The Butterfly Forest

SEVENTY-FIVE

Joe Billie was sitting under an oak tree on a cinder block in his yard when I arrived at seven a.m. He was carving a stick. Long strands of Spanish moss hung straight down from the lower limbs of the oak, one gray beard nearly rubbing its whiskers on Billie’s shoulders. He looked up at me without moving his head. He sat next to two piles of palmetto fronds. One pile was fresh, most of the leaves green. The other pile looked like stacks of dried tobacco leaves.

I parked and got out of my Jeep. Billie stood. I said, “Looks like you’ve been doing some serious harvesting of palm fronds.”

“I’m building a small chickee next to a dock. It’s for a restaurant on the river. The chickee will look like a thatched gazebo when I’m done.”

“Where’d you learn to build them?”

“My grandfather. It’s how the Seminoles built their homes in the Everglades.” He stood and lifted a small backpack.

I said, “There’s plenty of food and water in the Jeep.”

“I figured you’d bring those things. I’m bringing something else.”

“What might that be?”

Billie grinned. “Call it a first aid kit. I’m hoping we don’t need it.”

“Have you spent a lot of time in the Ocala National Forest?’’

“From time to time, since childhood. It’s a damn big place. Many years ago, it was where our forefathers fought wars with the U.S. government. And all that stuff gets passed down from the elders through the tribe. Kids today, Seminole kids, don’t seem to care about the old wars. They simply can’t relate to those events or spending time in nature. They miss out on the wisdom of it.”

“There’s a different kind of war going on now, a drug war, and some of the innocent causalities fell in the forest.”

Joe Billie nodded and walked toward the Jeep.

I wondered what he was carrying in his backpack.

As we drove north on State Road 19, I called Detective Sandberg. “Do you know who put up Palmer’s bond money?”

“Someone who doesn’t give a rat’s ass about getting it back. Palmer’s high risk.”

“Palmer’s a dead man unless your office has a tail on him.”

“He bonded out so fast it’d make your head spin, O’Brien.”

“If he disappears, the only eyewitness to Molly and Mark’s murders is out of the picture, and the picture of Izzy Gonzales will fade all the way back to Mexico.”

“I spoke with the bonding company, Kramer and Schmidt. All they did was fill out the paperwork. Seems Palmer’s got friends with some deep pockets. The bonding company indicated that a friend of Palmer’s, someone who wished to remain anonymous, used his own money to make bail. Kramer and Schmidt walked the paperwork through the system. It’s my guess that they got a nice gratuity for doing so.”

“Palmer’s our chance to stop these people. Elizabeth Monroe is in hiding. After an attempt on her life and after burying her daughter, she’s existing like a war refugee until Soto and Gonzales are stopped.”

“I feel bad for Miss Monroe. We’re looking for Palmer. My guess is the pot is picked. We couldn’t find it. So here’s what I have: a composite drawn by Palmer. Now Palmer’s flown the coop. Maybe somebody’s layin’ for him, but we don’t know that. So that leaves us with photos from Molly’s camera that clearly IDs Soto but not the mystery man. We only can assume the composite does. We have matching.30-.30 bullets and DNA from a cigar lifted out of a grave that we can’t get a match.”

“Maybe I can help you.”

“That’s the last thing Sheriff Clayton wants. Don’t give him an excuse to arrest you for interfering with a police investi—”

“Three people are dead. One more might be. Palmer walked on the Sheriff’s watch. Elizabeth Monroe is fighting to stay safe. Time is of the essence. You’ve got my help. Whether you take it or not is up to you. I’ll call you when I find something.” I hung up.

Billie was quiet as I turned off State Road 19 into the Ocala National Forest, heading west onto a spur road, which the locals called Bear Lane. “Luke Palmer told me he saw the guy toss the cigar out of the car as it passed Bear Lane and Panther Path. He said it wasn’t far from a sign that marked a hiking trail called the Yearling Trail.”

“You said Palmer told you the man who tossed out the cigar caused a fire.”

“A small fire. Palmer put it out. He had a camper’s shovel, which he said he tossed some dirt over the smoldering leaves and cigar to extinguish it.”

We drove for another two miles and came to Panther Path. I slowed the Jeep when I saw a stenciled sign that indicated the Yearling Trail crossed through the area. We stopped and got out. Billie said nothing as he walked slowly along the road, his eyes scanning the flora. I walked on the other side of the road and looked for any signs of a charred spot. After the last rain, everything was in shades of green.

We searched for more than an hour, the deerflies and mosquitoes thick and fearless. Finally, Billie stopped. He studied an area a few yards off the dirt road. He stepped into the scrub a few feet and squatted. Then he picked blades of grass. “Find something?” I asked.

He nodded as I approached. “Look at the difference in the color of the grasses. That patch, only about two feet wide, is new grass. It sprouted from the rains. It is lighter. After lightning causes wild fires in the forest, after the rains fall, you see new growth.” He handed me a blade of grass. “This is new growth. Different from the surrounding grasses. It’s like a sign, but you have to open your eyes to read it.”

He reached in his backpack and pulled out a large hunting knife. It looked like a Bowie knife, wide blade, serrated teeth at the top. He used the blade to scrape away loose soil. There, in the center, was a four-inch stogie, bite marks still present on the end.

“Impressive,” I said. “You tracked something under the earth.” I snapped a picture of the cigar, close-up and then with Billie kneeling next to the hole.

Billie stood. “I just looked for the signs in nature. You’re pretty good at that, Sean, especially for a paleface.” Billie chuckled. “The signs are all around. You can see it with your eyes, hear it with your ears, and sometimes you can feel it inside you.”

I opened a Ziploc and used my pen to lift and drop the half-smoked cigar into the plastic bag. “I’ll get this to Detective Sandberg.”

Billie said nothing as he slowly stood erect and looked down the empty dirt road.

“Do you hear something?” I asked.

“Yes, I hear the silence. The birdsong is quiet. Something’s coming.”