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.