Mp, p.41
MatchUp, page 41
Two men climbed out of the truck, but it was too dark to see anything more than their silhouettes, though she heard their voices. They were speaking a foreign language. It wasn’t French, Spanish, Italian, or German, and it didn’t have the soft squishy sounds of Polish or Eastern Europe. She didn’t want to be politically incorrect or paranoid, but it sounded Arabic.
One man began unloading a large box and the other man helped him, and the two of them inched along with the box, stutter-stepping on the way to the shed. They passed through a pool of light, and she could see that the box was a wooden crate, long and narrow. She took one look at its shape and thought instantly rifles or armaments.
Her mouth went dry.
She was a lawyer, not a cop.
And she was no terrorism expert, but she watched CNN. The idea was, if you see something, say something. She didn’t know what she was seeing, but she knew she was going to say something. But first she had to get out of there without them seeing her.
Suddenly her cell phone rang.
The men turned to the sound.
She fumbled in her pocket for her phone and hit the button with trembling fingers, silencing it.
But the men stood looking in her direction, then lowered the box.
The floodlights went dark.
So she ran.
COREY AND MAX CLIMBED THE dark slope toward the lighted cabin, and he saw a white BMW parked in the gravel driveway with Pennsylvania plates, which was a good clue that Mr. Rosato of Philadelphia lived here.
Max was pulling at the leash, so he let him go.
The dog ran onto the back deck and he followed and saw that the sliding glass door was partly open. Max beelined into the cabin, so obviously this was where his owner was.
Case closed.
He didn’t necessarily want to meet Mr. Rosato and he didn’t want Mr. Rosato to thank him or offer him a drink or ask him to stay for a spaghetti dinner, so he decided to just slide the door shut and head back to his cabin.
But what if this was not Rosato’s cabin?
Then whoever lived here would have a new dog.
And Rosato would still be calling about his.
No good deed, indeed.
He resigned himself to some human interaction and called in through the half-open slider, “Mr. Rosato.”
No reply.
He stuck his head into the cabin. Max was curled up on the couch. He noted that this living room was almost as grungy as the one in his cabin. Whoever owned or had rented this place would be better off living in the BMW. He called out again, “Mr. Rosato.”
Max barked.
But no one seemed to be home, which was odd, considering the car outside. Maybe there was a second car. Or maybe a bear had gotten in through the open sliders and eaten Mr. Rosato. Served him right for losing his dog and leaving the door open.
Then it occurred to him that Rosato might have gone off on foot to find his dog. But this could still not be Rosato’s cabin. He could make a call and run the Pennsylvania license plate number, but that was a lot of effort.
He looked at Max on the couch.
Dogs don’t have to make decisions.
They eat, sleep, play, and screw.
In his next life?
Maybe.
All great detectives—as he was—came to conclusions based on clues, evidence, and information. Not on assumptions, speculation, or lazy thinking. So, reluctantly, he entered the cabin. Nothing in the living room or kitchen provided a clue as to who lived here, or if they were still here.
He called up the staircase, then climbed the steep creaky steps to the second-floor bedrooms. He realized he was technically trespassing, and he hoped Bennie Rosato—or whoever lived here—didn’t pick this moment to return. The story of Goldilocks and the three bears popped into his head.
At the top of the stairs was an open bathroom door and two closed doors. He knocked on the door to his left, hoping he wasn’t waking someone from a postcoital slumber.
He opened the bedroom door and peeked inside. Empty.
The other bedroom door was slightly ajar and he looked inside. There was a small unpacked suitcase on the bed, but no evidence that a bear had eaten the occupant.
He stepped into the bedroom and read the tag on the suitcase. Bennie Rosato. A Philly address and the same phone number that was on Max’s collar.
Now the case was closed.
He went downstairs and filled a bowl with water and left it for Max who was still curled up on the couch.
“There’s more water in the toilet bowl. Don’t pee on the floor. See ya around, pal.”
Max looked up at him and seemed to say thanks with a bark.
He left the cabin and slid the door shut, happy that he’d fulfilled his duty as a good citizen. He started back toward the lake rather than take the shortcut to his cabin through the dark woods. As he headed downhill toward the lake he redialed Rosato to tell him, or leave a message, that his dog was in his cabin. The number rang as he continued toward the lake, and he waited for voice mail to kick in.
The phone stopped ringing.
Then a breathless voice said, “Help.”
The fuck?
BENNIE TORE THROUGH THE WOODS, not knowing where she was going. She didn’t know if the men had seen her, but she wasn’t taking any chances. She kept the flashlight off but clutched it in case she had to use it as a weapon. She hurried as fast and as quietly as she could, away from the light. She held her phone, pressing 911 on the run, but she could tell it wasn’t connecting. She knew she had her GPS function on, and she prayed that dispatch would find her call and pick up her signal.
Suddenly the phone vibrated in her hand.
Her heart leapt to her throat. Maybe it was 911 calling back. Or Declan. But she didn’t recognize the number.
She answered on the run, whispering, “Help. Please, come quickly, I’m lost in the woods near the lake. My name is Bennie Rosato. Please, hurry. I think I saw—”
“You’re Bennie?” a man’s voice asked.
“Yes. Is this 911?”
“No. I’m John Corey. Did you get my message that I found your dog. Max. He’s back in your cabin. Are you a woman?”
She used her arms to whack branches out of her path. She didn’t hear anyone behind her so either they were being quiet or she’d lost them. “Listen, I think I saw some terrorists in the woods. I’m trying to call 911.”
“Where are you?”
“In the woods. They might be following me. They were loading a box of guns into a shed that’s camouflaged with netting. They spoke Arabic.”
“You sure?”
“I watch Homeland.”
“That makes me feel better.”
A smart-ass? Just what she needed at the moment.
“Can you describe where you are?” he asked. “Look around. What do you see?”
The man’s tone was calm, oddly businesslike, which comforted her in a strange way. “I see woods. It’s dark.”
“Are you moving uphill or down?”
“Down.”
Actually, she was practically stumbling forward.
“Keep moving downhill. The lake sits at the bottom of a bowl. Understand? I’m at the water’s edge, about a hundred yards from your cabin. Stay on the line.”
“Okay.”
She kept running through the woods. Branches swatted her bare arms, legs, and face, and she stumbled a few times, but kept going, making sure she was headed downhill. She still didn’t hear anyone behind her, but she didn’t slow her pace though she was becoming out of breath.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m getting there.”
“As soon as I see you, I’ll call 911.”
“Hang up and call now.”
“I don’t want to lose you. Do you see the lake?”
“Not yet.”
“Have you crossed the gravel drive that runs around the lake?”
“I don’t know. It’s dark.”
“Can you hear anyone behind you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Stay on the phone and keep moving.”
COREY STOOD ON A BOULDER near the lake, scanning the woods at the top of the slope. A half-moon was rising and he hoped Bennie Rosato would see him silhouetted against the water. She could be right about someone chasing her, but he didn’t think she’d stumbled onto a terrorist camp.
Those things didn’t happen in real life.
A sign of the times, though, as everyone liked to play cop.
He’d learned never to form a conclusion without evidence. For instance, Bennie Rosato had turned out to be a woman.
He said into his phone, “Listen, my cabin is the lighted one a few hundred yards to the right of yours, as you face the lake. Understand?”
“I got it.”
“Go there. I’m heading there now to get my gun.”
“What?”
“I’m a federal agent. I have a gun.”
“Thank God. But why aren’t you carrying it?”
That, he thought, was what an FBI postmortem inquiry would ask. So he came up with a good excuse. “Your dog distracted me.”
“You’re blaming a dog?”
“Just head for my cabin.”
He started jogging that way, glancing at the woods as he moved.
BENNIE NOTICED THE TREES THINNING out around her, then she crossed the narrow gravel road that circled the lake and picked up her pace. The forest vanished around her and she was on a bare rocky slope close to the lake. To her left was her cabin and to the right was the other lit one.
John Corey’s.
In fact, she saw a man running along the shoreline toward the cabin. She wanted to yell out to him but didn’t want to risk it if she was being followed.
She added a burst of speed and ran down the slope on a course that would intersect with Corey. She waved her arms to attract his attention, but he didn’t see her, though he was glancing at the woods as he ran. She whispered into her phone, “I can see you. Look to your right.”
But he wasn’t listening to his phone.
She looked back over her shoulder, relieved to see that no one was on the slope behind her. She turned on her flashlight and waved it around.
Finally, the man on the shore saw her, stopped, and turned toward her.
He called out, “Bennie?”
They ran toward each other in the moonlight, like lovers in a three-hankie movie. As they got closer, she saw that Corey was a good-looking man, tall and with the unmistakable air of a lifetime spent in law enforcement, but this wasn’t the time for biographical details. She slowed her pace, caught her breath, and began to stand down. As he approached, she saw that he was wearing a gray sweatshirt, baggy cargo pants, and old running shoes. Most federal agents dressed more buttoned up, but he seemed relaxed. She shut off the flashlight, reached him, and put out her hand.
“Bennie Rosato.”
He took her hand and said, “John Corey.”
Then he added, “At your service.”
COREY STUDIED BENNIE ROSATO IN the moonlight.
She was either wearing elevator sandals or she was as tall as he was, about six feet. Her bare arms and legs were extremely well toned, like an athlete’s. Whoever had been chasing her was lucky they didn’t catch up. He thought her blond hair looked like it had been combed with an eggbeater, but maybe her sprint through the woods had messed up the coif.
He focused on her face.
Her eyes sparkled in the moonlight and were the color of her lips. Blue. She must be cold. She had good cheekbones, a slightly jutting chin, and an aquiline nose. She wore little makeup and probably didn’t need much. And finally, he noticed that she filled out her T-shirt.
Actually, he noticed that first.
All in all, an attractive woman with a striking presence.
“Are you okay?”
She was sweating and still breathing hard.
“I think so.”
He glanced back up at the slope. “Were you followed?”
“I don’t know.”
“The woods are deceiving at night.”
“I know what I saw, Mr. Corey.”
“Right. Please call me John.”
“Are you really a federal agent?”
“I am.”
“I’m a lawyer.”
“What else could go wrong tonight?”
She frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just joking.” He further explained, “My ex-wife is a lawyer. And my estranged wife is also a lawyer, and an FBI agent.”
“You’re a lucky man.”
She tossed him a half smile.
He wanted to tell her his joke about him marrying lawyers so he could screw a lawyer rather than vice versa, but he didn’t know her well enough. Maybe later. Instead, he said, “Let’s go to my place.”
“Why?”
“So I can get my gun.”
She hesitated. “Do you have any ID? A badge?”
“My creds and badge are with my gun. You can see them all in my cabin. We shouldn’t be standing here in the open.”
“I think we should call 911. We’re not going to cowboy this out alone.”
“I already called. No connection.”
She hit the 911 feature on her phone, but it didn’t connect.
He tried 911 again too, but couldn’t get a connection. “Service sucks. By the way, you left the slider open in your cabin.”
“It’s not my cabin. I won a Woodsy Weekend Getaway.”
“Congratulations.”
“I should have stayed in Philadelphia.”
“Right. A weekend in Philadelphia seems like a month.”
“Not funny.”
“Sorry.”
“Are you from Washington?”
“New York.”
“Figures.”
He couldn’t resist and said, “So second prize is two weeks in Philadelphia, and third prize is four weeks in Phila—”
“I’m going to my cabin, getting my dog, and going home.”
“You’re leaving me alone with terrorists?”
She shot him a look.
“I know,” he said. “I’m a wiseass.”
She started to walk away, then hesitated. “Look, I don’t like to admit I need help, but this is the life-or-death exception. Walk with me, would you?”
“My gun is in my cabin.”
“Why do you need a gun, if you don’t believe me about the terrorists?”
“Why do I think I can outtalk a lawyer?”
“Are we having a power struggle?”
“No, a divorce.”
She shook her head.
He said, “Look, Bennie, I think you saw something. I don’t know what you saw and neither do you. But I’d like you to come to my cabin and you can tell me what you saw and we’ll keep trying 911, and if we can’t get through, we’ll go to the nearest police station. Okay?”
She didn’t appear like someone who surrendered control easily, but she also was scared.
That was clear.
“All right.”
They scrambled down the edge of the slope to the lake and began walking quickly along the rocky shore toward his cabin.
Not exactly hand in hand.
But shoulder to shoulder.
He crossed his back deck, slid open the glass door, and without waiting for Bennie went inside the cabin and made straight for the kitchen. His Glock was still on the table where he’d left it, stuck inside his pancake holster. Only an idiot or a rookie would have left the gun out in plain sight. What was he thinking? Then he remembered. It was the dog’s fault. Or maybe the scotch.
He was aware that Bennie was behind him and knew she was looking at the gun. So, as casually as he could, he picked up the holster, lifted his sweatshirt, and clipped it onto his belt in the small of his back. Then he said to his houseguest, “My mother told me that a gentleman should never pull a gun on his date.”
“This isn’t a date.”
“It could be.”
“No, it couldn’t.”
He reached inside a suede jacket hanging on a chair and pulled out his credential case, which he handed to her.
She let the case fall open, revealing his FBI photo ID and badge. She handed the case back to him. “This seems to be my lucky day.”
“The day’s not over yet. You want a drink?”
“Water.”
He smiled, plucked two glasses from the cupboard and made one water and one scotch and water. “Sorry, no ice.”
“I don’t need ice.”
“Did anyone ever tell you you’re kind of uptight?”
She smiled. “Did anyone ever tell you you’re not uptight enough?”
He smiled back.
They clinked glasses and she said, “Cent’anni.”
“Cheers.”
They drank, then he led her into the living room and indicated an armchair. He locked the sliding doors, then sat in a creaky rocker.
She looked around. “This is worse than my place. Did you win a Woodsy Weekend too?”
“I lost a bet.”
They both laughed.
She asked, “Do you have a landline phone here?”
“I don’t even have ice.”
“Let’s try 911 again.”
They both tried on their cells, but neither could get a connection.
He pointed out, “It could take an hour for a local cop or the State Police to get here anyway.”
“Then let’s get out of here.”
“First tell me what you saw in the woods.”
“We can do that on the way to the police station.”
He looked at Bennie Rosato. She’d gone from lady in distress to ball-busting lawyer in ten minutes. “We’re going to take separate cars out of here. In case we’re not coming back. So tell me what you saw.”
She sipped on her water and told him. He listened. As with most attorneys her narrative was clear and concise, though he suspected she hadn’t been as cool and collected when she was lost in the woods, finding what she thought was a terrorist facility.
When she finished, he said, “Something was going on there. Maybe criminal activity. Maybe some poachers. Maybe a meth lab or maybe park workers or environmental scientists doing something good for humanity.”
“They were speaking Arabic.”
