The Butterfly Forest

FIFTY-FOUR

Luke Palmer tossed and turned on the thin mattress that separated his back from the metal bed in the cell. Two months of freedom, a couple of weeks of sleeping under the stars had opened his pores, opened his mind and soul to something he’d lost four decades ago, freedom.

Now he was back in a cage.

He had no idea if it was day or night. His cell was sequestered in the bowels of the county lock-up. He thought it might be morning. But there were no windows. He missed the sunrises in the forest, missed the chill of the morning, the open campfire, the squirrels scampering around him, and he missed the flowers and butterflies.

He’d been kept awake in a state, somewhere between a listless sleep and consciousness, by sporadic screaming. From somewhere down the corridor of steel and concrete, came sardonic chants, yells — the nightmare language of the criminally insane.

Palmer thought about his bad luck. Years ago accused of first-degree murder when all degrees of the truth were ignored. He had to defend himself or die. It had been that simple. Now he, again, was accused of committing a crime that he had not done. Never did the cops ask him about a murder weapon. How would an ex con get a high-powered rifle? Why would someone in his shoes shoot and kill a young man and woman? Why do the cops believe he killed the girl that he found buried?

He thought about his niece, Caroline. Had her kidneys completely shut down? Would she be on dialysis the rest of her life?

He heard guards approaching. Turning to face the cell door, he saw that one was heavyset and had a thick neck and shaved head. His breathing sounded as if he was exhaling into a paper bag. The other one was tall, droopy faced, with a matchstick in one corner of his mouth. He didn’t remove the match to speak. “You got a visitor.”

“Visitor? Who? What time is it?”

“Little past eight. Guy’s name is Sean O’Brien. Sheriff says you can have a half hour with him in the receiving area. You’ll speak through the phone receptacle and have visual communications behind the glass.”

“Who the hell’s this guy O’Brien? Is he an attorney?”

The larger guard said, “I heard some of the guys on the SWAT team say he might be the best marksman in the state. He was the dude that saved your ass when you were about to become gator bites.”