This had been a lousy idea.

Shawna Carlton scowled at the padlock clenched in one frozen hand. Rain lashed at her back. Her jeans were soaked through. Her jacket, too thin for winter-wear in the mountains, was no protection against the hard pellets of rain or the cold. A hot shower had never sounded so good.

The flashlight's weak beam wavered as she focused it on the tiny numbers of the lock. She had tried the combination three times already. Either she had written the numbers down wrong ... or Debra hadn't given her the right combination.

Tears fueled by frustration, exhaustion and days of stress threatened to erupt and she sagged against the old wooden door. She couldn't handle the drive back into town. Not this late at night. Not as tired as she was. Not along that ghastly, dark-as-hell, pothole-filled U.S. Forest Service road. Even if her car made it, she was in no shape for the one and a half hour drive back to Portland.

She swiped her sleeve across her eyes, blew on her fingers, and concentrated on the padlock again. The beam of the flashlight flickered and flickered again just as she rolled the last row of numbers. Nothing. In sheer frustration, she yanked up, then down on the lock and saw the bolt separate just as the weak light died.

"Hallelujah." Bolstered by her victory, she pulled the lock from the hooks, released the latch and pushed. The door swung open on a dark, musty cavity as frigid as a mausoleum, colder even than the external temperature. Her courage faltered.

"Old and rustic, but it does have electricity," Debra had assured her. Electricity meant there must be a light switch somewhere. She shook her flashlight. It cooperated with a pale circle of light for only a second. She gritted her teeth, as she stepped inside and ran her hand down the wall next to the door. The surface was rough, splintery. A clingy, sticky substance wrapped itself around her fingers. She snatched her hand away and wiped it on her jeans. No switch. She shifted to her right. This time she felt something cold and metal and, just below it, the familiar shape of a light switch. She flicked it. A single bare light bulb in the center of the room came on.

"Oh ... my ... God." Old and rustic for sure. Debra had not exaggerated about that. It was a grungy retreat only a man could love. And Debra, Shawna remembered now, had never set foot in her boyfriend's fishing get-away. A miniscule kitchen occupied one corner with a cook top, a sink and a box refrigerator. A wood bunk bed stood in the opposite corner. A sagging couch sporting huge, grimy blue cabbage roses was a candidate for the landfill and a table and four mismatched chairs were pushed against an undraped window. A forest of cobwebs hung from the ceiling. Shawna shuddered, then shivered as a powerful chill gripped her body. She studied the room again. It held nothing that looked like a heat source, except for the fireplace several inches deep in ashes.

"Merry Christmas and Happy New Year," she muttered. She had no one to blame but herself. Debra had tried to talk her out of this, but she had convinced herself that peace and quiet and isolation were what she desperately needed. No matter what.

Now she wasn't so sure about the "no matter what" part.