The Butterfly Forest

TWENTY-ONE

Cedar Key may have broken off from Key West about the time Hemingway lived there, floated backwards in the Gulf Steam, and anchored itself away from the tides of change. The whole town feels like it should be on the national register of historic places. It’s an old fishing village that propped itself up recently, tossed out the dusty Sears and Roebuck catalogs, and invited tourists.

After four hours of inspecting Sovereignty, turning over her diesels, I gave the Beneteau keys back to the broker and walked to the Captain’s Table on Dock Street for a late lunch. I ordered Cedar Key steamed clams, which were cooked in white wine, butter and garlic, and took them outside to eat on the dock. I sat at a wooden table, the late afternoon sun spilling from crimson clouds in the west over the Gulf of Mexico. As I ate, five roseate spoonbills glided over the still water as if they’d been plucked from the clouds, their pink feathers shimmering off the flat ocean. A man in a kayak paddled toward the sun.

I thought about what I would need to deliver the sailboat from here to Ponce Marina. The boat was new and had easily passed the bank survey. I’d buy two weeks of provisions even though the route would take us through a lot of excellent stopping points with rustic restaurants in places like Cabbage Key, Cayo Costa, Sanibel, Naples and Marco. We’d sail around the Ten Thousand Islands, turn north at Key Largo, head through Biscayne Bay and up the east coast to Ponce Marina.

At this point, with Elizabeth and Molly under police watch and Detective Lewis working with Marion County sheriff’s office to probe the forest, there wasn’t much more I could do. Molly and Elizabeth were alive, relatively safe, and Soto was out of sight.

After a few more days, if all was quiet, I’d take the job and bring the boat half way around the state.

My cell phone vibrated on the wooden table.

I wiped the butter off my fingers and answered. It was Detective Lewis. “O’Brien, just wanted to let you know that your hunch about the tattoo and the national forest paid off.”

“Did you find Soto?

“No, but we might have found his work. I was speaking with Marion County when they got a call about a body found somewhere in those woods. The locals there simply call the whole place — the forest. And they’ve had more than their share of bodies turn up in that place. A park ranger discovered a shallow grave. He called in to report that it looks as though an animal, maybe a possum, dug it up. They found a girl. No ID yet, most likely a runaway. She had been wearing a costume, fairy wings folded behind her back. Whoever buried her, laid her hands across her stomach, fingers laced together. Posed her. Weird bastard.”

I said nothing. I thought about the tattoo I’d seen on Soto’s arm, and the one hanging in Inkman’s shop.

“You there, O’Brien?”

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“Where are you?”

“Cedar Key.”

“You’re a hell of a lot closer to the crime scene there than I am down here in Sanford. I don’t think the M.E. has got to it yet. Supposed to be way back in the forest.”

“Thanks, Detective.”

“O’Brien, don’t go messing around up there. A few of those ol’ boys on the Marion S.O. have gotten real damn sensitive about all the bodies found dumped in the forest. You understand what I’m trying to tell you?”

“Absolutely, Detective.”

I looked at my watch and figured I had a couple of hours before sunset. Enough time to pay a visit to a place the locals call the forest.