“If we’re going to do this,” Lamar said, “the best way is by water…”

Ron Holbrooke was strangling her…

Dark eyes, half-hid by the glare on his wire-frame glasses, and a bristly white mustache…

“I don’t know how you can drink that in this heat,” Devin mused…

Lamar’s Rio slid into the lot of a dive on the edge of town, some three or four miles up Sixty-one…

The stranger thrust them on in short strokes, stabbing the creek with his paddle like a heron spearing fish…

It was nearing five o’clock and the breeze, muted here beneath the pines, carried the smell of the marsh…