The Butterfly Forest

ONE HUNDRED

Two nights later, I knew Dave still had some clout in DC. I could actually feel the federal presence lift like fog dissipating. I walked Max on the grass near the marina parking lot before coming back down L dock toward Jupiter, listening to the boats in the distance and the call of a laughing gull flying overhead. The scent of lemon shrimp and snook cooking over charcoal was alluring.

I fed Max, dressed in black jeans and a long sleeve dark shirt and wedged the Glock under my belt. I knew Gonzales was not going to stop hunting me. For psychos like him, revenge had no expiration date.

I thought of Elizabeth hiding in Cedar Key, thought of Molly and Mark buried under the Florida sand, thought of Nicole Davenport who wore fairy wings one midsummer’s night, her fantasy ending in a monstrous rape and death. I could see Luke Palmer’s bloated neck and face as blowflies crawled in his open mouth and nose. Gonzales wanted revenge for his nephew, regardless that he was killed because he was about to kill, again. He could rot in hell. Their deaths and that of the others, all innocent, demanded justice.

I picked up Max and rubbed her head. “You’ll be staying on Dave’s boat for the night, okay? Maybe you can get in some winks between his snores.” I set her down and she trotted toward the salon’s sliding glass doors. “Okay, let’s go to Uncle Dave’s.”

Max quickly made herself at home on Gibraltar, jumping up onto Dave’s couch. He sipped from a glass of red wine, leaning back from his computer screen, his bifocals reflecting the pop of revolving light from the lighthouse. “You won’t get any second chances out there. You know that…”

I nodded and said, “It’s time to fish.”

I drove my jeep north to Daytona Beach, parked in a pool hall lot, and begin walking. I headed to the strip, the guttural rumble of Harleys bouncing off the biker bars and beachfront motels. I watched cars stopped at a traffic light, assuming one of the cars was a tail. A shirtless man, hair matted down from dirt and sweat, eyes sunken in his narrow face, stood at one corner holding a cardboard sign that read: Hungry

College kids on spring break, bikers on permanent break, tourists and conventioneers crisscrossed each other as the traffic lights changed. Each group marched with its own agenda, most of the crowd seeking the hedonism promised by the ‘world’s most famous beach.’

I walked past a strip joint as a half dozen college men stood outside and counted dollars. “Why do they make you pay a friggin’ cover charge?” one of them asked, his voice drowned out when two businessmen opened the club’s door, the grinding music blasting onto Ocean Drive. I passed a tattoo parlor, its bluish light spilling from the window framing a teenage girl who was trying to look brave while a bearded artist, cigarette dangling from his lips, injected ink into a spot just above the crack in her butt.

In the distance, I could hear an eighteen wheeler shifting gears to cross the Broadway Bridge over the Halifax River. I continued walking, scanning each car as it passed, looking at the tops of high-rise condos, taking in each corner, and crossing streets with people who smelled of sun block, reefer and stale beer.

I walked for more than an hour, up Ocean Drive and back down the strip and the boardwalk. I couldn’t detect anyone following me. Maybe Gonzales had decided to call off his troops. Maybe he no longer had a bounty on my head, and all was forgiven in the death of Izzy. Maybe I’d hit the lotto.

Just as the traffic light changed to green, a dark Chrysler switched lanes, pulled forward and passed me. Through the back window, I could see the driver look in his rearview mirror. He spoke to the other man in the front seat. It didn’t look like there was anyone in the back seat. The driver tapped his brakes once approaching the next block and turning right.

Bingo. I knew they’d been following me, now I’d give them the opportunity to come a little closer. I stood on the street corner, allowing them time to circle the block. I heard a siren somewhere in the mosaic of neon, music and the thunder of motorcycles.

I saw the car coming slowly around the block, the Atlantic Ocean dark in the background, a strobe of distant heat lightning threading gold stitches through the clouds. I entered the alleyway, the smell of garbage pungent in the night air. I felt that Gonzales wanted me alive. I knew he personally wanted to turn my backbone into calcium powder. They were here to take me alive, take me back to their leader’s hut. But, I wasn’t going to comply.

Come get me.

The Chrysler entered the alley, its headlights raking across graffiti and garbage piled in plastic bags. A light rain began to fall on the old brick. As the car came closer, I saw a black cat dart in front of it, the cat running behind a green dumpster. I stepped behind the dumpster and waited.

The car’s engine turned off, but the headlights stayed on while two doors opened and shut. There was the sound of hard soles, the men making no attempt to quietly approach me. I could see their shadows moving against the walls, the red neon of an exit sign reflecting from the wet brick. I readied my Glock and watched their shadows. Could see them reaching for something in their pockets. In five seconds they would be visible. In six seconds they may be dead.