Free The Butterfly Forest (Mystery/Thriller) by Tom Lowe

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