A pickup truck drove slowly by us. Two large bloodhounds were in the truck bed, and two men in the front. Detective Sandberg said, “They’re some of the best tracking dogs in the state. Rain may have done a hellava number on any scent, though. But, if there’s something to be found, those dogs can find it.”
Elizabeth bit her lip as she watched the driver park the truck and lower the tailgate so the dogs could jump to the ground. The man led the dogs over to Molly’s car where they met two other forensics investigators. Elizabeth asked, “Detective Sandberg, isn’t there a possibility that Molly and Mark were abducted? They could be miles and miles away from this forest.”
“Yes, that’s a possibility.”
“But you don’t believe it happened?”
“It appears unlikely.”
“Why?”
“Why abduct two college-aged kids from a national forest and take them someplace unless kidnapping is the crime and ransom is the motive? And you’d told us you’ve received no calls or messages from kidnappers, correct?”
“Yes.”
“There’s still that possibility… it’s just that the blood on a butterfly box labeled property of the University of Florida… well, that sheds a different light on the subject.”
I said, “The key to Molly and Mark’s disappearance, more than likely, is right here. Somewhere in this forest, somebody believes Molly and Mark saw something. But what and how is it connected to Frank Soto? Could it be tied to the death of the teenage girl, Nicole Davenport? Anything on Soto’s possible whereabouts?”
“We got a report about an hour ago. A guy matching Soto’s description was spotted at a truck stop near New Orleans. FBI has been called in.”
Two forestry rangers approached us. I recognized one, Ed Crews, the man I’d met at the gravesite in the woods. The other man was older. White hair neatly parted. Rounded shoulders. He introduced himself as Adam Decker, Chief Ranger, and he told Elizabeth she could reach him anytime for anything. He gave her his cell number.
I asked him, “Who’s in the forest at any given time?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you know who’s roaming in here? Do they check-in at the ranger stations?”
Decker’s eyes squinted. “You mean campers?”
“Campers, hikers, hunters during season. Anyone and everyone.”
Crews nodded at his boss and said, “We know who’s registered to camp. Permits are given. Hunting season isn’t until October. Legitimate hunters register. Hikers, too, because they get trail maps, and it’s always a good idea to let us know you’re in here.”
I smiled. “Is that because, like a pilot filing a flight plan, if they don’t come back out, you know they’re probably lost in the forest?”
Crews grinned. “That’s a good way of painting a picture. It’s a huge forest, and it gets real dark in here at night. It’s easy to get lost.”
“Which means that only those wanting to be accounted for would probably register at the ranger stations? Did Molly and Mark check-in with anyone?”
Decker shook his head. “No, there’s no record of them coming or going.”
Detective Sandberg looked across the area to the search team forming and said, “The forest has its share of vagrants, what I’d call social misfits, or outright crazies living back in there. Any of these people could have been involved in the disappearance of Miss Monroe and Mr. Stewart.”
Ed Crews said, “Most stay hidden. I ran into one recently. I told you about him when the girl’s body was found in that shallow grave. An ex con who says he’s looking for Civil War artifacts.”
“We’ve interviewed three homeless guys in here,” said Detective Sandberg, “but we haven’t found a man matching the description you gave. Where’d you last see him?”
“Near Juniper Springs. He seems to move around a lot.”
“If you see him again, detain him until we can get back in here.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
After an hour of searching, Luke Palmer finally found the old oak tree. He stood there, a drop of sweat clinging from his nose, swatted a deerfly and stared at the two hearts carved in the bark. He tried to place himself in the shoes of the man who carved them back in 1935. Maybe Fred Barker buried the treasure on the side of the tree facing the hearts. That way when Barker returned, if he returned, he’d know where to dig.
Palmer dropped his backpack and used the steel rod to probe the ground a few feet in front of the tree, still within an easy sight of the hearts. Roots. Roots thick as a big man’s arm. Everywhere. He pushed the prod into the earth, using his weight to leverage it farther in the soil. Nothing. He stepped to a spot directly in front of the hearts and worked the steel into the earth.
There was a distinct tap. Metal on metal. YES!
He dropped to his knees to use the shovel to dig. Two feet down. There it was. Trapped. Held in a grip, as if a giant seized the cache. Gnarled tree roots wrapped around the treasure. An old steel trunk. Time and the elements had turned the outside into dark pewter, the shade of sunlight through soot. He pulled a hunting knife from his belt and hacked at the roots, pieces of wood and bark flying in his face. “C’mon, damn you roots!”
After several minutes of hard cutting, he had the metal box out of the hole. He used his knife to pry off the lock. Slowly, hands shaking, Palmer opened the lid. Old newspaper, the tint of brown mustard, was the first thing he saw. Palmer pulled back newspapers and looked at stacks of money. A little aged, but still green and good as gold. Stacks of one hundred dollar bills. He lifted a roll of money and held the bills to his nose. Palmer closed his eyes, the smell of the forest smothered with the scent of money.
He sat under the ancient oak, sat under the carved hearts, and counted the money. He pictured his niece, Caroline, in her bed, propped up on pillows, looking out her bedroom window with those eyes like melted caramel, her body growing weaker, her face remote as the West Texas landscape.
I’d left Elizabeth at the sheriff’s makeshift command center, a large and opened tent, near all of the cars. There was food, water and supporters — everyone comforting but anxious. More than fifty people, many volunteers, walked through the dense woods looking for evidence — looking for bodies. As I was leaving, Sheriff Clayton, mid-forties with a linebacker’s girth and a mail-slot mouth, stood in front of cameras, microphones and satellite news trucks anchored where he and Detective Sandberg took questions from the media.
I heard a chopper overhead a quarter mile to my west as I searched through the brush with a younger deputy sheriff, Don Swanson. By midday, he had already lifted three ticks from his arms and scalp. His olive green Marion County Sheriff’s tee shirt was black from sweat, the fabric tight against his muscular chest and arms. He wore a close-cropped flattop haircut, and I saw his scalp turning red under the fierce sun as we walked through one of the few open fields heading toward another pocket of dense woods.
Swanson had been one of the first deputies on the scene after the hikers located the butterfly box. He agreed to lead me to where it was found. He said, “Bloodhounds won’t bark. We won’t know if they run up on something. It’s all in their nose.”
“Maybe we’ll cross paths with that search team,” I said.
Swanson pointed out the scrub where the bloodied box had been discovered.
“Was the box open or closed when you found it?” I asked.
“Open.”
“Were all the butterflies gone?”
“I didn’t see anything in the box, just a bloody handprint on the side of it.”
“Do you know what a coontie plant looks like?”
“A coon what?” He waved gnats from his eyes.