Part 1

The ride had been pleasant. The leaves of the trees had started to change into their fall clothes of red, yellow, and orange. After turning onto the dirt road that led to the cabin, the two men smiled at a family of deer crossing the road. The large buck took the road in giant leaps; the doe and her twin fawns stopped and watched the strange animal slow down and stop.

The mother, seeing that her offspring were not in danger, trotted across the road, quickly looking back to make sure her children were following her.

The beige Taurus slowly moved forward, picking up speed toward its destination. The cabin sat in a clearing, overlooking a lake. A boathouse stood alongside the tiny pier. The building, once bright gold, was now a dull gray; years of snow, rain, and sun had aged it. A pair of squirrels ran up a tree, playing chase with each other, their chattering announcing the game had ended when the darker one jumped to another branch from the tree they had climbed.

Exiting the parked car, Peter took a deep breath. His eyes closed as he breathed in the clean air, the smell of pine lingering in his nostrils. "I think I could stay here forever, Paul."

Paul Blaisdell closed the driver's side door, grinning at his foster son, then taking in the sights and smells, also. "No, Kid. You couldn't. There's not enough trouble around here for you to get into. I just hope your father and Mary Margaret left more food. The way you eat, we'll run out by tomorrow morning. They going back to town?"

Peter lowered his head in mock defeat; he knew Paul was right. Being in the woods away from civilization was good, but he would soon get bored with it. Ignoring the remark about food, he commented, "They were going to drive to Skalaney's parents' house first. Said she'd be back Monday."

The two unloaded the car, placing the fishing gear on the porch before putting the groceries and luggage inside.

The inside of the cabin was modestly furnished. A neighbor came by once a week to air out the cabin, check for any damages, do minor housecleaning. Pictures of the Blaisdell children and their parents were scattered along the mantle. Logs lay in the fireplace, ready to be set ablaze when the weather turned cooler.

"Mom pack the marshmallows?" Peter asked as he unpacked the groceries, storing the milk and other perishables in the refrigerator.

Paul shook his head; a smile came easily to his lips. "Yes, Son. And the hot chocolate." He remembered the first time he and Peter came up here, nearly fifteen years ago. Even then, the young, energetic kid's first thought was of food. The first time Peter had drank hot chocolate, he fell in love with it. So now, on each fishing trip, Annie made sure to pack the mix plus the marshmallows for roasting.

Paul checked the first aid kit and flashlight, then looked up the flue with the light to make sure they could light the fire later on that evening. Glancing up at the pictures, Paul said a small prayer that he and his family remain safe and healthy. Peter and Paul had made this trek yearly by themselves, but this year, it was on the heels of Peter being injured, critically. Paul recalled the sight of Peter lying in his bed with a large dagger protruding from his abdomen. Peter was still on medical leave and would return to work Monday.

"You about ready to catch some fish?" Paul asked, picking up the first aid kit.

Peter came around the corner, in one hand a sandwich with a bite already taken out of it, a picnic basket in the other. "Yeah, I'm ready," Peter answered around the mouthful of food.

Paul again shook his head. "All right, let's go. I guess I'll have to carry the tackle?"

Grinning, Peter stepped past his foster father and walked quickly out the door.

The small boat rocked softly in the small waves. The two men sat facing each other, each on their own bench. The food and cooler were tucked safely between them.

The two fishing lines lay slack in the water, as though taking a break along with the men. Paul looked at Peter, taking in the light complexion of his son. He noted that the color was a vast improvement over the pale color Peter had while in the hospital.

"What'cha thinking about, Paul?"

Paul sighed softly. The past few weeks were catching up to him. He had kept a bedside vigil at night, and during the day worked as the captain of the 101st Precinct. "Oh, just glad that we could make this trip this year. We almost lost you this time, Peter. I think I'm getting too old to keep up the pace."

Peter watched his surrogate father of fifteen years take a drink of iced tea, then fiddle with his rod and reel. "Yeah," was his only response. The emotional roller coaster he had been on had finally come to the terminal.

"Well, we'd better hurry up and catch our supper," Paul changed the subject. Peter eagerly agreed.

A shot rang out, the sound coming from the backside of the cabin. "Hunters," Paul said with disgust. "There's signs all over the property. Can't they read?"

"Trespassers. I guess we need to put on some of that neon orange so they won't think we're their supper."

"Well, at least you should. I think you're a magnet for bullets. Come on, let's go in. They won't be aware we are here and shoot. Idiots," Paul added, reaching for an oar as Peter reached for his. "I'll call for the county sheriff to come up here and find these guys. Surely Tompkins didn't let hunters onto his property."

Ray Tompkins was the closest neighbor, living up in the woods about a half-mile from the Blaisdell cabin. He and Paul had both posted "No Hunting, No Trespassing" signs along the edges of their property, and so far there had never been any infractions against the signs.

Reaching the dock, Paul stood up to tie the boat. Suddenly another shot rang out.

Peter started stowing their gear while looking in the direction of the blast, noting it was closer than the first shot, when a giant splash brought his attention back around. "PAUL!"

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