The Butterfly Forest

THIRTY-ONE

An amber sunset filtered through the tall trees in the forest as Luke Palmer looked for a place to stretch his plastic tarp between two trees. He’d hunker down in the thicket away from the killers. Were they still tracking him? Didn’t think so, but they might be back in the morning. He’d find the big ol’ oak again, dig for the dough and get out of the woods. This world, a world with no bars, was too fuckin’ crazy.

There was a rifle shot. He listened to the unmistakable echo of gunfire through the woods. Palmer rolled up his tarp and waited. Listening. Don’t move. Just wait. After a few minutes, a pine needle fell from a branch and landed between his neck and collar. Then he heard a noise. Thrashing. Something running. Something crashing though the forest. Palmer hid behind a mesh of honeysuckles.

A deer. Running. Stumbling. A young buck. He’d been shot in the shoulders and was bleeding profusely. The animal fell to its front knees, struggled and rose up. It walked a little farther and fell again. Got to put it out of its misery, Palmer thought. He held his knife and followed the deer. It tried to run, falling again.

“Hold on, boy. I know you’re hurting… hurting real bad.” The deer lay on its side, chest panting, and one large brown eye watching Palmer approach. He crouched down beside the dying animal. “I’ll help you go to sleep. You were in the wrong place, the friggin’ forest, at the wrong time, old friend. Some stupid half-ass, wannabe hunter couldn’t even do a clean shot. And here you are.” The deer’s breathing came in quick shallow bursts. Palmer held his left hand over the animal’s eye closest to him. Then he shoved the long blade in the center of the deer’s chest. Its body shuddered once and was still.

He hated the thought of gutting the deer. But to survive, he’d need the meat to eat. He traced the entrance of the bullet in the right shoulder. There was no exit wound. He cut into the animal’s stomach, within seconds he saw it — a brass bullet. He reached in the open cavity and extracted the bloody bullet, holding it in the palm of his hand. He knew the caliber of the bullet. A.30-.30.

He felt sure it came from the same gun that was used to kill the girl and her friend. Palmer stood. No longer could he butcher the carcass and eat the deer. He wiped his hands on leaves, dropped the bullet in a shirt pocket and headed in the direction where he thought he’d find the spring.

Palmer lay on his stomach and lowered his head beneath the surface. The water was cool to his parched skin. He opened his eyes and saw fish swimming in the swaying eelgrass. The underground water rose up through a large, craggy hole that was like peering into the mouth of a sapphire cave. It was the darkest blue he’d ever seen. Palmer wondered what it would be like to remove his clothes and swim for the opening, feel the rush of the spring over his body. Maybe God would see fit to christen him in water that surely must be flowing from a faraway, holy source.