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.