“I’m e-mailing the photos to you, Sheriff. If the guy in the photo is not Palmer, it may be the man Palmer said pulled the trigger on Molly and Mark.”
“I believe Palmer made that up. He’s probably working with Soto as some kind of security detail. That explains why Soto went after Molly Monroe. Palmer happened to be the one that cut down these kids when they came back to the forest because they thought Soto was locked up.”
“And since Soto escaped, he could have easily returned to the forest, made a connection with the growers and did the murders. Palmer may be nothing more than a witness, a guy out of prison simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“That’s all speculation, O’Brien. And I can’t put much stock in an ex con, a guy who’s been out of San Quentin less than two months, hiking around a national forest, communing with nature while he’s hunting for Civil War shit, like he says he was doing.”
“He needs to be given a reasonable chance to make bond.”
“And what damn chance did he give these kids?”
“I knew Molly when she was alive. I saw her when she was dead, lifted out of that worm-infested shit hole. That’s the first place I’d like to see Palmer go if he killed them. If he didn’t, and if you rush into a seemingly clear-cut case because it’s easier to do, you’re doing Molly, Mark and Nicole a disservice, big as the one you’d shove up Palmer’s ass because it’s convenient.”
“That’s enough! You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“A man spent eleven years on Florida’s death row because of me. He came within minutes of having a hot needle in his arm. And it was all because the evidence was too easy. I went against my better judgment, relying more on physical forensics than what was obvious — an innocent man was framed.”
“Nobody’s framing Palmer.”
“How do you know?”
“We pulled him outta the fuckin’ river. You were there, remember? I’m hanging up, O’Brien.”
“Are you getting deputies in the forest to look for the marijuana field?”
“We’ve got the killer. We’ve found plenty of marijuana and meth labs out there. But it’s been awhile, not since Aileen Wuornos, that we had us a triple murderer.”
“And what if you have the wrong man?”
“That’s up to a jury.”
“I’m e-mailing the photographs to you. If you get deputies and a team of searchers in the forest tomorrow morning to find that marijuana field, you might find Soto and whoever stood near him in the picture. Sheriff, listen! Please—”
He hung up as Max trotted from the galley to the cockpit. Her snout was wet with olive oil. She cocked her head at me, eyes bright. “Max, was I shouting?” I looked at my hand still gripping the phone, knuckles white. One message was left while I had been speaking with the sheriff. I played it. “Sean, this is Elizabeth. Molly’s funeral is set for Monday at two o’ clock. Can you be there?”
I sat on the transom railing and looked up into the night sky. Max walked over to me. I lifted her and pointed to the brightest star, Sirius. “Twinkle, twinkle little star, Max. What do you say that we make a wish together? Let’s wish that they’d prove who was responsible for those murders. You know why? Because he’ll probably kill again. I fear for Elizabeth, and I’m not convinced the man sitting in the Marion County jail killed her daughter. If they don’t follow the leads to track down who did this, I’ll—”
Something in the sky caught Max’s eye. A meteor burst from the eastern hemisphere rushing toward the west, its fiery tail carving the heart out of the blackness. It disappeared in the western horizon toward the national forest, a place that now felt like the darkest valley in the universe.
And I knew I was about to walk through it.
FIFTY-TWO
The next morning, after leaving Max with Dave, I ordered a cup of coffee-to-go from Kim Davis at the Tiki Bar. She sealed the Styrofoam cup with a plastic lid and said, “One cream, one sugar for a guy who’s too sweet to need sugar.”
“Thanks, Kim. I don’t know if sweet’s the word. I’ve got to do some things that I know will get beyond bitter. I’m going to be the bad taste in a few mouths — including a sheriff who’s ready to have the DA prosecute a man before all the evidence is gathered.”
“Why the rush to judgment?”
“Because we live in a society of instant everything. The sheriff’s department has its own Facebook page. National media are here. The election’s in November. I don’t think jobs in law enforcement or the judiciary should be a popularity contest.” I smiled and picked up the coffee cup. “But who cares what I think?”
“I care. And so do the people you help, those who seem to fall through the cracks. Maybe this man in jail is one of them. You think about other people, Sean. It’s something that can’t be faked. Be careful.”
“Thanks for the coffee.”
On the way to Ocala, I drove through the small community of Astor. I kept under the posted thirty miles-per-hour speed limit. Past the hardware store, the feed and seed store, and beyond the single traffic light, the road became curvy. I left Astor in less than the forty-five seconds it took to drive through it. I drove under a canopy of live oaks with arched limbs interlocked like fingers over the road. The branches and leaves blocked most of the morning sunlight. It was as if I was driving through a dark tunnel, a glow of daylight somewhere beyond the old trees with their outstretched limbs.
I drove out of the long womb into the brightness of mid-morning, the sky cloudless and indigo blue. There was a small, white church off the road. The church was almost hidden by a lone oak tree draped in crusty beards of gray Spanish moss.
Although the speed limit was back to fifty-five, I didn’t accelerate. I slowed down. I don’t know why, but I simply took my foot from the gas pedal and pulled off the road onto the shoulder, just beyond the gravel drive leading to the church. I backed up, drove across the vacant lot and turned off the motor. The engine ticked as it cooled.
There was a small cemetery to the left of the church. I got out of the Jeep and stood under a bough of the old oak. A blackbird flew from the tree to a cedar near the church. Speckled light flickered across the small graveyard. Some of the old headstones tipped to the right under pressure of the huge oak’s hidden roots.
I thought about Elizabeth’s voice message, a plea really, for me to attend Molly’s funeral. I started to get back in the Jeep, but I found myself walking around it up two wooden steps leading to the church door. I touched the door handle. The faded brass was cool in my hand, the sun’s hot breath on my neck. I looked to my left and caught the blackbird quietly staring at me from the top of the cedar tree. Spanish moss was motionless in a morning with air that felt dense and somehow trapped.
I turned the handle. The door opened, slowly yawning wide, almost as if it inhaled the humid air outside. I stepped in, wondering if the door would slam behind me. The old church smelled of age, the hidden scent of worn Bibles, faded flowers and starched clothes.
There were about a dozen wooden pews separated by an aisle that led to the pulpit. Hanging from the dais was a satin white cloth with the image of a dove holding an olive branch in its beak. Behind the podium was a stained glass window displaying an image of a man in a river, his hair wet, eyes wide, and his hand locked in the hand of Jesus.
I remembered how Luke Palmer looked as the deputies pulled his exhausted body out of the river. I sat in the first pew, immersed in silence, and simply stared at the imagery in the stained glass. The sunlight and breeze moving through the trees gave the colors a suggestion of motion.
I thought of my wife, Sherri. I could almost see her face somewhere through the painted glass, and I could just about feel her presence on the pew beside me. I wanted to reach out and take her hand, to hold it like I’d done on too few Sundays in church. I looked beside me, expecting to see her and to somehow hold her hand for one more stolen moment in time.