by Tom Lowe
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, ther
e’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!
He dropped to his knees to use the shovel to dig. Two feet down. There it was. Trapped. Held in a grip, as if a giant seized the cache. Gnarled tree roots wrapped around the treasure. An old steel trunk. Time and the elements had turned the outside into dark pewter, the shade of sunlight through soot. He pulled a hunting knife from his belt and hacked at the roots, pieces of wood and bark flying in his face. “C’mon, damn you roots!”
After several minutes of hard cutting, he had the metal box out of the hole. He used his knife to pry off the lock. Slowly, hands shaking, Palmer opened the lid. Old newspaper, the tint of brown mustard, was the first thing he saw. Palmer pulled back newspapers and looked at stacks of money. A little aged, but still green and good as gold. Stacks of one hundred dollar bills. He lifted a roll of money and held the bills to his nose. Palmer closed his eyes, the smell of the forest smothered with the scent of money.
He sat under the ancient oak, sat under the carved hearts, and counted the money. He pictured his niece, Caroline, in her bed, propped up on pillows, looking out her bedroom window with those eyes like melted caramel, her body growing weaker, her face remote as the West Texas landscape.
* * *
I’d left Elizabeth at the sheriff’s makeshift command center, a large and opened tent, near all of the cars. There was food, water and supporters — everyone comforting but anxious. More than fifty people, many volunteers, walked through the dense woods looking for evidence — looking for bodies. As I was leaving, Sheriff Clayton, mid-forties with a linebacker’s girth and a mail-slot mouth, stood in front of cameras, microphones and satellite news trucks anchored where he and Detective Sandberg took questions from the media.
I heard a chopper overhead a quarter mile to my west as I searched through the brush with a younger deputy sheriff, Don Swanson. By midday, he had already lifted three ticks from his arms and scalp. His olive green Marion County Sheriff’s tee shirt was black from sweat, the fabric tight against his muscular chest and arms. He wore a close-cropped flattop haircut, and I saw his scalp turning red under the fierce sun as we walked through one of the few open fields heading toward another pocket of dense woods.
Swanson had been one of the first deputies on the scene after the hikers located the butterfly box. He agreed to lead me to where it was found. He said, “Bloodhounds won’t bark. We won’t know if they run up on something. It’s all in their nose.”
“Maybe we’ll cross paths with that search team,” I said.
Swanson pointed out the scrub where the bloodied box had been discovered.
“Was the box open or closed when you found it?” I asked.
“Open.”
“Were all the butterflies gone?”
“I didn’t see anything in the box, just a bloody handprint on the side of it.”
“Do you know what a coontie plant looks like?”
“A coon what?” He waved gnats from his eyes.
“Coontie. It’s the only plant in the world where the atala butterfly will lay its eggs. The eggs hatch and the caterpillars feed off this plant; it’s the only one they’ll eat.”
“Sounds like a pretty bland diet even for caterpillars.”
“If we can find the coontie not too far from here, we might find the place where this box was opened. And we might find where someone first approached Molly and Mark.”
“So we’re going to track a freakin’ butterfly?”
“They don’t leave tracks. They do leave eggs.” I saw Swanson look toward the tree line as I stepped away, hoping the coontie plants were close.
THIRTY-EIGHT
The sheriff’s helicopter flew low near the river. Swanson reached for the button on his radio. I said, “Maybe we should scout the area first. No need to send people, especially volunteers tromping all over here, looking for a plant that might be hard to spot.”
“So what are we looking for?” His brow wrinkled.
“We’re trying to find a plant that looks like a cross between a fern and a sago palm.” I reached for my cell phone, punched up the picture and handed the phone to Swanson. “That’s a photo of a coontie. And right now, far as we’re concerned, it’s an image of America’s most wanted plant.”
“Detective Sandberg said you worked homicide for Miami-Dade PD.”
“A lifetime ago.”
“I can see how it can get to you. Body count in Florida gets higher every year.”
“Yeah. I’ll search the area to the left. Maybe you can look around to the north.”
“Hunting for a plant?”
“Yep.”
We separated. I watched him for a few seconds, walking slowly, pulling back scrub brush, probing the shadows. I heard the sheriff’s chopper in the distance. Searching the vicinity, I thought of Elizabeth. When I left her, she stood under the shade of a canvas tarp that the sheriff’s deputies had erected. She held a water bottle in one hand and clutched a silver cross that hung from her necklace with the other hand. As the search party was leaving, the look on her face was one of silent desperation.
I saw something. It wasn’t the color of a coontie plant, and it wasn’t the color of nature, either. Plastic. An opaque image near the base of a pine tree. I knelt down and studied the bottle. A half-gallon container, a former milk bottle, with about two inches of water in the base. A strap, from a piece of an old leather belt, was lopped through the plastic handle. I used my cell phone to take a picture before I would ask Swanson to call forensics. Maybe there were trace cells of DNA around the mouth of the bottle or prints on the side.
I worked my way toward a pine thicket interlaced with oaks. Something caught the light. I stepped closer to a large pine tree and spotted a tuff of fur wedged in the bark. It was too high up to have been a rabbit. Maybe a panther or a deer. I scanned the ground. Deer tracks. Set wide apart and deep. I knew that the animal had been running hard. Maybe it crashed into the side of the tree as it ran. What was it running from? There are plenty of bears in the forest. A few panthers and hunters. But this wasn’t hunting season. Poachers? I followed the deer tracks.
Blood. Coagulated — the hue of a ripe plum. There were splatters on leaves. I rubbed a drop between my thumb and finger. Under the shaded canopy from the forest, the blood was still damp. The deer had probably been shot just a few hours earlier.
I conti
nued following the trail. Fifty yards farther and the blood and prints were lost. The underbrush was too thick for visible prints, the leaves and vines no longer spotted with a blood trail. Maybe the deer had died or bolted in another direction and gone deeper into the forest to die. Or its killer could have tracked it, butchered it somewhere in the woods and taken the meat home.
There was movement to my right — something dark moving in the branches. I walked slowly through the sticks and leaves in that direction, careful not to make noise. From out of the foliage, a butterfly rose. It seemed unhurried, almost animated, flying in near slow motion as it searched for flowers. I followed the butterfly as it glided just above my head deeper into the forest.
The butterfly circled near a wild hedge of verdant vines, yellow and white flowers sprouted from the mesh of jade. I recognized the shape and color of the pedals. It was a passionflower. The butterfly alighted on one a few feet away from me. I watched it feed. The lower section of its body was a vibrant reddish orange, the ivory black wings trimmed with blue dots at the outer edges. The top center of the wings was splashed with an iridescent sea green. As the butterfly slowly opened and closed its wings, while feeding, the green changed to cobalt blue. It was as if the wings were moving holograms in a cascade of green leaves flowing with yellow and white blossoms.
I knew that I was watching the rare atala butterfly. And it was probably one released by Molly Monroe.
THIRTY-NINE
The atala flew to a second passionflower. As it fed, I used my cell phone to take the butterfly’s picture. I called Swanson and told him my location and that I was trying to follow the atala. “If you can walk over here, two sets of eyes will be better than one.”