The Butterfly Forest

NINETY-EIGHT

Two days later, forensics investigators were still picking body parts out of the trees and power lines surrounding the warehouse. Nine agents died. Four others lay critically injured in hospitals. The body of Izzy Gonzales was still MIA, and his uncle, Pablo Gonzales, left no clues behind. It was as if he and his operation never existed.

I walked Elizabeth down L dock to the parking lot and to her car. She’s stowed her belongings into a single brown suitcase that I had given her. As she opened the trunk, she turned to me. “I don’t like leaving you here. I feel as if I’m abandoning you.”

“You’re not abandoning me. You’re saving a place for me when this is over.”

“Will it ever be over?”

“Yes. Listen carefully to me, Elizabeth. Go to Cedar Key. Follow the map I gave you. Remember to take the back roads, check your rearview mirror every few minutes. If you even have a hint that anyone is following you, call me. Here are the keys to the boat at the Cedar Key Municipal Marina. Boat’s called Sovereignty. Electricity and plumbing are on, but you’ll have to buy some groceries. Stay there. I’ll call you to let you know what’s going on and when I can join you. If I’m lucky, we’ll bring Sovereignty around the Florida Keys and up here to Ponce Marina soon.”

“You saw what Gonzales did to those federal agents. You’re one man. How can one man beat this guy and his army? I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you, too.”

I kissed her lips and said, “Go on. I’ll be there. Just believe in that, okay? Don’t dwell on what ifs and those things we can’t control.”

She tried to smile though eyes that welled with tears. “Please be careful, Sean. I dropped down on my knees last night and begged God to watch over you.”

I said nothing as she got in the car, started the engine, bit her bottom lip and slowly drove out of the parking lot. I watched her pull onto Highway AIA and head north. Walking back to Jupiter, the dock master stepped from his office and greeted me. He was a portly man with a flushed, round face, T-shirt hanging over his belly, a stub of a yellow pencil wedged behind his right ear. “Sean, got something for you.”

“What’s that?”

He held out an envelope. “It came for you today. No return address. You don’t get a lot of mail, so I thought this one, with a handwritten address, might be important.”

“Thanks, Darnel.” He handed me the envelope. My name and the marina address were written across the front in near perfect penmanship. The lettering was done in an old-style slant to the letters, the inscription drafted from the hand of an artist.

I walked down the dock toward Jupiter, opening the letter and reading. I knew who’d sent it before I read the first line. The calligraphy was flawless, not unlike his art. I don’t know why, but I read his words aloud.