The Butterfly Forest

SEVEN

He studied a sweat-stained map of the Ocala National Forest. Luke Palmer tried to superimpose in his mind, his bearings, and how the hand-drawn map, penned by Al Karpis, might fit into a detailed map of the forest today. A lot more trees. Otherwise it ought to be pretty much the same. No shopping centers. Not even a drive-in picture show.

He walked near a clear stream. There were tire tracks. Odd. Maybe hunters or campers. Maybe they’d have some food to sell. He followed the tire tracks. They led from the sand to a thick grove of oak and cypress trees. Palmer was cautious. Prison had taught him a few things, and one was to never approach anyone or a situation with your guard down.

He smelled something, a chemical, maybe bleach. Palmer thought he saw a whiff of smoke rising between the boughs and fading into the sky. Probably a campfire.

He walked a little closer, and through the opening in the branches, he saw a makeshift wooden table filled with pots and pans. Smoke rose from one pan. A man was mixing something, plastic tubes running from bottles to pans.

Palmer knew he was close enough. Just ease away. Get the hell out. As he started to turn around, he heard the unmistakable sound of pump shotgun.

“Face us real slow, dude.”

Palmer held his hands up and turned to the men. Two of them. Both young. Mid-twenties. Dirty jeans, T-shirts and scruffy faces. Faces filled with a chemical high mixed with adrenaline — a deadly combination. “Hey, guys. I got no beef with you.”

“Who the fuck are you?” asked one man, the taller of the two, sharp cheekbones, bird-like face. He pointed the shotgun directly at Palmer’s chest.

“Name’s Luke Palmer. I’m out here lookin’ for old artifacts, stuff from the Civil War. Don’t mean to be tresspassin’ if you fellas are hunting here or something.”

“The other man, a ball cap turned backward on a round head, folded his arms. He spit in the weeds. “What you really doin’ way the fuck out here?”

“I use this steel probe to poke around, see if I can find old mini-balls and stuff.”

“You poke around here and you’re likely to be blown in half?”

“Lots of graves out here, too,” the other man said. “They’d never find yours.”

Palmer nodded. He’d seen so many of their types in lock-up. “Look, I don’t want any trouble. I just got out of San Quentin after serving forty years. All my life I’ve dreamed of hunting for treasure. I’d heard this forest is full of history. I thought I might buy something to eat from you all. I’m ‘bout to turn into jerky I’ve eaten so much of it.”

Both men studied Palmer. The man with the shotgun gripped it tighter. Palmer held his breath, tightened his abdomen muscles like they might deflect buckshot. His heart beat so hard it hurt. A bumblebee landed on clover between him and the men.

The man with the gun said, “Go on and get the fuck outta here. Don’t ever come back. We’re just out camping. Nothing else. You got what I’m sayin’?”

Palmer nodded. “Got it.” He turned and walked back in the direction he came from, any second anticipating buckshot to tear a hole in his body wide enough for daylight to pass.