When Bill Strannix had said yes to a trip up to Sam Gerard’s cabin for a weekend of hunting and, if Sam could talk him into it, ice fishing, he hadn’t thought of the fact that he could get stuck indefinitely in the middle of the North woods with a man he once, as a boy, worshipped, but as an adult annoyed the shit out of him.

Bill stretched out on the couch, flexing his toes underneath the dark blue fleece blanket he’d pulled over himself. The fire in the hearth burned thick, the only thing in the room available to warm his cold bones.

He found himself missing the Punk, and musing over this.

He missed her warmth, a single hand on his thigh, burying his nose in her soft hair after she’d fallen to sleep, luxuries he had only, just recently, begun to let himself experience. It still felt altogether strange… but wasn’t he the master of strangeness?

Instead, he was freezing to death underneath quite possibly the thinnest blanket in the world. He’d stuffed towels under the door to keep the draft of cold winter wind out, but he could still feel the temperature drop every time the wind howled at the windows.

He found himself missing Texas, and had no need to think about *that* very far. It had been his home for several years, a safe place away from the hell-cold that Minnesota had ended up being, time and time again. The Punk would have laughed her ass off if she’d known Bill thought of Texas as ‘safe’, but then again, she didn’t know how dangerous many of the places he’d been were. And I’ll keep it that way, thankyewverymuch…

A shiver traveled through his body as the wind screamed at the door, and he wondered if he’d bright back some of the harsh chill of Afghanistan’s desert nights in his bones. He could never seem to warm himself anymore, even on the most stifling of days.

Today, of course, was not one of those days. He closed his eyes and listened to the crackle of the fireplace and the groaning of the cabin.

His thoughts turned to Gerard, upstairs in the bed that he had once shared with Beth, sleeping alone. Unconsciously, he smiled, remembering times with Sam when he was a kid, doing boy-things, friend things, brother-things.

Bill finally fell to a fitful sleep, dreaming dual dreams; one of Sam the brother, the other of Gerard, the hunter.

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Sam Gerard was not sleeping.

Instead, he was sitting cross-legged on the big bed, old quilt draped over his shoulders, one big fist-full of cotton pulled loosely over his chest for warmth. He was silent, also listening to the weather sounds. His thoughts had turned to the ones that they always did when at his cabin, his sacred place. It was the one thing, other than his hematite key chain and the furniture that lived in a storage unit on County 42 in Apple Valley, Minnesota that he had left that had anything to do with Beth.

He rubbed the surface of the smooth stone between thumb and forefinger, the keys themselves left on the bureau behind him. Whenever he thought of her, he’d find himself fiddling with his keys, his fingers searching for the familiar cool surface and the weight in his palm.

Sam watched the now fall heavily outside his window, half-dreading the days to come, locked up with His Brother the Lunatic. No TV, no DVD, no glorious FAX machine… why in hell did he suggest the trip? He knew, deep down, just as he also knew that it had to be there, in the cabin that he’d spent so much time and invested so much of his heart in. He supposed, with only minimal surprise, that the way out was through, and perhaps if he’d lost Beth, he could gain some of himself back through discovering something, someone, he’d once thought was gone from him.

How would he keep from slaughtering the man?

Beth, you were worlds more patient than I, he thought, recalling the offhand jovial manner which she regarded the skulking behemoth, as if he were merely a loud, precocious pup than a tail-less Doberman, bred to kill.

He sighed, watching the snow, trying not to think of these things that plagued him… and failing miserably.

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It was Sam who first noticed the dark shape moving against the bright, pristine snow. He thought at first that it was a shadow from the trees, but when it moved independently of the tall evergreens, he stood and walked to the window, wiping the surface where his breath fogged the glass.

The shadow was gone, and there were no tracks that he could make out.

He rubbed his eyes and blinked, straining to see, but nothing appeared to him.

He stood at the window for a few more moments, waiting and studying the landscape. After nothing revealed itself, he slipped into bed and soon fell to sleep.

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3:01 a.m.

Click. Click-click. Click. Click-click. Click.

The slight noise woke the sleeping form on the couch. Bill opened his eyes and listened closely, eyes adjusting to the darkness.

Sounded like a tree branch, swaying in the harsh wind, rapping against the frigid front window. Bill ran through a quick survey of the cabin in his mind, but could recall no trees that close the small shelter.

Click-click. Click. Click-click. Click. Click-click. Click--

Silence.

Bill threw the blanket from him and melted off the couch, keeping low to the floor, quiet and listening close.

He heard nothing more; he stood frozen in the dark, poised, open to every sound, movement, vibration in the air, through his socked feet, every inch of his skin attune.

But, there was nothing, and continued to be so for the ten minutes he waited.

Bill slept lightly that night.

There was no other sound, save for the wind through the far trees.

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“Give me that. You’ll ruin it.”

Sam took the butcher paper-wrapped package out of Bill’s hands and dropped it on the counter, where he started to unwrap it.

“What in hell? Ya think I don’t know how to cook a hunk a’ meat?” Bill reached for the chunk but Sam held his hand out to stop him.

“You’ll fry it and kill it a second time. Steaks need to be grilled… or in this case, since we don’t have access to a grill, you need to broil them.”

Bill left the kitchen, calling out over his shoulder, “Yeah, what would you know about it, Julia Child? Drop it on the floor to season the damn thing…” He dropped into one of the overstuffed chairs in the living room and let his eyes roam to the window. He could hear Sam fussing in the kitchen. It all seemed incredibly…

… domestic. But that wasn’t the surprising part. What scared him was that it felt familiar.

Five years ago, he had been trying to keep his head above water, doing the Clint Eastwood man-with-no-name bullshit, actively involved in forgetting what having a girl, a family and a life was like.

Four years ago, he’d met up with Beth again, and they’d finally decided to give it a go. She’d asked him a grand total of once to give up his work for something a little less dangerous. She didn’t like thinking she’d come home one day and he’d just… disappear, thinking he’d either left her, or he was dead. She’d at least wanted to cut the possibilities in half.

She broke it off a few days later after he’d declined, but they stayed close, probably closer than either one of them had meant to. Bill considered Beth a sister, and therefore became the only surviving family he knew to have.

Three years ago, he’d met Deb. Refusing to get serious about anyone anymore, he’d merely harassed her and avoided Gerard, a lot of mindless, harmless fun that took his mind off of other matters.

Two years ago, he’d bought this same woman that he’d refused to become ‘involved’ with, a house in Lubbock, Texas. He’d sold his own home and had moved in with her. No questions, no answers. She wore his Annapolis ring around her neck, and did so today, just like two teenagers dating in high school.

A year ago, he was recovering from a slight case of death, walking with a goddamn cane, and sporting a new color of hair on his head, with no clue how he had gained it. The was a new Corner, a new home… and a new life. The Punk had been pregnant, with *his* boy.

Now he knew that the name he’d carried for thirty years had not been the name he was born with.

“Do you eat anything other than cooked animal, Strannix?”

And now he had a goddamned brother… again.

He smirked wryly.

“Sure. If you think you can cook it.”

Five years ago, he wouldn’t have wanted this. Couldn’t have fathomed it. Hell, he hadn’t even expected to live past forty, let alone fifty.

He thought of Rainer, and realized that he missed the little peanut.

Surprises, surprises, oh yes.

Sam was amazed that yes, Virginia, even Big Bad Billy Strannix ate salad. And he did so while reading, half-glasses poised at the end of his nose.

Sam read the title. Dead Man Walking by Sister Helen Prejean. Sam swallowed his bite of steak, then indicated the book with his fork.

“You get that from Jan?”

Bill raised his eyes from the page.

“No.”

Sam dropped his own and cut another piece of steak, running the blade along the chunk of meat so as to capture the juice before it ran.

“Doesn’t seem to be your modus operandi, all things considered.”

Bill’s voice was firmly mild.

“I’m not a bloodthirsty lunatic.”

The tone to his brother’s voice reminded Sam of his mother.

Bill watched as Sam methodically cleaned his knife with his beef. Just like dad, can’t waste a drop.

Sam looked up, fork halfway to his lips.

“You say something?… aw, damnit.” Juice dripped from the hunk of meat onto the table. He ate the meat, then pulled the napkin he’d stuffed into his collar out and wiped up the mess.

One corner of Strannix’ mouth twitched slightly, then his eyes fell back to the page.

“Ya know,” Bill started, between the last bites of his salad, “I know you didn’t bring me up here to catch fish or t’bag Bambi.”

Sam shrugged expansively, trying for the same casual ease that Bill had worn like a coat ever since they’d arrived. “Maybe I did. Maybe I just wanted my little sis to have some time away from Happy Harry Hard-On.”

Bill sent a hard glare over the tops of his half-glasses. “What did you say once t’Jade? You can Bullshit your priest, you boyfriend, and your mamma…”

“…But you can’t bullshit *me.* Yeah, yeah, Strannix. You’re funny as hell. You also think too much.” With that, Sam stood and walked his empty plate to the kitchen, instantly starting the dishes, waiting for the tap to warm, water running over his hand.

Bill, still at the table, snorted and closed the book, his hands reaching for the plate which held the huge, barely seared steak, his eyes still drawn in the direction of the kitchen. He heard footsteps, and he looked back to the meat, drawing his glasses from his nose.

“You never simply work on one level, Gerard. You’re always in it for more, good or bad.”

The steak was like cutting warm butter, and even better on the tongue.

“You don’t know anything about me,” Sam said dangerously, gathering the sparse amount of dishes from the table.

“I wish that were true, man. These days, I remember more than I’ve forgotten.”

Sam sighed, stopped, and stood still, hands deep in the warm water. He shut the tap off and, deciding to go ahead and bite, hoping it wasn’t more than he could chew.

“What do you remember, then?”

He stood in that position for a few moments. There was none of the characteristic smarts answers coming from the dining area, nor was there movement. Finally, Sam dried his hands on the dishtowel and walked back to the dinner table.

Bill’s glasses rested on his closed book, resting beside his half-empty plate. His fingertips were placed along his forehead, his neck bent. He seemed to be deep in thought. Very quiet.

Sam said nothing, and waited.

“Me and you and Daddy at the lake, fishin’. I went t’ cast off and the hook got caught in your hand, real deep. Right in the palm, bled like mad. Your first date… Betty Mitchell, right? Cute, little dimples when she smiled. But she dumped your ass on prom night… Ya went out with me and Rock and Denny and got drunk. First time you’d even *had* beer, and we were all illegal… The first time Daddy got sick, all white faced and thin, so weird because he didn’t *get* sick easy… The day you went off t’boot camp and we fought like bastards over something stupid, but all that anger an’ stress was from me not havin’ my big brother around for the first time… “

“Strannix…” Sam noticed that Bill’s tone was starting to get harder, the volume building. His forehead was no longer resting on his fingertips, but on white knuckles of clenched fists. It was making Sam nervous.

“… first time I killed a man, in ‘Nam, and I threw up everything I’d ever eaten… when Daddy killed himself ‘cause that evil shit took Mamma…”

“Strannix… Bill… that didn’t happen. Mamma’s still alive.” Concern flooded his voice, and without realizing it, he’d stepped closer and reached for the man’s mane of white hair.

Bill’s head jerked up.

“I *know* it never happened. I *know* I have a brother. But… if I still *remember* all this shit… what in hell… am I two fucking people, or am I no one at all, just a made-up fucker, only now finding out that my entire fucking past is all some CIA nightmare cooked up so that they could use this ‘wonderful’ new resource, these boys that couldn’t remember who in hell they were because their memories were blown to shit!”

Sam stepped two back. Strannix’ hands were claws, his face a mask of pain and absolute anger. Sam had never seen this man in such a state. He’d always held some amount of control, even when seeming far out of it.

As quick as it had flared up, it died down. Bill dropped his maniac gaze and his voice returned to it’s usual timbre.

“Hell.”

Sam cleared his throat.

“How’s the steak?”

“Oh, ah…” He rubbed his forehead. “Great stuff. Perfect.”

Sam’s eyebrow raised, but inwardly he breathed a sigh of relief. The anger was gone.

“Really…?” he asked quizzically.

“Oh yeah. I’m not dead yet.”

Sam couldn‘t help but smile. “Goddamn you…”

Bill stabbed the remainder of the steak with his fork, picked it up, and got to his feet.

“I need a beer. Want one?” He shouldered past Sam, not meeting his eyes, chewing beef as he went.

“Sounds… great…”

TO BE CONTINUED…