Palmer spotted a large oak, far from the closest tree line. It towered over the other oaks. Within a few minutes he was at its base, wild azaleas blooming all around it. “Hey tree, where’s the trunk?” he grinned and mumbled to the tree. “Tree… trunk.”
He used a steel rod with a T handle to prod beneath the soil. When he felt something that could be a trunk, he’d stop and dig. Nothing. Nothing but ants, roots or rocks. Karpis had described the box as heavy, solid metal, like the reinforced steel from a trunk. Air tight. Palmer thought about that as his prod hit something. Root? No, too hard. Rock? Maybe.
He dropped to his knees and used the army shovel to dig. The soil was wet. Muck like. Two feet down.
Perspiration rolled off his face, the salty sting of sweat in his eyes. He ignored the mosquito whining in his ear. Concentrated on digging. He could smell earthworms, tree bark, and wild azaleas blooming.
Three feet down. A rock. A damn rock the size of a grapefruit. “Shit.”
There was a noise. Talking. Palmer stopped digging. He saw birds scatter from the trees closer to the spring bed. Someone was coming. He heard laugher, the voices of a man and a woman. People. How many? Somebody way the hell out here, walkin’ through the fuckin’ forest like they were going to grandma’s house.
Luke Palmer stood quietly, held the hunting knife by his side, and crouched behind the brush to wait.
SIX
The whine from the engine of a small plane sounded in distress. From the end of my dock, I looked up to the east as the pilot began a skywriter’s message. He formed the letter G, the engine sputtering, the G clinging to the cloudless, blue sky. I stood, reached in my pocket and read the name and address of the restaurant on the card.
Dave called my cell and asked, “When you say you’re going to call back, is that today or in some other time zone?” He chuckled.
“Sorry.”
“I met a man who needs a 41-foot Beneteau delivered to Ponce Marina. It’s moored at Cedar Key. Sounds like your kind of job. You coming to the marina today?”
“Tomorrow. I have another unscheduled stop. And I hope I’m not too late.”
“How can you be late for something that’s not scheduled?”
I glanced at the sky. The pilot had written: G O “Got to go, Dave.”
I looked at my watch: 3:30 p.m. The hours printed on Elizabeth Monroe’s card read: 6:00 a.m. ‘till 2:00 p.m. I punched in the number to her restaurant. A woman answered. I said, “Molly?”
She hesitated. “Yes, who’s this?”
“Sean O’Brien. We met at Walmart.”
“Oh, hi. Thanks again for… for what you did.”
“No problem. Is your mother there?”
“Yes, we’re closed. I’ll get her for you.”
Ten seconds passed and Elizabeth Monroe was on the phone. I told her about the man who’d pulled the gun on them, gave her the name, Frank Soto.
“It’s just Molly and me. I know how to use a gun. My late husband taught me. You said police believe this man, Soto, is a suspect in murders… an enforcer?”
“Yes.” I could hear her breathing.
“Mr. O’Brien—”
“Please, call me Sean.”
“The last thing I want on this earth is to impose. But you called me before the police have. You were there and saw what this man was trying to do, and you stopped him. I’m an independent person, raising my daughter after Jeff died years ago. But at this point, I could use some advice. You said you had been a cop. Maybe you could offer us some things we should be aware of…” She stopped. “Just in case he comes back.”
“Okay. The first thing to do is—”
“Molly should hear this, too. Can you stop by the restaurant? She’s going back to college soon. She’s here making some extra money before returning to the University of Florida. I don’t want to be a bother… but maybe you could stop by the restaurant. I’ll put on a fresh pot of coffee. Our homemade pies are to die for.” She made a nervous laugh. “That sounded odd after what happened.”
“Do you have apple pie?”
“Yes, we do.” A sense of energy was back in her voice.
“Do you have cheese?”
“Of course. Do you like cheese on your apple pie?”
“Not really, but Max likes cheese. I don’t want her to feel left out.”
“Is she your daughter?”
“She’s my dachshund.”
“I love dachshunds! We had one when I was a little girl. We’re closed, so she can have the run of the place.”
“Half hour, okay?”
“Absolutely, bye.”
I glanced down at Max. “Ready for some dessert?” She wagged her tail then looked up at the buzzing in the clouds. The skywriter, ending his acrobatics, wrote:
G O D L O V E S U
I watched as his plane became a tiny dot in the sky. The smoke letters bled white against the deep blue like cosmic dust floating toward the darker clouds building far out over the ocean.
“Come on, Max. I feel a storm brewing in my bones.” She trotted off the dock, pausing briefly to see if I was following. I picked up her bowl as a cooler wind blew through the cypress and weeping willows, the breeze sending a ripple across the murky surface of the river.
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.”