Kneeling on the bank of the lake, he took a long swig from his bottle—the new batch wouldn’t taste so good with iodine tablets in it—then pushed it below the surface of the water until it bubbled, full.
He added two iodine tablets to the bottle, recapped it, and returned it to his pack. A lot heavier now, he thought. Well, there was no help for that either. He had to have water. He’d keep the small water packets for an emergency.
He chewed on dried fruit—apricots, peaches, and pears—and an energy bar as he started around the lake. I should have brought dried prunes, he thought. Or even prune juice. Again, too late for regrets.
As he turned around the headland of the cove, he saw the dock.
“Oh, wow,” he said. Was it possible that the launch made regular crossings and he could get a later one before Doug got here? Grinning hopefully, he saw himself sitting on the launch as it crossed the lake, telling the driver (the captain?) what had happened to him. On the other side, there had to be a telephone. Hell, the driver of the boat might even have a cellular phone; practically everyone did these days. He could call the state police, have them waiting at the cabin when Doug got there, and incarceration. Perfect!
He moved as quickly as he could toward the small dock. There was what looked like a bulletin board attached to the dock. The schedule, he thought. It had to be once an hour, something like that. He could be out of here long before that bastard reached this point.
He got to the dock and moved to the bulletin board, his heart beating heavily. Every hour, he primed himself. It has to be every hour. That made sense.
He stood in front of the bulletin board, staring at it blankly.
There was another pickup time.
At six o’clock.
That glacial sinking in his stomach again. He looked at his watch, already knowing the answer.
Three-sixteen.
Doug would get here before the launch.
He couldn’t wait for it.
He closed his eyes. Goddamn it, don’t cry again! he ordered himself. He felt like crying though. Hopelessness was like an icy shroud weighing him down. I’m not going to make it, he thought, frightened and incredulous.
I am simply not going to make it.
4:09 PM
He kept on going as long as he could. Finally, he had to rest. Locating a small glade surrounded by high bushes, he put down his ground pad—the earth was still damp from the rain-storm—and lay down on his back, resting the pack against a fallen tree. Sighing, he closed his eyes.
Almost immediately, he felt darkness begin to cloud his brain. He opened his eyes abruptly. No sleep, no sleep, he told himself urgently. You can’t afford the time. Not with that crazy man in pursuit of him. He scowled. Why do I try to lighten things by calling him “that crazy man”? It wasn’t serious enough by half. Doug had to be considered insane by any standard. No matter how many times he tried to convince himself that maybe it was all a joke, a prank, a game, he couldn’t do it. Of one thing he was—and had to be—convinced.
If Doug overtook him, he’d use his bow and arrow. Or, worse, his golak. His last moments would be horrible. That was a given. It had to be if he was to survive.
He wished that he could settle on one state of mind. It was disconcerting if not completely distressing to keep fluctuating between total resolution and total surrender. He had to survive; for Marian if not himself. For his kids.
He did believe that he’d survive death however horrific that death might be. But he couldn’t leave Marian behind, subject to the demented blandishments of Doug. He had no doubt that Doug would do exactly what he said in regard to Marian. The image of it chilled him and enraged him at once.
God, if I had a gun, he thought. Me, the sturdy advocate of gun control. I wish I had one now. For one use. To blow a goddamn hole through Doug. If there was punishment later for his murdering Doug, he’d accept it willingly. Self-defense, he thought. That would get him off the hook on this plane. Beyond… well, he’d accept whatever came his way.
He slipped out of his pack and took out his supply of food. Much good most of it would do him now. He knew now why Doug snickered as he watched Bob pack his food for the flight. He glared at the packets for almost a minute before crawling over to them quickly and picking them up. You are stupid, he told himself. Environmental concerns when your life is in jeopardy?
He put the envelopes back in his pack and made himself a cheese sandwich, starting to eat it with some nuts. It tasted good; he was hungrier than he realized. He took sips of water between his bites and swallows.
For dessert, he had an orange and an energy bar. Gourmet dining, he thought. Well, at least it was nourishing and filling him. He washed it all down with a big swallow of water, put the food supply in his backpack, and leaned back against it.
He threw the orange peels away. I’m not going to take them with me. Sue me, forest rangers. Anyway, they’d rot in time. So would you, his brain insisted on tormenting him. For several seconds, he could not prevent himself from visualizing his corpse lying on the forest floor, most of its flesh gone, eaten by bears or mountain lions.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, lay off, will you?” he pleaded with his noncooperating brain.
It had always been like that. The writer’s mind, he thought. Victim of its own imagination. Not only story notions but personal ones as well, occasionally gratifying, mostly dark and negative. Shut up, he told it, knowing that it wouldn’t, that it would patiently lie in wait, always prepared to pounce on him with some disturbing vision.
He tried to blank out his mind by staring up at the sky. After a while, he saw a lone hawk wheeling and banking gracefully, floating on the currents of air, looking down for prey—a mouse, a rabbit, whatever.
Like Doug, he thought… Patiently moving, waiting to dive down on his prey. No mouse or rabbit. Robert Hansen, freelance quarry.
Oh, for God’s sake, shut up, please, he told his brain with angry depression.
As he thought it, he saw the hawk suddenly dive to its right. Then he saw the small bird trying to escape; in vain. The hawk’s talons clamped onto it and the hawk swept out of sight. To dine in a treetop no doubt, he thought.
A most encouraging sight for a man on the run.
“Oh, God,” he murmured.
Again, he tried to blank his mind but, in moments, found himself thinking about Doug again.
Doug had always maintained such a careful image. Dressed well, earned money, seemed to live a life beyond reproach. Well, not excessive reproach at any rate.
But it was pretense. Who was it that coined the phrase “people of the lie.” Dr. Peck. Well, that was Doug. Was he aware at all of the darkness in his mind? He doubted it. Doug had, he believed, always built a shell of nonawareness around himself. He’d simply shunted aside any evidence of imperfection. Dr. Peck had called it “malignant narcissism.” Perfect description of Doug’s state of consciousness. He could, if he chose, avoid all this by backing off. But of course, he wouldn’t. Not now.
If Doug had any perception of the hidden malignities within himself, how could he have done what he did this morning? How could he be doing what he was doing now? He had to be blinding himself to his own profound and murderous sickness. He had to force himself to be motivated by self-justification.
Killing Bob simply had to be done.
Hunted past reason, he thought. He winced at the phrase, wondering where it had come from.