Deliberately, Bob eased to the right so that he'd be blocking Doug's line of fire. "Go, please go," he said to the bear. "I don't want to see you killed."
"Goddamn it, Bobby, I am going to shoot!" Doug threatened.
Bob gazed intently into the bear's eyes. "Go," he pleaded. "Go. Please go."
To his astonishment— he realized later that he had never really expected it— the bear turned abruptly and moved off into the forest.
Bob felt his legs suddenly lose strength beneath him and he flopped down into an awkward half-sitting, half-lying position. Jesus, he thought. Jesus Christ. What did I do?
He flinched as Doug ran by him holding the bow with an arrow set in it.
"Don't!" Bob found the strength to cry. "He's gone!"
Doug ran a few yards into the forest, stopped, stood motionless for twenty seconds, then turned back, a look of incredulous disgust on his face.
"Are you fucking crazy?" he said. It certainly wasn't a question. Obviously, Doug thought that he was crazy. He wasn't so sure it wasn't true.
"Who the fuck do you think you are, Doctor Fucking Doolittle or something?" Doug demanded angrily. "I could have killed you, you dumb bastard."
"I didn't want you to kill the bear," Bob told him, his voice shaking.
"And almost got yourself killed instead," Doug said with angry scorn.
The look on Doug's face, the tone of his voice, the emotional reaction to what he'd just done suddenly caused an eruption of fury in Bob. It felt like something hot and thick rushing up from his insides.
"What's the matter, are you upset that you couldn't kill it?!" he raged. "Did I spoil your goddamn sport?!"
Doug didn't respond in kind. The look he gave Bob caused a chill to snake up his back.
"You really think you're hot shit, don't you?" Doug said in a soft, cold voice.
The rage had vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. "No, I don't think I'm 'hot shit' as you put it so colorfully," Bob said. "I was just trying to save the bear's life, that's all. It lives here. It was only doing what comes naturally to it."
"Oh, now you're a fucking wildlife expert," Doug responded acidly. "I'm impressed. Where did you pick up all this wildlife lore? At the Bel Air Hotel having a power breakfast with some big-time producer?"
"Oh, for Christ's sake, Doug, let's not go into that kind of talk again," Bob said. He tried to push to his feet.
To his startlement, Doug pushed him back so that he landed hard on his tailbone. "Ow!" he said. "What are you doing?"
"I wanna talk about it," Doug said angrily. "About your big-time career in the biz. About how you could give a shit if I succeed or not."
"Wait a second, wait a second, what are you talking about?" Bob demanded. Again, he tried to stand up and, again, Doug pushed him back. "Goddamn it, stop that," he said. "What the hell's the matter with you?"
"Nothing you can help," Doug told him. "Nothing you'd care to help."
"What are you saying?" Bob asked, trying to understand. "That I'm somehow responsible for you having trouble in the business?"
"You haven't been any help, that's for sure," Doug snarled.
"Doug, I have tried to help you—"
"Bullshit!" Doug cut him off. "You've said you tried to help me, but I don't remember any jobs I got because of your help. You think I'm not aware of all the parts I might have played in your scripts that I never got called on to audition for? All you ever recommended me for were a few Mickey Mouse bit parts, a few lines here, a few lines there."
"Doug, I recommended you for any role I thought you were right for, no matter what the length."
"Bullshit," Doug said, scowling. "You never recommended me for any part worth a damn."
The anger, hot and unavoidable, was surging up in Bob again.
"Maybe if you didn't always come on like the greatest fucking actor in the world, you might have gotten some of those roles."
"Oh, so now it's my fault," Doug snarled through gritted teeth.
"No, Doug. No. Of course not. Nothing at all in your life is your fault. It's all been just rotten luck. Your marriage, your career, your kids, everything. Someone else is to blame, not you. Just rotten luck, that's all. Just crappy karma slapping you down at every turn." Bob knew he was jeopardizing their relationship but couldn't stop himself. He was fed up with Doug's everyone's-responsible-but-me attitude.
He had no idea how much he'd jeopardized their relationship. Not until Doug said quietly, in a malignant voice, "You're right, Bobby. I do hate your guts."
Bob was conscious that his mouth had fallen open in reaction to what Doug had said. He couldn't speak at first. Then he swallowed dryly, trying to draw himself together.
"Well, that's great," he said. "Just great." He drew in labored breath. "How many days left to reach the cabin? Two? Three?"
Doug didn't answer. He kept staring at Bob, his expression hard, disquieting.
Bob inhaled again. He seemed to be having difficulty getting enough air in his lungs.
"I suggest we pack up and get on our way," he said. "Go as far as we can before dark. I'll try to hold myself together so you won't be inconvenienced anymore. I suggest we travel and don't talk. We seem—"
"Oh, is that what you suggest?" Doug broke in. "You're running the show now? How odd. I thought I was running it."
Bob fought for patience. "Doug, you are running it. I'm just trying to suggest how—"
"Well, don't suggest," Doug said with a sneer, and Bob became even more distressed.
"Doug, anything you say," Bob told him. "Just let's get going. When we reach the cabin, we'll go back to Los Angeles. Or if you want to stay at your cabin, I'll phone for a car."
"A limo, of course," Doug said contemptuously.
"Jesus, Doug," Bob pleaded. "Can't we—?"
"Well, there is no phone," Doug interrupted. "It's not a fucking lodge, you know. I'm not successful enough to afford a phone."
Bob tried to reply patiently but firmly, "Then you can drive us to the nearest town and leave us there," he said.
"Oh, is that what I can do?" Doug asked. Amazing how his questions were rarely questions, Bob thought.
"I'll get ready," he said, starting to push up.
Doug flat-handed him on the shoulder, knocking him back on the ground.
"Is that necessary?" Bob asked quietly.
Doug didn't respond.
"Let's just get out of here," Bob said. He pushed to his feet and started toward the tent. Again, Doug flat-handed him, this time on the back, this time with greater force. Bob lost his balance, stumbling forward. It took several yards before he could regain his footing. He turned angrily. "Is that really necessary?" he demanded.
"Maybe it is." My God, was that a smile on Doug's lips? "Maybe it is, Bobby boy."
"Oh, God," Bob muttered.
"He can't help you here, big man," Doug said. "Your income doesn't matter here. Neither does your big success."
"Oh, Jesus, Doug," Bob said, turning back toward the campsite.
"Oh, Jesus, what, big man?"
Bob heard Doug moving toward him and twisted around.
This time Doug flat-handed him so hard on the chest, it made him reel back and topple over, landing on his hands; he hissed at the pain on his infected palm.
"What the—?" he began, then broke off, tightening as Doug lurched toward him. Grabbing Bob by the jacket collar, he hauled him to his feet.
"Is this the way it's going to be?" Bob asked, but before he'd finished the sentence, Doug had slapped him hard across the left cheek, wincing at the pain it caused him on his shoulder.
"Bastard," Doug snapped. Bob wasn't sure if Doug meant him or the pain.
He stared at Doug incredulously. "What the hell is happening?" he asked, his voice shaken. "Are you—?"
He gasped in surprise and pain as Doug slapped him again.
"What's the matter, haven't you got the balls to defend yourself?" Doug challenged scornfully.
"What the hell are
we, two kids in a schoolyard?" Bob demanded. "Are we supposed to—?"
He broke off with a cry of stunned pain as Doug slapped him again, his face contorting from the pain it caused him in his shoulder.
"Goddamn it, cut it out," Bob cried, shoving out his palm at Doug's face.
Was it just bad luck, he wondered later, that the flat of his palm hit Doug squarely on the nose? Doug cried out, startled, blood starting to spurt from both nostrils.
"Son of a bitch," Doug snarled, jerking up his left index finger to press beneath his bleeding nostrils.
The blow caught Bob completely by surprise. Fisting his right hand, Doug hit Bob violently in the stomach, doubling him over. Bob couldn't make a sound at the pain, his breath knocked out. Gasping for air, he hitched up slowly, an expression of astonishment on his face. "What the hell are you—?" he started, his voice wheezing.
He cried out in dumbfounded shock as Doug hit him again in the stomach. Gagging, he flopped over quickly, pressing both hands at his stomach, unable to breathe, shooting pain in his stomach. Everything went blurry as his eyes teared. He tried to hold himself rigid in case Doug meant to hit him again.
After almost a minute had passed, he straightened up, sucking feebly at the air. His eyes, filled with tears, saw Doug as a watery figure standing in front of him.
"Well, are you going to defend yourself, pussy?" Doug asked, his voice sounding completely vicious now. "Or are you just going to stand there, crying like a baby?"
Bob realized that tears were running down his cheeks and reached up to brush them away, his fingers trembling. "Are you crazy?" he said, barely able to speak.
"Right, I'm crazy, little man."
Bob tried to back off as Doug moved toward him suddenly. He could only stumble back a foot or so before Doug was on him, knocking him over. Bob grunted as he fell, then cried out in pain as he crashed to the ground, Doug on top of him.
"You aren't going to fight, you gutless shit?" Doug said, his features twisted. "Why don't I just kill you then, put you out of your fucking misery?"
"Why?" Bob asked in agony, staring up at Doug's distorted face. Dark blood was running over Doug's chin.
"Why?" Doug jolted once on Bob, making him sob in agony again. "Why, you pitiful son of a bitch? I'll tell you why. You already know why. I hate your fucking guts. I hate everything about you. You think you shit gold, don't you?" Bob's face jerked to the side as Doug slapped him again. "You're everything I despise in a man. Man, my ass. You're a pussy, a coward." He sniffed hard, running fingers under his nose. "After life, you superstitious mother fucker? Reincarnation? I'll give you a fast trip there and you and Artie can sit around on a fucking cloud, discussing what a bastard I am."
Bob tried to pull Doug's hands away but couldn't, they were too strong, clamping hard around his neck. "You thought I was joking, did you, Bobby boy, Bobby fucking boy? I'll show you how much I was joking, motherfucker."
Bob clutched at Doug's tightening hands, thrashing helplessly beneath him. He couldn't breathe, darkness crowding at the corners of his vision. "Doug," he pleaded in a barely audible whisper. I'm going to die, the thought ran through his mind. It seemed completely unbelievable to him even as it was taking place.
Doug jerked his hands away. "Oh, no," he said, "oh, no. Too easy. Much too fast. I'll kill you but I want it to last— and last. Having trouble breathing, Bobby boy?"
Bob made faint choking sounds in his throat. He looked up at Doug, not knowing him at all. Doug's face was totally unfamiliar, now the face of some demented stranger. How could this be happening? he thought. How in the name of God could this be happening? He kept trying to swallow, to clear what felt like dry obstruction in his throat. Doug looked down at him, smiling. "Time for fun," he said with relish. "Time for big fun, Bobby boy."
Jumping to his feet, Doug jerked a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and dabbed at his nostrils. "Son of a bitch," he said. "You'll pay for this."
Bending over, he grabbed Bob's jacket and hauled him to his feet, beginning to drag him across the ground. Bob tried to struggle with him but he still felt dizzy, weak, unable to breathe. "Doug, don't," he mumbled.
"Doug, don't. Doug, don't," Doug repeated in a mocking, falsetto voice. "Don't worry, I'll take care of you, my pretty. And your little penis too." Bob felt swallowed in some nightmare dream. Had Doug just imitated Margaret Hamilton, paraphrasing her speech from The Wizard of Oz? Had he gone completely insane?
He tried to pull away from Doug but couldn't. Half stumbling, half dragged, he was pulled over to a tree and shoved against it. "Don't move now," Doug told him. He was actually amused by all of this, Bob realized. He had gone insane. Dear God.
Feeling Doug let go of him, he tried to back off from the tree.
"I said—!" Doug snarled.
Bob almost screamed as Doug punched him hard below the ribs, driving lines of sharp pain through his back and chest.
"Now do what Daddy says and don't move, little boy," Doug ordered. "If you move again, I'll really have to hurt you and I certainly wouldn't want to do that because you're my friend, aren't you, Bobby boy? You're my good friend."
Bob gasped as Doug grabbed his hair and jerked his head back. "Aren't you, Bobby boy?"
Bob could only sob, grimacing with agony, tears dribbling down his cheeks.
"That's a good boy. I'll be right back," Doug told him. "Stay right there now."
Bob held on to the tree, his body a cluster of shifting pains. He still couldn't breathe normally. What am I going to do? he wondered. He couldn't just let Doug torture him like this. The realization made him shudder violently. That was what Doug was doing, torturing him.
He started to look around to see what Doug was up to. "Anh-anh-anh," Doug warned him. "Don't you move now, Bobby boy, or Doug will get pissed at you."
A few moments later, Bob heard Doug's returning footsteps. "Doug, whatever you have in mind—" he started weakly.
"Just shut up, pussy," Doug interrupted. "Whatever I have in mind is what I'll do, you get it? Pussy?"
"Doug, don't do this!" Bob said, pleading.
Doug didn't reply and Bob reacted with a gasp of alarm as Doug began to run the thin rope around his back, then around the tree.
"For Christ's sake, Doug, what are you doing?"
"Shut up, Bobby," Doug answered in a singsong voice.
"Doug, please. We're grown-up men, we're not—"
He broke off with a gasping cry as Doug flat-handed the back of his head, making him jerk forward, his forehead hitting the rough bark of the tree. "Jesus!" he cried, grimacing in pain.
He said no more, trying to restore his breathing as Doug kept wrapping the thin rope around his back and around the tree. How could this be happening? he kept on thinking. How could Doug have hidden all these years the hatred he was showing now? He wanted to try to reason with Doug, try to bring him back to his senses but he hurt too much in too many places, he didn't dare speak again.
Doug finished tying him to the tree, tightening the rope so much that his breath was cut off again. "I can't breathe," he said in a wheezing voice.
"Oh, sorry," Doug said as though he really was.
Bob cried out weakly as Doug pulled the rope even tighter.
"All right, kill me then!" Bob cried hoarsely.
"I will, big boy," Doug told him. "But not right away."
Bob sucked in a choking breath as Doug loosened the ropes, then used the ends to tie Bob's hands together by the wrists. "There we go," he said. He sounded pleased.
Bob leaned his forehead against the tree and closed his eyes. What now? he thought. Oh, God, what now? For a few moments, he had a vision of Marian standing in the clearing, staring at Doug, aghast at what he'd done.
"All right, Bobby boy," Doug said. "It's time to clear out the bullshit."
Bob stiffened as Doug pulled down his pants a few inches and lifted up the bottom of his jacket. "Now," he said.
Bob's breath cut off with a gasp as he felt something s
harp pressing at his back. "I guess you know what that is," Doug said. "My trusty ol' golak. One hard shove and you're a dead pussy. So tell me, Bobby boy, you think you'll just be fast-forwarded to paradise? Or only be a corpse hanging off this tree?"
Bob drew in shaking breath. "What do you want me to say?" he asked.
"The truth, baby, the truth. You're as scared of dying as the rest of us. Your goddamn stupid philosophy doesn't mean doodley-squat to you right now with the point of my golak right at your back." Bob hissed as he felt the sharp point of the blade breaking his skin. "Does it, Bobby boy?"
Bob closed his eyes, teeth clenched. "You're wrong," he said. "You—"
He cried out faintly as Doug jabbed the blade end into his flesh. The flare of pain made him press his teeth together tightly.
"You're wrong," he said in a sudden blind rage. "You want me to renege—"
"Want you to what?" Doug demanded. He hitched the blade to the right. Bob sobbed at the pain and felt a trickle of blood down his back.
I won't, he thought. He wasn't going to give Doug satisfaction.
"Killing me won't change what I believe," he said in a tense, guttural voice. "I'll go to afterlife, I still believe that. You're the one who'll really suffer in the long run." He could barely finish as Doug turned the blade tip again, making him groan at the pain. "Go on!" he cried, mindless with fury. "Do it! Murder me! I'll still believe what I believe! I won't be dead, but you'll be damned!"
He waited for the final thrust, the burst of pain, the darkness of death.
It didn't come.
"Well, well, well," Doug said. "I must say I'm impressed. You really do believe in afterlife. I admire your conviction, Bobby boy."
Bob felt the tip of the golak blade removed. The pain decreased but he could still feel warm blood dribbling down his back.
"So you're not afraid of dying," Doug went on. "Well, I can understand that. Even if you didn't believe in afterlife, dying would end the pain."
Bob felt himself tightening. What was Doug talking about now?
He knew immediately as Doug said, "Maybe living is something you'd rather not do. Maybe I was offering you an easy way out by threatening to impale you on my golak. Maybe staying alive is worse than dying. Right, Bobby boy? Maybe living . . . but with pain."
Hunted Past Reason Page 15