The Butterfly Forest (Mystery/Thriller) (15 page)

“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 perched 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.

I knew my mind would not, at least not now.  I wondered whether Marion County CSI had retrieved all the evidence they possibly could.  Wherever they had found the bloodstained butterfly box, I hoped they’d combed every square inch.  The rains were coming.  Clues and forensics evidence would be seriously compromised.  It wasn’t my case, and I was no longer a cop.  But I’d just told a very frightened mother that I’d find her daughter.  From an unscheduled stop at a Walmart, to a potential double murder investigation, here I was again.

I sipped the Jameson.  Lightning flickered beyond the oxbow in the river, the flashes casting the tall palms in silhouette.  If Molly and her boyfriend had been slaughtered in the forest, was their killer Frank Soto?  Had he escaped long enough to track them down, and if so, why would he, or anyone else, want them dead?  The thought of Molly’s body lying somewhere across the river, deep in the Ocala National Forest, sent an iciness between my shoulder blades.  Rain on her body could wash away evidence.  Maybe she was alive.  Maybe the blood on the butterfly box wasn’t hers.  And maybe the handprint was someone else’s.

The Irish whiskey whispered false secrets in my ear.  But, for the woman lying in my guest bedroom, clutching onto any possibility of hope, for her sake, I would listen to the whispers.  I would entertain illusions of optimism and delay the truth serum that propped up my guard and fought the purple dragons of fantasy.

Feeling fatigue lock in behind my eyes, I leaned back in my big whicker rocker. Max was sound asleep in my lap, and I was hoping Elizabeth had fallen asleep in the spare bedroom.  It was just me, the silent flow of the black river around the cypress with its prop wash of today being carried out to sea, and the tiny winks of light from hovering fireflies signaling for the lightning to come play tag in the dark.  The first drops of rain popped on the tin roof over my head.  Max opened her sleepy eyes for a second, and then drifted off.  I listened to the rain against the metal engulf me into the roar of a waterfall from heaven.              

LUKE PALMER LAY BENEATH the plastic tarp he’d strung between two scrawny pine trees.  The rain had passed and morning was taking its time getting up.  He opened his eyes and watched the tawny light turn the forest into a morning of buttery colors.  It was then he thought of the tree he’d seen yesterday.  The two hearts stretched into wings as if the old tree had a tattoo and the lines were blurring.  Ma Barker’s boy, Fred, carved ‘em, according to Karpis.  Boy must have loved his mama.  At least he knew her.  Not everybody in this world gets that.

THIRTY-SIX

I downloaded a picture of a coontie plant onto my phone, and then left Max with my nearest neighbors, an elderly couple who lived less than a mile from my house.  Elizabeth and I drove Highway 40 into the Ocala National Forest.  We turned off a series of secondary roads, hit dirt roads, and soon had tree branches slapping at the Jeep as I followed the directions I’d received from Detective Sandberg.  Elizabeth had spoken with the mother of Molly’s boyfriend, Mark.  And, even though the phone was held close to Elizabeth’s ear, I could hear the woman sobbing on the other line. 

Detective Sandberg told me they found Molly’s car more than a half mile away from the spot where the hikers had discovered the butterfly box.  I didn’t know how Elizabeth would react when she saw her daughter’s car.   

After another mile, we came around a bend to find six sheriff’s cruisers, a half dozen SUV’s, two vans, and three TV news trucks not far from Molly’s car.  Her blue Toyota was in the center of crime scene tape.  Elizabeth held one hand to her mouth.  She stared at the car for a half minute.  I said nothing.  Slowly, she opened the door and stepped from the Jeep.  More vehicles were arriving.

As we approached Molly’s car, Detective Sandberg met us.  I introduced Elizabeth to him and he said, “We can’t find any indication of a struggle.  Last night’s rain pretty much eliminated any useable tire tread patterns.  We’ve dusted interiors and exteriors of the car.  Some prints were found, of course, but it isn’t known yet whether they were from anyone else other than Molly and Mark.”

“Where’d they find the butterfly box?” I asked. 

He looked to his north.  “Less than a mile that way.”

“Where are the people who found it?”

“Home, probably.”  He pulled a small notepad from his shirt pocket.  “Jesse and Christine Clemson.  They live in Ocala.  Our team is beginning a search of the area in about twenty minutes.  Getting plenty of volunteers.”  He looked at Elizabeth, his voice softer.  “Miss Monroe, is that your daughter’s hair brush?”  Pointing toward a deputy's gloved hand, he added, “It was in her car.”

“Yes,” she said.  “That's Molly’s brush.”

He nodded, placed the brush in a plastic bag.  “We’ll run DNA tests immediately and compare it with the evidence found on the box.  Speaking of hair samples, O’Brien, we found two dark hairs on Nicole Davenport’s body, the vic in the fairy costume.  No hair roots, but we’re running tests.”

A pickup truck drove slowly by us.  Two large bloodhounds were in the truck bed, and two men in the front.  Detective Sandberg said, “They’re some of the best tracking dogs in the state.  Rain may have done a hellava number on any scent, though.  But, if there’s something to be found, those dogs can find it.”

Elizabeth bit her lip as she watched the driver park the truck and lower the tailgate so the dogs could jump to the ground.  The man led the dogs over to Molly’s car where they met two other forensics investigators.  Elizabeth asked, “Detective Sandberg, isn’t there a possibility that Molly and Mark were abducted?  They could be miles and miles away from this forest.”

“Yes, that’s a possibility.”

“But you don’t believe it happened?”

“It appears unlikely.”

“Why?”

“Why abduct two college-aged kids from a national forest and take them someplace unless kidnapping is the crime and ransom is the motive?  And you’d told us you’ve received no calls or messages from kidnappers, correct?”

“Yes.”

“There’s still that possibility… it’s just that the blood on a butterfly box labeled property of the University of Florida… well, that sheds a different light on the subject.”

I said, “The key to Molly and Mark’s disappearance, more than likely, is right here.  Somewhere in this forest, somebody believes Molly and Mark saw something.  But what and how is it connected to Frank Soto?  Could it be tied to the death of the teenage girl, Nicole Davenport?  Anything on Soto’s possible whereabouts?”

“We got a report about an hour ago.  A guy matching Soto’s description was spotted at a truck stop near New Orleans.  FBI has been called in.”

 Two forestry rangers approached us.  I recognized one, Ed Crews, the man I’d met at the gravesite in the woods.  The other man was older.  White hair neatly parted.  Rounded shoulders.  He introduced himself as Adam Decker, Chief Ranger, and he told Elizabeth she could reach him anytime for anything.  He gave her his cell number.

I asked him, “Who’s in the forest at any given time?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you know who’s roaming in here?  Do they check-in at the ranger stations?”

Decker’s eyes squinted.  “You mean campers?”

“Campers, hikers, hunters during season.  Anyone and everyone.”

Crews nodded at his boss and said, “We know who’s registered to camp.  Permits are given.  Hunting season isn’t until October.  Legitimate hunters register.  Hikers, too, because they get trail maps, and it’s always a good idea to let us know you’re in here.”

I smiled.  “Is that because, like a pilot filing a flight plan, if they don’t come back out, you know they’re probably lost in the forest?”

Crews grinned.  “That’s a good way of painting a picture.  It’s a huge forest, and it gets real dark in here at night.  It’s easy to get lost.”

“Which means that only those wanting to be accounted for would probably register at the ranger stations?  Did Molly and Mark check-in with anyone?”

Decker shook his head.  “No, there’s no record of them coming or going.”

Detective Sandberg looked across the area to the search team forming and said, “The forest has its share of vagrants, what I’d call social misfits, or outright crazies living back in there.  Any of these people could have been involved in the disappearance of Miss Monroe and Mr. Stewart.”

Ed Crews said, “Most stay hidden.  I ran into one recently.  I told you about him when the girl’s body was found in that shallow grave.  An ex con who says he’s looking for Civil War artifacts.”

“We’ve interviewed three homeless guys in here,” said Detective Sandberg, “but we haven’t found a man matching the description you gave.  Where’d you last see him?”

“Near Juniper Springs.  He seems to move around a lot.”

“If you see him again, detain him until we can get back in here.”

THIRTY-SEVEN

After an hour of searching, Luke Palmer finally found the old oak tree.  He stood there, a drop of sweat clinging from his nose, swatted a deerfly and stared at the two hearts carved in the bark.  He tried to place himself in the shoes of the man who carved them back in 1935.  Maybe Fred Barker buried the treasure on the side of the tree facing the hearts.  That way when Barker returned, if he returned, he’d know where to dig.

Palmer dropped his backpack and used the steel rod to probe the ground a few feet in front of the tree, still within an easy sight of the hearts.  Roots.  Roots thick as a big man’s arm.  Everywhere.  He pushed the prod into the earth, using his weight to leverage it farther in the soil.  Nothing.  He stepped to a spot directly in front of the hearts and worked the steel into the earth. 

There was a distinct tap.  Metal on metal. 
YES
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