of ways of knowing direction while hiking.

  Moss grew more thickly on the shadiest side of the tree, which would be the north side of trees that were fairly out in the open where sunlight could reach them all day.

  Vegetation grew larger and more openly on northern slopes, smaller and more densely on southern slopes.

  You could prevent yourself from traveling in circles by always keeping two trees lined up in front of you.

  Then, at night, there was the north star . . .

  "Enough," Bob said, chuckling. "I'll never remember any of it."

  "Well, you might need it someday," Doug told him, "you never know."

  "I know," Bob said. "This is my one and only backpacking hike."

  "Oh." Doug nodded, an expression of remote acknowledgment on his face.

  Bob tried to soften what he'd said by remarking that he could see how wonderful backpacking must be; he was just not inclined toward it, but Doug's nod was no more than cursory.

  Doug had been quiet for a while, staring into the fire, and Bob decided that he really must have offended him by so casually negating any possibility of him ever backpacking again. Doug didn't have to do this; it had been and was a generous offer. He had to try to say something to lighten Doug's mood.

  "What made you pick this spot for a campsite?" he asked.

  "Oh." Doug shrugged. "A number of things."

  "Like what?"

  "You're not really interested," Doug told him.

  "Yes. I am," Bob insisted. "I know I'm a dud as a hiker but I would like to know as much as I can for my novel."

  "Your novel," Doug said. He looked at Bob without expression. "Is there a movie in it?" he asked.

  Ah, Bob thought. The entrée to peace. "Probably," he said, "there are four good male roles in it, two females."

  "Why not just do it as a screenplay then?" Doug asked.

  "Oh, no," Bob said. "I don't want to put you through all this just for a screenplay. If it gets fucked up— assuming it gets made at all— there's nothing left to show for it. But if there's a novel . . ."