The Butterfly Forest

THREE

I watched the heat rising from the parking lot and tops of cars as two Walmart security guards ran toward us, radios glued to their ears.

“What happened?” asked the larger of the two guards. He had a flattop haircut, wide shoulders, his voice the tone of ex-military.

“Attempted abduction,” I said.

“We saw him haul outta here on that Harley.”

I could hear the wail of sirens. “Law’s on the way,” the second security guard said, stepping closer.

I said, “His gun is over there but don’t pick it up. Keep the public back and away from the gun. The ladies in the car could use some assistance, too.”

“Are they injured?” the first guard asked.

I started to answer, but the mother said, “Only my pride.” She got out of the car as her daughter exited the passenger side and came around toward me. Both women stayed away from the gun on the pavement. The mother stared at the gun. Her face filled with repulsion. She looked up at me. “I hate to think what might have happened to us if you hadn’t been here.”

I smiled. “Right place at the right time. I was picking up some varnish for my boat and spotted him stalking you.” I looked back to the spot in the parking lot where I’d left the things. Gone. Stolen, bag and all contents. I shook my head. “Looks like someone walked off with the stuff I just bought. Oh well.”

“I’m so sorry. Please, let me reimburse you for whatever was stolen.”

“No, it’s fine… really. The important thing is that you’re okay.”

She smiled and adjusted the purse strap on her shoulder. She was a striking woman in her early forties. Long dark hair. Accented cheekbones, a sensual mouth and eyes that caught the sun like polished emeralds. She kept her body in good shape. No wedding band. The younger woman came from the same gene pool.

I said, “There’s good news. They didn’t steal my shoes. Be right back.” They looked at me curiously as I turned to hop across the hot asphalt, slipped my shoes back on and returned. The daughter smiled, started to say something, but the howl of sirens, screech of tires and approach of the police cavalry diverted her attention.

Officers spoke quickly with the Walmart security, bagged the gun, fenced off the scene with yellow tape and approached us. One asked me, “What happened?”

I told him and added, “There’s blood on the pavement next to the driver’s side door. You can get a DNA sample there, no doubt.”

“We’ll do that,” the other officer said. He continued, “So you dove over that Toyota and body-slammed the suspect into the car, huh?”

“Pretty much the way it happened.” I smiled. They did not.

“He saved our lives,” said the mother.

“Your hero could have got you killed,” said the first officer, his voice flat.

“But he didn’t,” she said, her face resolute, crossing her arms. “Thank God there are people like…” She looked at me. “I don’t even know your name.”

“Sean O’Brien.”

She cut her eyes to the officer. “Mr. O’Brien is a hero in my book.”

“Me, too,” the girl said.

The officer nodded. “I just heard Detective Lewis on the radio. He was in the area, now he’s here,” said his partner. They walked back toward the women’s car that now was in the center of crime-scene tape, the shoppers standing behind the tape like spectators at a neighborhood soccer match. Television news trucks rolled up. A detective walked over to us. He looked close to retirement, bags under his eyes, a long, pointed face. “I’m Detective John Lewis. Can each of you tell me what happened?”

“Sure,” I said and told him.

“You always dive over cars?”

“Only if they’re in the way.”

He took notes and then listened as the two women recounted what happened. The mother ended by saying, “It was so fast. He said, ‘slide over, don’t scream or you’re both dead.’ He said he knew where we lived. Next thing I saw was his face smashing into the car, and this gentleman was standing over the guy.”

Detective Lewis thanked us, handed out cards and told us to call him if we could remember anything else. He walked back to the swelling ranks of police and media.

I saw a bystander talking with a reporter, the shopper pointing in our direction. I turned to the women and said, “They have all they need from me. You ladies take care of yourselves. Nice meeting the both of you. Goodbye, Miss Monroe.”

“How did you know my name?” the mother asked.

“Heard you give it to the officer… Elizabeth and Molly Monroe, Harbor Drive.”

Elizabeth smiled and used her finger to pull a strand of hair from behind one ear. “You’re pretty observant. Attention to detail in the midst of chaos.”

“I’ve had some practice at it.”

Molly Monroe folded her arms and asked, “Were you a cop?”

“Long ago.”

Elizabeth’s face filled with thought. “You literally saved my life and my daughter’s, too. I don’t even know how to begin to thank you.”

“You already have. Be careful.” I smiled and started walking.

“Wait,” she said catching up with me. “I know that you saved our lives.” She glanced over her shoulder as investigators took pictures of her car. “He would have killed us. I can feel it. He said we were ‘going for a little ride.’ Said he knew where we lived, even where our restaurant is located. How’d he know these things?”

“Have you noticed anyone following you lately… maybe from a motorcycle?”

“I don’t think so. My skin’s still crawling. A simple thank you seems so small.”

“It’s the simple things in life that I tend to remember the most.” I smiled. She looked at me, her expression reflective, and her emerald eyes searching my face.

“That’s so true,” she said. “Simple… sweet. No complications.” She dug in her purse. “Here, take my card. This is the address of my restaurant. We’re open for breakfast and lunch only. Please stop by.” Then she leaned in and hugged me, her hands holding my back and not letting go for a long moment. I could smell her perfume, the scent of shampoo in her hair like orange blossoms. As she hugged me, I watched them swab blood samples from the pavement. I thought about the sneer on the man’s face as he kicked me, eyes filled with loathing, hatred boiling like the heat from the parking lot.