Hunted Past Reason

7:01 AM

It was an odd sensation.

He knew he was asleep but he could hear the bedroom door opening and knew, somehow, that it was Marian. Even more odd was his awareness that she was carrying a breakfast tray for him—freshly squeezed orange juice, crisp bacon and eggs, a well-toasted English muffin, and freshly brewed coffee. He could actually smell the amalgam of delicious aromas.

Then she was beside the bed and putting the tray down quietly on the bedside table. He tried not to smile so she wouldn’t know that he was awake enough to know she was there—even though (how really odd) he still was actually asleep.

“Sweetheart.” He heard her gentle voice.

He pretended that he barely heard by making a soft noise. He stretched his legs and sighed. He felt so wonderfully comfortable. After that damn hike with Doug, this was sheer heaven—the warm, inviting bed, the soft pillow. Never again, he thought with regard to the hike.

“Honey?” she said, a little more loudly now.

“Mmm.” He knew he was smiling now. So let her see.

“Wake up. Breakfast in bed,” she told him.

He made a sound of pleased amusement.

“Come on now,” she said. She put her hand on his shoulder and nudged it a little.

No, he thought. Did he say it aloud? He couldn’t tell and that was odd too.

Abruptly, she grabbed his shoulder, digging in her fingers, and shook him hard. “Come on,” she said.

He jerked open his eyes and saw Doug’s face hovering above him, his expression one of tried patience.

“What?” he asked.

“Rise and shine, boy,” Doug told him, “time to get going.”

Bob stared up groggily at him. “What time is it?” he mumbled.

“After seven,” Doug answered. “I knew you were tired so I let you sleep late.”

This is late? Bob thought, almost saying it aloud before deciding against it. “Okay,” he muttered.

Doug started to back out of the tent.

“How long you been up?” Bob asked.

“About an hour,” Doug told him.

Oh, Jesus, Bob thought. I’m gonna love this hike. He sighed and tried to sit up, wincing and making a hissing noise at the pain in his right side. He reached up and out of the sleeping bag to unzip it, wincing again at the tenderness of his right palm. He looked at it, grimacing. Blood was crusted on it and it looked discolored in spots. He blew out breath. Oh, what a beautiful morning, his brain sang, off-key.

“Come on, Bob, up ’n at ’em,” Doug said.

“Yessir.” Bob unzipped the bag and got out of it, wincing once more at the pain that lifting his legs caused. And he took offense at Marian’s comment that he wasn’t “in tune.” I am completely out of tune, he thought.

He started dressing slowly, almost infirmly it seemed.

“You getting dressed?” Doug asked.

“Getting dressed,” he answered.

“Early bird gets the worm, Bobby,” Doug said.

Don’t want a worm, he thought. “How about some coffee?” he asked.

“Later,” Doug told him. “We have to get going.”

Bob rubbed some water on his face and dried it with a paper napkin.

When he crawled out of the tent, he saw that Doug had dissembled the fire pit, taken down the food bags, and reloaded both their backpacks. “Thanks for putting my food away,” he said.

“Just today,” Doug told him. “Tomorrow morning, you’ll do it yourself.”

“You didn’t have any coffee?” Bob asked.

“Sure I did, an hour ago,” Doug said.

“Well…” Bob didn’t know what to say. Finally, he asked, “You have breakfast too?”

“Yep,” Doug nodded.

“Well…” Bob looked disturbed.

“We can’t start cooking again,” Doug told him. “We have to get going. Eat an energy bar while we’re walking. When we stop to let you rest, you can make some coffee for yourself.”

Bob frowned but didn’t speak.

“Tomorrow I’ll wake you up when I get up,” Doug told him. “Then you can have a nice warm breakfast before we take off.”

“Yeah,” Bob said quietly. What’s the goddamn hurry? he thought. Doug was acting as though this were a military operation.

“We need to make some mileage before we stop for coffee,” Doug said.

Stop where? Bob thought. Is there a Starbucks run by bears out there?

“I’m kind of hungry, Doug,” he said. “Isn’t there something I can have before we leave?”

Doug’s sigh was one of strained acceptance, his expression put upon.

“So… put some instant cereal in a plastic bag, add powdered milk and water and shake it up, eat it while we’re walking.”

Sounds really wonderful, Bob thought. He felt compelled to say something. Was it really necessary for Doug to be so rigid about all this?

“Doug, why do we have to rush off?” he asked, watching Doug take down the tent. “Why can’t I have that nice warm breakfast before we go?”

“We will—tomorrow,” Doug said, his movements brusque as he folded up the tent. “This is a backpacking hike, Bob, not a gourmet tour.”

A gourmet tour? Bob thought. Just something warm for breakfast?

“You can have a nice lunch,” Doug told him. “Make yourself some hot soup or something.”

Bob sighed. “Okay.” He scratched his right cheek, wincing as he touched the scrape; he’d forgotten about it.

“I put the refuse in your pack,” Doug said.

“Refuse?”

“The apple cores, the aluminum foil from your chicken à la king dinner,” Doug said. “The cardboard we burned, the foil has to be packed out.”

“How come?” Bob asked.

“You want some animal to eat it and die?” Doug said; it wasn’t a question. “We take out anything that can’t be burned. Tomorrow you’ll collect and pack the refuse. Don’t just stand there, get your sleeping bag ready.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Bob made a face as he moved to where Doug had left the sleeping bag. I hope to God that blister doesn’t make walking a pain, he thought.

“I’ll let you pack out all the refuse,” Doug told him. “Since I’m handling the extra weight.”

“Right.” No point in arguing, Bob thought. It was only fair. Yet, for some reason, he wondered if Doug was really the dedicated environmentalist he seemed to be presenting. He certainly wasn’t going to make an issue of it, but he felt that Doug probably hadn’t packed out every single scrap of refuse when he had backpacked in the past. It just didn’t seem like Doug, and he wondered if Doug was doing it now to impress him with his concern for Mother Nature.

Oh, well, he thought. Let it go.

“Don’t roll up your sleeping bag,” Doug told him.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, don’t roll it up,” Doug said. “You stuff it, not roll it. Rolling compresses the fibers in the same place over and over and eventually breaks them apart.”

In three days? Bob felt like saying. He remained quiet and did what Doug told him to do.

As he stood up, groaning, Doug said, “I’ll carry your sleeping bag too.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Bob told him.

“I think I do,” Doug said, “you’re as stiff as a board. I’d better have you do a few stretching exercises before we take off.”

I’d rather have a pancake and a cup of coffee, Bob thought.

He tried to copy Doug’s stretching exercises for the arms, the shoulders, the back, and the legs. He kept hissing at the effort. “You are in some rotten shape, buddy,” Doug told him.

“I know, I know,” Bob muttered. What next? he thought. A lecture on my general failures as a human being?

“That help any?” Doug asked when they were through.

“Yeah,” Bob lied. It helped make the areas of pain more specific, he thought. He swallowed a multivitamin with a sip of water.

They got their packs on, Bob trying not to grunt in discomfort at the weight; it would only give Doug more ammunition for his criticisms.

“From here on in, we leave the trail,” Doug told him.

“How come?” Bob asked.

“You want experience at backpacking for your novel, don’t you?” Doug said. “If we follow trails all the way, it’s not a hike, it’s a stroll.”

Yeah, right, Bob thought. He wondered worriedly if he was really going to make it through the hike. Not that he had any choice in the matter. The ship was launched. Either it sailed to its port or it sank.

Very reassuring, Hansen, he told himself. He pressed his lips together. I am going to make it, he vowed. Let Doug lace at him, he wasn’t going to let it break his spirit. He made an amused sound. That novel is going to be pretty grim, he thought.

8:21 AM

Is it my imagination, Bob thought, or is Doug taking me on the hardest route he can possibly find? Or already knows about? They had been moving on sloping ground almost since they’d started out, through meadows thick with dry grass and woods so dense that Doug had to use his golak to hack an opening through the underbrush. Already, he felt tired and aching but didn’t want to mention it to Doug, knowing the look he’d get and likely the sarcastic comment.

What was Doug up to anyway? He hadn’t said a word since they’d started out—except to tell him once that, in a pinch, he could eat the dandelions they were tramping through. I’d rather have a cup of coffee, he’d felt like saying. The cereal in the plastic bag had been a waste of time. He couldn’t walk easily holding the bag in one hand and a spoon in the other. After a few mouthfuls—and more spills—he’d finally given up and emptied the cereal onto the ground. Sorry, Professor Crowley, if I’m profaning Mother Earth, he thought. I’m putting the plastic bag in my pack, isn’t that good enough?

The knowledge that he was all alone in the wilderness with Doug was, to say the least, discomfiting, to say the most, unnerving. Doug, it became more and more obvious, was a loner. He obviously needed to be given his separate “space” now and then. He didn’t ask for it, just subsided into silence and walked ahead. Most likely, he already regretted having made his offer to guide Bob through the hike. Obviously, he preferred being on his own, responsible to no one but himself, enjoying solitude, not required to interact with anyone, least of all the total novice Bob was.

Had he done it only to keep the channels open between them in case a role came up that Bob could recommend him for? He was beginning to think that was the case. They had never really had much in common, very little grounds for conversation.

Still… he had to remember that Doug was doing him a favor. Not enjoying it, God knows, he thought—but doing it nonetheless.

So just sweat it out, Hansen, he ordered himself. Keep up your spirits. Be of good cheer.

Endure.

He didn’t want to but he finally had to speak.

“Doug?” he said.

Doug kept moving through the underbrush as though he hadn’t heard. Was it possible that he hadn’t heard? He certainly preferred that possibility to thinking that Doug had heard and was ignoring him.

“Doug!” He felt awkward shouting, but at the same time he wanted Doug to know the urgency of his call.

Doug stopped but didn’t turn. Was there a look of irritated disbelief on his face? Was he thinking: Oh, for Christ’s sake, now what?

Then he turned, his expression unreadable. He said nothing.

“I’d really like to stop and rest and have that cup of coffee now,” Bob told him.

The deliberate way in which Doug lifted his left arm and pushed back his jacket sleeve to look at his wristwatch made his reaction obvious.

“I know it hasn’t even been two hours yet,” Bob said.

“It hasn’t even been an hour and a half,” Doug answered.

Bob sighed. Not another painful exchange, please, he thought. He knew he couldn’t just be polite. Doug had to know how he felt.

“I’m in rotten shape, you said so yourself,” he said firmly. “I need to rest. I need that cup of coffee. I’m sorry if I’m being a burden but give me a break.”

Doug’s expression eased and he gestured mollifyingly. “All right, all right,” he said. “I’m not paying attention. I’m used to moving fast. We’ll stop.”

“Thank you.” Bob nodded. Bless you, sir, and all your kin, he thought. No, stay away from that, he reminded himself.

To his surprise, Doug turned back and started forward again. What the hell? Bob thought. Has he changed his mind already?

Several minutes later, Doug reached a small clearing in the forest and stopped. He was sitting with his pack propped on a small fallen tree by the time Bob reached him.

“Don’t step on that scat,” he said.

“Scat.”

“Coyote shit.” Doug pointed at the ground.

“Oh. Thanks for telling me.” Coyotes, Bob thought. No point in expressing uneasiness about them; Doug would only tell him he was being paranoid.

With a grateful groan, he sank down heavily and propped his backpack on the same fallen tree so that he and Doug were sitting side by side. “Feels good,” he muttered, thinking: That’s the understatement of the week.

“Look up on that hill,” Doug said, pointing.

Bob looked in that direction, tensing slightly at the sight of a black bear sitting on its haunches, eating something.

“What’s it eating, another backpacker?” he said.

Doug snickered. “Who knows?” he replied. “Could be anything—nuts, berries, insects, maybe a squirrel. Could even be tree bark, they’ll eat that too.”

“That their usual diet?” Bob asked.

“Hell, no,” Doug said disgustedly. “Their usual diet is discarded hamburger buns, fruit, cookies, candy, anything stupid backpackers leave out in the open.”

Bob nodded grimly, looking up at the bear.

“Does he know we’re here?” he asked.

“I don’t think so,” Doug answered, “unless you make coffee and he smells it. They can smell anything from a mile away.”

So much for coffee, Bob thought, then immediately changed his mind. Slipping out of his pack, he got his cup and spoon and plastic envelope of instant coffee out. Pouring some water into the cup, he spooned in some instant coffee powder and sugar and began to stir it. “So I’ll have iced coffee,” he said.

“Better not clink the spoon too hard,” Doug told him. “They have good hearing too.”

Bob stirred the coffee mixture as quietly as he could. “Can he hear us talking?” he asked.

“I doubt it,” Doug answered. “He’s pretty far away. As long as we don’t talk too loud.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t,” Bob said. He finished dissolving the coffee powder and, removing the spoon, took a sip. “Uh!” His face contorted with distaste. “That’s hideous.”

Doug only smiled. What do you care? Bob thought. You’ve already had your hot coffee. What else did you have, a fucking Belgian waffle?

He forced himself to keep sipping the coffee despite its bitter taste. Doug sat silently staring straight ahead. Waiting for me to finish? Bob wondered.

“There aren’t any grizzly bears here, right?” he asked.

“Only black,” Doug answered.

“How do you tell one from another?” Bob asked, conscious of speaking softly, almost murmuring, so the bear couldn’t possibly hear the sound of his voice.

“Grizzlies have big shoulder humps,” Doug told him. “And their faces are concave. They’re bigger too. Have longer claws.”

“Remind me never to meet one,” Bob said.

Doug’s chuckle was more derisive than amused. “Oh, you’d know if you met one.”

“I’d run like hell,” Bob said.

“It wouldn’t do you any good,” Doug told him. “They’re too fast.”

“So what do you do, just say a prayer and let him slaughter you?”

“Only thing you can do is lie on your stomach, put your hands behind your neck, and pretend you’re dead.” Doug grunted. “Which you probably would be in less than half a minute anyway.”

Bob grimaced at the thought. “Ever see a grizzly?” he asked.

“Several times,” Doug answered, “in Colorado. Guy I knew was actually caught by one.”

Bob bared his teeth in a reacting wince. “Got killed?”

“Got lucky,” Doug said. “Curled himself up into a fetal position and the bear only cuffed him around a few times before leaving.”

“Jesus.” Bob drew in a shaking breath.

“Of course those few cuffs broke his collarbone and laid his shoulder open to the muscle.”

“He died?” Bob asked queasily.

“No, his friends got him to a hospital in time. Left him with a hell of a scar though. And limited use of his right arm.”

“I presume he didn’t go backpacking anymore,” Bob said.

“Sure he did.” Doug’s tone was casual. “He wasn’t going to let a little thing like that keep him from doing what he enjoyed.”

“He’s a better man than I am,” Bob said. “If that happened to me, I’d join a monastery.”

“Well, you’re a different kind of cat,” Doug said. Bob wasn’t sure if it was an observation or another dig.

“You’d do the same thing, keep on backpacking?” he asked.

“Why not?” Doug said. “We all have to go sometime.”

“Yeah, but I’d rather go in my bed than lying on a forest floor with a grizzly bear cuffing me around.”

“To each his own,” Doug said.

Bob kept sipping at the coffee, finally eating a cookie with it to improve the taste.

When Doug relapsed into what seemed to him to be glum silence again, he asked, “Are black bears as dangerous?”

Doug drew in a deep breath that seemed to, once more, point out his regret at having made the offer of this hike. Bob was going to say something about it, then decided not to.

“Black bears are different,” Doug told him. “More skittish. If one of them comes at you, you yell and throw rocks at it, grab a branch and take swings at it. That’ll usually scare them off. I’ve done that two or three times. Grizzlies they’re not.”

Bob nodded. “I’ll remember that. Assuming I don’t faint if I see one coming at me.”

Again the ambiguous chuckle but no comment from Doug.

“This… route we’re taking,” Bob said. “Is it the most direct?”

“Not really,” Doug answered casually.

“How come we’re… taking it then?”

“You want to know what it’s like to backpack, don’t you?” was all Doug said.

Bob started to respond, then didn’t know what to say. Scrap that, let’s take the easiest route? Doug was probably right. This was the best way to give him a true backpacking experience. The novel may end up as a horror story but at least it will be an authentic one, he thought.

“You still a Democrat?” Doug asked.

Where did that come from? Bob wondered. “Yeah,” he said. “Limitedly.”

“What does that mean?” Doug asked.

“I’m not too keen on either party,” Bob answered. “It doesn’t seem to matter much which party wins, the corporations stay in power.”

“So what do you want the government to do, go communist?” Doug asked.

“I presume that’s not a serious question,” Bob said with a smile.

“Hell, it’s not,” Doug told him. “If you’re not a Democrat and you’re not a Republican, what are you?”

“A liberal conservative,” Bob answered.

“No such thing.”

“Sure there is,” Bob said. “I believe in conserving the social values that are worth conserving. If they’re not, I believe in liberal pragmatism. Drop what doesn’t work, put something else in instead.”

“Like what?” Doug challenged.

“Like anything that benefits society rather than damaging it.”

“That sounds like communism,” Doug persisted.

“Doug, come on. Don’t you believe in helping mankind lead a better life?”

“Not if I have to pay for it,” Doug said stiffly. “Not if they just sit around on their asses, living off my taxes.”

Bob drew in a quick breath. “Well, I’m not advocating a total welfare state either,” he said.

“You work for your money, you keep your money,” Doug said grimly.

“And not pay taxes?” Bob asked.

“Of course, pay taxes,” Doug said irritably. “But not such high taxes that I’m paying for the lazy bastards who’d rather take it easy on welfare than put in an honest day’s work.”

“Well…” Bob nodded. “I don’t disagree with you. But that’s the trouble with our country. We can’t have a real democracy until voters govern themselves, not expect politicians to take care of everything. As long as people avoid real involvement in the political process, that’s how long politicians will run it badly. The voters don’t really want honest politicians. They say they do but, by and large, they keep electing politicians who lie to them, tell them how much they’re going to help the people. Has a politician ever spoken the truth and nothing but the truth? Some have. And they invariably lose by a landslide. What did Jack Nicholson say in that movie? ‘You can’t handle the truth.’ That’s pretty much the case with the electorate.”

Doug was silent for a few seconds before he said, “When you planning to run for office, Bob?”

They both laughed so loudly that Bob felt a twinge of uneasiness, looking toward the spot where the black bear had been. The bear was gone though.

“Didn’t mean to make a speech,” Bob said. “The entire thing is simple though. The majority of people aren’t self-responsible—certainly not in the political arena. So they keep electing politicians who disappoint them.”

“That’s for sure,” Doug said, “fucking bleeding heart liberals. Trying to take away our constitutional right to own guns. Shoving affirmative action down our throats, giving jobs they aren’t qualified for to spics and niggers.”

Oh, boy, Bob thought. Oh, boy. What am I doing here with this man? Three more wonderful days in his company. Jesus.

“I know you don’t agree with any of this,” Doug said. “Let’s just agree that most politicians aren’t worth shit.”

Bob nodded. Especially the politicians who believe what you believe, Doug, he thought.

Doug looked at him intently. It seemed as though he meant to continue the conversation. Then, instead, he stood. “We’d better move along,” he said.

Both of them looked around suddenly at the sound of shots in the distance—two in a row, a pause, then two more. “Son of a bitch,” Doug muttered angrily.

“A hunter?” Bob asked, appalled.

“Sure, a hunter,” Doug replied angrily. “In a goddamn national forest too. If we run across him, I’ll wrap his fucking rifle around his neck.”

“I’ll hold your jacket while you do,” Bob told him.

There was no amusement in Doug’s smile and Bob had the definite feeling that Doug would assault the hunter if they met him.

“Did you know that more than sixteen million hunting licenses are issued every year?” Doug told him. “Most of them to idiots. Two guys in a canoe were mistaken for a swimming moose by one of these idiots and both were shot, one of them fatally. Another idiot brought a dead mule into town, telling everyone he’d shot a moose. The mule still had its iron shoes on, for Christ’s sake.”

“That’s incredible,” Bob said, grateful that there was something they could agree on.

“Some farmer got so bugged by idiot hunters that he painted the word ‘COW’ on his only cow. Guess what? The fucking cow got shot.”

10:52 AM

For a while, as they’d moved through the forest, weaving their way through a heavy growth of slender trees, Bob wondered if there was any possibility of them being shot by the hunter. Stupid bastard, he thought, coming into a national forest to shoot animals. He should be put in jail, the mindless idiot.

He’d felt uncomfortable, his skin almost crawling, as he walked, half expecting to hear a shot and feel a bullet tearing into his chest. Great way to end the “adventure,” he’d thought grimly. Mrs. Hansen? Sorry to inform you that your husband was shot by a hunter while he was walking through the forest. His head is now on display above the hunter’s mantelpiece. Visiting hours are one to five on Sunday afternoons.

He’d had to drop the dark fancy, then, in order to try to empty his bowels.

It hadn’t worked at all, his system refusing utterly to cooperate. Stress? he’d wondered. Not enough water? No vegetables? No way of knowing.

When he’d gotten back to Doug, he was about to speak when Doug, pointing at him, said, “There’s a scorpion on your pants leg.”

Bob stiffened, looking down. The scorpion was almost four inches long, clinging to his trouser leg.

“Don’t hit it,” Doug said quickly.

“What?” Bob looked at him worriedly.

“Flick it off, flick it off,” Doug told him. “If you swat it, it’ll sting you.”

Bob swallowed dryly, reaching up slowly to remove his corduroy cap. Gritting his teeth, he slapped down at the scorpion. It took two slaps to dislodge it; it scurried away into the brush. “Good God,” Bob said.

“No big deal,” Doug told him. “They’re all around.”

Super, Bob thought, imagining a giant scorpion crawling into his sleeping bag at night.

“Any luck?” Doug asked.

At first, Bob didn’t know what Doug was talking about. Then he did. “Well, I’m lucky the damn scorpion didn’t sting me on the ass,” he said. “I wasn’t lucky about the rest. I’m probably constipated.”

“You bring an enema with you?” Doug asked.

“No,” Bob said, frowning. “You never mentioned that.”

“Well—” Doug shrugged. “You’ll probably have trouble crapping. It usually happens; especially the first time out. Inhibition if nothing else. Not used to shitting in the woods. Try drinking something warm when you wake up.”

I’d love to if you’d let me, Bob thought.

“Anyway, a few days of constipation won’t kill you,” Doug told him.

“I guess not,” Bob said.

“You burned your toilet paper, didn’t you?” Doug asked.

Bob nodded. “To a crisp,” he said.

“I forgot to tell you,” Doug continued, “if it’s uncomfortable squatting, dig your cat hole on the opposite side of a log and use the log as a john seat, or dig the hole where there’s a small tree with low branches you can hold on to while you’re taking your crap.”

“Trying to take my crap, you mean,” Bob said.

“Yeah.” Doug grinned. That seemed to genuinely amuse him. My compassionate wilderness guide, Bob thought.

Now he had managed to work himself into a steady pace, maintaining the same distance behind Doug, across meadows and through the forest. Doug must have taken his comment to heart, because it wasn’t all uphill now. He was able to walk almost without feeling the blister on his foot, the aching in his side. His eyes went partially out of focus as he moved. He lost track of time, his mind going blank.

Then, up ahead, Doug stopped abruptly. “Jesus Christ,” he said; it was close to a snarl.

Bob walked up beside him to see what Doug was looking at.

Lying sprawled among the small trees was a doe. There was a dark hole in its side, blood oozing out of it and trickling down its tawny flank to stain the dead leaves it was lying on.

Bob started forward to look at the deer more closely, gasping in surprise as Doug reached out and grabbed his pack, yanking him back. “What—?” he said.

“It could still be alive,” Doug told him. “If it kicks you, you’ll be sorry.”

“Still alive?” Bob looked at him, appalled, then turned to look more closely at the doe. He caught his breath, seeing a slight movement of breathing on its side. “Jesus Christ, it is still alive,” he said in a sickened voice.

“Yeah,” Doug said. “Stupid fucking hunter. Four shots and all he can do is wound it.”

Bob looked at him in disbelief. That’s hardly the point, is it? he thought.

Then he looked back at the wounded doe, groaning as he saw the dazed fright in its eyes. It was trying to get up but couldn’t, barely stirring on the ground.

“What do we do?” he asked, his tone pained.

“What do you mean, what do we do?” Doug said irritably. “Put it out of its misery, what else? What would you suggest, taking it to a vet?”

Bob drew in a deeply shaking breath. He knew Doug was right but it angered him the way he was expressing it. “Yeah,” was all he could say.

Doug looked around, grimacing. “Shit,” he muttered.

“What?”

“I need a rock to hit it on the head,” Doug said, sounding more aggravated than concerned.

Bob swallowed dryly. Need a drink, he thought. A drink? he assailed himself. Is that all you can think about right now?

“Let’s find one then,” he said. He started to move around, searching for a rock.

He hadn’t gone more than a few yards when he heard a loud, thudding noise and the blood-chilling sound of the doe crying out in shocked pain. Twisting around, he saw Doug standing over it, holding his golak. He’d struck the doe across its neck, cutting in so deep that blood was pumping from the gash.

“Oh, Christ,” Bob said.

“Oh, Christ, what?” Doug demanded. “It had to be done, didn’t it?”

Bob drew in another trembling breath through his nostrils, a shudder running through him. “Yes,” he conceded. “It had to be done. I just don’t know how the hell you were able to do it.”

“What would you do if you were alone here?” Doug asked.

I will never be alone here, Bob’s mind reacted.

“Just leave it?” Doug challenged.

“I don’t know,” Bob answered. “I just don’t know. I’ve never been exposed to such a thing.”

“Well, think about it sometime,” Doug told him. “You never know what you might come up against out here.”

I will never be out here again, his mind answered.

“Well, I admire your ability to do what you did,” he said. “It’s… very brave in a way. The poor thing did need to be put out of its misery and you did it.”

“You could never kill anything, could you?” Doug said; once again—Bob was getting used to it by now—it was more a statement than a question.

“Doug, I just don’t know,” Bob said. “It’s never come up.”

“Well, I killed men in Vietnam,” Doug told him. “Lots of them.”

Bob sighed heavily. “I guess you had to,” he said.

“Damn right,” Doug said. “Those little gook bastards were everywhere.”

Bob nodded, feeling a sense of uncomfortable ambivalence about what Doug was saying. He didn’t believe in killing anything; Doug was right about that. But then he’d never had to kill anything and hadn’t the remotest concept of whether he could or not. He just hoped to God the necessity never came up.

“You want some venison for supper?” Doug asked casually.

“What?” He looked at Doug incredulously. “You’re planning to butcher it now?”

“Oh, come on, Bobby, grow up,” Doug said. “The deer is dead. It’s going to get eaten by something—a bear, a mountain lion, who knows? For that matter, we’d better move on before something picks up the smell of its blood and comes charging in, looking for lunch. You want some venison or would you rather just stick with your little chicken à la kings?”

Doug, if you don’t stop insulting me, I’m really going to get pissed, Bob thought, tensing.

“Let’s just move on,” he said curtly. “I don’t want any venison.”

“Suit yourself,” Doug said. He wiped off the blade of his golak on the deer’s flank and put it back in its sheath. “So let’s be on our way.”

As they continued on into the forest, Doug said, “You didn’t go to Vietnam, did you?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Oh, that’s right, you had psoriasis, didn’t you?” Doug said. His tone was close to mocking.

“I didn’t ask to have it, Doug,” Bob answered coolly. “It’s genetic. And I didn’t make the rules about what constitutes physical rejection by the army.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Doug said disinterestedly.

12:02 PM

We have to stop for lunch soon, I am starving, Bob thought. He had eaten an energy bar, a cookie, and a small apple but it had only delayed his hunger. He was getting ravenous now.

He was about to speak when Doug stopped ahead and pointed upward. Bob looked up through the foliage and saw a large number of big birds circling in the sky.

“Vultures waiting for us?” he suggested.

Doug didn’t react to the attempted joke. “Hawks,” he said. “A storm is coming.”

“Oh, great, that’s all we need,” Bob reacted.

He saw Doug sniffing exaggeratedly. “What do you smell?” he asked.

“The ground,” Doug said. “It always smells odd before a storm.”

Bob inhaled as deeply as he could through his nose but couldn’t tell if the smell of the ground was any different. For that matter, he had never smelled the ground at all. Was Doug pulling his leg? He wouldn’t be surprised.

“Take off your cap,” Doug said, removing his.

“Why?”

“Just do it,” Doug told him.

Oh, shit, Bob thought. He took off his corduroy cap. “Yeah?” he said.

“Does your hair feel thicker?” Doug asked.

Bob had to chuckle at that. “That would be nice,” he said.

Doug laughed. “Your hair is thinning a bit, isn’t it?” he asked, he said.

“’Fraid so,” Bob answered, looking at Doug’s thick shock of black hair. Although he was sure that Doug dyed it for professional reasons. And maybe ego reasons too; no way of knowing.

Looking up again, he noticed now a huge towering cloud in the distance. “Oh, that looks ominous,” he said.

“Cumulus nimbus,” Doug informed him. “Thunderhead cloud. We could be in for a real storm. We’d better find us a place to stay dry.”

Super, Bob thought. Just what I was hoping for, a thunderstorm. “Lightning too?” he asked.

“Oh, sure,” Doug answered, looking around. For a hotel, I hope, Bob thought.

“Let’s head for that cliff,” Doug told him. “Could be a cave there. We’ll have to move a little faster though. No way of telling how soon the storm’s going to hit.”

“Can we eat soon?” Bob asked. “I’m pretty hungry.”

“Cave first, lunch second,” Doug said. “Let’s go. Keep up with me now. And if you think a lightning strike is imminent get down as low as you can, sit or crouch on your pack to avoid ground currents.”

Oh, God, this is a fucking nightmare, Bob thought.

Doug had turned to the left and started toward what looked to Bob like a good-sized mountain. His stride was rapid. As the undergrowth thinned and the stands of trees began to diminish, he moved faster and faster. Bob did his best to keep the same distance between himself and Doug but kept falling farther and farther behind. Should he call after Doug and ask him to slow down? He did agree that they’d need some kind of shelter if it was going to rain hard, especially if there was going to be lightning. Still, he found himself getting more breathless by the minute, partially because of the speed Doug was going, partially because the pack felt so heavy. In addition, he was becoming increasingly aware of the ache in his side and the pain of the blister on his foot. Can’t we just set up the tent? he thought.

Fortunately, the ground, as they approached the foothills, grew more and more open and he was able to keep Doug in view even though the distance between them was getting constantly larger. Doug never looked back.

Does he even care if he loses me? Bob wondered. Why, oh why, did I ever decide to write this goddamn novel? Marian was right, a hundred percent. They could be lolling on a Hawaiian beach right now, sipping—what had she suggested?—yes, chi-chis. Instead, here he was lurching and limping as fast as he could through a national forest, trying to overtake Doug while an impending thunderstorm gathered overhead.

It was impending too, he saw, wincing. Now that he was almost out in the open, starting to move up an incline (which only made him more breathless, more tired, more achy), he could see that the sky was darkening rapidly, the huge cloud drifting over them. Oh, Christ, don’t let it start before we find a cave or something, he thought.

Up ahead, Doug turned to look back. “Use a rest step!” he called.

“A what?!”

“Rest step, rest step!” Doug said impatiently. “Lift your left leg, move it forward, and put it down with no weight on it! Pause a few seconds, keeping all your weight on the right foot! Then shift your weight to the left leg and move the right leg forward, with no weight on it! Then start with your left leg again! You got it?!”

“Yeah! Yeah.” Bob had only a limited idea of what Doug was talking about but didn’t want to ask for a repeat explanation. He wanted to find that cave—assuming it existed—before the deluge hit.

He continued up the slope, trying to approximate what Doug had told him and having little success. He grimaced, listening to the roll and mutter of thunder that seemed to get closer every minute.

His right hand was leaning on a boulder, trying to brace himself as he climbed, when there was a tremendous roar overhead and, suddenly, a blinding flash of light that made him gasp, then cry out in stunned terror as he felt an electric shock run up his arm on the boulder. I’ve been struck by lightning! he thought in shock. He shuddered, horrified, seeing that the hand that had been on the boulder looked ashen with a bluish-gray tinge. I’m going to die! he thought. He felt himself slip to one side and crumple to the ground. I’m paralyzed, he thought with a sob. Dear God, I’m paralyzed!

It seemed as though, almost instantly, Doug was kneeling by him, a look of concern on his face. “Jesus, Bobby, you got hit by lightning.”

“No kidding,” he said weakly.

“Can you move your arms and legs?” Doug asked.

Bob tried, and with some help from Doug, who rubbed and moved his arms and legs, he found that he wasn’t paralyzed after all. “Jesus Christ,” Doug said, strangely amused it seemed—it must be relief, Bob thought. “When I heard that boom and saw that flash and heard you scream—”

“I screamed?” Bob murmured.

“Like a stuck pig,” Doug said. Bob could see now that his smiles of amusement were relief. “Then, when I saw you flop on the ground, I thought, Oh, Jesus Christ, what am I going to tell Marian, I took your husband on a hike and got him killed by lightning? Jesus!” He shook himself as though ridding himself of dismay. “Whoa,” he said, “I don’t know why you weren’t fried. I’m glad you weren’t though.”

“So am I,” Bob muttered. Jesus Christ, he thought. Struck by lightning. How could such a thing happen?

He jumped as another roar of thunder sounded overhead. Doug pulled him up. “Crouch on the balls of your feet,” he said quickly.

He had barely done so when another bolt of lightning flashed, this time farther away.

“We’d better get to that cave,” Doug said.

“What cave?” Bob asked.

“There’s one not far up,” Doug said. “Come on.”

It suddenly began to rain. “Oh, boy,” Doug said.

He helped Bob put on his poncho, then threw on his own. “Let’s go,” he said. He chuckled unexpectedly, reaching out to touch one of Bob’s eyebrows. “They got singed,” he said.

Bob grunted and they started up the slope. The pack seemed to get heavier with every stride. He still felt dazed and unreal after the lightning strike. He screwed his face into a grimacing mask as they climbed, starting at each crash of thunder, each crackling flare of lightning. Will this ever end? he thought. Have I died and gone to hell? He swallowed dryly again and again. Believing in life after death wasn’t much of a comfort when you didn’t know if that death was coming at any second—sharply, violently, unexpectedly.

“Hold on,” Doug told him as they reached the cave.

“Why?” he asked but his voice was drowned out by a roar of thunder. As quickly as he could, he pulled off his pack to sit on it. Before he could get it off, a bolt of lightning struck about a hundred yards away. Thank God for that, he thought.

Why can’t we go in the cave? he wondered. He was getting soaked.

A few seconds later, he knew why as Doug emerged from the cave, a headless, flopping rattlesnake in his left hand, the golak in his right. Oh, Jesus, he thought, seeing how big the snake was as Doug flung it away. He grimaced at himself. Marian, don’t ever listen to me again, he thought.

They were in the cave now. It was reasonably big and Doug had placed their packs away from them so the metal frames couldn’t conduct electricity if lightning hit near the cave. He had placed their sleeping pads and sleeping bags under them to insulate them against ground shock and told Bob to keep his hands off the ground. Bob’s appetite seemed to be considerably lessened by the lightning strike. He wondered if there had been damage to any of his organs. His hand still looked a little ashen although the bluish-gray tinge had faded. I survived a lightning bolt, he kept thinking. Maybe he should write an article for the Enquirer: “Author Struck by Lightning and Survives!”

He tried to listen to what Doug was telling him, probably to get him back to feeling normal after what had happened. But he kept drifting off mentally, unable to get over what had happened. Doug had said something about how ordinarily a cave was the worst place to be in a lightning storm but this one was okay because of its height and depth, six to seven feet in each dimension. Any smaller and lightning was actually attracted to caves; something like that.

The only thing Doug said that stayed with him was his account of a forest ranger named Roy Sullivan who more than earned the nickname “Dooms,” because he’d been struck by lightning seven times over a period of thirty-five years, one strike even setting his hair on fire and heating his body so much that he had to pour a pail of water over his head.

“But none of them killed him,” Doug finished his story. “He died of something else entirely.”

“That’s comforting,” Bob said.

It didn’t help much when Doug informed him again that a cave wasn’t really all that safe a spot in a lightning storm. Or when he told Bob that he should listen for high-pitched zinging sounds because they indicated that a strike was near.

“Did you know that the odds of being struck by lightning are one in six hundred thousand?” he asked.

“No, I didn’t know,” Bob answered wanly. “Nice to know I’m special.”

He made the mistake of asking if they could set up the stove so he could make himself some soup.

“Put a metal stove right next to us in a lightning storm?” Doug said.

“No, of course not,” Bob replied, nodding feebly.

Doug patted him on the back. “You’re a lucky man, Bobby,” he said. “You were only splashed by the lightning. If you’d been hit directly, two or three hundred million volts would have gone through you.”

Bob shivered. I’d rather not hear any more about lightning if you don’t mind, he thought.

“If that had happened, you’d probably have amnesia, be temporarily blind or deaf, your blood vessels spasmed, your skin mottled. You were lucky.”

“Yeah,” Bob said, “I feel lucky.”

The thunder and lightning had passed but it was still raining hard.

Doug set up the stove and heated soup for the two of them. That it was his soup didn’t bother Bob. He sighed in pleasure as he ate it with crackers. Bob used his pot to boil some water for coffee. Bob felt a lot better with some hot soup in his stomach and sipping on a cup of hot, sweetened coffee, eating some oatmeal-raisin cookies with it. He still felt disoriented by the shock he’d gotten but—remarkably he was certain—he hadn’t been really injured in any way.

To his surprise, Doug took a small flask from his pack and unscrewed its cap. “Some brandy in your coffee?” he asked.

“I thought alcohol impaired the judgment,” Bob needled him without thinking.

Doug looked at him askance. “You want some or not?” he asked.

“I want some definitely,” Bob answered. “It can’t impair my judgment any more than being struck by lightning.”

Doug chuckled. “That’s for sure,” he said, pouring a small amount of brandy into Bob’s cup. “Anyway, I only thought you weren’t used to backpacking and the vodka might make it more difficult for you.”

“Got ya,” Bob said. He raised his cup in a toast. “To you, Douglas.”

Doug smiled a little. The hot, brandy-laced coffee tasted wonderful to Bob, making him sigh.

“Well, the weather’s giving you a chance to rest, isn’t it?” Doug said.

“For which I am intensely grateful to the weather,” Bob responded.

“Well, I just hope Marian doesn’t get upset if we don’t get to the cabin when she expects us,” Doug said.

Oh, that’s right, Bob thought; it would worry her. He sighed. “Well, I guess it can’t be helped,” he said.

The gas flame of the stove, now turned off, had warmed the cave a little. It seemed cozy now, especially with the brandied coffee warming his stomach. He leaned back against his pack, sighing with pleasure.

After a few minutes, he looked over at Doug, feeling, for some singular reason, a sense of affection for him. Sure, there was still that pain-in-the-ass quality to his behavior, and their politics were worlds apart. Still, Doug was taking him on this hike after all and he had seemed genuinely concerned about the lightning strike—correction, splash, he told himself.

Now he felt a genuine curiosity as to what had made Doug the contradictory man he was. He’d never asked before. The only times he’d been with Doug was when the two couples were together. Now he was alone with him, he felt warm and comfortable (if still a little woozy) and wanted to know more about his hiking companion than he knew. For that matter he knew nothing at all about Doug beyond his animated social behavior and his rather overbearing conduct during this hike.

“Tell me about yourself,” he said.

“Tell you about myself?” Doug turned it into a question.

“Yes,” Bob said.

“Tell you what?” Doug asked.

“Your childhood, for instance,” Bob replied.

“Oh, you don’t want to hear about that,” Doug told him.

“Why not?”

“Because it was a fucking nightmare,” Doug said.

“That bad.” Bob wondered if he’d made a mistake bringing up the subject. He’d only wanted to learn a little more about Doug. But, instead, if he’d opened up old wounds…

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry into—”

“My childhood,” Doug said as though he were reading the title of a book. “By Douglas Crowley, formerly Douglas Crowlenkovitch.”

“That was your name,” Bob said, surprised. “I presume you changed it when you became an actor.”

“Obviously,” Doug said. He took a sip of his coffee and sighed. “Well, it wasn’t anything like your childhood, that I’d bet on.”

“Where did you grow up?”

“On the outskirts of Pittsburgh,” Doug answered. “My old man was a steel worker.”

“Were you an only child?” Bob asked.

Doug made a sound of scornful amusement. “I should be so lucky.”

“How many of you were there?”

“Four sisters and me,” Doug said. “They got the princess treatment, I got treated like some dog they’d found in a lot.”

“Really?” Bob said, wincing.

“Yes, really,” Doug said; sounding almost contemptuous. “They had the two extra bedrooms, I had the cellar.”

“The cellar?” Bob looked at him in pained amazement.

“That’s right. While you had a nice room all to yourself, I’m sure, my old man threw up some plywood and made me a—what would you call it?—a cell, an enclosure, a fucking closet? You can imagine how cold it got down there in the winter. The only time it was comfortable was in the summer.”

“Jesus.” Bob looked distressed at the image Doug had created in his mind.

“Jesus was nowhere around,” Doug said. “Just my old man and my mother—who was drunk most of the time.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Bob said, wincing again.

“He wasn’t around either.” Doug’s smile was thin and bitter. “My old man used to beat the shit out of me,” he said.

“Why?” Bob asked.

“Why?” Doug repeated. “For any damn thing he wanted to. Bad grades in school. Not doing my chores fast enough to suit him. Once, one of my sisters came on to me. She was lying naked on my cot, telling me to fuck her when my old man found us. Who got blamed? Her? My ass. It was all my fault. She was thirteen, I was nine, but it was my fault and he got that old belt out toot sweet and walloped my bare ass until I couldn’t sit down for three days. Bastard. And what about Lenora? She cried tears like the professional crocodile she was and got away with the whole thing—even my mother bawled me out. I wasn’t too crazy about Lenora after that. For that matter, none of my sisters cared much for me. My oldest sister Angela wasn’t too bad; she, at least, stood up for me once in a while. But not very much.”

“Did your father drink too?” Bob asked.

“Not during the week, he had to work,” Doug said. “But on weekends… watch out. That’s when I got most of my beatings. He beat my mother up once in a while too. But never the girls. I don’t know what the hell kept him clear of them. Hell, maybe he was screwing them, it wouldn’t surprise me a bit to find out that he was.”

Bob didn’t know what to say. He really was sorry now that he’d brought up the subject. Then, again, maybe it was doing Doug good to let out some of his painful memories.

“When did you leave home?” he asked.

“House, you mean,” Doug said. “It was never a home.” He paused to take a drink of his coffee, then went on. “I was about fifteen. I’d become a real ‘tough guy’ by then. Hung out with ‘the wrong crowd,’ don’t y’know. Got caught trying to rob a liquor store with a couple of my buddies. We all got sent to a reformatory. I was there two years. Got raped a dozen times or so until I beat up the ‘big guy’ there. Then they left me alone. Would you believe that’s where I got into acting?”

“How so?” Bob asked, surprised.

“Some jerky social worker started a dramatics program there. Most of the guys thought it was only for fags but I tried it and I liked it. That got some of the other guys into it too—they knew I wasn’t a fag. So we put on shows and I found out I was pretty damn good at it. So after I got out, I went to Philadelphia, got a job in a lumberyard, and went to acting school.”

“That’s very interesting,” Bob said.

Doug looked at him suspiciously. “You jerking my chain?” he asked.

“Well, I don’t know what that means,” Bob answered. “But if it means am I pulling your leg, no, I’m not. I think what you’ve told me is very interesting. You’ve survived a lot of hard times.”

“That’s for damn sure,” Doug said.

“So when did you come to California?” Bob asked then.

“Went to New York first. Another acting school—I couldn’t get into The Actors Studio; guy who ran it didn’t like me. But I got a few parts in off-Broadway shows. Enjoyed the hell out of it because I had my choice of all the actresses; most guys in acting companies are queer. Which is amusing because most of the so-called famous lovers of the stage are queer—which, of course, the audience doesn’t know.”

“What brought you to the coast?” Bob asked.

“Some Hollywood agent saw me and told me I should come to Los Angeles; he thought he could get me some television work.” He exhaled hard. “End of story,” he said. He looked outside. “If it doesn’t stop raining soon, we’d better try to move on anyway.”

“Oh, all right.” Bob didn’t want to leave the comfort of where they were but knew that Marian would start to fret if he was days late.

Doug poured some more hot water into his cup, added coffee powder to it, stirred it up, and added a little more brandy to the cup. “You want some more?” he asked.

Bob was going to say no, then thought: Oh, what the hell, it’s making Doug more genial, making me feel good, and, most importantly, delaying their possible departure into the cold rain.

“Sure,” he said. He made himself more coffee and Doug added a little brandy to his cup.

“So that’s the story of my fucking life,” Doug said. “Excluding a few minor details like my marriage to Nicole, my two kids, Nicole moving out on me, my total alienation from Janie, my acting career in the fucking doldrums, and my son—”

He broke off abruptly and Bob hoped the subject of Artie would be dropped. He knew the pain Doug still felt about it and knew that there was very little he could say to lessen that pain.

“You believe in life after death, don’t you?” Doug surprised him by asking.

He hesitated for a few moments, then nodded. “Yes, I do.”

“So tell me”—Doug was looking at him almost challengingly—“you think Artie’s there, okay then?”

Bob swallowed. “Yes, of course he’s there,” he said. He’d never tell Doug what he believed about suicides.

“Even though he was a druggie?” Doug asked.

“It doesn’t matter what he was,” Bob told him. “He’s still there.” Where that “there” was he hated to consider. But he could, in honesty, say that he believed in Artie’s survival.

“You’ve been reading about this stuff for a long time, haven’t you?” Doug said.

“A long time,” Bob agreed. “Hundreds of books.”

“And you’re convinced of this… survival thing,” Doug probed.

“Totally,” Bob answered. “I believe that we’re more than body and brain, that we possess a higher self that survives death.”

“Survives for what?” Doug asked.

“To come back and try again,” Bob answered.

“Oh, shit,” Doug said. “We have to go through everything again?”

“It’ll be different,” Bob said. “We’ll be different people. But we’ll still be the same basic soul working out our problems. Trying to anyway.”

Doug grunted and took a sip of his coffee. He bared his teeth, remembering. “That means I’ll have to pay the price for what I did to Artie,” he said. “Or what I didn’t do.”

“We all have problems that we need to solve,” Bob said.

“Not you,” Doug said, his hostile tone startling Bob. “Your life is a fucking utopia compared to mine. A wife who loves you. Two kids doing well. A successful career. You’re even handsome, for Christ’s sake. Who the hell were you in your last lifetime, the fucking son of God?”

Bob tried to react as though Doug wasn’t being totally serious even though he knew that he was. Did Doug resent him that much? Was that why he’d been so rough on him? Was it going to get worse? The thought appalled him. Out here, he was completely at the mercy of Doug’s backpacking skills.

“Well,” he said, forcing a smile. “My life isn’t quite that perfect.”

“Has your wife walked out on you?” Doug demanded. “Has your daughter written you off completely? Has your career gone into the toilet? Has your son put a pistol in his mouth and blown his fucking brains out?”

“Doug, take it easy, will you?” Bob tried to calm him down. “I know you’re having problems in your life, I know—”

“Problems?” Doug almost snarled. “Is that what they are? Fucking problems? Something I can solve with a fucking slide rule?!”

Bob didn’t answer. He returned Doug’s glare with what he hoped was a sympathetic look, at least unprovoked. Finally, he said, “I’m sorry if my life infuriates you. I didn’t design it that way.”

“It doesn’t infuriate me,” Doug said, obviously lying. “I just don’t think you know what misery feels like. Not with the way your life has gone.”

“I’m sorry, Doug,” Bob told him quietly. “I really am. If I’ve said anything stupid or anything that hurt you, I’m sorry, I apologize.”

He’d hoped that his words would mollify Doug. It only made him fall into a morose silence, sitting and sipping his coffee, staring out through the cave entrance, his expression one of bleak depression. Bob didn’t dare say any more. He sat in silence himself, hoping—almost praying—that the rest of the hike wasn’t going to be jeopardized because of this conversation.

Doug, I hope this isn’t going to spoil the rest of our hike, he imagined himself saying to Doug. And Doug replying: Don’t bet on it, Bobby.

2:24 PM

Something hit him smartly on the chest and his eyes popped open. Doug was looking at him with a stiff expression. “Gotta go,” he said.

Bob looked at him confusedly. “What did I do, fall asleep?”

“Naturally.” Doug’s tone was critical.

“I’m sorry, I—”

“Come on, we have to move,” Doug cut him off.

Bob looked groggily toward the entrance of the cave. “Has the rain stopped?” he asked.

“Enough,” Doug said. “Come on. Let’s go.”

“Okay. Okay.” Bob frowned. Are we starting in again? he thought.

He looked around. Doug had already packed the sleeping bags and pads. How did he get them out from under me? he wondered. Was I sleeping that heavily?

“Let’s get your pack on,” Doug told him. His movements were hurried as he pushed Bob’s arms through the strap loops. “Oh.” Bob winced as Doug twisted his right arm.

“Sorry,” Doug said. He didn’t sound it.

The pack felt heavier than ever. Because it was wet? Bob looked worried. “Isn’t the ground outside muddy?” he asked.

“Bob, we cannot stay here all day,” Doug told him. “We have to reach a campsite before it gets dark.”

Why? Bob thought. Why not stay right here until the rain stops? Even if it means staying here all night. It’s warm, it’s comfortable.

“All right, let’s move,” Doug said.

Bob tried to lift himself, then fell back, feeling slightly dizzy. “Whoa,” he said. “That lightning must have done more to me than I thought.”

Doug looked at him without expression. What? Bob thought. Am I supposed to feel guilty about getting splashed by lightning now?

The way Doug was looking at him—almost with contempt it seemed—made Bob’s temper snap abruptly.

“All right, for Christ’s sake, go on without me then. I’d rather be lost than badgered to death.”

“Who the hell is badgering you?” Doug looked surprised.

“You are,” Bob said. “You’re taking advantage of the fact that you know exactly what to do out here and I don’t know the first damn thing about it.” As he spoke he felt a sudden coldness in his stomach. What in God’s name would he do if Doug took him at his word?

“Calm down, for Christ’s sake,” Doug told him. “You’re just feeling rattled because of the lightning splash.”

“Maybe so,” Bob answered. “I’m sorry. I do feel rattled.”

“Listen. Bob,” Doug said, “I have an idea.”

“What?” Bob asked, uneasily.

“Why don’t you go back to where we started from? I’ll move on fast to the cabin, get the Bronco, and come back and pick you up.”

At first, it sounded like a good idea. Then Bob remembered all the ground they’d covered. He’d undoubtedly get lost. Immediately, he said so.

“No, you wouldn’t,” Doug said as though addressing a child. “I’ll give you the compass. You follow it and you’ll be back there by dark.”

“How could I possibly be?” Bob demanded, his voice rising in panic. “It took us more than a day to get here.”

“So you’ll sleep one night in the woods, it won’t kill you.”

A collage of bears and mountain lions and coyotes painted itself across his mind. “Doug, that is ridiculous,” he said. “I’d never make it.”

“Bob, you just asked me to leave you here.”

“I didn’t mean it, for Christ’s sake. I just lost my temper.”

Doug nodded, looking unconvinced.

“Bob, this isn’t working out,” he said. “It could take us three, four days more the way we’re going. Your wife is going to lose her mind, worrying about you.”

“She’ll lose her mind a lot more if I get eaten by a goddamn mountain lion,” Bob retorted.

“Oh, jeez, the mountain lion thing again. You aren’t going to run into a mountain lion. All you have to do is—”

“No,” Bob interrupted adamantly. “You saw what happened to me yesterday. I’m not going to let you dump me again.”

“Dump you?” Doug looked incredulous. “I’m trying to help you. This hike was a mistake, you know that. You aren’t up to it.”

“I will be up to it,” Bob said, sounding almost frightened now. “Just don’t leave me on my own again. It scared the hell out of me.”

Doug didn’t reply. He looked at Bob as though regarding the child who wouldn’t listen to reason. Is that the look you gave Artie all the time? the thought occurred to Bob.

Doug’s cheeks puffed as he blew out a surrendering breath. “Okay. Okay,” he said. “So it takes us a week to reach the cabin. So we’ll run out of food and have to eat squirrels. So your wife will become convinced that you were eaten by a mountain lion. If that’s what you want, okay, so be it.”

He pointed at Bob. “Which doesn’t mean I’m going to slow down to a crawl,” he warned. “We still have to move at a reasonable clip if we’re going to make that campsite by dark.”

“Okay.” Bob nodded, feeling such relief that he didn’t even think of how difficult it was going to be to keep up with Doug. As long as he wasn’t alone, that was what mattered. He never wanted to be alone in the forest again.

He braced himself against the slight dizziness and continuing weariness as he made his way out of the cave. It wasn’t raining hard, something slightly more than a drizzle. They put on their ponchos and Bob drew in a deep breath. He was not going to give Doug any more reason to be aggravated with him. He’d make this damn hike and make it successfully, then go home and burn the backpack, sleeping bag, ground pad, and every other damn piece of equipment he’d bought. I’ll dance around the bonfire, naked, he visualized himself, repressing a smile. I’ll bellow a farewell chant to all of it and stay in luxury lodges in the future if I ever want to be exposed to Mother Nature again.

“All right, let’s go,” he said crisply. At least, he tried to make it sound crisp. He had no idea how convincing it was to Doug.

Probably not at all.

They were crossing a tree-dripping glade, Bob twenty feet behind, when Doug suddenly stopped and, reaching back across his shoulder, snatched an arrow from its quiver. Oh, my God, he’s going to kill me! Bob thought in shock. Freezing in his tracks, he stared aghast as Doug grabbed his bow and quickly fitted the arrow’s neck into the bowstring.

Instead of whirling though, Doug kept looking ahead, drew back the string quickly, and shot the arrow at something Bob couldn’t see.

He moved up to where Doug remained standing. “Why’d you do that?” he asked.

Doug pointed toward the ground ahead and Bob looked in that direction.

Lying on the ground, twitching feebly as it died, was a large raccoon. Its fur is so beautiful, was the first thing Bob thought. “How come you killed it?” he asked, trying not to sound in the least bit critical.

“Rabies,” Doug told him.

“How do you know it had rabies?” Bob asked.

“Raccoons aren’t in the habit of coming straight at you in broad daylight,” Doug said. “And doing it fast. They avoid people; they don’t attack them.”

“He was attacking?” Bob asked, incredulous.

“My call, Bobby,” Doug said curtly. “I didn’t care to take the chance that it was just being friendly.”

Bob nodded immediately. “I understand,” he said.

“Do you?” Doug responded. “Do you know that wildlife-related cases of rabies have more than doubled in the last ten years? Do you know what a rabies attack can be like? Hallucinations? Swallowing so painful you can’t eat or drink? Muscle spasms in the face and neck? A raging fever? Probable death? You wonder why I killed the damn raccoon?”

“No, no—I understand,” Bob said hastily. God forbid he got Doug ranting again. “You did the right thing.”

“Damn right.” Doug slung the bow across his shoulder and, without another word, started quickly across the glade.

Bob stopped for a few moments to look down at the dead raccoon. It looked as though it had been in perfect health. He couldn’t get over how beautiful its fur was—all silvery and black.

As he started after Doug he was unable to prevent himself from wondering if the raccoon really did have rabies or whether Doug was trying to impress him—hell, intimidate him—with his skill at using the bow and arrow. Oh, don’t be paranoid, for chrissake, he told himself—but he couldn’t help mulling over the suspicion. Was he missing something here? Was Doug actually a menace to him? He didn’t want to believe that for a moment. Still, the tension between them seemed to be increasing all the time. Just how did Doug feel about him? It had better be benign because if it was something more, he was a pretty helpless prey.

Oh, come on, he ordered himself angrily. Just because you’re having arguments doesn’t translate into murderous intent on Doug’s part. For Christ’s sake, Doug may well have saved your life if the raccoon really was rabid.

It was rabid, he tried to convince himself. Shape up, Hansen. By the weekend you’ll be home with Marian and all this will be nothing more than an unpleasant memory.

Doug had stopped at the base of a steep slope, waiting for Bob to catch up.

What now? Bob thought, looking up the slope. It was much steeper than the one they’d climbed to reach the cave. “What are we—?” he started.

“We have two choices,” Doug interrupted. “Either we go around this and add miles to the hike before we stop. Or we climb it and save ourselves a lot of time.”

Bob drew in a shaking breath. “Well, I’m not too confident in my ability to do mountain climbing,” he said.

“Mountain climbing?” Doug sounded as though he couldn’t believe what Bob had said. “Jesus Christ, this is a slope, not a mountain.”

Bob didn’t want to try it. But, even less, did he want to generate another conflict between them. So he nodded unconvincingly and said, even more unconvincingly, “Okay, let’s do it.”

He was sure Doug knew that he didn’t mean a word of it but acted as though he wasn’t aware of it. “Good,” Doug said. “Use that rest step I told you about and it won’t be too hard.” Without another word, he started up the slope.

Bob followed, boots slipping on the brush, roots, and mud surface of the slope. Jesus, are my clothes going to be filthy, he thought. He kept trying the rest step but the ground was just too slippery for it to work; he kept falling to his knees, getting mud on his hands, hurting his right palm.

As he labored up the slope—the backpack starting to feel like an anvil on his back again—he recalled the pleasure with which he’d accepted Doug’s offer to take him on a backpacking trip. That was a great decision, Hansen, he derided himself. One of the best you ever made.

Looking up, he saw that Doug had stopped and was looking back at him. “Going to make it?” Doug asked dubiously.

“I’ll be fine,” he answered breathlessly.

He stiffened, seeing a boulder, loosened by the rain, rolling directly at Doug.

“Look out!” he cried.

Doug jerked around and saw the boulder rolling down at him. He made a sudden move to avoid it and slipped, banging his elbow against a rock, hissing at the pain.

Bob had no idea where the strength came from. But, surging upward abruptly, he grabbed Doug’s pack and jerked him out of the way of the boulder. Not all the way though. As the boulder rumbled past, it grazed Doug’s right shoulder, hitting his backpack and jolting him around in a quarter spin. “Jesus!” Doug cried.

They crouched together on the muddy soil, looking at each other. Doug kept wincing at the pain in his shoulder and elbow. “Damn,” he muttered. “Damn it.”

“You all right?” Bob asked. He panted a little as he spoke.

“I dunno,” Doug said. He rubbed his elbow, grimacing. “Shit,” he said.

Bob struggled to his feet, thinking: Well, don’t thank me, Doug, I only saved your life.

To his amazement, Doug didn’t thank him. “That was really something,” was the closest he came.

“Yeah. It was,” Bob said. He was astounded that Doug expressed not one scintilla of gratitude. Instead, Doug got up and said, “We’d better move or it’ll be dark before we reach the campsite.”

Yeah, right, Bob thought. Your appreciation really warms the cockles of my heart, Douglas.

As though to prove that the injuries had no serious effect on him, Doug moved on up the slope at an even faster pace than he’d been going before. Jesus God, what kind of childhood did he really have? Bob wondered. Proving his mettle seemed to outweigh everything else, even gratitude for someone who may have saved him from critical injury.

He couldn’t restrain himself. “Doug, I might have just saved your life, you know.”

“No, no, I would have gotten out of the way by myself,” Doug answered casually.

Why, you ungrateful son of a bitch, Bob thought. I should have let the fucking boulder crush you into jam.

Shaking his head, he continued climbing the slope. Incredible, he kept thinking. Simply incredible.

“There, you see?” Doug was at the top of the slope now, pointing at the ground.

Bob reached the top and found Doug standing beside another dead raccoon. This one was swarming with maggots. Bob made a sickened noise and averted his face.

“Rabies,” Doug told him.

Bob nodded, starting past him. After a few paces, he stopped abruptly at a loud, clashing sound in the distance. “What’s that?” he asked, turning back to Doug.

“Probably a couple of horny stags fighting for a female. They butt their heads together, it makes their antlers clatter.”

That’s right, lecture me again, Bob thought disgruntledly. Can’t get enough of that, can you?

He waited until Doug had passed by him, then followed, looking at the back of Doug’s head with a resentful glare.

4:32 PM

It was more than a stream this time. Closer to being a river, Bob thought. Fast-moving, frothing, and bubbling, its current so rapid that in striking boulders it flung up explosive sprays of water drops. It looked very cold and threatening to him. “No log bridge here,” he said.

“No more log bridges, buddy,” Doug told him, “we’re backpacking now, not taking a stroll through the park.”

Bob sighed. You already said that, Doug, he thought. “So what do we do?” he asked.

“We cross, what else?” Doug said.

“How?”

Doug looked at him as though he couldn’t believe that Bob had asked the question. “Wade, Bobby, wade,” he said.

“Wade,” Bob murmured. He couldn’t see how they could possibly wade across such a rushing stream.

Doug started to remove his backpack.

“Think it might be less wide a little farther downstream?” Bob asked hopefully.

“I presume you mean upstream.” Doug’s smile was thin.

“Upstream, downstream, what’s the difference?” Bob snapped.

“Upstream gets narrower; downstream gets wider,” Doug told him.

“Okay, okay, it’ll be less wide in one of those directions.”

“Not necessarily,” Doug said. “Take off your pack.”

“How do you know?” Bob asked.

“Bobby, this isn’t the first time I’ve been out here, you know. Take my word for it, it doesn’t get any narrower farther down or farther up. Besides, the campsite we’ll use is that way.” He pointed across the stream.

Bob nodded reluctantly. Just stop calling me Bobby, will you? he thought. Marian was right. It did definitely sound as though Doug was talking to a ten-year-old. Maybe that’s how he sees me, he thought. With another sigh, heavier this time, he started to unbuckle his backpack straps.

Doug had his pack off now. Moving to the bank of the stream, holding on to its straps, he turned himself halfway around, paused, then took a deep breath and flung the backpack across the stream. It landed several yards from the opposite bank.

He turned to Bob. “I told you how I lost a pack once in a stream like this. I don’t intend to take a chance on it happening again.”

“Uh-huh.” Bob nodded. His pack was off now. He looked at Doug questioningly.

“Well, go ahead, throw it,” Doug told him.

Bob winced. “What if I don’t make it?” he asked. “I’d lose everything.”

“It’s not that wide, Bobby,” Doug said edgily.

“I know, but—”

“Just sling the damn thing,” Doug told him.

Bob hesitated. If his throw was short, he’d be obligated to Doug for everything. The prospect was more than a little daunting.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Doug snapped. Pulling the pack out of Bob’s grip, he moved to the bank of the stream, cocked his arm, and threw the pack. It landed about a foot from the opposite bank. Great, Bob thought. You didn’t try as hard with my pack, did you?

“Doug,” he said.

“Yessir.” Doug’s tone was irritated.

“Why are you expecting me to act like a professional backpacker?”

Doug scowled. “Didn’t think that tossing a backpack across a stream is something only a professional backpacker could do.”

“Okay, okay.” Bob nodded. “Now what, do we jump across the stream in one leap? Oh, no, you said we wade.”

Doug was already sitting on the ground, unlacing his boots. He glanced up at Bob. “Do likewise, Bobby,” he said. He bared his teeth, pulling at the laces of his boots. “Unless you’d prefer getting your boots soaking wet. They take a hell of a long time to dry, let me tell you.”

“All right,” Bob said. He felt like sighing again but repressed it. I could be home, sitting in my chair, enjoying a vodka and tonic with a slice of lemon, he thought. He sat down and started to unlace his boots. Instead, I’m here, doing research for a goddamn novel. Why didn’t I go all the way and write a novel about a Welsh coal miner and work in a mine for a couple of weeks?

“Tie the laces together,” Doug told him, “and put your socks inside the boots, roll up your pants. I warn you, the water’s going to be cold.”

Thanks for telling me, Bob thought. The colder the better. I love wading in fast-moving ice water. The next book I write will be about an Olympic swimmer who trains in Antarctica. He couldn’t restrain another sigh.

“All right, let’s go,” Doug said, standing. “Stay behind me and feel your way ahead as you cross. There could be rocks on the bottom that move under you.”

“Right,” Bob said. Anything you say, Dougie boy, his mind added.

Doug walked over to a fallen tree and broke off two thick branches. “To brace yourself against the current,” he said, handing one of the branches to Bob. “Cross facing upstream so you have a triangle of support.”

“Okay,” Bob said, not sure he understood what Doug had just said.

Doug moved to the edge of the stream, swung his boots around a few times by their laces, then threw them across the stream. They landed beyond his pack.

“You want me to throw yours?” he asked.

No, goddamn it, I can throw my own boots, thank you, Bob thought resentfully. “I’ll do it,” he said.

Immediately, he visualized both boots landing in the fast-moving water and being carried off by the swift current. Or, just as bad, the laces coming untied and the boots landing separately, maybe one in the water, one on the other side of the stream. Then he’d have to hop his way through the forest, he thought, visualizing himself doing that for the next two or three days.

He held out the boots by their tied laces. “I changed my mind,” he said.

He knew Doug’s smile was one of disparagement but let it go. Better a little disparagement than one or both of his boots flying down the stream like lost canoes.

Doug took the boots from him and, twirling them twice by their tied laces, flung them across the stream. They bounced off the ground several feet beyond Doug’s boots. The winner and still champion! Bob thought.

His first step into the stream made him cry out involuntarily. “Jesus!”

“I told you it was cold,” Doug said. If the temperature of the water bothered him, he wasn’t showing it. Or would rather die than show it, Bob decided. Macho Man! his mind sang out.

“Lean a little against the current,” Doug told him. “And use your branch.”

Bob tilted himself a little to the left, feeling the strong push of the current against his legs, bracing his branch on the bottom to help remain balanced. He hadn’t folded his pants up far enough, he realized, the rolled-up bottoms were getting soaked even though he’d raised them above his knees.

Doug waded slowly but steadily across the stream using his branch to fight the current. Bob followed, feeling as though, at any moment, the force of the water might knock him over. Then what? he wondered. Would he be carried off like a piece of wood? Or just be sprawled on the stream bottom, getting soaked from head to toe?

“Watch out, there’s a rock on the bottom that’s loose,” Doug said across his shoulder; his voice was drowned out by the loud noise of the torrent.

“What?” Bob asked loudly.

“I said—!” Doug started.

Too late. Bob stepped on the rock, it rolled beneath his foot and suddenly, his balance gone, the branch was out of his grip and he was falling to the right.

He gasped in shock as his body hit the rushing stream. It began to move him as he floundered in the current. He tried to cry out and a burst of icy water filled his mouth. Gagging and spitting, he rolled over once, trying desperately to push up with his hands, but every time he tried to rise, the force of the stream knocked him over again. Oh, God, am I going to drown? the panicked thought struck him. He struggled to get up again and managed to raise onto one knee on the stony bottom. Then he started to fall again. This is it! he thought, terrified.

Doug’s hand suddenly grabbed the collar of his jacket and began hauling him to his feet. “Try to stand!” Doug shouted.

Bob’s legs thrashed clumsily, both feet trying to reach the bottom of the stream. He slipped again and fell into the current. Doug’s grip on his jacket collar was abruptly gone, and he tumbled over in the cold, rushing water. I am going to drown! he thought with incredulous terror.

But Doug now had him by the jacket collar again, then grabbed his right wrist with a grip so hard it made Bob cry out in pain. He felt Doug dragging him across the bottom of the stream, then onto the bank on the other side of the stream, continuing to drag him onto dry ground. “My wrist!” he cried, grimacing with pain.

But Doug held on to it until he was completely out of the water and onto dry ground. Then he let go of Bob’s wrist and sat down hard on the ground beside Bob. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered. Bob could see that Doug was almost as soaking wet as he was.

“Well, now we’re even, pal,” Doug said, breathing hard.

He does remember, Bob thought. He knew I saved him before and this was his appreciation.

“Thank you, Doug,” he said. “I don’t know whether I could have gotten out of the stream by myself.”

“You couldn’t have,” Doug answered. “You were tumbling along like a piece of wood.”

“I know I was,” Bob said.

They sat side by side, panting, regaining their breath.

Then Bob said, “Well, at least our shoes stayed dry.”

The way Doug looked at him, he half expected a punch in the nose.

Instead, Doug chuckled, looking downward himself. “Yeah, at least they stayed dry,” he said.

After a short while, Doug got to his feet, wincing. “Well, you’re in luck,” he said. “We’ll have to set our camp up right away. We’re too damn wet to go on.”

“My fault,” Bob apologized. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry, hell, you’re delighted,” Doug answered.

Bob looked at him in silence for a few moments, then laughed weakly. “You’re right, I am delighted,” he said. “Let’s go cook my turkey tetrazzini.”

Doug made a scoffing sound. “Yeah, let’s do that,” he said.

5:19 PM

There was an open piece of ground about sixty feet from the stream where Doug had said they’d camp for the night. It had made Bob wonder if Doug had intended to camp there all along and only told him that they were setting up a campsite now because they were too wet to go on. He decided to let the suspicion go. After all, Doug may well have saved his life.

Doug told him that he’d planned to have him start the fire, but under the circumstances—both of them wet and the air growing cold—he’d start it himself.

Quickly, Doug had formed a fire ring of stones while he sent Bob to find dry evergreen needles, lichen, and twigs to start the fire with, bigger fallen wood to increase it. He’d erected a cone of twigs over the pine needles and lichen and a larger cone of logs above it. Lighting the kindling with a lifeboat match, he’d begun the core of the fire. As it burned away, the outside logs slumped inward, feeding the heart of the fire.

Soon the fire was burning steadily and they took off their wet clothes, wrung them out as much as they could, and hung them from a line of thin rope that Doug suspended between two small trees. They put on dry long johns, sweaters, and their socks and boots and sat before the fire, warming themselves.

“I think a sip of brandy wouldn’t hurt right now,” Doug said and got the small flask from his backpack. The brandy made Bob cough but felt comfortingly warm going down his throat and chest and into his stomach.

“Okay, come on with me,” Doug said unexpectedly.

Bob looked at him, curious. “Where?” he asked.

“To find something better than your goddamn turkey tetrazzini,” Doug answered. He was on his feet now. “Come on.”

Bob hated to stand again but didn’t want another unpleasant exchange with Doug. He pushed to his feet with a groan and started after Doug who was heading back toward the stream. Bob opened his mouth to ask Doug a question, then couldn’t think of one and followed in silence.

Doug led him to a quiet section of the stream and pointed. “Fish like to gather at the shallows in the evening, in a pool, in the shade of bushes, around submerged logs and rocks.”

Bob nodded, thinking: My God, the man knows everything. He wasn’t going to say it though; he was still irritated by Doug’s behavior.

“All right, now watch. You may have to do it yourself someday.”

Not bloody likely, Bob thought. Still, he watched in interest as Doug rolled up his long john sleeves and stretched himself out, looking down into the still water of the pool.

“And there’s our supper,” he said. “What I’m going to do now is reach down and very gently work my hand under its belly until I reach its gills.”

Bob watched, unable to believe that anyone could catch a fish that way. Doug seemed to be absolutely motionless. But then he said, “Now I’m going to grasp it firmly just behind the gills and… Voilà!” Suddenly he yanked his arm out of the water and Bob looked in amazement at the plump trout thrashing wildly on the ground.

“I’ll be damned,” he said.

“And now, the coup de grâce,” Doug said, picking up a sharpended twig and impaling the trout on it.

Bob watched as Doug took a frying pan from his pack and set his grate across two logs on the fire. Doug got a small plastic bottle from his pack, unscrewed the top, and poured a little bit of liquid into the frying pan.

“What’s that?” Bob asked.

“Olive oil,” Doug answered, returning the plastic bottle to his backpack. He removed a small plastic bag of what looked like flour and after laying the trout in the frying pan, sprinkled some of it on top of the trout.

“You don’t need to skin it?” Bob asked.

“Waste of time. Just pick the flesh out of the skin.”

Bob nodded.

“Anyway, the valuable fats and oils are right under the skin,” Doug said.

“You’ve done this before,” Bob said.

“Many times.” Doug got a fork from his pack and turned the trout over, sprinkling flour on the other side of it.

“Did you know you were going to catch a trout here?” Bob asked.

“Well, I have before so I figured there was a good chance I’d catch one again.”

Bob inhaled deeply. “Mmm,” he said. “It’s already starting to smell good.”

“I’ll let you provide the vegetables,” Doug told him.

“Will do.” Bob moved to his pack and checked his food supply. “Carrot and celery sticks okay?” he asked.

“That’ll be fine,” Doug said.

Bob placed his backpack behind himself to lean against as he sat down again.

“That sure does smell good,” he said. “Nothing like it.”

“Except for fresh shrimp cooked on a beach,” Doug said.

“Never had that,” Bob replied.

“Never been to Mexico?” Doug asked.

“No, never,” Bob answered. “Marian and I have always been leery of catching Montezuma’s revenge.”

“That’s dumb,” Doug told him. “I’ve been to Mexico a dozen times and never caught it once.”

“Really.” Bob nodded.

“Guess you and Marian go on fancier trips,” Doug said.

Oh, boy, here we go again, Bob thought. Goading time. “Not always,” he said, trying to keep his tone even; he didn’t want to start another hassle. “We like to stay in lodges in northern California and Oregon a lot.”

“Uh-huh.” It was clear that Doug didn’t believe him. “Fancy lodges, I suppose,” he said.

“Not always.” It was becoming more difficult to sound easygoing.

“Where have you gone?” Doug asked.

Do I tell him? Bob wondered. Is he really interested? Or does he just want more ammunition for his convictions about the disparity between our lifestyles?

“Oh… a few places in Europe,” he said, hoping to get over this conversation as quickly as possible.

“We went to Paris once,” Doug said. “I was doing a feature.”

“Oh, that’s a fascinating city,” Bob said, conscious of attempting to sound enthusiastic. “You must have had a wonderful time there.”

“Not really,” Doug said. “I was shooting most of the time and Nicole was bitching most of the time because we weren’t ‘doing the town,’” he finished scornfully.

“Oh, that’s too bad,” Bob said. Change the goddamn conversation quick, he told himself.

“Smells like it’s almost ready,” he said.

“Not quite.” Doug’s voice sounded glum.

“Can I interest you in some vodka?” Bob asked.

“No, I’ll stick to my brandy,” Doug said. He took a sip from his flask. Oh, Christ, don’t drink too much, Bob thought worriedly. He had the definite feeling that Doug would not be an amiable drunk.

Bob opened one of his mini-bottles of vodka and sipped on it, watching the trout sizzle in the frying pan. He wondered if the slight dizziness he felt was a leftover from the lightning—what had Doug called it?—“splash.” He hoped not. It’s sure been a super hike so far, he thought. I get lost, fall down, get a nice big blister on my toe, get hit by lightning, and almost drown. And it’s only the second day. What was still in the offing? A mountain lion or bear attack? An avalanche? A blizzard?

He had to smile to himself. I’m some great backpacker, I am, he thought.

“What’s funny?” Doug asked.

He started in surprise. He hadn’t realized that his smile was that apparent.

“Oh, I was just thinking about all the things that have happened to me since we started out yesterday.”

“It’s the way things go, Bobby,” Doug said. “You wanted to backpack.”

I didn’t plan on being struck by lightning, Bob thought. He didn’t say any more. There was no point to it. It was obvious that Doug always wanted the last word.

He rubbed his wrist, flexing his fingers, the effort making him wince.

“Wrist hurt?” Doug asked.

“A little bit,” Bob answered. “You… kinda twisted it before.”

“Would you rather I’d let you go downstream?” Doug asked, his smile disdainful.

“No, no, of course not. It just—” He broke off. No point in mentioning it any longer, he realized. Doug’s reaction wasn’t going to change.

“I think that trout is going to be delicious,” he said.

The trout was delicious. Along with the vegetable sticks, washed down with cold fresh water it made what Bob’s mother had always called a “scrumptious feast.”

He was leaning back against his pack now, feeling relaxed. He’d eaten a small chocolate bar and was now chewing on some dried apricots and sipping on a cup of coffee. “Hope my innards do their duty soon,” he said.

“They may not,” Doug said. “Sometimes it takes days for the bowels to cooperate.”

Thanks for the encouragement, Bob thought.

It was getting colder now and since their jackets were still drying, they had unzipped their sleeping bags and wrapped them around themselves. The tent was up and Doug had hung their food supplies from a high branch. Bob was a little drowsy but didn’t feel like trying to sleep yet. Sitting with the sleeping bag around him, looking into the glowing coals of the fire, he was content to just lean back against his pack and enjoy his relaxation.

“This part I really like,” he said.

Doug grunted. “Artie didn’t like anything at all about backpacking,” he said. “God knows I tried to make him like it often enough.”

I bet you did, Bob thought. Best not to reply aloud, he thought. Maybe Doug would let it go with his first remark.

He didn’t. “Took him backpacking, camping, fishing, hunting, you name it. He hated all of them.”

“Well, some kids like different things,” Bob said automatically, instantly regretting that he’d made the comment because Doug replied, bitterly, “No. It was Nicole. She babied him. Turned him into a weakling. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was a fag.”

Oh, God, please don’t, Bob thought. This is such a nice moment. Don’t ruin it.

His shoulders slumped as Doug said, “You really believe in life after death, huh?” There was an obvious edge to his voice.

What do I say? Bob thought. How can I end this and not get into another corrosive discussion?

“Well?” Doug asked demandingly. “Do you?”

“Yes. Yes.” Bob nodded. “I do.”

“Well, I don’t believe in it,” Doug said. “I think it’s a load of shit.”

“That’s your privilege, Doug,” Bob told him. “Everyone’s entitled to their own opinion.”

“Damn right,” Doug said. “And my opinion is that it’s a load of shit.”

“Well… okay,” Bob responded. “I’m better off than you then,” he added.

“How do you figure that?” Doug asked suspiciously.

“Well… look at it this way—if there is no life after death—”

“There isn’t,” Doug interrupted.

“Okay. Say there isn’t. When I die, I’ll never know I was wrong because it’ll all be oblivion.”

“And—?” Doug demanded.

“If there is life after death, you’ll have to adjust to it.”

“Yeah, sure.” Doug made a scornful sound. “Life after death. Reincarnation. It’s all a load of shit.”

“Well—” Don’t lose your temper now, for Christ’s sake, Bob told himself. “If you don’t believe in life after death, you naturally wouldn’t believe in reincarnation because they go together.”

“How’s that?” Doug asked, his face a mask of disdain.

“There isn’t much point in life after death if it’s only a one-shot deal,” Bob said. “The world would truly be a nightmare if that was the case.”

“The world is a nightmare,” Doug responded.

“That’s undoubtedly true,” Bob said, “but it would be worse without reincarnation.”

“Come on, Bob, what the hell are you talking about?” Doug sounded angry now.

“I’m saying, Doug, that the world is a nightmare of injustice if there isn’t reincarnation.”

“What do you—?”

This time Bob interrupted. “A man lives his entire life doing harm to others. He cheats, he lies, he corrupts, he may even kill or have people killed. Then he dies in his mansion bed surrounded by his loving family. Is that justice?”

“Who said it was?” Doug answered.

“Then life is meaningless?” Bob replied, his voice on edge now. “A baby gets hit by a truck and killed. Is that justice? Government leaders oversee massacres. Is that justice? They start wars, they abuse their population, they create havoc because they’re greedy and cruel and never have to pay for it. Is that justice? So many criminals never have to pay the price for their crimes. So many people pay a price for crimes they didn’t commit. Is that justice? Does equity exist at all? Well, not a hell of a lot if all these crimes go unpaid for, unpunished. That’s why I believe in reincarnation. So justice can exist. If not in this life then in the life to come. Or the lives to come.”

Doug stared at him in silence. Finally, he said, “Jesus, pass the basket, preacher.”

Bob chuckled. “Sorry,” he said, “I get carried away sometimes.”

“I never heard you do it before,” Doug said. “So this is—what?—your philosophy of life?”

“I have a double-edged philosophy,” Bob told him. “I’m almost completely cynical about what goes on at this level.”

“This level,” Doug repeated.

“Life,” Bob said. “I don’t see very much that’s positive in it. Schools closing. Teachers undervalued, underpaid. Child care limited or nonexistent. Homeless people mounting in number every year. The wealthy growing wealthier. The poor growing poorer. Drug sales rising. Violence in the streets. Corruption in politics, in business, in law-keeping. Military spending higher all the time. The infrastructure left to collapse—roads, highways, bridges, airports, sewers, water systems. Air pollution. Mass destruction of the environment. International chaos. Endless wars. That’s how I see the world and my philosophy regarding it is a bleak one, a very nearly hopeless one.”

“And—?” Doug sounded almost intrigued now.

“And, the other side of my philosophy is that I believe in ultimate justice. No matter how cruel or brutal or greedy or stupid things are on this level, there’s a higher level on which justice is inevitable, restitution inescapable.”

“For all of us,” Doug said.

“Well, sure for all of us,” Bob answered. “What kind of system would it be if it didn’t apply to all of us.”

“How does it apply?” Doug demanded.

“I don’t know exactly how. But—” he added quickly to cut off Doug’s interrupting response, “I think that, when we die—”

“Pass on, you mean,” Doug broke in, smirking.

“Right. Pass on. When we do, we carry with us a packet of negatives and positives, how much of each depending on the life we’ve led. This packet provides the blueprint for our next life. Our long-range task is to eliminate all the negatives and clear up the packet altogether.”

“And that’s it, huh?” Doug said.

“Pretty much,” Bob answered. “Nothing is lost. We pay the price—or enjoy the reward—for everything we do in life. Not in afterlife, I don’t believe that. In our next life, though.”

“How? How would you know you were paying the price or getting the reward?” Doug was barely containing his scorn.

“I have no idea,” Bob said. “It would all take place behind the scenes.”

“Behind the scenes? That’s bullshit!” Doug snapped. “A big cop-out. You don’t have to prove anything. It’s all ‘behind the scenes.’ Well, bullshit, Bobby, bullshit! Your philosophy is pure bullshit!”

Bob sighed. “I don’t think so,” he said.

“All right, tell me this,” Doug said, “if God is so damn great, how come He allows so much misery in the world? Hanh?”

“Why does almost everyone assume that God created the world to be permanently wonderful?” Bob asked. “What if He created it as a place to grow in, to become responsible in? I don’t believe God has anything at all to do with the misery in the world. Man caused it, not God. Saint Augustine said that the root of all evil lies neither in Satan nor in God; it lies in man.”

Doug stared at him in silence for a while. Then he said, “And everything happens for a reason.”

“I believe that.”

“So there are no such things as accidents,” Doug said.

“I believe that too.”

“And everything works out in the end.”

“I think so, yes,” Bob answered. “In the long run, cause and effect become clear, justice prevails.”

“So Artie really died because of something wrong he did in his last life, is that it?” Doug said.

Oh, Christ, Bob thought. Is that all this signified to Doug? Some way to take the blame off himself for his son’s suicide.

“I don’t know, Doug,” he said quietly. “I don’t know how the details of reincarnation work, I told you that. I just know I believe in it.”

“Then you have no idea whether Artie fucked up in his last life—maybe killed somebody so that’s why he had to kill himself in this life.”

“No.” Bob looked at him, astounded. “How could I possibly know that?”

“But it could be, right?” Doug challenged. “And my life is a fucking mess because of something I did wrong in my last life?”

“Doug, you’re asking me impossible questions,” Bob told him.

“So all these fucking beliefs you have add up to nothing, don’t they?” Doug said. “You don’t even know if what goes wrong in this life happens because of something we did wrong in our last life.”

“Doug, we do things wrong in this life too,” Bob said, knowing, in the instant he said it, that it was a mistake.

“So I fucked up my life this time around too.” Doug almost snarled the words.

“Doug, we all make mistakes. We’re human,” Bob said.

“Oh, no.” Doug shook his head, a look of pseudosympathy on his face. “Not you. You’re fucking perfect. Everything works out for you. Your marriage. Your career. Your kids. All perfect. Perfect!”

“Doug, let’s drop this. Please,” Bob said.

“No, no, let’s examine all the facts in your perfect life.”

“Doug—”

“First off, you’re a successful short-story writer. Then you’re a successful novelist—”

“Doug, please.”

“Then a successful movie writer, a successful television writer. Then a successful husband, a successful father, a successful citizen in every way.”

Bob sighed heavily. Was this ever going to end?

“Now you’re a successful philosopher,” Doug went on, his voice tight, embittered. “You have this wonderful successful philosophy of life. You have all the answers, all the fucking answers in the world.”

“I don’t,” Bob told him wearily. “I’m just trying to get a handle on—”

“A handle?” Doug said angrily. “Is that what your philosophy of life is, something you can get a handle on?”

“Come on, Doug,” Bob responded. “Stop jumping on every damn word I use. Try to understand what I’m saying. Try—”

“Now I can’t understand what you’re saying,” Doug broke in.

“Doug, I’m not saying that,” Bob told him. “I just—”

“Too bad I’m not as religious as you are so I could understand,” Doug interrupted again.

“Goddamn it, I am not religious!” Bob said loudly, “I don’t subscribe to any particular church! I have a belief system, that’s it! A belief system!”

“Which you talk about all the time.”

Bob looked flabbergasted. “Like hell I do! You’re the one who started this conversation! What I believe is the foundation of my life, okay. But I don’t talk about it or even think about it any more than I talk and think about the foundation of my house.”

Doug was glaring at him steadily. We have got to end this conversation, Bob thought. I can’t afford to enrage this man; he’s holding all the cards.

“So what you’re saying in a nutshell is that I’m responsible for every lousy, fucking thing that’s happened in my life,” Doug said.

“Doug, we are all responsible for what happens in our lives,” Bob replied.

“Which means that what you’ve done is right and what I’ve done is wrong!”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Doug.” Bob looked at him almost pleadingly. “Nothing is that simple. You know that.”

“You’re saying that my life is all fucked up because of me, not because of anyone else!” Doug suddenly raged.

“Well, what the hell do you want me to say, that everybody in your life is at fault, that nothing you’ve done has anything to do with anything? Be honest with yourself, for God’s sake.”

“So says Mr. Perfect,” Doug snapped.

“Oh, goddamn it, Doug! Nobody’s further from perfection than me! I try, that’s all! The same as you! The same as everyone! We try, we try!”

Doug didn’t reply. His face hard and implacable, he poked randomly at the fire coals with a twig. What the hell is he thinking? Bob wondered. And what the hell am I doing out here all alone with him?

8:29 PM

It had been at least an hour since they’d spoken. Bob had kept trying to think of something to talk about that would lighten the mood of the evening. He couldn’t think of anything. Finally, he’d muttered, “G’night” and got up to enter the tent. Doug didn’t respond.

Bob zipped up his sleeping bag and got inside. Oh, shit, I forgot to brush my teeth, he thought. He opened his water bottle, rinsed out his mouth, and spit the water onto the ground. Very sanitary, his mind commented. Oh, shut up, he answered it.

After a while—he couldn’t tell how long it was—Doug crawled into the tent beside him and zipped himself into his sleeping bag, exhaled heavily, then fell silent. Bob closed his eyes. What’s it going to be like tomorrow? he wondered. And the day after. How far were they from Doug’s cabin anyway? The prospect of two to three more days like today made him more than disturbed, it made him apprehensive. Doug obviously had undercurrents in his personality he’d never known about. How could he have? Their relationship had been, he realized, very shallow, very superficial. He was starting to see the inner workings of Doug’s mind now and what he was seeing did not reassure him about the remainder of the hike.

He was almost asleep when Doug spoke, his voice making Bob’s legs twitch in surprise.

“You think there are evil people?” Doug asked.

Bob opened his eyes, blinking. He had no idea what to reply. “What d’ya mean?” he mumbled.

“What I said,” Doug responded, his voice tightening. “Are there evil people?”

“Well—” Bob tried to gather thoughts together. “You mean… pure evil?”

“Can evil be pure?” Doug said. Was he challenging? Goading? Bob couldn’t tell.

“I mean… evil without any cause,” he said.

“Now I don’t know what you mean,” Doug said.

“I mean… someone—we call evil—when there seems to be no explanation for that evil. No cause, no background.”

“Are there people like that?” Doug asked.

Why is he asking these questions? Bob wondered. Why had he—out of nowhere, it seemed—brought up the subject of evil?

“Well… no, I don’t think so,” he said. “I… suppose it’s possible. But if you look into the background of what people call evil, you usually find a good cause.”

“A good cause?” Doug was challenging now.

“I mean an understandable cause.” He hoped that if they got into a nonconflicting discussion, it might end the tension between them.

“I saw a documentary on cable a while back,” he continued. “It was called Evil. The narrator said that there were at least twelve different definitions of evil so there was no way to know which one of them was the real one. It’s a value judgment, nothing more.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Doug asked, sounding irritated.

Don’t give it back in kind, Bob told himself. Stay cool.

“It means… it’s a matter of opinion. It’s more a label than a definitive identification. By and large, all the absolutist judgments about who’s evil and who isn’t come from laws and courts, politicians, religious figures. They declare that someone—or something—is evil and the majority of the people buy it. They’ve been brainwashed.”

“So what do you think evil is?” Doug asked. “What have you been brainwashed to think?”

“Well, I hope it isn’t having been brainwashed. I hope it’s a rational decision on my part.”

“Which is—?” Doug demanded.

“Which is that pain and suffering, deliberately inflicted for no acceptable reason, is evil.”

“That’s it?” Was that disdainful smile on Doug’s face again? “Pain and suffering inflicted for no reason, that’s evil?”

“That’s my opinion, anyway,” Bob said.

“Well, my opinion is that someday—I’m convinced of it—evil people will all be explained away in terms of heredity and environment, period. The word ‘evil’ will be scrapped. ‘Evil’ people will all be called dysfunctional people, nothing more.”

“Possible,” Bob said. “An interesting notion, anyway.”

“Tell me this—” Doug started. Bob was relieved to hear that Doug sounded interested now, not just scornful. “Why are evil people more interesting than good people?”

“Good question,” Bob answered. “I don’t really know. Except that they arouse more dark reactions in people than good people do. They… how shall I put it… stir up… activate whatever deep-seated, negative emotions people have. And those emotions are more… colorful, you might say. More intriguing.”

“Damn right,” Doug said. “I’ve played good guys and bad guys in films and on television. Guess who audiences always—always—find more interesting?”

“Well, of course,” Bob said. “Who do audiences find more interesting? Hamlet or Richard the Third? Romeo or Macbeth? Othello or Iago?”

“No contest,” Doug agreed. He was really into the discussion now, Bob saw—and thank God for that. “I played Iago in a little theater once and I’ll tell you, he was the one the audience responded to, not that—goddamn moonstruck Moor.”

Bob heard Doug moving and glanced around, seeing Doug’s dark shadow raised on one elbow. He was really into it—and definitely thank God for it. Maybe they could spend the remaining days in stimulating discussions and avoid the other stuff, the friction-laden stuff.

“Audiences like to call these people ‘evil,’” Doug went on, “but they enjoy the hell out of watching them. They relish all their monstrous deeds but convince themselves that those ‘evil’ people are different from them—even though they’re not. They’re all hypocrites, pretending to be above the villains they love to watch. And they’re not.”

Bob was impressed by Doug’s insight; it had come unexpectedly. Maybe the next few days would really be interesting after all.

“You know what I don’t like about your so-called philosophy of life?” Doug said.

So-called, Bob thought. They weren’t out of the personal woods yet. “What?” he asked.

“I don’t believe in an outside system of justice and law,” Doug said. “I believe that will—individual will—is what counts in this world. Triumph of the Will that film was called by that German actress. Not that I’m defending Hitler, for Christ’s sake. You want evil, there you got it, big time. But it’s evolution, not divine law. Survival of the fittest. The strong win. The weak lose. Simple as that. As far as our so-called system of morality goes, it isn’t written in stone. It’s an agreement. A contract. And those who are strong enough to break that contract get away with it until somebody stronger puts them down.”

“But no—outside rule?” Bob said. “No higher imposition of justice?”

“Right,” Doug said. “You know what the Holocaust was? Political reality. Nothing more. Imposition of will. The Germans won, the Jews lost. Evil had nothing to do with it.”

Bob felt his skin goose-fleshing. “You really believe that?” he asked. “You don’t think it was evil? You think it was just a matter of political reality, political will?”

“You got it,” Doug said.

Oh, Jesus, Bob thought. The prospect of interesting discussions in the next few days had just collapsed like a house of cards in a high wind.

“Too bad Hitler was a maniac,” Doug went on. “With his power of will, he could have accomplished anything.”

“He did enough,” Bob said quietly.

“Sure as hell did,” Doug answered. “Conquered most of Europe. If he hadn’t made the same dumb-ass mistake as Napoleon and invaded Russia, he might well have won the war and our fucking national anthem would be—” Abruptly, Doug sang, “Deutschland, Deutschland, Uber Alles,” then laughed sardonically. Oh, God, Bob thought. Who am I out here with?

“Not so crazy about the Jews myself,” Doug said. “After all the shit I’ve gone through with them in the business.”

Oh, God, dear God, Bob thought.

“All right, look at me,” Doug said. What was he going into now? Bob wondered. “If I did evil things, wouldn’t people say, ‘Well, it was all because his old man was a boozer and beat the shit out of his son and hated everything in the world and that’s why Douglas Crowley is an evil son of a bitch.’”

“I don’t believe you’re evil,” Bob told him, aware of a certain lack of conviction in his voice.

“Well, that’s where you’re wrong,” Doug said. “Didn’t you know I brought you up here to kill you?”

Bob had never felt so cold so quickly in his life. He could not repress a convulsive shiver. “That’s not very funny,” he said.

“Oh, I wouldn’t just do it,” Doug said. “I’d give you a good head start, and if you reached the cabin before I caught up with you, I’d let you live. Otherwise—”

“For Christ’s sake, Doug,” Bob broke in. “Haven’t we had enough friction without you—”

“Oh, you think I’m kidding,” Doug interrupted. “Bobby boy, I’m not.”

Bob felt his stomach muscles spasming. He couldn’t speak. Dear God. It was all he could think.

He started at the sudden glare of Doug’s flashlight.

Doug laughed, sounding delighted. “Just wanted to see the look on your face,” he said. “I can see you really believed me.”

Bob exhaled shakily, averting his face. “For Christ’s sake,” he said. “Why did you do that?”

“Did I scare you, Bobby boy?”

“Of course you scared me. What do you think?” Bob shuddered. Jesus Christ, he thought.

“It was just a joke,” Doug told him.

“Some joke.”

Bob gasped as Doug grabbed him by the arm. “But I really meant it!” Doug cried.

Bob gaped at him. Doug was silent for a moment, then threw back his head, laughing raucously. “Oh, shit, you’re too easy to fool,” he said. Letting go of Bob’s arm, he switched off the flashlight and lay back down. “Good night, old boy,” he said.

Bob lay motionless, feeling the heavy, rapid beat of his heart. For God’s sake, he thought. What kind of man was Doug that he could do such a thing?

Despite the exhaustion, it took him more than an hour to fall asleep.

1:19 AM

Bob twisted around in his sleeping bag. His right arm had come out of the bag and it flopped over to where he believed Doug was sleeping.

His arm hit the ground. His eyes popped open and he looked around uneasily, suddenly wide awake.

Sitting up, he leaned over and drew back the tent flap. Doug was hunched over by the low-burning fire, staring into the coals.

As he watched, he saw Doug raise the flask to his lips and take a sip of brandy. How much had he been drinking? Bob wondered. And why wasn’t he sleeping? Why was he sitting up this late, just staring into the fire like that?

He raised his wrist and read the luminous dial. Close to one-thirty in the morning. My God, he thought. Was Doug going to wake him up at the crack of dawn even though he wasn’t getting any sleep?

He twitched as a log fell into the fire, shooting sparks into the air. As the fire flared momentarily, he saw Doug’s expression. It was not a reassuring one.

After several minutes, he laid back down again and began to shiver in spasmodic waves. Was it the cold?

He knew it wasn’t.