MatchUp

WHEN LISA SCOTTOLINE WAS ASKED if she would be a part of this anthology she said yes, but with a condition.

“I want to write with Nelson DeMille.”

Aiming to please, we contacted Nelson who said, absolutely, since he was a huge Lisa Scottoline fan.

And the team was born.

Both Lisa and Nelson are seasoned pros. They each have tens of millions of books in print worldwide, and they’ve each created a memorable character. Lisa’s Bennie Rosato is a tough-as-nails Philadelphia lawyer with a big heart, while John Corey is a former NYPD homicide detective, who still carries a gun and seems to have trouble keeping a job.

For Lisa, animals are a huge part of her life as she shares her home with a variety of dogs, cats, and chickens. So it’s not unexpected that animals are involved in this story. The challenge came with Lisa having to deal head-on with Nelson’s alpha-male protagonist, and Nelson having to work firsthand with an alpha-female hero.

Right off, they both agreed to help the other get the opposite sex right.

How this story was physically produced could be a tale in and of itself. By his own admission Nelson writes all his novels in longhand, on a yellow legal pad with a number one pencil. Lisa utilizes modern technology with a word processor. But though their techniques differ, their skills as writers are similar and the result is an entertaining and humorous encounter between two people who could not be more different.

The title itself is even prophetic.

Getaway.

GETAWAY

JOHN COREY, FORMER NYPD HOMICIDE detective, and former Federal Anti-Terrorist Task Force agent, sat in an Adirondack chair with his fingers wrapped around a glass of Dewar’s, contemplating the possible end of his third career—with the Diplomatic Surveillance Group—and his second marriage. Was it possible, he wondered, that his career and marital problems were of his own making? No. Shit just happens. He took a sip of scotch and stared into the gathering twilight toward Lake Whackamole. That wasn’t the name of the lake, he knew, but it was some gibberish Indian name. P.C. correction. Some melodious Native American name.

Whackyweed?

No, that’s marijuana.

Anyway, it was a lake. A small one in upstate New York, in the middle of nowhere, and the closest town was Nowheresville, about forty miles away.

It had taken him nearly ten hours from Manhattan to get to this godforsaken place in what was called the North Country, sometimes called God’s Country, and he wondered why he was there. He was a city boy and nature made him nervous. So maybe this wasn’t a good place to relax. It sounded good in theory but he should have known better. He sipped more scotch. The familiar smell and taste of it made him relax, even before the alcohol hit his brain.

He looked again at the darkly mirrored lake and the woods around it. He could make out a few other cabins set back from the opposite shore but they were dark. The only lit one, aside from his own, was the one he could see through the trees about two hundred yards to his left. He wondered who his neighbor might be. With any luck, he’d never find out. But maybe it was a hot babe on the lam from city problems, as he was. Or maybe it was a local girl, single or divorced, no kids, great cook, and looking for a drinking buddy.

And she drank scotch.

Most likely, though, it was some backwoods Deliverance psycho who had a collection of chain saws that he wanted to show his new neighbor.

Dick Kearns, Corey’s former police buddy who’d loaned the cabin, had assured him that no one would be at the lake in late October, and if anyone was, they’d keep to themselves.

Good.

So he sat back and stared at the trees.

There were a lot of them. More than in Central Park. In fact, he was actually in a park—Adirondack State Park, a sparsely populated stretch of land bigger than Vermont—and much of it was designated as Forever Wild, meaning he’d have a hard time finding a pub.

He’d been in this neck of the woods a few years before on a case involving a guy named Bain Madox who owned a lodge called the Custer Hill Club. Madox was a billionaire nut job who tried to start a nuclear war with the world of Islam, and the Custer Hill Club was his secret headquarters. In fact, this nearly uninhabited land seemed to be visited by a number of weirdos and bad guys—survivalists, antigovernment wing nuts, mobsters, Irish Republican Army guys in the old days, and more recently Islamic extremists who needed to test their weapons in private. The FBI and the Anti-Terrorist Task Force, as well as the State Police and park rangers, had long taken a special interest in the Adirondack State Park.

On a happier note, the aforementioned unwelcome park visitors were relatively rare and kept an understandably low profile, and he didn’t expect to bump into any of them while he was here. It was more likely that he’d run into a bear. He hated bears. And with good reason. Bears were dangerous. They ate people.

He saw something moving in the brush near the lake, about two hundred feet from his deck. He focused on the spot, but it was getting darker and he couldn’t see anything. It may have just been a breeze off the lake stirring the brush.

Or it could have been a deer.

Or a bear.

He’d left his 9 mm Glock in the cabin, a stupid thing to do when you’re alone in the wilderness. He’d looked death in the eye more than once, and feared no man. But he did have two fears—nuclear weapons, which was rational based on a few of his cases, and bears, which he knew was not totally rational.

He kept staring at the brush, thinking about going inside for the Glock. But he was comfortable in the deep chair, and the scotch made him lazy.

It was mid-October and the trees were already shedding here in the North Country. And it was chilly. He took another sip of scotch. This place was okay in the summer, but after Labor Day most of the tourists and fishermen were gone and the North Country became eerily deserted until ski season began. So even if this wasn’t a good place to relax, it was a good place to disappear for a while. His last case, on his new job with the Diplomatic Surveillance Group, had left him in career limbo, known officially as administrative leave.

He thought back to that case.

He’d been on a routine surveillance of a Russian UN diplomat, Colonel Vasily Petrov, who was actually an SVR intelligence officer and a dangerous man. But the routine surveillance had turned into something that was anything but routine. More politically sensitive. Long story short, he’d broken some rules—or, to be more positive, he’d shown extraordinary initiative—and gotten himself into major trouble.

As usual.

But he’d brought the case to a successful conclusion.

As usual.

So while Washington was trying to decide if he should get a commendation or a pink slip, he was told to stay home and keep his mouth shut.

Feds were such assholes.

On top of all this, his FBI wife, Supervisory Special Agent Kate Mayfield, had accepted a transfer to D.C., and they were now what was called estranged.

Meaning what?

Barely speaking and definitely not fucking.

And to further complicate his life he was involved with a young lady named Tess Faraday who’d been assigned to him as a DSG trainee. Turned out she was an undercover State Department intelligence officer, tasked with keeping an eye on him.

Life was full of surprises.

Some pleasant, some not.

Bottom line, he needed a break from his professional and personal problems and Dick had offered him a cabin on Lake Whatchamacallit. No one will bother you there. No one can find you and, best of all, cell-phone service is pretty bad. That’s what his friend had said. To complete the isolation Dick had no landline phone in the cabin or Internet service. He was reachable, as per the requirements of his admin leave. But how do you know if you’re reachable before you get to where you’re not?

Right?

Anyway, it was good to get away. All he had to do now was figure out what to do with his time. The problem with doing nothing, as he always said, is not knowing when you’re finished.

He yawned and finished his scotch, which had found its way to his brain. Dick had a few fishing poles in the cabin so tomorrow he’d go fishing. And the next day, too. He wasn’t sure what to do with a fish if he caught it. Shoot it? Maybe he’d also take a hike in the woods. Could a 9 mm Glock drop a bear?

He heard more rustling in the undergrowth, coming from the trees to his left. He sat up, listening hard. It was deathly quiet here except for the birds, and sound traveled far in the cool air. He heard the sound again and focused on the nearby tree line. Something was there and he could hear it moving. He assumed it was a deer, foraging for leaves at dusk.

A flock of birds rose from the trees and flew off.

He laid his glass on the flat armrest of the Adirondack chair and stood.

The sound got closer.

Fight or flight?

If he was a bird, he would have taken flight. But he wasn’t, so he took a step toward the edge of the deck. Then, remembering that his gun lay on the kitchen table, he retreated back toward the door. It was not inconceivable that someone had been sent here to whack him. He had lots of enemies. Russians, Islamic terrorists, and criminals he’d sent to jail, not to mention the CIA who had actually tried to kill him in Yemen. But none of those potential assassins were stupid enough to make that much noise.

He relaxed.

It had to be a deer.

He stood focused on the tree line that ended about twenty feet from the cabin, expecting to see an animal emerge from the woods.

But it wasn’t a deer that charged out of the tree line and ran directly toward him.

BENNIE ROSATO HELD HER CELL phone to her ear, becoming angrier by the minute. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing, though she only caught every fourth word because the cell reception was terrible. She had driven all the way up to this lake to spend a romantic weekend with her boyfriend, Declan, who was on depositions in Pittsburgh. He was supposed to meet her here tonight but was canceling on her.

And she wasn’t hearing near enough of a good enough excuse.

“Bennie, I’m sorry. But it can’t be helped,” he was saying.

“What can’t be helped? What are you talking about? I’m here alone in this stupid cabin.”

“You know how depositions go. You’re a lawyer, too. There’s just too much material to cover in one day. We couldn’t get it done.”

“It’s the weekend. Do it Monday.”

“I can’t. The witness has to go back on Monday and they’re refusing to produce him. I think it’s going to take both Saturday and Sunday. I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you.”

She should’ve guessed that this would all go south. Declan had placed the winning bid on the Woodsy Weekend Getaway at the silent auction to benefit the Equal Justice Center at the University of Pennsylvania Law School, her alma mater. She’d said they should just write a check. But no, Declan thought they should get something for their money.

She should’ve known better.

Those silent auction items were a scam. You didn’t “win” if you had to pay, plus they were always for vacations she didn’t have time to take and to places she didn’t want to go. They were always in the off-season, like now. A chilly October night by a lake in the middle of nowhere. God’s Country, the auction catalog had said. No, godforsaken.

With mosquitoes and probably bears.

Maybe even wolves.

She plopped onto the old plaid couch, which smelled of mildew. Everything up here smelled horrible.

“I have to go,” he said. “I’m really sorry.”

“What am I supposed to do now?” she demanded, and even she didn’t like her tone.

She was never one of those women who nagged, until she was. She had so much work to do back in Philly, a caseload that would keep two associates busy, and an entire law firm to run. Plus she’d been counting on vacation sex, and lots of it. After all, a girl had needs.

“You should just take the weekend. Enjoy yourself.”

“How can I enjoy myself? I didn’t bring any work.”

He chuckled. “That’s the point. Don’t work. Enjoy yourself.”

“I didn’t even bring a book.”

“So download one.”

“There’s no Internet. There’s almost no cell reception. There’s not even a telephone, a television, or a radio.” She couldn’t remember the last time she’d listened to the radio, but still. “It’s hell on earth. With bears.”

“Did you see a bear?” His tone turned serious. “Are there bears?”

“Probably. I bet the bears get lousy reception, too.”

“But it looks beautiful in the pictures. Is it beautiful?”

“It’s dark.” She threw up her hands, resigned. “I should just go home.”

“I think you should stay and relax.”

“The only place I feel relaxed is a courtroom.”

“Really?”

“Have we met?”

He paused. “Maybe you need to think about that, babe.”

“Oh, I do?” she shot back, then, on impulse, hung up the call and tossed the phone on the couch. She’d be damned if she’d be lectured by the man who was standing her up.

This sucked, there were no two ways about it.

She and Declan were crazy about each other, but the problem was their schedules, and the lives of two trial lawyers didn’t leave time for much frolic and detour.

She folded her arms, fuming. Then glanced at the phone, waiting for Declan to call back. If he did, she’d hang up on him again. She certainly did not need him telling her that she needed to relax, work less, and not stress. She’d heard it all before, and he was just as much of a workaholic as she was. Maybe not quite as much, but still, he worked hard too. And they both owned their own law firms, so he was no more mellow than she was.

Maybe a little.

She glanced at the phone but it didn’t ring, and she found her gaze flitting restlessly around the room. There was a living room/kitchen combination with mismatched plaid furniture and a battered coffee table that held an old book of crossword puzzles, but otherwise no reading matter. The wood floors looked splintery, and the walls were paneled with grooved knotty pine, like somebody’s basement from the 1960s. The kitchen cabinets had been painted pukey yellow, and the kitchen was stocked with only the barest essentials. She’d arrived in the daytime and sat on the back deck, sipping a Diet Coke, enjoying the scenery and waiting for Declan’s call announcing his imminent arrival. Now, as the sunlight faded, the cabin and the woods began to feel sinister.

She glanced again at the silent phone.

Maybe he couldn’t get a call through. She thought about calling him back, but decided against it. He should call her back, if anybody should call anybody. She stewed, arms still folded. It wasn’t that she didn’t know how to relax. It was just that if she were going to take the weekend off, she wanted to have fun.

She stood and walked to the sliders that faced the deck to lock up for the night. She glanced outside and noticed lights in the cabin through the woods to her right. So at least there was one other person in the world. She wondered who else was stupid enough to come here. Probably another silent auction winner.

Then suddenly, she realized she’d forgotten something.

Her dog, Max, was gone.

IT WAS HARD TO SEE in the dark, but Corey was certain it was a ravenous wolf running toward him. Or his wife’s lawyer with a subpoena. Hard to tell the difference—even in broad daylight. Actually, it was a dog, specifically a golden retriever who scampered onto the deck, his bushy tail wagging frantically, his wet nose to the deck as if he’d gotten the scent of some animal.

Maybe a bear.

He felt a bit silly for thinking a wild animal or an assassin had been stalking him. But better to imagine the worst than to experience it. A little paranoia is a good thing. Keeps you from relaxing too much.

Keeps you alive.

He dropped to one knee and called out, “Come here, buddy.”

The retriever trotted over, his pink tongue lolling out of a broad smile. The dog was panting heavily, obviously overexerted, and the next thing he knew the dog stuck his muzzle between Corey’s knees, slobbering all over his baggy cargo pants.

He buried his fingers in the dog’s thick scruff, warm with sweat. “You chasing rabbits?”

A bark answered.

“You need a drink?”

More barking.

“Dewar’s and water?” He thought the retriever’s ears perked up, so he commanded, “Sit.”

The retriever instantly plopped his butt on the deck, his tail still wagging like a windshield wiper.

“Good dog.”

He wouldn’t have minded the companionship for the week, but he guessed that the obedient retriever belonged to somebody. He felt around the dog’s neck, finding a collar. He took his cell phone from his pocket, navigated to flashlight function and shined it on the nylon collar, locating the tag, which he read.

“Max.”

The dog barked in recognition.

“Last name?”

Nothing.

“Date of birth?”

A curious look.

“Any prior arrests?”

More silence.

“Don’t lie to me, Max.”

The dog barked.

So it had come to this.

Talking to a dog.

He looked closely at the tag and saw the owner’s name. Bennie Rosato. There was no address, but there was a phone number with a 215 area code, which was Philadelphia. The dog certainly had not walked here from Philly, so the owner had to be in the area.

He sat cross-legged on the deck, looking into Max’s big liquid eyes. The dog stared back as if to say, You’re a nice human, but I’m lost and looking for my owner.

He punched Bennie Rosato’s number into his phone and petted the dog while it rang in his ear. There was static on the line, which meant that cell reception was weak. The call went to voice mail and a default computer voice said, “You have reached the cell phone of Bennie Rosato. Please leave a message at the beep.”

He waited for the signal, then said, “Mister Rosato, my name is John Corey and I think I found your golden retriever, Max, at Lake Wha . . . the lake. He’s safe and sound. Call me at this number.”

He hung up and said to Max, “That should do it.”

It was possible that Max would run off again. Then when Mr. Rosato called, he’d have to say, Sorry, pal, your dog skipped out. So he went inside the cabin and found a ball of twine in a junk drawer. He returned to the deck and tied the twine around Max’s collar and started to tie it to the rail. Then he had another thought.

“Maybe you could find your owner. You’re a retriever. Right?”

A bark seemed to agree with the observation.

“Okay, let’s take a walk while we’re waiting for the phone call.”

With Max at the end of the makeshift leash, he stepped from the deck and allowed the dog to lead him toward the lake. Then they turned left toward the other lit cabin a few hundred yards away. The shoreline was rocky and strewn with glacial boulders, and Max seemed easily distracted by any scent that he picked up, so they weren’t making much progress.

“Not much of a bloodhound, are you?”

Max seemed insulted.

“Sorry.”

He started to realize this was not a good idea. The dog was more interested in nature than in finding his owner, plus it was getting dark and cold and he was wearing only a sweatshirt. Also, he’d left his Glock on the kitchen table. Max was pulling at the leash, trying to ferret out something between two boulders.

“We’re going back,” he said.

But Max had become disobedient and pulled at his twine leash, which might snap.

“Come on. I’ll find you a dead squirrel for dinner.”

But Max wasn’t listening and he found himself out in the cold, dark night, unarmed and alone except for a hyper dog. This was how small bad decisions lead to big bad consequences. He pictured the headline in the New York Post.

“Bear Eats Fed.”

His instinct was to let the animal go and head back to his cabin. But he’d called Rosato, so he at least had to keep Max with him. The dog was lapping water from the lake, then he raised his hind leg and pissed.

He noticed that Max was now looking up the slope at the lighted cabin in the distance. “Is that where you live, boy? Where’s Bennie, Max? Let’s go find Bennie.”

The dog barked and began trotting along the shore toward the cabin.

“Good boy. Go to Bennie.”

Max tugged at his leash and Corey trotted along behind him toward the lit cabin.

He redialed Rosato’s number as he walked, but it went to voice mail again and he ended the call without leaving another message.

It was getting colder, and he was tired from the long drive, and he was feeling naked without his gun.

A thought popped into his head.

No good deed goes unpunished.

“MAX,” BENNIE CALLED OUT, AS she tore through the woods, frantic.

She waved her flashlight back and forth but didn’t see him in the thick brush. Max had been with her on the back deck, but she’d forgotten about him when Declan had called.

Tree branches tore at her bare skin since she was clad only in a T-shirt, shorts, and sandals. A wave of guilt washed over her and she was afraid for Max’s life. She’d only had the golden retriever a few months, but she loved him and so did Declan. They’d rescued him together, and she couldn’t lose him up here in the middle of nowhere.

“Max.”

But heard no barking or panting anywhere.

The woods surrounding her were dense, dark, and cold, and she kept her hands out in front, clearing the branches with her hands. She wondered if Max had gone to the other house, the only lighted one on the lake, so she headed toward it in the distance. She kept going, threading her way through the pines and fall foliage. She felt her forearms getting scratched and cut, and she almost tripped on some tree roots, but she kept going, deeper and deeper. The lights of the cabin slowly became brighter and bigger, and she knew she was getting closer.

She called the dog’s name again and again, feeling tears come to her eyes. Anything could happen to him in these woods. Max was just a goofball, like most golden retrievers. They trusted everybody and loved everything. Plus he was a city dog and he had no idea what was going on in the country. She’d had him on a leash earlier because he’d been so distracted by all the different smells, and he’d gone nuts when he’d seen a squirrel.

She tripped, almost falling to the ground, which was when she realized something. The light was closer but she didn’t see the lake anymore. Somehow, when she’d teared up, she’d become turned around in the woods, drifting away from the lake, which was a mistake.

She whirled around in the darkness, casting the jittery cone of light around her in a circle. Which only confirmed her fear. The lake was nowhere in sight and she was surrounded on all sides by woods. If she wasn’t headed toward the lighted lake house anymore, where was she going? But there were lights ahead, and maybe Max was there.

She took a few steps through the trees, heading toward whatever lights they were, but something made her slow her step and proceed with caution. She found herself lowering the flashlight, then switching it off, because whatever she had reached in the middle of nowhere was putting out a lot of electricity.

But it wasn’t a house at all.

She remained motionless, peering out at the scene from behind a tree. The light was coming from a pole-mounted floodlight, which cast a harsh brightness on a clearing. All the trees had been cut down and the land leveled around a large modular building, like a windowless storage shed, but the strangest thing was that the building was covered with camouflage netting. A black pickup was parked outside the shed, and she thought it was running, but then she realized she was hearing the hum of a generator.

She’d been a criminal lawyer long enough to know when she was seeing trouble. The shed was in the middle of a thick forest, it had its own generator, and was camouflaged. She wondered if this was drug related, a meth lab, or maybe stolen goods. It was some kind of clandestine operation, and for a moment she wasn’t sure what to do. She didn’t want to call 911 until she was safely out of the area. And she didn’t want to get out of the area until she was sure Max wasn’t near the building.

Or inside it.

She ducked down as the woods were suddenly swept with bright high beams, and she watched as another black pickup pulled into view from a dirt road on the other side of the camouflaged shed. She realized she was wearing a white T-shirt and flattened herself on the ground so she wouldn’t be easy to spot.

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.”

“Other than from watching Homeland, would you know what Arabic sounded like?”

“I think so. And don’t forget the camouflage netting.”

“Right. What were these guys wearing?”

“Black pants and dark jackets.”

“Beards?”

“No.”

“Age?”

“Young.”

“Describe the crate.”

“Long and narrow.”

“Heavy?”

“Both men had to carry it.”

“Were there other crates in the truck?”

“I don’t know.”

“How big was this shed?”

“Are you taking my deposition?” She set down her water. “This is crazy. Let’s just go to the police.”

“I think I have enough for us to file a report.” Then he let her know, “You’re a good witness.”

“I grill witnesses for a living.”

“Me too.”

“So we have that in common.”

“That makes it a date.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“It’s datelike.”

“Whatever that means.”

She smiled, and he found himself admiring her crossed legs.

“You a runner?” he asked.

“Rower.” She headed for the door. “If we’re not coming back here, I need to get Max.”

He stood. “I’ll get my stuff. We’ll drive to your place, collect your dog, and you’ll follow me in your car. There’s a State Police barracks in Ray Brook, about an hour from here. I worked with those guys once. They’re good.”

“We should try to call them from the car. They can meet us halfway. I don’t want these men to get away.”

“They’re already gone.”

She frowned, disappointed. “What makes you say that?”

“Bitter experience. Are you willing to go with the State Police and try to find this place?”

“If you come with me.”

He figured it was that life-or-death exception, striking again. “You’ll need better hiking clothes.”

“Look who’s talking.”

He smiled again. He liked her. “So are you enjoying your Woodsy Weekend Getaway?”

“No. Are you?”

“Actually, I am.”

“You weren’t chased by terrorists.”

“There’s still hope.”

“Mister Macho.”

“My middle name. Let’s move out.”

He grabbed his small duffel bag, and she shut off the lights, then they went out to his Jeep Cherokee. She got into the passenger seat as he set his bag in the back, opened it, took out four loaded magazines, and shoved them into his cargo pockets. He slammed the hatch shut and jumped behind the wheel, starting the engine and engaging the four-wheel drive. He used only his parking lights to navigate the dirt driveway. His driveway ended and he turned onto the one-lane gravel road that connected the cabins around the lake.

“Did you cross this road when you were lost?” he asked her.

“I think so. Why?”

“I’m trying to determine where this place was that you saw.”

“I think I did cross this road.”

“Did it occur to you that you were heading uphill, away from the lake and away from my cabin?”

“I was upset about Max. I was just following the lights.”

“Follow your senses.”

“You forgot your gun.”

“Your dog distracted me.”

“Again with the dog blaming.”

He liked women who didn’t take his crap. That was why he’d liked Robin, his first wife, and Kate, his future ex-wife. But maybe he should lay off lady lawyers for a while. “Do you think you could find this place again?”

“Maybe. Maybe they can find us. You should go faster.”

“We’re almost there.”

He looked at the thick forest that hugged the narrow road and listened to the sound of the tires crunching over the gravel. He saw the lights of her cabin off to his right and slowed down.

She said, “The driveway is between those big pines.”

He found the entrance and turned into it. The dirt drive continued downhill for a few hundred feet into the clearing around her cabin and he stopped the Jeep behind her BMW.

He shut off the engine. “I’ll check it out, just in case. Stay here.”

“Are you serious?”

She opened her door, climbed out, and headed around to the back deck.

He followed and said to her, “Stand back.” Inside he saw Max, still on the couch, looking at him. He didn’t think he needed to draw his gun, so he slid the door open with Bennie right behind him. Max jumped off the couch and ran directly to Bennie.

He locked the sliders as a standard precaution, then said, “I’ll go upstairs and get your bag. You haven’t unpacked anything, right?”

She shook her head. “I’ll get my purse and some stuff in the cabinets.” Then she did a double take. “How do you know where my bag is or that it’s still packed?”

“I was searching for clues.”

“To what? And where’s the probable cause?”

He grinned. “It’s not like I went looking for undies.”

Max was wagging his tail at a bag of dog food on the counter. He felt his own stomach rumbling. “Did you bring any people food?”

“There’s yogurt in the fridge. Help yourself.”

“I’d rather eat the dog food.”

She grabbed Max by the collar. “Let me get him in the car before he runs away again.” She left with the dog through the sliders, leaving them open, and he headed upstairs, lifted her small suitcase off the bed, then returned downstairs.

Two men in ski masks held Bennie at gunpoint in the living room.

“Put your hands up,” one said to him.

He stood looking at the two men.

The taller man was pointing a Glock at him, holding it in a two-hand grip. The other guy had his gun at the port arms position, his head and eyes darting around the room.

They were professionals.

But professional what?

They both wore black pants, black running shoes, dark, quilted jackets, and gloves. Along with black ski masks. So he couldn’t tell their ages or their ethnic origins or read their faces. But he had the impression that they were both young. He didn’t know if they were drug dealers, mobsters, terrorists, or some other variety of assholes, but he’d find out soon enough.

Or maybe not.

“Hands up,” one of them ordered.

He knew from experience that if these guys wanted him dead, they’d have just blasted away and left. So they wanted something else. Not that this meant they wouldn’t kill him later.

“Hands up, asshole. Now.”

He didn’t detect an accent, and he noted the proper grammatical use of the word asshole, so they weren’t from Sandland. But they could be homegrown extremists, or whatever Washington was calling them this week. “What do I do with this overnight bag?”

“Shove it up your ass.”

Not a bad idea. That’s where his gun was. Near his ass.

The shorter guy yelled, “Put it down.”

He crouched and placed the bag on the floor.

The taller guy, who seemed in charge, said to Corey, “Stay down. Hands on your head.”

He remained in the crouched position and placed his hands on his head. The couch, which sat in the middle of the floor, was to his right. He could dive behind it as he drew his own Glock and get off two rounds.

The smaller guy asked, “You got a gun?”

He shook his head. His mind raced. Dive behind the couch, pop up, and fire? Or maybe shoulder roll left, draw, and fire? Or just draw and fire? The big guy was taking no chances, keeping his head and eyes locked, holding his gun in a steady two-hand grip.

“Get down. Face on the floor. Hands behind your back.”

He lay facedown on the floor, otherwise known as the prone firing position. This could work. As his right hand moved behind his back, the smaller guy kicked his hand away, and quickly snatched the Glock from his holster.

Close, but no cigar.

He replayed the last five minutes in his mind. “You guys on the job?”

The small guy asked, “Who the hell are you?”

“John Corey, NYPD, retired.”

“Yeah, and I’m Billy the Kid.”

“Really? I thought you were dead.”

The big guy produced a pair of handcuffs and cuffed Bennie’s hands behind her back. “Cuff him. I’ll cover.”

He felt the cuffs snap shut around his wrists.

So that’s what it feels like.

The big guy said, “Stand up. Both of you on the couch.”

He came to his feet and made eye contact with Bennie. “It’s okay.”

“No, it isn’t,” she shot back, tense. The bigger guy directed her to one end of the couch and the small guy holstered his Glock and pushed Corey onto the other end.

He turned to the men. “I really am John Corey.”

The two men exchanged glances. The smaller guy asked, “You got ID?”

“In my jacket. Right-side pocket.”

The guy plucked the cred case from his pocket, opened and looked at it. He passed the creds to the other guy who also studied it.

Just then, the big guy’s cell phone chimed and he glanced at it. He said to the other guy, “BMW is registered to a Benedetta Rosato, Philadelphia.” He looked at Bennie. “That you?”

She nodded.

The big guy continued, “Jeep belongs to John Corey.”

“Until my wife gets it in court.”

Both men looked at Corey, and the bigger man said, “Holy shit, you’re the John Corey.”

Bennie looked at the two men, then at Corey. He imagined what she was thinking. The menfolk were measuring their egos. But women knew that size there didn’t matter. In fact, with respect to egos, every woman preferred the inverse relationship.

The bigger guy asked, “What are you doing here?”

“Relaxing.”

Both men laughed.

So he asked them, “Who you working for?”

The big guy replied, “ATTF. Out of Albany.”

“FBI?”

“Don’t insult us.”

He smiled. “PD?”

“SP.”

Bennie frowned. “What the hell are you guys talking about?”

He explained, “These gentlemen are New York State Police, working with the Federal Anti-Terrorist Task Force.”

The big guy said to Bennie, “Sorry if we frightened you, Ms. Rosato. We didn’t know who you were.”

“I’m a lawyer. I prosecute excessive-force cases, among other things.”

“You shouldn’t have said that,” Corey noted. “Now they’ll kill us.”

The two guys laughed again.

She jangled her handcuffs. “Take these off, please. Along with those masks.”

Both men removed their ski masks. Corey looked at their faces. The bigger guy was about thirty and sort of Irish-looking. The smaller guy was younger and looked maybe Hispanic or Mediterranean.

Bennie stood with her back to them and the big guy unlocked her cuffs. The smaller guy uncuffed Corey.

The big guy said, “I’m Kevin.” He put out his hand to Corey and they shook. “This is an honor.’

Bennie rubbed her wrists. “And to think, I actually shook John Corey’s hand.”

The other guy returned Corey’s credentials and handed him his Glock, butt first, and Corey slid it back into his holster, telling him, “You’re good.”

The man introduced himself and said, “I’m Ahmed, the token Arab. I know, I looked better with the ski mask.”

Cops had a wonderfully warped sense of humor.

“Officers, aren’t you supposed to identify yourselves when confronting civilians?” Bennie asked, staying on lawyer mode.

Kevin replied, “We’re deep undercover.”

Bennie said, “You should have run our plates earlier.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Kevin said. “But we thought we had a situation of hot pursuit. Your friend here is a legend. Detective Corey was one of the best and most successful and respected agents in the Anti-Terrorist Task Force.”

She glanced at Corey with a smile. “So he’s smarter than he looks?”

“Bingo.”

He recalculated his odds of getting laid, which remained slim to none.

“We’re all still talking about that case you had up here with that nut job at the Custer Hill Club,” Kevin said.

“Just another day of preventing nuclear Armageddon.”

Ahmed and Kevin laughed.

Then he said to Bennie, “Forget you heard that.”

She rolled her eyes.

Kevin asked, “Didn’t you work for the DSG for a while?”

“Still with them.” He added, “On leave.”

Kevin let him know, “You came to the right place to relax. Great fishing. And it’s bow season now.”

“Can’t wait to get mine out.”

“So, Officers, can you fill us in on what’s going on?” Bennie asked.

Kevin and Ahmed exchanged glances, then Ahmed said, “We were setting up a training facility in the woods. That’s all I can say. Please keep this to yourself—in the interest of national security.”

She gestured to Corey. “But do me a favor, Ahmed. Please tell the Legend here that it was Arabic I heard.”

Before Ahmed could reply, Kevin said something in what Corey recognized as Arabic.

Funny, coming from an Irishman.

Kevin said, “I’m learning the language. It’s just a training exercise. There are no terrorists in the woods. You can relax.”

Corey didn’t think he was getting the whole truth, and there was no reason why he should. But if he had to guess, this was more of a sting operation than a training exercise. In a week, or a month, or a year, there would be terrorists at that site, lured there by Ahmed or other Arab-Americans on the Task Force. He had a sudden nostalgia for the ATTF. He disliked the bureaucracy, the political correctness, and working with the FBI, but he missed the excitement. And the satisfaction of doing something important for the country.

But that train had left the station.

Bennie said to Kevin and Ahmed, “Well, thank you, Officers. But even if I’m safe, I’m going back to Philly tonight.”

Kevin assured her, “You’re safer here than in Philadelphia.”

Which was true.

Thousands of people died in Philly every year from boredom. But Corey kept that wisecrack to himself.

Kevin and Ahmed said good night and left.

He gestured to the sliders. “If you’d locked them when you got back in the house, we wouldn’t have been terrorized by terrorists.”

“They weren’t terrorists.”

“But they were terrifying.”

She smiled. “And apparently you’re a big deal.”

“No apparently about it.”

“I like a modest man.”

“Some men have a lot to be modest about. I don’t.” He looked at his watch. “You’re really going back tonight?”

“I wouldn’t sleep tonight anyway, after all that.” He sensed that they’d reached their good-byes sooner than either of them had wanted. He thought about offering to stay in touch, exchanging numbers and e-mails but decided to only stick out his hand, which she shook.

“Thank you,” she said. “And I’m seeing someone.”

“Figures. Nice meeting you, and have a good trip back to Philly. Tell Max I said good-bye.”

“Will do.”

“And lock the door after I leave.”

“Will do that, too.”

“Good night, Benedetta.”

He left the cabin.

He wished they could’ve gotten to know each other better, and he thought she felt the same way. He liked strong women, and she was one of the strongest yet.

They’d have made a good match.

He climbed into his Jeep and drove away.

Not a total loss, though.

He had her cell-phone number in his phone and she had his. So maybe one day he’d get a call or a text.

Or maybe someday he’d need a Philadelphia lawyer.

But, if not, they’d always have Lake Whatever.