This Winter

"So you're concerned about the coming storm," Dr. Randall said calmly from the chair near his desk. He'd positioned his body so that there was nothing between himself and his client but an imported rug covering the polished wooden floor of his office.

"I'm concerned about the winter." The response was angry, but coldly so. The man, tall and taciturn, sat near the window on a padded leather chair. He stared straight at Randall with a hard, unforgiving gaze.

Randall nodded, as if he understood. "You're concerned, because —?"

"You know why. It seems that things always get worse when the temperature drops."

"At least for you."

"Right. For me. Isn't that why I'm here?" Tension was evident in the stiffness of his neck and the bleached knuckles of his clasped hands.

"Why are you here?"

"Don't patronize me. None of that psychobabble doubletalk."

"Do you hate the winter?"

A beat. A second's hesitation. The client blinked. "Not at all. Hate's a pretty strong word."

"What would you say? What would be the right word?"

"It's not the season I don't like. It's what happens."

"Maybe your concern about things being worse at this time of year is just your perception."

"Do you deny that bad things happen in the winter?"

"Of course not, but sometimes accidents or tragedies can occur in other months. People drown while swimming in the summer, or fall off cliffs while hiking in the mountains, or become ill from parasites that only breed in the heat. Bad things can happen at any time."

His client's jaw became solid granite as he seemed to struggle silently with the concept. He was a very intelligent man, his IQ near genius level, but he was struggling to make sense of the tragedy that had scarred his life. "I do know that intellectually, but personally, it's always worse in the winter." He glanced to the window, where gray clouds were muddying the sky.

"Because of what happened when you were a child?"

"You tell me. You're the shrink." He cut a harsh glance at the psychologist before offering a bit of a smile, a quick flash of teeth that Dr. Randall supposed would be considered a killer smile by most women. This man was an interesting case, made more so by the pact that they had agreed upon: There would be no notes, no recording, not so much as a memo about the appointment in Randall's date book to indicate that the two had ever met. The appointment was cloaked in the deepest secrecy.

His client glanced at the clock, reached into his back pocket, and pulled out his wallet. He didn't count out the bills. They were already neatly folded and tucked into a special compartment.

"We should meet again soon," Dr. Randall suggested as the money was left on a corner of his desk.

The tall man nodded sharply. "I'll call."

And he would, Dr. Randall thought, idly pressing the fold from the crisp twenties as his patient's boots rang down the steps of the back staircase. For no matter how hard the man tried to convince himself he didn't need counseling, he was smart enough to realize that the demons he was trying to exorcise had burrowed deep into the darkest parts of his soul and wouldn't be released without the proper coaxing, the treatment he so abhorred.

Pride goeth before a fall, Randall thought as he slipped the bills into his own worn wallet. He'd seen it time and time again. This man, though he didn't know it, was about to tumble.

"Dad-gum dog — where the hell did ya run off ta now?" Charley Perry said around a wad of chewing tobacco. He was tramping through the wilderness, high above the Columbia, through old-growth timber and little else as the first light of dawn splintered through the trees. Winter was chasing down the gorge, and his stupid, two-bit spaniel had taken off again. He considered leaving her out here — she'd probably find her way back to his cabin — but a bit of guilt nagged at him, and truth to tell, she was all he really had in the world. Tanzy had once been a helluva huntin' dog, Charley mused, but like himself, she was half-deaf now and more than a little crippled with arthritis.

Squinting through the sparse brush, he whistled sharply, the sound piercing its way through the forest as branches rattled overhead. His gloved hands tightened over the barrel of his rifle, a Winchester that his daddy had bestowed upon him over half a century earlier when he'd returned from the war. He had newer weapons, a lot of them, but this one, like the tired old dog, was his favorite.

Damn, he thought, but he was gettin' nostalgic in his old age.

"Tanzy?" he called, knowing that he was chasing off any chance of prey. Stupid bitch of a dog!

He stomped up a familiar trail, his gaze scanning the ground for signs of deer, or elk, or even a bear, though they'd already gone into their dens for the winter. There had been talk in town of a mountain lion that had been seen near the falls this summer, but Charley hadn't come across any spoor that indicated the big cat was prowling these slopes. Charley didn't really know what cougars did in the winter but he didn't think they hibernated. Not that it mattered. Never, in all his seventy-two years of living in these mountains, had he ever seen one. He didn't figure today would be his unlucky day.

His feet ached from the cold, even in his wool socks and hunting boots. The shrapnel still embedded in his hip pained him. Still he hunted, searching these woods as he had as a kid with his pa. He'd nailed his first buck up on Settler's Bluff when he was fourteen. Hell, that was a long time ago.

A blast of wind hit him hard in his face and he swore. "Come on, Tanzy! Let's go, girl!" It was time to drive his battered Ford truck into town, pick up a paper, and drink coffee at the Canyon Café with the few of his friends who were still alive and healthy enough to leave their wives for an hour or two. Later, he'd do the crossword puzzle and stoke the fire in his woodstove.

Where the hell was that mutt?

He whistled again and heard a whimper, then a bark.

At last! He turned and walked down a sharp gully where Tanzy was suddenly going ape-shit, her nose to the ground around a decaying log. "Whaddaya got, girl?" Charley asked, as he stepped over a bleached-out snag and into a scattering of brush. His boots snapped small twigs as he inched his way down to the dog, bracing himself for a squirrel or weasel to dart out from what appeared to be a hollow log. He sure as hell hoped it wasn't a porcupine or skunk holed up in there.

A breeze stirred the branches overhead and he smelled it then — the rank odor of decaying flesh. Whatever was inside was already dead. No worry about it dashing out and scaring the bejeezus out of him.

Tanzy was barking her fool head off, jumping at the log and leaping back, the bristles of her spotted coat standing on end, her tail swatting the air.

"Okay, okay, just let me have a look-see," Charley said, lowering himself on one knee and hearing it pop. He bent down and peered into the cavity of the log. "Can't really tell." But something was wedged inside and it smelled bad. Curiosity got the better of him, and he shifted the log a bit, allowing the wintry sunlight a chance to permeate the darkness. As he did, he got a good glimpse of what was inside.

A human skull stared back at him.

Charley's blood turned to ice. He yelped and dropped the log.

It...