Hunted Past Reason (34 page)

Bob could see that Marian was trying to control the sickened dread she obviously felt. She even managed a smile, not a convincing one but nonetheless a smile. "You both look like hell," she said. Good! Bob thought. Throw him off. Let him think he's still in charge of everything.

Doug laughed as though her words had thoroughly amused him. "That's no lie," he said. "After everything we've been through. Remind me never to take your husband backpacking again."

No fear of that, Bob thought.

"Man, I'm glad to see you safe and sound!" Doug said. He laughed again. "Well, not exactly sound. Marian is right, we do both look like hell. I know you do anyway, I can see it with my own eyes. And when I get a chance to look in a mirror, I know I'll see how shitty I look too." He babbled happily as though all problems had been solved. The actor, Bob thought. Giving his penultimate performance.

"Well, the two of you must be starving," Marian said. Bob was amazed at the controlled tone of her voice. She's marvelous, he thought.

"Yes, we are," he said. "I know I am anyway."

"Me too," Doug said as though in high spirits now. "You want to make us something, Marian?"

"How about some eggs?" she asked. Again, Bob felt a rush of admiration for her. With her help, they were going to get out of this, he vowed.

"Sounds good," Doug told her, smiling.

"Very good," Bob added.

"I'll get them right away," she said.

For an instant, Bob felt his stomach drop as she turned and went into the cabin, leaving him alone with Doug.

He started to follow her, then froze as Doug's fingers clamped on his arm.

"I hope you haven't told her anything," Doug said quietly.

"No," Bob lied. "I haven't.

"Don't know whether to believe you, Bobby boy," Doug said. "But if you're lying, she goes too."

Doug's last words made him tense convulsively. "Don't hurt her," he said.

"Warning me?" Doug said, sounding amused.
"Me?"

"I know you want me dead. You have to kill me now because I know about the hunter; but leave her alone."

"Listen, Bobby." That same maddeningly cheerful tone. "If she doesn't know anything about what happened, I'm not going to kill her, I'm going to marry her, don't you remember?"

Bob drew in a shaking breath. "Oh, God, you're such a bastard," he said.

"That I am," Doug answered lightly. "But a clever one, you must admit. You almost got me down there at the lodge. But I landed on some sofa cushions or something. Otherwise, you would have won. But now that's out of the question, isn't it?"

"You planning to kill me in front of her?" Bob asked. "You think she'll—?"

"Oh, no, no, no," Doug interrupted. "I'll figure out some way to make it look like an accident. You wouldn't want me to kill you in front of her. Then I'd have to kill her too and you don't want that, do you, Bobby boy? So watch yourself when we're inside. Remember it's her life at risk as well as yours."

"I'll remember," Bob replied. That hopeless feeling again. Doug was invincible. There was no way to beat him. He'd even survived that fall. What chance was there that, weaponless, he and Marian could overcome him?

When they went inside, Marian was at the stove, breaking eggs into a cast-iron skillet.

"Hate to put you boys to work after what you've been through but would you mind setting the table while I fry the eggs?"

"You bet!" Doug told her, grinning.

Bob followed him to the cupboard and watched him open the doors and draw out three plates. They were cheerful-looking plates, rimmed by flowers.

He opened a drawer to find some silverware, tensing as he saw the carving knife inside.

Doug seemed to read his mind. He reached into the drawer and pulled out three forks, waggling his finger, a look of blithe warning on his face. "No, no, no," he murmured. "Leave that in there."

"What?" Marian asked at the stove.

"Bob was taking out spoons instead of forks," Doug told her, smiling.

"Oh." She held the skillet with a pot holder, tilting it to run the melted butter underneath the eggs. "Who's for over, who's for sunny side up?" she asked. Bob could scarcely believe how nonchalant she sounded.

Doug put the plates and forks on the table. "Napkins over there, Bobby," he said, pointing.

It was impossible for Bob to register that this domestic scene was taking place when, all the time, Doug was planning to kill him somehow, somewhere, "accidentally."

"We'd better wash our hands at least," Doug said. "Come on, Bobby."

His mind unable to function clearly, Bob walked after Doug into the bathroom.

In silence, Doug's eyes unmoving as he stared at Bob's reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror, they washed their hands; Bob wincing and hissing at the sting of the soap on his raw palms. "Hurt?" was all Doug said. Bob grunted, unable to answer.

They dried their hands and returned to the kitchen, sat at the table.

"I made you both some toast," Marian told them, putting the platter on the table.

For a few crazed moments, Bob imagined that she'd known about this from the start, that she wanted him to die, wanted to marry Doug and—

Oh, for God's sake, stop it!
he raged at the writer in his mind. He was being as insane as Doug now. Marian was playing along with Doug as he was, waiting for the right moment.

Which came suddenly. As Doug began to butter his toast, smiling contentedly, Marian carried the skillet across the room and, twisting it abruptly so the eggs and melted butter splattered on the floor, smashed the heavy cast-iron skillet on the side of Doug's head.

With a startled cry, Doug toppled from his chair and sprawled on the floor. With a dazed look, he began to push up on one elbow. Standing so quickly that his chair fell back, Bob grabbed the skillet out of Marian's hand, dropping it with a hiss of pain as the handle burned his palm.

Doug started pushing to his knees. "Bitch," he muttered. "Bitch."

Bob braced himself and grabbed up the cast-iron skillet again, ignoring the handle's heat as he smashed it as hard as he could on Doug's head. Doug went sprawling again, unconscious now.

"The car," Bob gasped.

The two of them rushed to the kitchen door and Bob flung it open. Racing across the deck, they half ran, half jumped down the steps. Bob's legs collapsed beneath him and he pitched forward on the ground, Marian crying out in alarm as he did. He shoved up quickly. "I'm all right," he gasped as they continued running toward the Bronco.

They jerked open the doors and flung themselves inside.

"Oh, no!" she cried.

The ignition key was gone.

"What do we do?" she asked in dread.

For several moments, Bob sat motionless, his mind frozen. Then he tightened, catching his breath.
"Doug,"
he said.

He shoved open the door and slid out quickly. Glancing aside, he saw Marian getting out.
"Stay here!"
he ordered. "I'll get the keys!"

He raced unevenly across the ground. A pinecone rolled beneath his right boot and he staggered, almost falling. "Bob!" she called out anxiously.

"I'm all right!"
Bob waved her off and kept on running. Rushing up the steps two at a time, adrenaline pumping strength into his legs, he reached the deck and sprinted across it, lunging into the kitchen.

Doug was starting to stand, a dazed look on his face. Seeing Bob, he bared his teeth in a grimace of hatred. "Son of a bitch," he mumbled, reaching for his golak.

Bob ran to the skillet, snatched it up, and crashed it down on Doug's head. Doug groaned in pain, stumbling back and falling to the floor again.

Bob dropped to his knees beside him and started ransacking his pockets. He felt Doug's fingers grabbing feebly at his shirt and flung them off. "Bastard," Doug mumbled.

The keys were in his trouser pocket. Yanking them out, Bob started to his feet. Once more, half conscious, Doug clutched weakly at his shirt.

With a look of rabid satisfaction, Bob clenched his right fist and struck Doug's jaw as hard as he could. "I'm not going to die,
you
are," he said fiercely.

He staggered to his feet and ran across the kitchen.

"Bastard!" Doug cried faintly behind him.

Bob rushed out of the kitchen and across the deck. He descended the stairs as rapidly as he could, his legs now feeling weak again.

Marian was standing beside the Bronco, looking anxiously toward the house. Seeing him, her expression brightened to a look of hope. "Get in!" he called.

She got into the car and slammed the door.

Reaching the Bronco, Bob pulled open the door and got in hurriedly. He slid the ignition key into its slot and twisted it. The engine started instantly. We're
safe
! he thought.

"Where was it?" Marian asked.

"In his pocket. I should have known he'd take it."

Sliding the transmission lever into reverse, Bob started backing up, looking across his shoulder.

"Is he unconscious?" Marian asked.

"Just about," he said. "I wish I'd
killed
him."

"No, you're not that way," she said.

Her words were like a balm to his mind. I'm
not
that way, he thought. My beliefs are still intact, God bless 'em.

He turned the steering wheel, backing along the curving dirt entrance. "How do you get
out
of here?" he asked.

"I had to drive in straight," she said, "I didn't see a place to turn around. You'll have to back up all the way to the road."

"Damn," he muttered.

He backed the Bronco as quickly as he could around the corner of the cabin. Up above, he saw the road. They'd be there in a few moments.

Then away as fast as he could drive.

"I can't believe it's over," he said.

"What will he do now?" she asked.

"Make a run for it, what else? Canada or Mexico. He's finished as a—"

He broke off with a hollow cry at the explosive detonation to his right.

"Oh, God," she said.

Suddenly the Bronco lurched. He tried to get control of it but it side slipped, crashing into a dirt bank, its engine stalling.

He looked toward the house in shock.

With a look of crazed elation on his face, Doug was limping toward the car.

A shotgun in his hands.

5:12 PM

Bob's eyelids fluttered up, he gazed up blurrily. Shooting pains racked through his head where Doug had struck him with the shotgun butt.

His eyes focused on Marian. She was standing over him, pressing a wet cloth to his forehead. For a moment, he thought it was over, that, somehow, she'd done something to stop Doug.

Then he realized that he was sitting on one of the kitchen chairs and, standing several yards behind Marian, Doug was watching them, the shotgun still in his hands.

"Does your head hurt terribly?" Marian whispered.

"I . . . don't—" he muttered, unable to answer clearly.

"Bobby boy is back with us," Doug said, chuckling.

"Oh, God, if I could kill him,"
Marian's whisper trembled.

"No more whispered messages," Doug said. "Don't like that."

Bob shook his head, hissing at the pain, teeth bared. "What are you going to do?" he asked, even though he felt sure he already knew.

"Oh, I have a dandy plan," Doug said; his smile was more animal like than human. "A
dandy
plan."

"Whatever you do, you aren't going to get away with it," Bob said.

"Oh, you mean my next lifetime, Bobby? No problem. I can wait for that."

"I mean
this
lifetime, you son of a bitch. You've already murdered one man—"

"Yeah, that was a shame," Doug broke in casually. "Didn't mean to kill the fucker, just meant to put an arrow in his arm or shoulder. Better take more shooting lessons." He clucked. "Well, at least he died fast. And they'll never find his body down there. It'll probably get eaten." His laugh was guttural. "Maybe by one of those mountain lions you were always worried about."

"Doug, I know you're going to kill me but leave Marian alone,
please
," Bob said.

"Oh, I'm not going to kill her," Doug said. "Not yet anyway. I have to fuck her first."

"What?" Marian's voice was faint, incredulous.

"Goddamn you,"
Bob said. "Let me fight you hand to hand. I know you'd rather kill me that way than—"

"Oh, I'm sick of you," Doug said disgustedly. "I'm going to blow your fucking brains out right now."

He moved toward Bob, the shotgun barrel extended.

"No!" Marian lunged for him and grabbed the shotgun barrel.
"Don't!"

Doug backhanded her across the face, and with a cry of pain, she staggered to her left and fell on the floor. Doug came close to Bob and pressed the end of the shotgun barrel against his forehead. "Bye, bye, Bobby," he said. Bob closed his eyes, heart pounding. Marian screamed. Bob's mind pleaded,
Please watch over her!

The loud click of the shotgun trigger made him twitch, then open his eyes to stare at Doug, a blank expression on his face.

Doug threw back his head with a piercing laugh.

"
Fooled
ya, didn't I?" he said. "I only had one shell left. Lucky shot I hit the Bronco tire."

Bob stared at him wondering if it was truly possible to hate anyone as much as he hated Doug.

"You monster," Marian said in a shaking voice. "You god damned monster."

Doug grinned. "I love you too. Strip down."

She stood up slowly, looking at him as though she hadn't heard what he said.

"Strip
down
, baby," Doug ordered her. "I'm going to fuck you."

"No, you're not," she said.

"Oh, no?" Doug's smile vanished and he slung aside the shotgun. Pulling the golak from his belt, he turned toward Bob. "No!" she cried, blocking his way.

He slammed his right arm against her, gasping at the pain in his shoulder as she lurched to the side, fighting to remain on her feet.

Reaching Bob, he yanked back his head by pulling at his hair. He pressed the golak blade against Bob's throat. "Take your choice, babe," he said, his tone coldly merciless. "Either strip or watch me hack your hubby's throat to the spine."