The Butterfly Forest

FIFTY-SIX

Palmer sketched for a moment in silence. He worked in detail on the angular face, and then he raised his eyes to me. “All right, I’ll go over most everything I can remember. I’ve already told the detectives this. They listen but hear what they want to hear. Look man, I know evil. I’ve lived with it in cellblocks most of my life. But in those woods, in that forest, there’s more weird shit that you can ever imagine. I’ve seen everything from hard asses running meth labs, to fuckin’ devil worshipers sacrificing goats and acting like they wanted to cut a girl’s throat. You taking notes? Want me to go slow, or just let it out?”

“I’m taking notes in my head. Just let it all out, tell me everything.”

He nodded and, for the next fifteen minutes, I listened to Palmer as he began his observations the first day he entered the Ocala National Forest. He spoke, stopped, sketched, and began speaking again. I didn’t interrupt. He concluded by saying, “And this dude I’m drawing, when he shot those kids, that wasn’t the first time I saw him.”

“When was the first time?”

He looked up from the sketch. “It was when he lowered the back window of a car he was in. He was a passenger. There were two other men. This guy lowered the window and tossed a half smoked cigar out. It caught the dry brush and almost started a forest fire. I put out the fire, and I buried the damn cigar.”

“You told me what you’ve seen in there. But you haven’t said why you were there.”

“I told the others, the detectives.”

“Now, why don’t you tell me the truth?”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t believe you were hunting for Civil War relics.”

“What do you believe?”

“You’re on some kind of mission. Someone either sent you into that forest, or there is a compelling reason you’d go there on your own. I think you are on your own. It’s all about you.”

He looked down at his drawing, and then glanced away. His eyes distance, face filled with concern. “That’s impressive, Mr. O’Brien. But it’s not all about me. Okay, here’s the story. What the hell. A few years back, I ran across a guy in prison, and old dude, who said he was a gang member back in the thirties, the Barker Gang. You know, the one where the FBI finally shot the old woman and one of her boys, Fred.”

I nodded.

“Anyway, I saved Al Karpis’ life once. He told me he’d been there, in the Ocala National Forest when Fred Barker buried money they’d taken in bank robberies, a half-mil. The banks they stole it from don’t exist anymore. Karpis said he was gonna die of cancer before he walked. He gave me a map and said it was mine if I could find it.”

“Did you find it?”

He was silent a few seconds. “I did, but I put it back in the hole when I heard all the shooting. O’Brien, I’m not some greedy guy who wants the dough just for me. I haven’t had money in forty years. But I do have a chance to help my sick niece, Caroline. She has kidney disease. She’s in Houston, Texas. The money would get her treatment… might save her life.”

As he worked on the sketch, he told me about his niece. He told me about the first time he saw Mark and Molly in the forest. “They just looked to me like two kids, kinda scared. It was getting darker, and I think they were in a hurry to get outta there. I saw them lookin’ over their shoulder like they thought they were being followed. I didn’t see anybody comin’ after them, I did see rangers stop and give them a ride.”

“What did the rangers look like?”

“Only one got out of the car, medium height bushy eyebrows, dark hair. I’d seen the guy around the forest. I think I’ve met most of them that work there. All of them pretty much left me alone. This guy was a little different.”

“How so?”

“He was nice, but seemed to play the ranger thing strictly by the book. Like the screws in the joint that are counting their days ‘til they get their pension and spend the remainder of their lives gettin’ fat on Busch beer, fishing on Saturdays and watching stock car races on Sundays. This guy let me know I wasn’t wanted in the forest.”

I watched him work in the detail around the eyes and cheekbones. “Why was the deer blood on your clothes?”

“I told the detectives. I heard the deer thrashing through the woods, bleeding like a stuck pig. It had fallen to its knees when I walked up on it. Felt sorry for the poor animal. I killed the buck to put him out of misery and pain.”

“Were you going to butcher the carcass?”

“I was damn hungry. Stomach was hollow. When I was a teenager, I hunted with my old man in the Texas hill country. Killed my first four-point buck when I was seventeen. Pops taught me how to field dress right then and there.”

“So why didn’t you dress the deer meat?”

“‘Cause I found a bullet in it. Looked like it might have been from the same rifle the dude used to kill the college kids. My stomach turned sour as old milk.”

“What’d you do with the bullet?”

“It’s in the inside lining of my knapsack.”

“Did you tell detectives this?”

“No. You’re the first to ask me. Okay, I’m done.” He held up the sketch. The detail was sharp. Amazing. He’d captured the man’s look. And even through pencil lead on paper, I could see the image of absolute evil.