by Tom Lowe
“She’s not answering her cell phone. She’s so stubborn. Her boyfriend called earlier, and they’d decided to head back to Gainesville together. I thought I could talk her into staying a while longer. But Mark is working, too. He had to get back and suggested it would be best if they traveled together in their separate cars so he could keep an eye out for Molly as she drove. He wanted to make sure she wasn’t being followed. She agreed. So she packed up, took her father’s pistol and left.”
“Did you tell the police?”
“I called them right before I called you. They said for her to keep together with friends and to be aware of who and what’s around her. In the meantime, they’d continue searching for Frank Soto.”
Her voice sounded fatigued, filled with worry. I asked, “Does she live alone?”
“She lives with a roommate, a girl she’s lived with for most of this year.”
“Is the girl back at school?”
“I don’t know… Molly left so quickly I didn’t ask her. I called her apartment and there was no answer. And, Mark hasn’t answered his cell phone either.”
“Keep calling them. Make sure her roommate is there. If not, maybe Molly should stay with her boyfriend.”
Elizabeth was silent. I could hear her breathing. I could almost feel her hands griping my back again. Thought I heard her crying. “Are you okay?” I asked, regretting the banality of the question as soon as it came out of my mouth.
“I just feel so damn helpless… I don’t know what to do.”
I said nothing, letting her speak, to say whatever she needed to say.
“Sean, I think there was a reason you were there when that man — Soto, it’s so hard to even say his name. You just didn’t happen by, you were put there. I don’t know if you believe in angels, but for that moment in time, you were our guardian angel. You saw what no one in the parking lot saw, and you did something about it… thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” I chuckled, “But I’m no angel.”
“Oh, you have a devilish side, do you?”
“Multifaceted.”
“I see. Thanks, Sean. Thanks for being a good listener. Bye.”
“Wait,” I could feel my internal compass shifting poles like some huge magnet moving across the moon and pulling at a tide within me. Later, I might regret saying it. “Elizabeth, call me anytime you want to talk. Let me know as soon as you hear from Molly so that I know she’s okay. And, maybe we can get together down the road. After this thing goes away, we’ll have dinner.”
“I’d like that. I can make something here at the restaurant or my house.”
“You spend time in the kitchen for a living. I can make something for you.”
“Oh, you cook, too?”
I looked over at Nick who was beginning his second bottle of Corona. “I’ve been associated with an extraordinary chef. Matter of fact, he’s here on my boat. I’ve managed to learn how to make a few meals from him. I probably can reproduce one for you.”
“I’d like that. I’d like that very much. Bye, Sean.” She disconnected.
Nick rubbed Max, her eyes half closed and he said, “So you makin’ a hot date with a gal, and you want to begin in the kitchen, huh?”
“It’s not a date at all, it’s—”
“Aw, ‘come on Sean. Why do you think I learned to cook? What starts in the kitchen ends in the bedroom.” His eyes danced, a wide grin spreading, Max now fully awake. “Trust me. It’s an old Greek way. Men learn how to cook, ‘cause they had to do it out at sea. Who you think does the traditional cooking around Easter, the Epiphany?’
“That’s twice a year, I bet it’s the women in the kitchen the other 363 days.”
Jupiter rocked. Someone had come aboard, and Max uttered a low growl.
Not a good sign.
FOURTEEN
Max sat up, and then jumped to the floor once she recognized who had stepped in the cockpit. Dave Collins, a cocktail in hand, grunted as he walked across the transom. “Well, hello, lass. It’s about time you brought Sean back here. I trust you let him drive, did you not?” Max wagged her tail and licked the condensation that splashed from Dave’s glass to the teak floor. “Cheers, gentlemen.” Dave raised his glass and added. “Mr. O’Brien, are Mr. Cronus and I the only ones with adult beverages?”
“You two are always one ahead of me,” I said, stepping to the galley and getting a beer. I returned to my barstool as Dave sat on couch. He looked younger than his sixty-five years. Smooth, tanned face. Burly chest. Wide forehead. His thick white hair often was disheveled because he wore his bifocals on top of his head. His blue eyes were curious, filled with intellect and a hint of mystery. Formally employed by the U.S. government, his time overseas, learning languages and people, gave him a stage to appreciate art, fine wines, cultures and the food the various customs produced.
Dave sipped from his drink, swallowed musingly and then looked up at me. “So, tell us, what the hell happened. Seems like when I want to hear the news from our part-time marina friend, we have to catch the infamous Sean O’Brien on the local television news, or read what’s left of a daily newspaper. A phone call to keep us simple marina folks apprised would be courteous on your part and most appreciative on ours.”
Nick nodded and said, “I’ll drink to that. Kim told me what happened from seeing it on the news, too.” Max crawled up on the sofa between them.
“I was coming over here to work on Jupiter when it went down. Happened in a matter of seconds in the Walmart parking lot. I stunned the perp, but not long enough. He recovered quicker than I would have thought. Getaway was on a Harley. Media showed, and then you, Dave, called me later to tell me Soto was ticketed.”
Dave grunted and added, “Do they have anything further on Soto?”
“It wasn’t a random attack.”
“Oh?” Dave cocked an eyebrow.
“No.” I told them about the tattoo and how Molly and some kids had spotted it on Soto in the butterfly rainforest at the university. “They said the tat looked like a fairy with the body of a woman wearing butterfly wings. That matches what I saw.”
“Fairy? You mean like Tinker Bell?” Nick asked, a smile spreading.
“More of an adult version. A fully developed nude woman with butterfly wings.”
Dave said nothing, his brow furrowing. Nick took a pull from his beer and said, “So this crazy dude has Tink on his arm, naked. What kinda guy goes around with tattoo of a fairy, huh?”
“Did you see any other tattoos?” Dave asked.
“That was the only one I could identify. There was some ink at the base of his neck and on the other arm, but I couldn’t see it well.”
Dave glanced out the open sliding glass doors to the cockpit. A breeze was blowing the scent of ocean salt air into the salon. “Maybe he’s wearing it because the tattoo symbolizes some kind of an event in his life. Could be similar to a souvenir. Can you remember if it looked fresh, maybe some bruising around it, or redness from the sub dermis caused by the needle?”
“It did look like there was a slight redness around it. I didn’t know if it was because of the impact I delivered to him, or something else.”
“Maybe the skin art’s new,” Dave said.
Nick grinned and said, “Could be the dude went to Disney World. Got high on titmouse punch and fantasized that he saw Tink flyin’ around with a boob job.” He laughed so loud Max cock her head and moved closer to Dave. “What’s wrong, little hotdog, you think Nicky has fish breath? I gargle with ouzo.”
Dave said, “It could have been inspired by some event he attended, maybe something like the big Fantasy Fest they have in Key West each October at Halloween.”
“Lots of fairies down there,” said Nick, draining the last of his second beer.
Dave glanced at Nick, smiled and shook his head. “I’m always amused at your perspective. The Halloween parade in Key West has a certain Pagan-like feel to it, I hear. The holiday is the best known of those with a Pagan theme.”
I looked at the calendar above the galley bar counter. “You may be on to something, Dave. A few days ago, it was summer solstice, the longest day of the year. It’s a time of ancient rituals tied back to most of Europe. I recall something about Midsummer Eve festivals, which included fairy dances.”
Nick chuckled. “Yeah, man, but that stuff was hundreds of years ago. That’s why they call ‘em fairy tales. Today, we got topless bars.”
Dave said, “It may have begun hundreds of years ago, but in some places, it continues today. Ancient spots on the planet, like Stonehenge, were believed to be built to tie into summer solstice. In the case of Stonehenge, it was most likely the monument’s perspective to the sun. It’s the longest day of the year, the shortest night, and the first day the sun begins moving away on its journey south. Sean’s correct. Midsummer Eve’s dancing fairies is all part of the fairy tales, as you suggested. One of the greatest, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, was penned by Shakespeare.” Dave, slipping into his poker face, looked at Nick and said, “It was about fairies and Greeks.”
“That’s why I don’t read that stuff,” he went into the galley for another Corona.
I thought about the tattoo on Soto’s arm and why he chose to get it. “Where might there have been a Midsummer’s Eve festival in Florida a few days ago?”
Dave said, “Usually they’re associated with bonfires, dancing and a little good-natured carousing at the traditional levels. Lots of places across the nation have them. There’s a big one in New York’s Battery Park. On the other hand, with the darker, deep Pagan celebrations, you’d probably find them in very isolated places.”
I said, “The most remote spot near Gainesville is the Ocala National Forest, hundreds of thousands of desolate acres, many not accessible by car. Part of the eastern boundary is across the river from my old house. That’s where the swamps begin.”
“But,” Dave said, rubbing Max’s head, “as you know, that’s only one tip of the forest. It stretches over a couple of counties, lots of lakes, scrub pines, places so thick you can’t see the sun, and there are some of the world’s most beautiful springs in there. I read the forest is almost a half million acres.”
“Yeah,” said Nick coming back to the couch. “If one of these Pagan tribes had a fairy dance in there, how in the hell would you find it in a gazillion acres?”
I smiled and said, “At a tattoo shop.”
FIFTEEN
Luke Palmer was looking for a place to camp when he heard a goat. Maybe it was a sheep baying. Maybe it was an overactive imagination, he thought. The sun had slipped behind the tall trees quicker than he realized, bringing a curtain of dark down so fast that Palmer had to light a match to read the map of the forest. He believed he was less than a mile from a well-marked trail, the Yearling Trail.
Then he heard it again.
An animal. An animal in distress.
He walked in the direction. A farm way the hell out here in the forest? He hoped it wasn’t the men running the meth lab. Palmer knew the next time they met, he wouldn’t walk away. He made his way to a rough trail, decaying limbs cracking under his worn boots.
He began to hear music. Chanting and sounds from a flute. Then he heard voices. Palmer crept quietly down the trail and walked through some brush until he saw light. It was coming from a large campfire. He pushed back a limb and watched. More than two dozen people were in a clearing next to a lake. They walked in a circle around the fire. Their voices chanting something in a language Palmer didn’t recognize. He saw a goat tied to a stake, a circle of rocks around the goat. Then he saw something else.
A young woman, dressed in white, hair braided up, was led from the circle and told to stand between two posts. A tall man wearing black summoned two other men. He ordered them to tie the woman’s hands. Palmer wondered why she didn’t fight back as they lifted her arms and used rope to tie her hands and feet to the posts. She was made to stand in an X position. The chanting continued as another man tossed a log into the fire causing sparks to rise into the inky night.
The tall man read from a black book. He said, “On this sacred night of the Sabbath, we honor you by sacrifice.” The chanting grew louder. In the firelight, Palmer was close enough to see the tall man had a large Adam’s apple that bobbed up and down as he spoke. He had a scarecrow face with hollow, wide eyes and ears that protruded from his close-cropped hair.
Palmer wished he had a gun. He couldn’t allow them to do it. Even if it meant yelling at them and running like hell and hoping they’d never find him.
The tall man continued with his pagan speech. “You, our leader in all that we do, have shown us strength and resilience against the forces that seek to silence us.” The man stepped to a small table where food and utensils were laid out. He picked up a large knife, its steel blade flashing in the light from the fire. The chants grew feverish. The man walked to the goat, pulled up its head and slit its throat. The crowd walked faster around the fire as the man dipped his finger in the dying goat’s blood and stepped to the girl. He used his bloody finger to make a mark on her forehead.
Palmer felt like his heart was going to explode in his chest. Sweat poured from his face. The man in black used the knife like a queen might knight a man, touched it to the girl’s head and shoulders. He mumbled something in words that Palmer didn’t recognize. When the man touched the knife to the side of the girl’s face, Palmer yelled. “Back off asshole!”
The chanting stopped. People looked in Palmer’s direction. One man lifted a flashlight from the table and pointed it toward Palmer. The man in black yelled, “Don’t let him escape!”
Palmer ran. He ran hard. Zigzagging. Cutting through underbrush. He had a good head start on the men. Most were half naked and would have a hard time running through the thorns and saber leaves as Palmer bolted.
After running for at least a half mile, Palmer heard no one. He felt sure they’d given up and turned around. He was exhausted. His chest hurt, his heart still beating fast. He leaned against a tree to catch his breath, looked up at the moon beyond the branches and mumbled, “God, looks like it’s time for another flood.”
He wanted to make camp, and make it far away from the crazies in the woods. But at this point, Palmer wasn’t sure where he could go that would be safe. One place, he thought.
A bombing range.
SIXTEEN
The next morning I swallowed three aspirins with a chug of orange juice and then put on a pot of coffee. Following dinner last night on Nick’s boat, he broke out a second bottle of ouzo. The three of us raised glasses to Nick’s continued luck at sea and to my future as a short-run charter captain. It was close to 2:00 a.m. when Dave lumbered off to Gibraltar, and I found Jupiter waiting for me like a 38-foot waterbed. I crawled into the master bunk next to Max who slept closest to the large porthole window, the cool ocean trade winds blowing down on us.
Now, with the morning sun coming through the portholes like harsh spotlights, I made three eggs scrambled with Cajun hot sauce for me, one egg mixed with cheese for Max. I sliced the toast, piled everything on two paper plates, and we went topside to the fly bridge. I rolled up the isinglass side curtains, sat in the captain’s chair and placed Max’s breakfast on a bench seat where she stood waiting. As we ate, a pelican soared by us. It was followed by two sea gulls, one of the birds pausing, circling the fly bridge and squawking in hopes of a handout. Max ate faster.
The breeze brought the scent of saltwater and the damp smells of an incoming tide to reclaim roots and barnacle-laden dock posts. I could just hear the sound of breakers across the road and over the dunes. The pulley on a moored sailboat clanked one note as the breeze jostled it. The wind changed and brought the smell of strong, dark coffee and bacon coming from Gibraltar, across the dock from Jupiter. Dave had slept with all of the boat’s windows open. I pictured him watching the news and reading a morning paper at the same time. I glanced at Nick’s boat, St. Michael. Nothing. No movement. No one topside. Joe, the marina cat, s
tretched out across St. Michael’s transom. But no sign of Nick. I figured he’d sleep until noon and then get out of his bunk with a ravenous appetite and a serious hangover.
I had awakened thinking about Elizabeth and Molly Monroe. I’d hoped that Molly was with someone at all times. I didn’t know if Elizabeth had someone to be with her. She didn’t say, and I never asked. Maybe it was because Detective Lewis said they were staking out her home, and officers were sipping coffee in her restaurant. I looked at the time on my cell phone: 8:45 a.m., then punched the number I’d stored. Lewis answered in two rings, his voice sounding tired at the beginning of day. I said, “Detective, I have an idea that might help your investigation into Frank Soto.”
“I’m listening.”
“If you check tattoo parlors near the University of Florida, maybe between Ocala and Gainesville, you might find the ink artist who recently gave Soto his tat.”
“How do you know it was recent?”
“The ink looked bright. It looked new, similar to fresh paint. There was redness around the art, like his skin was sensitive.”
“That’s a lot of speculation, Mr. O’Brien.”
“It might be worth the effort to find the artist.”
“Maybe. Lots of tat shops. Sometimes these fellas aren’t too eager to talk about who they had for canvases, if you know what I mean.”
“What I know is that Soto tracked Molly from Gainesville to Sanford. He tried to take her out along with her mother. If he’s some kind of enforcer, as you said, or a hit man, it might be related to something Molly saw.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. She was recently in the Ocala National Forest doing butterfly research with her boyfriend. She thinks she saw a man hiding in the woods watching them. Molly and Mark left quickly.”
“That’s a possibility, but seems to me like a remote one if she didn’t see this guy do something illegal.”
“Maybe the guy thought she saw more than she did, and whoever is behind it is making an effort to keep her from telling anyone.”
