by Tom Lowe
I played the conversations back in my mind from the gravesite with Detective Sandberg and also with the district forest ranger, Ed Crews. Sandberg making a reference to the girl’s broken neck. Crews talking about spotting vultures circling, and seeing a man, an ex con, perhaps a squatter, walking down one of the roads, looking like he was leaving the forest. Who was he? And did he snap the girl’s neck…or was it Soto…or somebody else? I sipped the beer and glanced over at Max sleeping.
Jupiter swayed a little as the incoming tide pushed the current, the ropes around the cleats moaning a midnight snore. The temperature was dropping, a mist beginning to rise over the bay waters. I looked up and watched a cloud cover the moon’s bright face, the light fading as if a dimmer switch was slowly turned off. Now the brightest light came from the Ponce Inlet Lighthouse.
I felt fatigue growing behind my eyes as I stared at the rotating beacon from the lighthouse. The lamp beamed its signal to ships out in the Atlantic. In this world of GPS navigation, the old lighthouse stood like a noble soldier offering a guiding light. But beyond the curvature of the earth, beyond the horizon, it was dark. And even if light from the aged tower could bend and reach its beam beyond the horizon, the dark was already there, waiting in a vast and infinite cloak of utter blackness. Dave was right about that.
SOMEWHERE IN THE OBSCURE shadows, I saw the featherless scarlet head of a turkey vulture. The bird stared back at me, the nostrils large and round. The immense black pupils in the center of the raptor’s yellow eyes looked beyond me as it flew. Its wings outstretched, suspended on the air currents that delivered the odor of a decaying body like veiled campfire smoke rising. A second and third bird joined the first in the circle of death, spirals growing closer as they descended.
The birds dropped to earth alighting next to an unearthed, shallow grave. They strutted, timid for a moment, then growing bolder, coming closer to the hole, the stench a command that the scavengers were powerless to resist. The largest of the three birds was the first one to stand at the edge of the grave. Its head was nothing but wrinkled pink skin, except for the fine, downy hair-like growth on its scalp and the white, curved beak. The bird turned its head to one side, the mustard-yellow eyes examining its feast, the stink of regurgitated field mice on its talons.
From behind a live oak, a large tree with gnarled bark and old carvings, two fairies darted toward the gravesite. They were larger than the scavengers, their wings like moving rainbows as they hovered over the hole in the earth. The vultures scurried backward, away from the grave. At a distance of a few feet, the vultures wailed like donkeys braying in protest of a dinner denied.
I AWOKE, MY NECK STIFF from falling asleep in the captain’s chair. I looked at my watch: 4:17 in the morning. The mist had enveloped the marina, and I could no longer see the lighthouse. I could just see Max less than five feet from me.
“Let’s go find a real bed,” I said, gently lifting her. She grunted, her eyes blinking. We crawled into bed just as rain began to fall, its rhythm against Jupiter’s deck a welcome cadence as I closed my eyes. I pictured the old oak tree that the dream weaver had spun somewhere in my subconscious, the bark knotty and scarred. I willed the images from my mind, scratched Max behind her ears and hoped sleep would return without dreams from the edge of places I no longer tried to understand.
At 7:03 a.m. my cell phone rang on the small table next to my bed. Max, at the foot of the bed, poked her head out of a corner sheet, groundhog like. She looked at the ringing phone and then turned her head to me as I picked it up and stared at the caller ID. Morning light poured through the master birth porthole.
Detective Lewis said, “We picked up Soto. Thought you’d want to know.”
I cleared my throat. “Thanks. Where’d you find him?”
“Tampa, last night. Two sheriff deputies pulled him over for a burned-out brake light. The deputies thought the guy looked like the BOLO photo we’d circulated. They pulled up the image on their car computer and called for backup. The deputies drew down on Soto. Cuffed him without resistance.”
“What was he doing in Tampa?”
“Don’t know. I do know he still had a black eye and the bruises you left on his face.”
“How about the tat?”
Lewis chuckled. “It’s there. A naked little fairy with big boobs, I’m told. Soto will be back here in Seminole County today. I’m sure the judge will hold him without bond ‘til we can sort this stuff out.”
“Maybe you can get a confession to the murder of the girl in the forest.”
“We’re working with Marion County S.O. We’re gonna try.”
“Do Elizabeth and her daughter know?”
“Called Elizabeth Monroe right before I called you. Take care of yourself, O’Brien. This one’s in the bag.” He disconnected. I sat at the edge of the bed and attempted to put a solid hook into the line Lewis had just tossed to me. Tampa? Was Soto hiding there, keeping low or meeting someone? If so, who and how could it be tied to the forest, if it was? I felt a throb building above my left eyebrow.
“Come on, Max. Let’s go find a patch of grass and something to eat.
LUKE PALMER OPENED A CAN of sardines for breakfast, leaned back against a pine tree, and ate. He watched a rabbit chewing clover in the undergrowth and thought about the body of the girl he’d seen. Damn shame. She was somebody’s daughter.
He wondered what it would have been like to have a daughter. Remembered his case, his “day in court,” so many years ago, the public defender smelling of whiskey, the judge smelling of bribes. They’d cheated him out of a chance for daughters, sons…family. Cheated out of ever having experienced love from a woman. Real love from a real woman who could give her heart totally. Jesus, what that must be like. Too damn late. How do you make sense out the senseless? Out here, out in the wild, animals do what comes natural. They are what they are. Humans, well, that’s a different animal. In the courts, the penal system is liars, cons and cheats…and they’re the ones on the outside. Money talks, bad dudes walk and a poor man does forty for defending himself when a rich drunk comes at him with a knife.
Today he’d head a little farther northwest, stay close to the approximate area and see if he could hit pay dirt. Place must have changed a hell of a lot since Ma Barker and her son hid the loot. It had to be here. Somewhere.
Maybe today would be the day. Find it, get outta here, and help get a kidney transplant for Caroline. If anything’s left, drink margaritas and enjoy life.
Somebody was coming. He poured water on the small fire, kicked out the embers and stood behind foliage as he watched the car in the distance. Same car. Same dark windows. But this time he could see the front window, the morning sun in the faces of three men. Looked like a roughneck driving. A younger, darker skinned man sat on the passenger side. And someone, a man, was in the backseat. As the car passed, the man in the backseat lowered the window and tossed out the remains of a cigar. He looked Hispanic, sideburns, black hair, a gold pinkie ring.
Palmer packed his gear and walked toward the dirt road. There was a ghostlike swirl of something white to his left. Almost didn’t see it. Smoke. Near the road. He approached it and saw the cigar smoldering, a yellow flame curling through dry weeds. Palmer stomped out the fire. He looked down at the cigar—one end still wet from saliva and flattened with teeth marks. He used his shovel to throw dirt on the stogie. He shook his head and thought the most dangerous fuckin’ animal in the forest walks on two legs.
I’d been working on Jupiter for five days, sanding, painting, and replacing zincs on the props when my phone rang for the first time. I couldn’t remember where I’d last seen my cell. I set a can of marine varnish down and picked up the cell from a dock chair. Elizabeth Monroe said, “I just wanted to thank you for all of your help. Molly and I are most appreciative to you, Sean. Anyway, I’m glad they found Soto.”
“Maybe they’ll find the reason he attacked you two.”
“I’m praying. I feel so much better knowing he
’s behind bars with bond denied.”
“He’ll stay there for a very long time if they can build a case against him with forensics in connection to the death of that girl.”
“I read her name in the papers, Nicole Davenport. She was only seventeen. Poor girl ran away from home. The news said she lived in Connecticut with her parents until one day she left home with her boyfriend. He returned after two weeks, but she apparently fell in with some cult and kept going.”
“Please give Molly my best.”
“I will. She’s so excited. The butterfly rainforest is doing a few new releases of some very rare butterflies. She’s been so involved in all of them. She came back yesterday from a release at the Myakka State Park somewhere south of Sarasota. She’s doing one more tomorrow somewhere.”
“I’m glad to hear that. We need a few more Molly Monroe’s in this world.”
She was silent for a few seconds. “And we need a few more Sean O’Brien’s, too. Look, please don’t think I’m being presumptive or somehow forward…but I thought maybe we could have dinner sometime.”
“What time did you have in mind?”
“Well, it’s not like my calendar’s full. Whenever you have some free time. No pressure just when you have a window—”
“How about Saturday night?”
“This Saturday night?”
“Happens in three days.”
“Yes it does…umm. Sure, that will be fine.”
“I know where we can get some of the freshest red snapper you’ve ever tasted.”
“Where?”
“Two boats down from mine. Nick will be back in by then. I’m betting he’ll have some snapper. I’ll select two prime pieces, make it an old Greek way, toss a salad, and serve it with some chilled chardonnay. How’s that sound?”
“I’m almost a loss for words. Do I come to your boat for dinner?”
“That would work fine, but I’ll be packing Max up Saturday morning and heading back to my shack on the river. I’ll give you the address. Be there at six, and I’ll show you a sunset that will put you at an even greater loss for words.”
“Just having a man cook for me leaves me speechless.”
He thought of Jurassic Park. It was the first movie Luke Palmer had seen in prison. And now he was walking through ferns that grew up to his shoulders. Bromeliads hung from live oak branches by the dozens. And then he saw something that took his breath away. An oval-shaped spring, at least a hundred feet in width, bubbled up from the earth. The water was a blue diamond shimmering beneath the cloudless indigo sky. Wild red roses grew along the opposite side of the spring.
Palmer simply stood there for a minute absorbing the beauty. Never had he seen anything like this. So untouched. God’s garden. Maybe the last piece of pie left from the Garden of Eden. Some of the things ripped away from a man in prison could be restored here. This was a waterhole for the soul. He stepped to the edge of the spring and filled his jug.
Then he heard voices.
Palmer capped the jug, stood and slipped back into the foliage, his ears tracking the talking. Sounded like a man and a woman. Palmer picked up his gear and followed. He walked next to the spring as it flowed from its azure bowl into a creek bed that snaked its way through the forest. It seemed as if the people talking and laughing were following the stream, too. Another hundred feet and Palmer spotted them. He recognized the girl and the man. Both young. Maybe out of college, maybe not. They carried a cardboard box with dime-sized holes poked into the sides. What was in the box? Could be an animal. Might be something that was injured and these young people were returning it to the woods. Squirrel? Rabbit?
The woman seemed to lead. She pointed toward some plants that looked a little like the ferns he’d walked through earlier. The girl set the box down next to the plants. Her friend took pictures with a small camera as she smiled and opened the box.
Palmer had to grin. Butterflies seemed to float out of the box. A dozen or so. Dark color. They flew around the couple then darted off into the woods.
Butterflies.
Why the hell not? The girl reached one hand into the box. She slowly lifted her hand with a butterfly riding on the tip of an extended finger. The girl raised her arm to the sky, the butterfly opening and closing its wings, testing the air. Palmer watched as the girl smiled and said something to the butterfly. Maybe she was coaxing it to fly. And then it seemed to jump from her finger, flew around the couple and ascended high into the blue sky. The man laughed and tried to snap pictures. The butterfly flew about fifty feet away and alighted on one of the fern plants. The woman hugged the man, said something to him, and pointed inside the box. Maybe there was one more.
Palmer smiled again. He could walk up and introduce himself. See if he might buy some food from them, if they’d brought some. As he started to step out from the undergrowth, he saw three men approach the couple. The men had their backs to him. Although he couldn’t see their faces, he could read their body language. He’d seen it a hundred times in the prison yard. Gangs approaching prey with one man picked as the killer, the rest acting detached as they closed the human noose, each man’s eyes tracking the victim.
These men in the forest didn’t encircle the couple. Didn’t have to. They didn’t think anyone was watching. No guard towers. No rival gangs. No one. Palmer wanted to do something. Say something. If only he had a gun. The man in the middle carried a lever-action rifle. The girl held her hands up, like her palms could deflect death. The young man started to say something when a bullet hit him between the eyes. The girl screamed. It was the most horrific scream Palmer had ever heard. The man in the middle shot her in the chest. She fell to her knees, one hand clutching her wound.
As the man stepped closer, the girl reached for the box next to her, a trembling bloody hand on one of the cardboard flaps. Then the man stood over her and fired a shot into the back of her head the moment a lone butterfly flew from the box.
Palmer felt bile erupt in the back of his throat. He coughed.
One man looked his way. Palmer ducked farther back, dropping his water jug and running. Had he been seen? Heard? Or was it a coincidence that the man looked his way. Regardless, Palmer wouldn’t forget the man’s face. He’d seen it earlier. He ran as fast as he could. Ran toward the spring. He’d hide deep in the jungles. He tripped, falling on his outstretched palms. Was it a root that tripped him? He sat up and looked at the dark hose. It was partially buried beneath leaves as it made its way toward the spring.
Run! He could hear the men in the distance. A second shot rang out.
Run! The echo from the shot reverberated through Palmer’s soul as he ran deeper into the forest. He ran through growth so dense he couldn’t see the sun. Sweat rained from his face. Plants ripped and bloodied his arms and chest. He’d gone at least a mile when his lungs felt like acid was bubbling up, legs rubbery. Too weak to go. Run! He stumbled and fell. He lay there. Breathing. Listening. Palmer watched a tick crawl onto his arm. He didn’t have the strength to knock it off his skin. For a full two minutes, he lay on his stomach as the tick began to feed.
Sunlight warmed the back of his neck when he looked up at the largest oak tree he’d seen. Some twenty feet away, he could barely make out an old carving etched into the tree.
He managed to get to his knees as he pulled the tick from his skin and studied the carving in the tree. Through the years, the two hearts had changed as the tree grew, the trunk expanding, the carving changing.
The two hearts looked like a pair of butterfly wings.
For the first time in forty years, Luke Palmer allowed himself to cry.
When Sherri was alive she loved my “gourmet cooking,” hated my cleaning. She called the cooking real but the cleaning superficial. She treasured my attention to detail with food and with her but didn’t like the way I introduced dishes to soap and water. Since it’s been Max and me, I’ve made an effort to keep the dishes, and the house, cleaner than my genetic handicap would permit.
I thought about that as I was dusting the old house before Elizabeth Monroe’s arrival later this afternoon. Would her female radar pick up on unidentified dirt? Times like this I wished Max could mimic a bird dog. She could scout behind the furniture, stop, freeze and point to a hiding dust bunny poised to leap when a breeze came across the screened porch and blew through the house.
Maybe we’d eat on the dock.
I was listening to a bluesy tune by Kelly Joe Phelps as I made the salad and marinated the two pieces of red snapper. I stored them in the refrigerator and waited for Elizabeth to arrive. I hadn’t met many women since Sherri’s death. Dating seemed odd. For that matter, life seemed abnormal after I released her ashes at sea. But, for sanity, you move on best you can or calcify. Some of the women I’d met had their lives somehow knocked out of trajectory, which was too much for me to handle after losing the woman I had adored. Nick told stories of birds, even sparrows, caught in air currents and blown out to sea. They’d land on his boat, feathers frayed, wet with perspiration, tattered from exhaustion. He’d nurse them back to health. He said one sparrow liked to sit on his head, resting at times in his hair like it was a nest. After icing down the day’s catch, Nick would drink ouzo, play his guitar and sing in Greek to the bird. He swore one night the little sparrow started singing to him, long chirping calls.
When Nick’s boat got within sight of land, his company would take flight, the bird’s world brought back into perspective with a new horizon. That had been my story with some of the women I’d met in the last couple of years. Leslie Moore had not been one of them. She was a gifted detective who was murdered by her boss, a former police lieutenant on the take. Now he’s doing a life stretch in Raiford.
