The hotel was as good a place as any to lay low. Set far enough into the cypress swamps it existed where GPS maps drop off. It was just me, a meager staff, the gators and a big bag of money.
“Mr. Drake?” The words followed a knock at the door. “A Mr. Lane arrived. He asked about you.”
Perfect. The one person I didn’t want to find me -- does.
“Thanks June, tell him to meet me by the dock. I’ll be right down.”
Lane is a born hunter, a bull shark that swims with goldfish. There are only two problems with that; I’m not a goldfish and this is my pond.
I watch through my window, seeing the man in the linen suit and white fedora meander closer to the brackish water’s edge. If I breathe in deep I can smell the North Country. He’s out of his element.
He wants his cut, and for his sins, he’s about to get it. The gators love the perfume of blood.
Rather than grab a pile of bills I put a pair of pennies in my pocket. Someone has to pay the ferryman.
After all, it’s the least I could do.