The Butterfly Forest so-3

by Tom Lowe

  There was a rifle shot. He listened to the unmistakable echo of gunfire through the woods. Palmer rolled up his tarp and waited. Listening. Don’t move. Just wait. After a few minutes, a pine needle fell from a branch and landed between his neck and collar. Then he heard a noise. Thrashing. Something running. Something crashing though the forest. Palmer hid behind a mesh of honeysuckles.

  A deer. Running. Stumbling. A young buck. He’d been shot in the shoulders and was bleeding profusely. The animal fell to its front knees, struggled and rose up. It walked a little farther and fell again. Got to put it out of its misery, Palmer thought. He held his knife and followed the deer. It tried to run, falling again.

  “Hold on, boy. I know you’re hurting… hurting real bad.” The deer lay on its side, chest panting, and one large brown eye watching Palmer approach. He crouched down beside the dying animal. “I’ll help you go to sleep. You were in the wrong place, the friggin’ forest, at the wrong time, old friend. Some stupid half-ass, wannabe hunter couldn’t even do a clean shot. And here you are.” The deer’s breathing came in quick shallow bursts. Palmer held his left hand over the animal’s eye closest to him. Then he shoved the long blade in the center of the deer’s chest. Its body shuddered once and was still.

  He hated the thought of gutting the deer. But to survive, he’d need the meat to eat. He traced the entrance of the bullet in the right shoulder. There was no exit wound. He cut into the animal’s stomach, within seconds he saw it — a brass bullet. He reached in the open cavity and extracted the bloody bullet, holding it in the palm of his hand. He knew the caliber of the bullet. A.30-.30.

  He felt sure it came from the same gun that was used to kill the girl and her friend. Palmer stood. No longer could he butcher the carcass and eat the deer. He wiped his hands on leaves, dropped the bullet in a shirt pocket and headed in the direction where he thought he’d find the spring.

  * * *

  Palmer lay on his stomach and lowered his head beneath the surface. The water was cool to his parched skin. He opened his eyes and saw fish swimming in the swaying eelgrass. The underground water rose up through a large, craggy hole that was like peering into the mouth of a sapphire cave. It was the darkest blue he’d ever seen. Palmer wondered what it would be like to remove his clothes and swim for the opening, feel the rush of the spring over his body. Maybe God would see fit to christen him in water that surely must be flowing from a faraway, holy source.

  THIRTY-TWO

  We walked down my long, sloping yard to the dock, Max leading the way. It was about twenty minutes before sunset and the river and sun were working in splendid concert. The water was flat, moving in a slow dance through the jetties and oxbow. The sun dressed the old river in a new coat each evening. Tonight it appeared in nuggets of gold, shimmering in pools of cranberry, looking as if water danced with fire.

  Elizabeth stood near the end of the dock. She held the wine glass in both hands and seemed to inhale like she hadn’t breathed in years. The evening air was kissed with the scent of honeysuckles and trumpet blossoms. A blue heron stalked the shallows, the water moving in shades of dark cherries around its legs. A hummingbird darted a few feet above the water and fed from trumpet blossoms on vines that hung from the seawall. The vines looked like a waterfall of green splattered in blooms of purple, white and pink. Three white herons flew over the river, their reflections racing below them.

  “You’re right,” she said smiling and turning to me.

  “About what?”

  “The loss for words thing… I didn’t think places like this still existed in Florida.”

  “It’ll get better as the sun says good night.”

  “It has such a beautiful and primordial sense. Standing on the dock, I feel like I’m standing on some kind of time-warp platform, a place that allows me to visit as long as I don’t step off and change things.” The breeze played with her hair.

  “You won’t change things because you don’t have the greed of a land developer in your blood. Too often county commissioners give them permits to rape the land, leaving Florida a shell of its former self.” I pointed across the river. “It won’t happen on that side of the St. Johns. That’s the eastern boundary of the Ocala National Forest. It’s about as primitive as land can get and still co-exist with man.”

  Max paced the left side of the dock, a miniature growl stuttering in her throat. “Oh, look,” said Elizabeth, pointing toward cypress trees and the gnarled knees that protruded out of the water. “Max spotted an alligator.” A four-foot gator swam slowly out of the cypress recess on a trip to the other side of the river.

  “Let’s sit and enjoy it. The show only gets better.” She sat next to me on one of the two wooden benches I’d built and installed on both sides of the dock, one facing east for sunrises, the other facing west for shows like tonight.

  “This is paradise,” Elizabeth said, sipping her wine. She looked at me and smiled, the colors of the river bouncing in her eyes. “It’s good just to get away from the restaurant. I’ve been thinking of selling the business.”

  “What would you do?”

  “I don’t know. Molly’s graduating soon, and she’ll be gone. I haven’t traveled much in my life. I think I’d like that.”

  “What’s wrong, Elizabeth?”

  “What do you mean?’

  “You’re still troubled. Something’s heavy on your mind. Want to talk about it?”

  “Are you always that perceptive?”

  “Sometimes. Years ago, when I’d question suspects, I sort of learned to read between the lies. Often people, perfectly honest folks, use similar body language when they’re trying to bury something… usually something painful.”

  She laughed. “You and Sherri must have had a great marriage. I’m sure she never tried to be deceitful; bet she probably knew it’d be difficult around you.”

  “We had no secrets.”

  “That’s rare.”

  “I miss our time together.”

  “I can tell.”

  “Now, can you also tell me what’s so heavy on your mind?”

  “It’s Molly,” she sighed, her eyes watching the heron.

  “What about Molly?”

  “She’s so stubborn. She and Mark were returning to the wildlife refuge to release the atala butterflies near those coontie plants. I believe she mentioned them to you when you and Max were in our restaurant.”

  “She did.”

  “Anyway, she said she needed to go because she couldn’t postpone the release and risk the life cycle of the butterflies.”

  “I told her I was worried, and she said there was nothing to worry about since they had that creepy Frank Soto in custody. She concluded by telling me that she and Mark never saw Soto in the forest to begin with, so in her mind, she wasn’t sure the two were even connected.”

  “When is she doing the butterfly release?”

  “Today, I think.”

  “Have you tried calling her?”

  “Three times. The last was right before I pulled in your driveway. It went to voice mail. I tried Mark’s phone, too. It did the same thing.”

  I said nothing as I watched seeds from a dandelion float across the river.

  “Am I just being an over-reactive mother to a college senior?”

  “No, given the circumstances of late, that’s a natural reaction.”

  “Maybe she’ll call tonight and, in her own animated way, tell me how grand it was to watch those dark blue butterflies start a happy new home out there somewhere.” She gestured across the river.

  I watched a white heron take flight over the river. Reminiscent of the Greek character, Icarus, the great bird beat its wings and climbed toward a mountain of purple clouds that threatened to squeeze the last ounce of light from a crimson sun.

  If Detective Lewis had left a message on my phone, I hoped it wasn’t about Molly Monroe.

  THIRTY-THREE

  We dined on the back porch. The screens kept the mosquitoes out and let t
he river breeze blow in. A quarter moon rose over the palms while a chorus of frogs competed down by the river. Under light from three candles, Elizabeth finished her grilled snapper, swiping the last piece through the white wine sauce I’d learn to make from Nick. She smiled and said, “All right, I’ll admit it. I’m already spoiled. This is delicious.”

  “Glad you like it. We’ll cut the apple pie when you’re ready.” Max sat in a rocking chair across from us. She lifted her head, her belly filled. Maybe.

  Elizabeth stood. “I might give my slice to Max. I’m so stuffed. Where’s your bathroom?”

  “Through the kitchen, first door on your left.”

  “Be right back.”

  When she left, I picked up the cell and retrieved my last message. Detective Lewis asked for me to call him. I punched in his number. “Mr. O’Brien, we want to let you know that there’s been a situation with Frank Soto.”

  “Situation?”

  “You didn’t see the news?”

  “No.”

  “Last night, in his holding cell, it seems Soto cut himself somewhere that wasn’t noticeable, sucked blood from the wound and acted like he was vomiting blood, faked convulsions. On his way to the hospital, he killed one guard and escaped. I’ve left messages for Elizabeth Monroe and her daughter. I haven’t heard from either. If you happen to see them, you might want to let them know Soto’s on the loose. Good night.”

  I inhaled deeply. A great horned owl called out from the top of a live oak. Max lifted her head. Elizabeth came through the door, her face serene, her eyes filled with trust. She looked down at the river, the moon’s reflection quivering off the dark surface. She stood and watched bats catch moths circling the floodlight at the entrance to the dock. There was a series of hoots. Elizabeth turned to me. “That was an owl, right?”

  I smiled. “They get talkative around here.”

  “When I was a little girl, my brother and I would hear an owl when we visited my grandparents’ farm in northern Virginia. I always felt the owl was talking to us, almost as if the bird was asking us a question… something like… ‘How are you, too?’”

  “They’re inquisitive birds.” I set the phone on the table.

  “Do you need to make a call?”

  “I was just listening to a message. Sit down, Elizabeth.”

  “Please, Sean, tell me it’s not about Molly.”

  “It’s not.”

  “What, then?”

  “That message was from Detective Lewis. He said that Frank Soto escaped.”

  The trust went out of Elizabeth’s eyes as if someone had unplugged a light. She slowly lowered herself back into her chair, one hand on the table. “Dear, God,” she said in a voice just above a whisper. She reached inside her purse and found her cell. “I left it on vibrate. One missed call. It’s from Detective Lewis.” She pressed a button.

  “Are you calling him?” I asked.

  “No, I’m calling Molly.” She waited. Pulse beating in her neck. “Molly, call me, sweetheart. The man who pulled the gun on us, Frank Soto, he’s escaped from jail. So please, baby, be very careful and call me to let me know you’re okay. I love you.” She watched the moon rising through the cypress, her eyes settling on mine. “I’m so worried. Not for me, but for Molly.” Elizabeth began punching keys on her phone and left a similar message on Mark’s phone.

  I waited for her to finish and said, “I think we should contact the PD in Gainesville. See what they can find. Have them go to her apartment, knock on her door.”

  “Would you call them, Sean?”

  “Absolutely.” I made the call and dispatch put me through to the watch commander. I explained why I was calling and said, “We’d like for you to check her apartment for us.”

  His response was courteous and definitely ex-military. “We had a unit at Miss Monroe’s apartment complex around nineteen hundred hours. Negative results. Observation of the parking lot and subject’s car was not seen.”

  “Did the officer try knocking on Molly’s door?”

  “Negative.”

  “Would you mind going back? See if there are any signs of forced entry. Maybe a neighbor heard something.”

  “We can do that.”

  I gave him my number and asked that he call me back. Elizabeth looked at me, her eyes probing. She said, “Molly’s in trouble. I felt it earlier. She was reaching out to me.” Elizabeth stepped closer to the screen, the sound of cicadas coming from across the river, moonlight dribbling through the boughs of ancient oaks.

  My phone rang. It was the Gainesville PD Commander. He said, “No signs of forced entry. All doors and windows in the subject’s apartment are locked.”

  I thanked him as I heard the beep of another call coming in. It was from Dave Collins. “Do you get television reception out there in the boonies?” he asked.

  I never liked greetings that began with a question like that. “What’s up, Dave?”

  “I was flipping channels and caught a news promo on one of the local stations. They said two hikers in the Ocala National Forest found a box. Leaves and brush had covered it, but their Labrador apparently caught a scent and scratched around in the leaves where the hikers pulled out the box. They said it had a bloody handprint on the side. The blood appeared to be fresh.”

  “Did they find anything else?”

  “Not according to the news brief. They did say the box was labeled: fragile — contents live butterflies.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Elizabeth Monroe turned into something I’ve seen in few people, man or woman, under similar conditions. Somewhere in her psyche, a force came out and congealed around absolute fear, harnessing the worst kind of horror — fear for the life of her only child. Her mind went into an aggressive stance, refusing to run, willing her being to find out the complete facts as they pertained to Molly. She was composed, almost perfunctory as she asked questions. But I could see a hairline crack just below the paint. “Do they think the blood is from Molly? Did they find her car?”

  I didn’t have the answers. From what Dave had learned from the news, they didn’t know if there were any other signs of foul play. I called Detective Lewis and told him that Elizabeth was with me. “Marion County is working the scene as we speak,” he said. “Detective Sandberg has forensics people all over it. Trying to make sure they get every speck they can find.”

  “Did they find her car?”

  “Not that we’ve heard.”

  “Beside the bloody print, no sign of a struggle?”

  “Apparently not, at least none that was obvious. They’ll take everything to the lab, and that could tell another story. They’ll use choppers and dogs in the morning.”

  “Please keep us posted of anything you learn.”

  “Remind Elizabeth Monroe to be very careful. Bye.”

  I set the phone down and watched Elizabeth whisper a silent prayer, making the sign of the cross when she finished. I told her what the detective said and added, “They’ll do aerial surveillance in the morning, and also send out search and rescue.”

  Elizabeth was silent, wrapped in private thoughts. She stared at the moon, her courage draped in secluded memories, sealed in love and hope for her daughter. “Sean, why… why has this happened?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Maybe she was abducted, kidnapped and taken somewhere.”

  I said nothing.

  “Tell me she’s alive! Tell me my daughter is alive, please.” Her eyes burned.

  “I hope… I pray she’s okay.”

  Elizabeth hugged her upper arms, her body trembling for a moment. She looked at me; her eyes searching for something I knew would be elusive, at best. She said, “When Molly was about ten, she found a baby bird, a mockingbird, it had fallen from a nest somewhere. The bird was hopping around, couldn’t fly. It was scared of the other kids, but Molly was able to approach it. She lifted the bird on her hand and stood under an apple tree in our backyard calling out for the mother bird. The mother came down and p
erched on a limb right above Molly’s head. It was as if they were having a conversation. Molly stood on her tiptoes and set the little bird on the limb and watched as the mother fed her baby. A week later the baby had learned to fly, and it would follow Molly each morning as she walked to the bus stop.”

  An owl hooted as it flew across the river from a pine tree in my yard. Elizabeth looked toward the moon and then turned to me. “Who’s going to bring my baby back to me? Molly was learning to fly on her own wings… and now that she’s fallen, who’s going to set her back in the tree? Who would harm a person who is trying to save endangered butterflies? I’m so afraid…” her voice choked.

  She stepped to me, arms extended, eyes confused, lower lip trembling as she reached up. “Hold me, Sean. Just hold me.” I held her, and the dam broke, tears spilling down both cheeks. She pressed her head to my chest, deep sobs coming from her heart. “Find Molly, Sean. Please bring my baby back to me.”

  A breeze blew across the river bringing the scent of rain. A nightingale called out in the dark. I held Elizabeth as fireflies rose from their secret hiding places in my yard and floated above the ground. The moon rose farther through the old oaks, and the promise of a long night began to settle around us. “I’ll find Molly,” I said.

  There was a distant roll of thunder, and I knew dark clouds were building just beyond the horizon. Elizabeth looked up at me, hope etched on her blotched, tear-stained face. She touched my cheek, her fingers trembling. I said, “Stay the night. You’ll be safe here.” She pressed her face against my chest and silently cried.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Elizabeth had not brought a change of clothes. I’d left one of my clean denim shirts in the bathroom for her to wear to bed. I sat on the porch, listened to the shower running, sipped an Irish whiskey and rubbed Max’s sleepy head. I’d shown Elizabeth the guest bedroom, turned down the sheets for her, and hoped, somehow, that her emotionally frayed brain would succumb to sleep.