[Sean O'Brien 03.0] The Butterfly Forest

by Tom Lowe

  Palmer spotted a large oak, far from the closest tree line. It towered over the other oaks. Within a few minutes he was at its base, wild azaleas blooming all around it. “Hey tree, where’s the trunk?” he grinned and mumbled to the tree. “Tree…trunk.”

  He used a steel rod with a T handle to prod beneath the soil. When he felt something that could be a trunk, he’d stop and dig. Nothing. Nothing but ants, roots or rocks. Karpis had described the box as heavy, solid metal, like the reinforced steel from a trunk. Air tight. Palmer thought about that as his prod hit something. Root? No, too hard. Rock? Maybe.

  He dropped to his knees and used the army shovel to dig. The soil was wet. Muck like. Two feet down.

  Perspiration rolled off his face, the salty sting of sweat in his eyes. He ignored the mosquito whining in his ear. Concentrated on digging. He could smell earthworms, tree bark, and wild azaleas blooming.

  Three feet down. A rock. A damn rock the size of a grapefruit. “Shit.”

  There was a noise. Talking. Palmer stopped digging. He saw birds scatter from the trees closer to the spring bed. Someone was coming. He heard laugher, the voices of a man and a woman. People. How many? Somebody way the hell out here, walkin’ through the fuckin’ forest like they were going to grandma’s house.

  Luke Palmer stood quietly, held the hunting knife by his side, and crouched behind the brush to wait.

  The whine from the engine of a small plane sounded in distress. From the end of my dock, I looked up to the east as the pilot began a skywriter’s message. He formed the letter G, the engine sputtering, the G clinging to the cloudless, blue sky. I stood, reached in my pocket and read the name and address of the restaurant on the card.

  Dave called my cell and asked, “When you say you’re going to call back, is that today or in some other time zone?” He chuckled.

  “Sorry.”

  “I met a man who needs a 41-foot Beneteau delivered to Ponce Marina. It’s moored at Cedar Key. Sounds like your kind of job. You coming to the marina today?”

  “Tomorrow. I have another unscheduled stop. And I hope I’m not too late.”

  “How can you be late for something that’s not scheduled?”

  I glanced at the sky. The pilot had written: G O “Got to go, Dave.”

  I looked at my watch: 3:30 p.m. The hours printed on Elizabeth Monroe’s card read: 6:00 a.m. ‘till 2:00 p.m. I punched in the number to her restaurant. A woman answered. I said, “Molly?”

  She hesitated. “Yes, who’s this?”

  “Sean O’Brien. We met at Walmart.”

  “Oh, hi. Thanks again for…for what you did.”

  “No problem. Is your mother there?”

  “Yes, we’re closed. I’ll get her for you.”

  Ten seconds passed and Elizabeth Monroe was on the phone. I told her about the man who’d pulled the gun on them, gave her the name, Frank Soto.

  “It’s just Molly and me. I know how to use a gun. My late husband taught me. You said police believe this man, Soto, is a suspect in murders…an enforcer?”

  “Yes.” I could hear her breathing.

  “Mr. O’Brien—”

  “Please, call me Sean.”

  “The last thing I want on this earth is to impose. But you called me before the police have. You were there and saw what this man was trying to do, and you stopped him. I’m an independent person, raising my daughter after Jeff died years ago. But at this point, I could use some advice. You said you had been a cop. Maybe you could offer us some things we should be aware of…” She stopped. “Just in case he comes back.”

  “Okay. The first thing to do is—”

  “Molly should hear this, too. Can you stop by the restaurant? She’s going back to college soon. She’s here making some extra money before returning to the University of Florida. I don’t want to be a bother…but maybe you could stop by the restaurant. I’ll put on a fresh pot of coffee. Our homemade pies are to die for.” She made a nervous laugh. “That sounded odd after what happened.”

  “Do you have apple pie?”

  “Yes, we do.” A sense of energy was back in her voice.

  “Do you have cheese?”

  “Of course. Do you like cheese on your apple pie?”

  “Not really, but Max likes cheese. I don’t want her to feel left out.”

  “Is she your daughter?”

  “She’s my dachshund.”

  “I love dachshunds! We had one when I was a little girl. We’re closed, so she can have the run of the place.”

  “Half hour, okay?”

  “Absolutely, bye.”

  I glanced down at Max. “Ready for some dessert?” She wagged her tail then looked up at the buzzing in the clouds. The skywriter, ending his acrobatics, wrote:

  G O D L O V E S U

  I watched as his plane became a tiny dot in the sky. The smoke letters bled white against the deep blue like cosmic dust floating toward the darker clouds building far out over the ocean.

  “Come on, Max. I feel a storm brewing in my bones.” She trotted off the dock, pausing briefly to see if I was following. I picked up her bowl as a cooler wind blew through the cypress and weeping willows, the breeze sending a ripple across the murky surface of the river.

  He studied a sweat-stained map of the Ocala National Forest. Luke Palmer tried to superimpose in his mind, his bearings, and how the hand-drawn map, penned by Al Karpis, might fit into a detailed map of the forest today. A lot more trees. Otherwise it ought to be pretty much the same. No shopping centers. Not even a drive-in picture show.

  He walked near a clear stream. There were tire tracks. Odd. Maybe hunters or campers. Maybe they’d have some food to sell. He followed the tire tracks. They led from the sand to a thick grove of oak and cypress trees. Palmer was cautious. Prison had taught him a few things, and one was to never approach anyone or a situation with your guard down.

  He smelled something, a chemical, maybe bleach. Palmer thought he saw a whiff of smoke rising between the boughs and fading into the sky. Probably a campfire.

  He walked a little closer, and through the opening in the branches, he saw a makeshift wooden table filled with pots and pans. Smoke rose from one pan. A man was mixing something, plastic tubes running from bottles to pans.

  Palmer knew he was close enough. Just ease away. Get the hell out. As he started to turn around, he heard the unmistakable sound of pump shotgun.

  “Face us real slow, dude.”

  Palmer held his hands up and turned to the men. Two of them. Both young. Mid-twenties. Dirty jeans, T-shirts and scruffy faces. Faces filled with a chemical high mixed with adrenaline—a deadly combination. “Hey, guys. I got no beef with you.”

  “Who the fuck are you?” asked one man, the taller of the two, sharp cheekbones, bird-like face. He pointed the shotgun directly at Palmer’s chest.

  “Name’s Luke Palmer. I’m out here lookin’ for old artifacts, stuff from the Civil War. Don’t mean to be tresspassin’ if you fellas are hunting here or something.”

  “The other man, a ball cap turned backward on a round head, folded his arms. He spit in the weeds. “What you really doin’ way the fuck out here?”

  “I use this steel probe to poke around, see if I can find old mini-balls and stuff.”

  “You poke around here and you’re likely to be blown in half?”

  “Lots of graves out here, too,” the other man said. “They’d never find yours.”

  Palmer nodded. He’d seen so many of their types in lock-up. “Look, I don’t want any trouble. I just got out of San Quentin after serving forty years. All my life I’ve dreamed of hunting for treasure. I’d heard this forest is full of history. I thought I might buy something to eat from you all. I’m ‘bout to turn into jerky I’ve eaten so much of it.”

  Both men studied Palmer. The man with the shotgun gripped it tighter. Palmer held his breath, tightened his abdomen muscles like they might deflect buckshot. His heart beat so hard it hurt. A bumblebee landed on clover betwe
en him and the men.

  The man with the gun said, “Go on and get the fuck outta here. Don’t ever come back. We’re just out camping. Nothing else. You got what I’m sayin’?”

  Palmer nodded. “Got it.” He turned and walked back in the direction he came from, any second anticipating buckshot to tear a hole in his body wide enough for daylight to pass.

  The Red Clover Restaurant was a converted old southern gothic home on the fringes of the antique district in Sanford, Florida, about twenty miles north of Orlando. Bright red bougainvillea grew up one side of the building. The grass parking lot was large enough for a dozen cars. Only one, the same Ford Escape I saw in the Walmart lot, was there. Max and I walked to the door, pink impatiens and purple lavender bordered the path, the sweet scent of magnolias in the air. A blue butterfly darted around the flowers. Wind chimes tinkled from the limb of a mimosa tree.

  As I opened the door, Max trotted in the restaurant like she had a reservation. “Oh my god!” came the high-pitched words from Molly Monroe who untied the apron around her waist and bent down to pet Max. “She’s adorable. What’s her name?”

  “Max.”

  “Hi, Max. I’m Molly.” Max almost nodded, her nose picking up the smell of baked bread. When Molly smiled, I could see her mother’s smile.

  “Well, hello,” said Elizabeth, stepping out from behind a counter lined with pies and cakes. Max ran to her. “So you’re Max. It’s nice to meet you. I hear you have a thing for cheese. I have some aged cheddar. Do you like that?”

  Max snorted.

  “No begging, Max,” I said as Elizabeth picked up a pot of coffee and Molly brought a whole pie and a plate of cheese to a table.

  “Please, have a seat,” Elizabeth said. She cut the pie, placed a single piece on each of three dishes, poured the coffee and sat down.

  Molly lifted a small slice of cheese. Max stood on her hind legs. “She’s precious. Will she catch it?”

  “It’ll never hit the floor,” I said.

  Max caught the cheddar in a snap and swallowed it before Molly could sit down. Molly smiled and asked, “If she’s a girl, why’d you name her Max?”

  “My wife named her Maxine. After Sherri died, I reduced it to Max.”

  “The name seems to fit her personality,” Elizabeth said.

  I took a bite and sipped the dark roast coffee. “Excellent pie.”

  Elizabeth beamed. “I’m glad you like it. Thank you so much for coming. I thought it important that Molly hear any suggestions you have.”

  I nodded. “The best advice is to be aware of your surroundings. Be cautious. Watch where you park. Keep an eye in your rearview mirror to see if you’re being followed. Try to do things in pairs. But don’t become obsessed or a slave to fear.”

  Molly picked at her pie with the tip of a fork. “This is so, like, weird. This crazy man coming out of nowhere.”

  I said, “Unfortunately, it happens. Can you recall ever seeing him before?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe here in your restaurant, a customer. He’s someone who would keep to himself. He might bury his face in a newspaper when he’s eating. You’d catch him staring at you. Lingers a little longer than most after he’s finished eating.”

  Elizabeth cleared her throat. “That describes some of the customers we get. But, like Molly, I haven’t ever seen that man in here. Molly only works in the restaurant when she’s home from school.”

  I sipped the coffee as Molly handed Max a second piece of cheese. “What are you studying at college?” I asked.

  “Botany and entomology. I work in the butterfly rainforest lab at school. It’s a perfect place for butterflies, predator free. Lots of flowers and vegetation in a world that looks like a giant aviary for butterflies. In the lab, we raise and release butterflies. With the changes in our environment, my teacher says they are today’s ‘canaries in the mine.’ We’re open to the public. And we post our butterfly release days online.”

  Elizabeth said, “They’ve been successful at reintroducing rare, almost extinct butterflies back in the wild here in Florida.”

  Molly nodded. “We raised and released some Miami Blues down in the keys. These are like the rarest butterflies in Florida. And they’re soooo beautiful. I’m going to have a chance to release some atala butterflies in the Ocala National Forest.”

  I smiled. “My old house is across the river from one part of the forest.”

  “Well, if you see any dark blue butterflies with a red tummy, remember to shoo them back toward the forest. They can only survive by laying their eggs on one species of plant called a coontie. It’s like a primitive fern.”

  “Coontie, never heard of it.”

  She smiled. “Lots of people haven’t. They used to grow wild all over Florida. Development has made them scarce. It’s like the only plant the atala can lay its eggs on because it’s the only plant that its caterpillars can eat. The atala is even rarer than the plant. But we did find a lot of them growing in the Ocala National Forest, so that’s where we’re doing a release soon.”

  “Who are we?” I asked.

  “Me and my boyfriend, Mark. He’s studying biology. We had kind of a creepy experience there recently.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, we were scouting the forest for coontie plants. A ranger gave us directions to some places where we could find them, but we could never find them there.” She glanced at her mother for a moment. “We sort of got lost…I mean like really lost. After a while, Mark and I were convinced somebody was following us…no, more like they were stalking us. We did find the coontie plants and took lots of pictures of them and the area so we could remember things to get back there.”

  “Did you see anyone follow you?” I asked.

  “No, but I swear I could feel it.”

  Elizabeth said, “Molly’s very insightful, a true free spirit and often more perceptive than you’d think for someone her age.”

  Molly smiled and said, “I can tell you are, too, Mr. O’Brien.”

  “Please, call me Sean.”

  “Okay, Sean. I can tell you’re somewhere beyond insightful, as Mom calls it. I’ll bet you can come close to reading thoughts.”

  I smiled. “I’m not so sure I’d like that. It’s more fun to discover things.”

  Molly cut a small piece of cheese. “Can Max have more cheese? I don’t even think she’s blinked.”

  “Sure, maybe one more piece.” Max caught it and licked her lips. “Your boyfriend, Mark, has he noticed anyone following him?”

  “I don’t think so; at least he hasn’t said anything. He’s on a short vacation with his family.” She paused and looked at me, not moving her head, only her big doe eyes. “Can you read my mind…tell what I’m thinking?”

  “I think you like Max.”

  “I do. But that’s not what I’m thinking.” She grinned. “I think my mom likes you. Maybe it’s because you’re now our hero.”

  Elizabeth cleared her throat, her face flushing and said, “Sean is here to give us some advice on how to handle this situation.”

  Molly looked above my shoulders, her face filled with reflection, and then she lowered her eyes to mine. She said, “That man with the gun…I’m not certain, but I might have seen him before.”

  There was a knock on the restaurant door. Elizabeth’s eyes popped wide, her body jumping like a balloon had burst in the room. “Sorry,” she said. “A little stressed out, to put it mildly.” She got up, glanced out the restaurant window and unlocked the door to open it. “Hi, Harry. I forgot you were making a delivery today.”

  “I’m like the postman, always delivering,” said the man as he stepped inside, pushing a handcart filled with bottled water. “I’ll put it in the kitchen.”

  He nodded at me as he wheeled the supplies into another room. Molly scratched Max behind her floppy ears. Cheese and a head massage, now they were bonded for life.

  The deliveryman left, and Elizabeth locked the door. She sat down a
nd said, “I’ll be so glad when this is over…when they catch him.”

  I asked, “Molly, where do you think you may have seen Frank Soto?”

  “I’m trying to remember. It’s like a dream. No real reason to hang on to something so fleeting it didn’t make sense when you first experienced it.”

  I nodded. “Where might you have seen someone resembling him? Maybe a guy at the university…could have been a groundskeeper…maybe someone who works in the rainforest, doing maintenance?”

  There was a spark. A tiny flicker in her memory banks projected onto her eyes. Something trapped in her pupils, like the afternoon light through the restaurant window, as she tried to remember an image she never knew she would need to know.

  I touched the top of her hand. “You see something, don’t you? A man, right?”

  She shook her head like awakening for a second. “I knew you could see stuff.”

  I smiled. “Lots of practice. What is it?”

  “It’s probably nothing. I do remember one guy, but I didn’t really get a good look at his face. It was crowded that day. We were doing a release, some beautiful swallowtails, a few days ago, and lots of school kids were there. I noticed a man who seemed to be a little off by himself. The guy wore a baseball cap and large, shiny mirror-like sunglasses. I could see the yellow swallowtails reflecting from his sunglasses. But that’s not what made me remember him. A little while later I was taking a Fed Ex delivery of monarch eggs, and I saw one of the school kids point to the man’s arm. The kid seemed a little embarrassed because there was a tattoo on one arm that looked like a naked woman or maybe a fairy with butterfly wings. The guy left right after that.”

  I thought of the man in the parking lot, the tattoo on his arm of a nude woman with fairy-like features and butterfly wings. I felt my stomach tighten, the taste of pie now like cardboard in my mouth.

  “Sean,” said Elizabeth. “What is it?”

  “I believe it’s the same guy.”

  “What!” Elizabeth’s voice went up an octave.

  “When he was lying cold in the parking lot, the sleeve on his T-shirt had ridden up his arm. I saw a tattoo. At first I thought it was a tattoo of an angel. But I could make out that it was really an image of a nude woman with butterfly wings.”