The Butterfly Forest (Mystery/Thriller) (6 page)

My three-mile jog took me north, most of the running on a path near the river.  As the sun eased over the tree line, I thought about Elizabeth and Molly Monroe.  I’d left my card with them and instructions to call if they needed me.  I remembered my cell phone sitting back on the porch next to a framed picture of my wife, Sherri.  And I remembered the promise I’d made to Sherri to do something else with my life.  “I’m trying,” I said, the sound of my own voice out of character in the surrounding primal land of birdsong, water and light, a place where Florida existed like it had before the Spanish arrived 450 years ago.

I pictured Frank Soto and the hate on his face as he kicked me.  What had Molly done or seen…or what had he thought she’d done or seen?  Maybe Elizabeth was right.  Maybe Soto was your basic serial rapist who got his erections by stalking women, using hate and violence as self-satisfying, sadistic foreplay.  Then why did he try to take them both, mother and daughter?  Could it have been because he assumed the daughter had told the mother something, and both needed to be silenced?

I climbed the steps to my back porch, and there was Max waiting.  She was pacing to a different stimulus, this one bladder-induced.  I let her out, and she scampered to her favorite spot in the wide yard.  She watched a small Johnboat motor down the center of the river, a fisherman sipping coffee from a thermos, a V rippling the still water.   

 My cell phone didn’t indicate any missed calls or text messages.  I glanced down at Sherri’s beautiful eyes and said, “I’m trying.  No calls.  That’s a good thing.”

Max looked up at me.  “Yep, I know, most of the time I talk to you.  I was just…”  Her head cocked, eyes curious.  “Oh, never mind, Max.  Let’s head to the marina.”  I had checked on the web and knew we had a few days of hot sun.  Now was the time to begin repairs to my boat.  It, like my home, creaked with old age.   

I locked the river house, put Max in the front seat of the Jeep, headed for the grocery store and then went to Ponce Marina.  What I needed was a few days of sanding, painting, lots of sweating, saltwater, and some fresh seafood to keep my head in the direction I told myself it needed to be.  Then I thought about the heart-felt embrace Elizabeth Monroe had given me in the parking lot, the scent of her perfume, the slight trembling in her body, the way she held me.  But it was at the restaurant when I felt something unfasten inside me.  It was when we were saying goodbye.  She had faked a boldness that I knew was thin, a shield she held to protect her daughter, like she’d probably done so many times before.  And now a psycho had pointed a gun in her face, left her with emotional scars and the threat of his return.

I found the card Detective John Lewis had given me.  I called his number, reintroduced myself and asked, “Did you come up with anything more on Soto?” 

He cleared his throat.  “Right now, Mr. O’Brien, the suspect is still on the run.”

“Where’s his family?”

“We don’t have a last known address.  The DL lists an address of a PO Box in Miami.  Soto’s done a good job of not leaving a plastic trail.  Must use cash for everything.  I heard you worked homicide in Miami, is that so?”

“It’s been a while.  You think Soto will return?”

“Hard to say what a criminal mind will or will not do.  We have a visible presence at the restaurant, officers stopping in for coffee.  We’re not so visible to the untrained eye at Miss Monroe’s home, but we’re there.”

“How about when Molly Monroe returns to her apartment in Gainesville?”

“Florida Department of Law Enforcement is working with Gainesville PD.”

“So you believe it wasn’t a random attack, right?”

He didn’t answer immediately.  I could hear a croaky sound deep within his lungs.  He said, “Correct.  We have reason to believe Soto knew or knew of Molly Monroe.”

“Is that because of the tat she saw at the butterfly research center in Gainesville?”

“Yes.”

“She tell you it looked like a woman wearing butterfly wings?”

“Yeah.”

“Detective, it was a hybrid tat.”

“Hybrid?  What the hell does that mean?’

“The face was like a young fairy with the body of a grown woman superimposed with the wings and lower extremities of a butterfly.”

He snorted when he laughed.  “A damn fairy, like a cartoon, on the body of a nude woman.  Now, what does that tell you about the mind of Frank Soto?”    

A handful of thoughts raced through my head—not one of them good.  I knew the place and direction I needed to be—at the marina, chartering the boat, making a life.  I pointed my Jeep that way.  But inside, deep inside, my internal compass was beginning to spin toward Elizabeth and Molly Monroe. 

TWELVE

We rolled into the dusty parking lot and Max stood on her hind legs, popped her head out the open window, and filled her nose to sensory capacity.  A half-dozen sunburned tourists, back from a morning of charter boat fishing, loaded their iced-down catch of red snappers into the trunk of a rental car.  Two bearded bikers cut their Harley engines, parked under a live oak and strode into the Tiki Bar Restaurant adjacent to the main pier.   

Getting out of the Jeep, I was greeted with the scent of blackened grouper and garlic drifting across the oyster shell lot.  A flock of brown pelicans sailed effortlessly above us, banking over the long line of boats moored to L dock, and then vanishing into the mangroves and estuaries of the Halifax River.  In the distance, I could see the top of the Ponce Lighthouse poking its glass eye above the tree line. 

I liked this place.  Liked the people, the smells, even liked the “dock cat,” Ol Joe, a calico knock-off who outweighed Max by ten pounds.  Joe had no fear of Max, and had, on one occasion, raked his claws across Max’s nose. 

“Hey, Sean, ‘bout time you showed up here again.  One day your bilge pump is gonna go kaput, and your boat will be on the bottom of the bay.”  The greeting came from Nick Cronus, a commercial fisherman with an ancient Greek sailor’s heritage in his blood and a wide smile on his tan face.  In his mid-forties, he had powerful forearms, hands and muscular shoulders, skin dark as creosote, a head of curly black hair, untrimmed mustache and a perpetual smile working in one corner of his mouth.

Nick had been the first person I’d met at the marina, and I met him under some dire circumstances.  It was late at night, after the Tiki Bar closed.  Nick had argued with two drunken bikers who wanted to feed him to the crabs.  They’d come close.  I’d fallen asleep lying on my deck under the stars when I heard the punches and swearing.

With the threat of using my Glock, I pulled two bikers off Nick the first month I docked
Jupiter
here.  After the bikers cursed me, mounted their Harleys and rode north toward Daytona, Nick, partially drunk and completely serious, said he was in my debt forever.  “Brothers for life,” he whispered through loose teeth, split lips and bloodied gums.  I’d cleaned him up and helped him back to his Old World-style boat.  He was loyal as a big-hearted St. Bernard, something that I was grateful for because Nick kept an eye on my boat when I was away.  There is no better neighborhood watch than a marina community.  

“Hey there hotdog!” Nick said, kneeling in the parking lot and scooping up Max with his big hand and holding her belly up.  Max didn’t protest, licking Nick’s whiskered face as he cradled her in his arms like a baby and said, “I got a starfish for a chew bone.  Maxie, you need to hang out with Uncle Nicky, I cook better than Sean.  Yeah, man.”

I smiled.  “You’re spoiling her.”

“All sexy ladies, like Max, need to be spoiled.  She’s a princess and knows it.”

“She’s a handful.”  I started to unload ice and groceries. 

Nick grinned, set Max down and said, “Lemme help you.  Did you bring some beer or am I gonna have to drink the two-dollar drafts in the bar?”

“Case of Corona.”

“Sean O’Brien, you have not learned to fish yet, but when you get customers, you’ll know how to make ‘em happy fishermen.”

“It’d be nice to find a few paying clients.  My resources are running low.  I might take a job teaching college if I don’t learn the trade and get my boat ready to go.”

“What you gonna teach?”

“Things I’d like to forget, things like criminal profiling, forensics.”  I handed Nick two bags of groceries.  I carried the ice, and Max followed us through the alcove between the marina office and the Tiki Bar, toward L dock.

A singer, dressed in a colorful island print shirt, white shorts and white fedora hat, nodded to us as we worked our way through customers extended a ways out from around the bar.  All the seats were taken.  I could smell sun block, sweat and chlorine.  The talk was loud.  Debate topics included fishing, sports and NASCAR.  Bottles of beer dripped with condensation in the humidly as two paddle fans spun overhead.

“Where you heading sailor?” asked Kim Davis, the bartender.  She popped the top off a bottle of Bud, slid it down the bar to a bleary-eyed charter boat captain and approached us.  “Well hello, hero.”

I knew what that greeting meant.  “Hi, Kim.”  Her chestnut hair was pulled back in a ponytail.  She was an attractive woman, nice hips, a mid-thirties sexiness and confidence about her.  Most of her skin tanned well, but there was a pinch of freckles on her shoulders.  She wore a cut-off tank top that read:
Eat ‘em raw - Tiki Bar, Ponce Inlet, Florida.

Nick said, “Aw, baby, and all this time I believed I was your hero.”

Kim winked.  “You’re irreplaceable, Nicky, but Sean is the one that seems to get his face on TV.  This time it was for saving the life of two women, a mother and daughter in a Walmart parking lot.  Police say the women were about to be abducted.”

“What?” asked Nick, his eyebrows animated.

“It was all over the TV news, and in today’s paper.”

Nick shook his head.  “I haven’t seen the paper, and I haven’t hooked my TV to the cable box since I came in from a week of fishing.”

Kim frowned.  “Nicky, Sean O’Brien, your best bud, stopped some creep from messing with a mom and her daughter in a Walmart parking lot.”  She looked up at me. “Can I get Max a fried shrimp?”

I smiled.  “Better take a rain check.  She’s watching her cholesterol.  Have you seen Dave?”

“He was in here a few hours ago.  Had breakfast.”

“Thanks, Kim.”

“Anytime, hero.”  Her smile was infectious.  She wiped her hands on a cotton towel and returned to her thirsty customers. 

As Nick, Max and I walked down L dock, Nick said, “You saved the ladies’ life, huh.  What happened?”

I told him and added, “A punk pulled a pistol on them as they were getting in their car.  I managed to see it going down, called the cops and did a little interference while they were en route.”

“I used to ask myself, Nicky, why this stuff happen to your pal, Sean.  You know what I come to believe, huh?”

“No, what?”

“I believe shit happens and it happens to you ‘cause you see it comin’ down the pike before it happens.  Then you try to trip it up.  Make sense?”

I tried not to grin.  “So, that’s how you sum up my life?”

“Yep.  Sean O’Brien, a good guy, sometimes in a bad place.  Shitty places, man.”

“I’ll think about that while we stow away the groceries and ice.”

Nick pulled a cold Corona from the case.  He said, “Let’s toast to you savin’ the women.”

I set the ice in
Jupiter’s
cockpit.  Max scampered around the boat, her nose working in all the corners.  I opened the doors, hatches and began loading in the groceries.  Nick popped the top off a Corona, sat in the leather sofa, removed his flip-flops, and placed his feet on the cypress table layered in thick lacquer.  It was sturdy.  Nick proof, and it came with the boat.  He set his beer bottle down on the table and called Max up onto his lap.  He belched and said, “We had a good run last week.  I sold two hundred pounds of black grouper.  Got some left over.  We’ll cook it up, Greek-style, tonight.”

 My cell phone rang.  I looked down at the ID.  Elizabeth Monroe.  I answered, watching the condensation from Nick’s beer bottle roll onto the table.  “Sean, you said to call if I needed to.”

“Are you okay?”

“It’s Molly.  I can’t reach her anywhere.”

THIRTEEN

 I sat on one of the three barstools next to my mini-bar.  Nick started to say something, and I held my hand up so I could hear Elizabeth.  “What do you mean you can’t reach her?”

            “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.”