“You son of a bitch,” he murmured weakly. “You goddamn son of a bitch.” Slip on the pine needles the way I did, he thought. Fall to your death.
But Doug seemed to know about the pine needles. He stopped dragging the dead hunter to the place where the pine needles became a problem and laid the body parallel to the edge and sat down close to it, pressing his boots against the hunter’s side.
With a sudden lunge of his boots, he shoved at the body violently. It rolled over and over, sliding on the pine needles until it reached the cliff edge.
Then it was gone.
Bob’s stomach convulsed and, opening his mouth wide, he vomited, gasping, groaning.
If there had ever been the remotest chance that Doug would change his mind, relent, that chance was gone now.
If he failed—and how in God’s name could he succeed?—to kill Doug, Doug was certainly going to kill him.
It seemed as though, for the first time since all this had begun, he felt the actual, icy presence of death gathered around him.
With a sob, he threw his head back, staring at the sky through tear-blurred eyes.
“You aren’t going to help me, are you?” he said in a choking voice. “You’re there but you aren’t going to help me. I have to do it all myself, don’t I? All the lip service I give you isn’t worth a damn, is it? I save myself or I die.” He was crying now, disabled by fear. “Well, thanks a lot,” he sobbed. “You’ve been a great help.” His teeth clenched in an expression of rabid fury. “Guardian angel, my ass!” he snarled. “Ever-present consciousness, my ass! Wherever you are, you’re not worth a pile of shit to me!”
He leaned his forehead against the tree, weeping bitterly, no longer certain if he could conceivably survive this. Suffering with a sense of horror at the idea of leaving Marian to Doug’s insanity, but totally unable to believe that he could do a thing to stop it.
4:22 PM
Nevertheless, I go on, he thought as he walked unevenly, almost staggeringly through the forest. He simply could not stay in that tree and wait for death. Once his initial sense of despairing submission had eased, he’d climbed back down. Doug was obviously confident in his ability to overtake him. Bob’s last view of him was Doug sitting on the boulder the hunter had been standing by, casually eating.
He is insane, Bob thought as he continued through the forest. He just murdered a man, yet there he sits calmly, eating. There were probably blood splashes all around him. Did they bother Doug? He had to assume that they didn’t. He’d just pushed the hunter’s corpse off the cliff. Why should a few bloodstains bother him?
It was clear now that Doug did not intend to pay the price for either the hunter’s death or his. He’d find a way to dispose of his body as well. Then on to the cabin and the performance of his life—anguish, guilt, tears, sobs of utter desolation.
He could almost see Doug telling Marian the heartbreaking story—Bob getting lost, Doug searching in vain for him, then finally rushing to the cabin so they could drive for help; more of his stellar portrayal of the broken man to the authorities. That was the horror of it. Anyone else would arouse suspicion. Doug was not just anyone though, lying unconvincingly. He was an actor playing a chosen role. Not to the hilt either. No, he’d gauge it perfectly, keep it under skillful control.
And where will I be? Bob wondered. No doubt off the same cliff as the murdered hunter. Two corpses shattered on the rocks below, probably never to be found. And even if they were eventually found, would there be any way to implicate Doug? For all he knew—now that it occurred to him, it seemed obvious—Doug had thrown his bow and arrow off the cliff as well; less evidence against him.
Bob scowled. Then why remove the arrow from the hunter’s neck? Unless—more than possible—he’d thrown, or would throw, the bow and arrow off the cliff far from where the hunter’s remains lay splattered on the rocks.
He might even bury the bow and arrows, kill Bob with the golak; it seemed obvious, for some time, that he’d prefer to murder Bob that way. When he tossed Bob’s body off the cliff, the broken and bloody appearance of his body would most likely obscure the golak slashes.
Then on to the cabin, he thought again. Marian. The performance. Anger made him tremble at the image in his mind. But what could he do to defend himself? He was beyond exhaustion now, on the verge of collapse. It seemed as though only mindless habit kept him going.
He had been so engrossed in dark thoughts that he didn’t see the lodge until he was almost up to it.
A sudden burst of hope mantled his mind and body. My God, it’s there, he thought. I’ve made it. If Doug had told the truth, the cabin was on the steep hill beyond the lodge. He might make it after all. He couldn’t understand how he was still ahead of Doug but never mind, he thought. He still had a chance to reach Marian and get her out of the cabin, away from Doug.
His burst of eager optimism was dispelled in an instant.
“Well, I see you made it, Bobby boy!” Doug’s voice rang out behind him.
He jerked around, breath catching in his throat.
Doug stood about fifty yards away, grinning like a happy kid. Bob saw that he was right. The bow and arrow were no longer evident; he had gotten rid of them.
His heartbeat lurched inside him as he saw Doug shuck his backpack and toss it aside, then slowly draw the golak from its sheath.
“Time to say bye-bye, Bobby,” he said, still grinning. “I’m about to cut you up in little pieces now.”
He started forward.
Bob whirled and ran toward the lodge, terror fueling his body with adrenalined strength.
“Oh, you can’t get away from me now!” Doug called. “You’ve had it! I’m surprised you made it this far but it’s the end of the line now, Bobby! You are finished!”
Bob dashed inside the lodge, tripping over a raised board and sprawling onto the floor. Shoving up with a gasp, he looked around the shadowy, rancid-smelling entry hall and saw a flight of stairs across the way. Why don’t I have that club now?! his mind cried.
“Here I come, ready or not!” Doug called outside. Bob heard the crackle of his boots as Doug came walking through the dry grass toward the lodge.
He started up the stairs, trying to manage two steps at a time. Halfway up, his right boot crashed through a rotted step, his leg plunging down to its knee; he felt long splinters driven into his leg through his pants.
“Time to find out if there really is an afterlife, Bobby!” Doug called. “Aren’t you excited?!”
Bob fought to lift his leg from the jagged hole in the step. At first, he couldn’t pull it up because his pants leg was pierced by the splinters. Oh, God, not like this! the terrified thought exploded in his mind. He jerked up at his leg convulsively.
“Here I come, Bobby boy!” Doug called.
With a hiss of frenzy, Bob yanked up his leg again, tearing his pants free and pulling himself loose. He started running up the steps again, now sticking to their sides, using his grip on the banister to pull himself faster, hissing as his palm and fingers were imbedded with more splinters—
“Bobby!”
Bob jerked his head around to see that Doug had just run in below. At first, Doug didn’t see him, looking around with quick movements of his head.
Then he saw Bob near the head of the stairs and said, with joyous expectation, “Ah! That’s good there, Bobby boy! Don’t make it too easy for me, that wouldn’t be any fun. Act three, baby. Needs to wind up with a bang.” His laugh was more a breathless croak. “And when I say a bang, you know exactly what I mean. I’m getting hard already.”