Getaway

by Nelson DeMille

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 o
ut 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-Terro
rist 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.”