The Butterfly Forest

FORTY-FIVE

When the man was about twenty feet from shore, two deputies waded out into the river and waited for him. The man swam a final stoke and tried to stand. His legs gave way and he fell, face-down in the water. The deputies fished him out, like lifting a man who’d been baptized in a river. They held him by his upper arms and carried him the rest of the way to the shore. As they cuffed him, he collapsed in the mud, shaking and spitting water that he’d swallowed.

He lay on his side, breathing hard as the sheriff approached. Bo Watson held the dogs back at a safe distance. I came down from the embankment and watched. “Read him his rights, Barry,” the sheriff said. After rights were read, the sheriff grunted. “What’s your name?”

“Luke Palmer,” the man said, through a hoarse whisper.

“Mr. Palmer, you’re one lucky fella. You came seconds from being ripped apart by two big gators in the middle of the river. Nobody would have ever found your body unless they looked for your smallest, indigestible bones in gator shit up on the bank somewhere. That man over there, Mr. O’Brien, saved you life.”

Palmer said nothing. He looked at me and then at the sheriff.

The sheriff glanced across the river then down at Palmer. “So since we saved your life, I’d say you owe us one, big time. Now why don’t you go on and tell us how you happened to kill those college kids. I know things happen, things come up and people act accordingly. Maybe there were extenuating circumstances in their deaths, self-defense. We’d like to hear it, like to hear it from your point-of-view.”

Palmer sat up on his knees. He slowly stood. “I didn’t kill nobody.”

“We have a water jug found near the bodies. We have some of your clothing here on the bank. Looks like dried blood to me. And we have that spear thing you’ve apparently been toting. They’ll tell us the rest of the story.”

Palmer said nothing, his breathing still heavy. Detective Sandberg stepped up to Palmer. “The St. Johns River has a way of settling debts. Like the sheriff said, you’re a lucky man. I remember driving across the State Road 44 Bridge, which crosses this very river not too far from here. From top of that bridge, about a month ago, saw a deer trying to swim across. Made it half way before a gator took him under.”

Palmer slowly looked up, his dark eyes locking on the detective’s face.

“I only mention this because you buried the deer on top of those kids. Why’d you do it? Thought it’d hide the smell of decomposing human bodies, huh? Did you kill Mark first and then rape Molly before killing her?”

“I didn’t kill or rape nobody.”

“Then why’d you run from us?”

“I saw who did shoot those kids, but I figured the law wouldn’t believe me. Heard the dogs and helicopters, and thought I’d move on.”

Sandberg’s eyebrows rose. “Okay, then, who killed them?”

Palmer took a deep breath, water dripping from his hair and down his face. A white heron flew low across the river. “I can recognize him if I see him. Dark skinned dude, a little guy. Sharp dresser. Smoked a cigar. He was with two others. They had their backs toward me, but the one guy’s face I did see. And, if I see it again, I’ll recognize it. I saw him in the backseat of a car that comes and goes in here.”

“Comes and goes where?” asked the sheriff.

“I’ve seen it on a back dirt road between that bombing range and Juniper Springs. A black Ford SUV, usually three men. The one always in the backseat was the shooter.”

“You say his skin is dark, a black man?” asked the sheriff.

“No, like the Mexicans and Puerto Ricans in some of the gangs.”

Sandberg said. “You mean prison gangs, don’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“How long were you in for?”

“Forty years. San Quentin.”

“Why?”

Palmer hesitated, his eyes scanning the officers in the background. “I killed a man in self-defense.”

“Maybe that’s what happened here, with the college kids. Maybe one of ‘em came at you with a knife, again self-defense. Where’s the gun you used?”

“I didn’t kill them. I don’t own a gun. Couldn’t buy one if I wanted to.”

The sheriff sighed. “Makes no sense to run unless you have something to hide. We’ll find it, whatever it is.”

Palmer shook his head. “Cops, your type never changes. Far as I’m concerned you all can—”

“Mr. Palmer,” I said, handing the rifle to a deputy. “The first death, the girl with the fairy wings. Did you know her?” The sheriff leveled a hard look to me.

“I didn’t really know her. I’d met her.”

“And was it some kind of festive celebration?”

“There was a big bon fire, lots of hippie kids hootin’ and dancing.”

“Wait a minute, O’Brien,” the sheriff began.

I said, “Mr. Palmer, did you see anyone at that celebration that may have resembled any of the three men who killed the college kids?”

“Maybe, now that you mention it. There was one dude that night, looked out of place. It was dark, but under the moon and light from the bon fire, I saw his face, and saw what he was wearing that night. Red T-shirt… the words Sloppy Joe’s — Key West on it.”

“O’Brien!” snapped the sheriff.

“Bear with me, please, Sheriff. Mr. Palmer, what did the girl in the fairy wings say to you that night?”

“She said her name was Evening Star, and she said she’d call me Night Raven.”

“What else?” I stepped closer, centered on his eyes.

He blew a long breath from deep within his lungs, looked at the dogs, his eyes meeting mine. “She gave me a hug… and…”

“And?”

“And said I was… she said I was loved.”

“That’s sweet,” said the sheriff. “Did you bury her in that grave?”

“Hell no, but I found her there when I was hunting for… artifacts. Saw fresh turned earth and thought someone was following me, digging where I was digging. I vomited my guts out in the bushes and just got away from there.”

I said, “That’s understood. Did you see the man in the red T-shirt again?”

Detective Sandberg cleared his throat. “Enough, O’Brien. You’re not in a position to question a suspect further.”

I smiled. “Don’t need to.”

“Why’s that?” the sheriff asked.

“Because he said all I need to know.” Luke Palmer looked over at me, guarded, but with something I felt he hadn’t seen in years.

Hope.