Dead Harvest

  So if everything was roses, why'd I need the heater? Because like I said, every time it was the same. Make the swap, bring the papers to Dumas. Always a spot of his choosing, always far from prying eyes. The only difference was, this time he was gonna get a little lead along with his envelope.

  I wasn't happy with the thought of it, but I'd gone over it a thousand times, and every time, the outcome was the same. Elizabeth's program ended in just under a week, but she'd been off the drugs for days – the docs just wanted to keep an eye on her, make sure she didn't relapse. Once she was out, Dumas and I were done, at least to my mind. But when I'd broached the topic to him, he just laughed and shook his head. "Hate to have you get her home all healthy, just to have her take a nasty spill," he'd say, eyes dancing with mischief all the while. Always friendly, jovial – like he thought that it was cute. But I meant to get out, and if he didn't mean to let me, then I was gonna have to find another way.

  The Custom House was an imposing Federal structure, six stories of cold granite overlooking Battery Park, and New York Harbor beyond. I set fire to a cigarette and made my way to the service entrance. Three cigarettes' wait, and the exchange went off without a hitch. My hands trembled with anticipation as I handed over the envelope, but if my contact noticed it, he didn't let on. The envelope he handed me, I folded, and stuffed into my pocket. For maybe the hundredth time, I thought myself a fool for going through with the swap, when I could've just taken the money and used it to help us disappear once the deed was done. But even if I could stomach taking it, the people it belonged to weren't likely to let its disappearance slide, and that'd result in a whole lot of the wrong kind of attention for me. No, it was best for me if they thought the hit and this transaction had nothing to do with one another. If that meant Elizabeth and I fled broke, then that was just how it had to be.