Dust Up: A Thriller by Jon McGoran Page A

story, actually. But I’ll have to tell you some other time.”

 
    30
    Two and a half hours later, we were over the Everglades. The ocean extended to the west as far as I could see. To the east, just as far, were crazy patterns of land and water.
    “Time to buckle up,” Sable said. “We’ll be landing soon.” As I did, he added, “It’s not an international flight, so it’s no big deal, but we’re trying to keep a low profile, so we’ll be getting off a little early.”
    An image of parachutes flashed through my brain, but I kept my reaction to a single raised eyebrow.
    He shook his head. “Nothing dramatic. Charlie’s going to pause as he’s turning at the end of the runway. That’s when we get off. We’ll have to hustle. There’s a car waiting for us.”
    A tiny airport came up at us quick. Beyond it was a tiny town, just a few blocks wide and a mile or two long.
    “Everglades City,” Sable announced.
    I cocked an eyebrow. “Home of the square grouper?” In the seventies and eighties, Everglades City was notorious for the bales of marijuana—nicknamed square grouper—that smugglers would dump in the surrounding waters for locals to retrieve and deliver.
    He smiled. “That was a long time ago. Just a small town with an airfield now.”
    The tires touched down for a smooth landing, then the reverse thrust pushed us against our seat belts.
    “You guys ready?” Charlie called over his shoulder as we passed the airport buildings.
    Sable called back, “Good to go.”
    We slowed as we approached the end of the runway and in mid-turn, the plane stopped altogether.
    Charlie said, “Go!”
    Sable pushed the hatch, and it swung down toward the tarmac, the steps opening out. We hustled down, the air moist and thick around us. As soon as we were on the ground, Sable closed the hatch, and the engines revved again. As the plane continued its turn, we ran, staying low, across the tarmac and the scrubby grass that surrounded it, toward a fence that ended at the water’s edge fifty yards away. We swung around the end of the fence, over the water, and found ourselves in a small field. In the middle of it was a nondescript silver sedan.
    Sable got in behind the wheel as I got in the other side, and we drove off, not too fast. A gravel road took us onto a small paved road, then we turned onto an avenue with palm trees arcing up out of a broad green median divider.
    “Charlie’s getting the plane fueled up,” Sable said. “He’ll pick you up in an hour and a half to take you back to Philly.”
    “You’re staying?”
    Sable shook his head. “No, I’ll be getting the Helio ready to get Ms. Hartwell the hell out of here.”
    I assumed he meant a helicopter. “Where?”
    He shook his head. “Not my place to tell you. But she seems to trust you, so you can ask her yourself.”
    We were approaching the middle of town, a courthouse and a church surrounding a small traffic circle with some kind of small communications tower in the middle. To my right and left, I could see the edges of town.
    “How long does it take to get the plane ready?”
    “Just a few minutes.” As we rounded the circle, he pointed down a cross street at a squat, Spanish-looking building with a sign out front: TASTE OF THE EVERGLADES . “After that, he’ll be in there fueling himself up on conch fritters and cold beer.”
    We turned right, into a curved parking lot sandwiched between a U-shaped motel and a standalone central office. A red and white sign said EVERGLADES CITY MOTEL . The place looked neat and almost humble. The office had a small glass vestibule with a simple door on either side, but right between them was an incongruously extravagant concrete fountain, looking totally out of place. Still, it was a lot nicer than the Liberty Motel.
    Sable stopped the car and handed me a key. “Room seventeen.”
    I looked down at it. It had a number seventeen on it. “Okay. Thanks, I guess.”
    He nodded and put out his hand.
    We shook,