Nick squinted in the morning sun, the white of one eye strawberry red. “I need to sit.” We sat in deck chairs on Gibraltar and he said, “Let the cops do it, Sean.”
“I offered. There’s no sense of urgency, and I believe time is running out.”
Dave said, “Soto may be in Vegas by now for all we know.”
“Could be, but I doubt it. He seemed much too intent on the Monroe’s. What if the tattoo is of a woman Soto knows… or knew. If we find out where he got it, we might discover why he got it.”
“How do you mean?” Nick asked.
“Tattoo rooms are places people talk. It’s usually a shared experience between the person getting the ink and the tattoo artist doing it. The receiver most often talks about why he or she wants the tat, what the significance of it is, and describes how they’d like to see it drawn on them… or sometimes they choose from a picture in a book and the artist replicates or customizes it. But most people receiving ink for life want something unique, something they won’t see on the next guy.”
Nick said, “I don’t think the next guy’s gonna be wearing a fairy on his arm. Florida’s got a lot of tattoo parlors. Here in Daytona, they’re like tourist T-shirt shops, almost as many as McDonalds.”
Dave said, “If Soto was first spotted by Molly at the butterfly facility, maybe Gainesville or Ocala would be the best places to look for tattoo parlors.”
I stood and said, “That’s where I’m starting. I went online and printed some phone numbers and addresses. On the way there, I’ll use my cell to narrow down the search.”
Dave shook his head, his eyes watching a sailboat leaving, the diesel burping bubbles in the marina water. He said, “You were the good Samaritan. You protected the women once. It’s up to the cops to find Soto.”
“I hope they do. I’m just asking a few questions. May lead to nothing.”
Nick folded his hands behind his head. “With you, Sean, it always leads to something. I told you how shit happens, remember?”
SEVENTEEN
Luke Palmer sat on his haunches and boiled coffee on coals from a small campfire. He opened a can of spam for breakfast, waited for the morning dew to evaporate before packing his tent. He poured black coffee from the tiny pot into a tin mug and thought about the car he’d seen a half dozen times. Dark windows in the car. It came down the sand road early morning and before sunset.
He heard the sound of a diesel engine coming closer. Palmer stood and peered through the underbrush as a green forestry truck came toward his camp. He could run. Why? He hadn’t done anything illegal. But trouble has a way of raising its ugly head, he thought.
The truck came to a stop forty feet from his camp. The man who got out of the cab spoke into his radio, wore sunglasses and looked toward Palmer. Probably a gun in the truck, he figured. He recognized the man. He’d seen the ranger giving two hikers directions a few days ago. The ranger reminded Palmer of a screw he knew in San Quentin. Tall. Strong forearms. Sun baked skin from years of watching prisoners pick trash up from California’s scenic highways.
“Good morning,” said ranger Ed Crews as he approached, his eyes scanning the small camp.
“Mornin’.”
“This your camp?”
Palmer glanced over his shoulder. “Nobody else is here.”
“You have a permit to camp?”
“Yep.” Palmer reached in his shirt pocket for the paper.
“Nobody has a permit to camp in this part of the national forest. You’re in a designated bombing range. Navy could have dropped a bomb on your camp.”
Palmer grinned, played the dumb act he had to manufacture so many times with the screws in prison. “Sorry, sir, it was late when I set up. Thought the place where they bombed was a lot farther in there. Guess I’d better move on.”
“Can I see some ID?”
“Why? I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Anyone trespassing in a designated bombing range must produce ID.”
“I don’t have an ID with me.”
“Driver’s license will do.”
“Don’t have one.”
“How’d you get a permit without a driver’s license?”
“Show’d a birth certificate, but I don’t have it with me.”
“How’d you get here?”
“Caught a ride. Trying to get back to nature, you know.”
“What’s your name?”
“Luke Palmer.”
“Mr. Palmer, you just released from prison?”
“Yeah.”
“Thought so. I worked prisons in the Army. I can usually tell.”
Palmer said nothing.
Crews added, “You need to vacate this area immediately. You only have a few days left on your permit. The national forest isn’t a place to call home.”
“I’m not homeless. I’m here ‘cause I hadn’t smelled a pine tree in forty years.”
“What’s with the steel rod? Is that some kind of primitive weapon?”
“I heard there’s lots of Civil War artifacts, you know, mini-balls and what not in this forest. Just sort of prod for ‘em. One day I might afford one of those devices I’ve seen in pictures, a hand-held metal detector.”
“You can’t be digging up the national forest without a permit.”
Palmer filled his lungs with air, swallowing back a rise in his temper. “If I turn a spade of earth, I’ll put it back in the hole.”
“Whereabouts do you plan to do your hunting for Civil War stuff?”
“Oh, maybe open fields, places that could have been a battlefield.”
“Stay away from destruction of endangered plants, our flora and fauna. You do, and we catch you, you will be fined. I’d suggest you confine your hunt over toward the St. Johns River. It’s in the eastern boundary of the national forest. Lots of Indian arrowheads and probably Civil War things in that area since the river was about the only way anybody could get in and out of this place back then.”
“I’ll do that. Speaking of endangered plants, I saw a bunch of plants that looked like they were old as dinosaurs. Kinda fern-like things. Saw ‘em way back in there.”
District Ranger Ed Crews studied Palmer’s face for a moment. He said, “Those are most likely coontie. Don’t start diggin’ around them. The forest is one of the few places they still live. We’d like to keep it that way. St. Johns River is about a mile east.”
EIGHTEEN
By the time I crossed the Volusia County line into Marion County, I had made calls and eliminated three tattoo shops in Gainesville and four in Ocala. A receptionist, who worked part-time as a body-piercing artist at Den of Ink, answered the last call. She said one of the best artists, “A dude who could really capture fairies,” used to work at The Art House, but she couldn’t remember if he was still there. She told me his name was Ron something, and was called Inkman. I dialed The Art House. After the tenth ring, I was about to disconnect when a voice from the sixties came on the line, “Art House… picture it on you… peace.” The words sounded as if they crawled through vocal cords thick with nicotine and mucus.
“Is this Inkman?”
“It could be… who’s callin’?
“Name’s O’Brien. I heard Inkman is the go-to guy when it comes to body art.”
“Well, lemme see… depends on what kind of art you’re lookin’ for. We got three very talented dudes here. And Stacey, she’s a chick. Man, she can blow you away with color, got the feminine touch with a bold flair. Know what I mean, dude?” The man coughed and cleared his throat.
“Yeah, I know what you mean. What I have in mind was something for my ol’ lady, you know… we go to so some of those medieval events, reenactments. They have lots of knights, ladies and a few smelly warlocks. Follow me?”