The Woodsman (The Jackson Clay & Bear Beauchamp Series Book 1)
Page 12
“Now, we’re gonna move ya,” he said, “You gonna cooperate and do this easy?”
Sara Beth didn’t think before she bucked at him and tried to scream. As she did, a hand shoved a cloth that smelled as bad as it tasted in her mouth, muffling her. A second hand came around with duct tape, securing the cloth in place. The men then held her wrists behind her back and her legs together as they applied generous amounts of duct tape to both.
As soon as they were finished, they lifted her out of the van and began carrying her. Sara Beth tried to look around but it was dark. Dark even by night standards. She could smell the grass below her and the fertilizer in the dirt. She’d always loved that smell. She took a deep breath in, trying to savor it as she assumed she was headed for another dog crate or windowless room.
The two men carried her up a short flight of stairs, and then, as she felt herself being carried through some sort of entryway, the brisk night was replaced with a kind of homey warmth. In dim light, she could see polished hardwood just inches from her face.
“Where do you want her,” asked the large man.
“Downstairs,” said a new voice.
This new voice was different. It was calm, almost genteel. Something about it made Sara Beth shiver.
“You heard him,” said the large man.
The two men turned Sara Beth and continued carrying her deeper into wherever they were. A door opened, and the warmth and hardwood disappeared. It was dark again, but now there was no smell of fresh grass. The air was stagnant and had a chemical smell. It smelled of paint, Sara Beth thought.
She could feel herself being carried down a set of stairs before being unceremoniously dropped onto something firm but with some give. A mattress. They’d dropped her onto a mattress.
“Cuffs are right here,” said one of the men.
“Hook is in the wall up there,” said the other.
They cut the tape off her wrists and replaced it with handcuffs that they attached to something above her head.
“Leave the tape on her feet,” yelled the gravelly-voiced man from atop the stairs, “And he wants her blindfolded.”
“Where the fuck am I supposed to find a blindfold,” said one of the other men.
“There’s a tie over there,” said the second, “Use that.”
Not that she could see much of anything before, but now Sara Beth was really shrouded in darkness as she felt the tie slipped over her eyes and tightened.
“Are we done,” asked the gravelly voice.
“Done,” replied one of the men.
Sara Beth felt the two men step away from her and listened as they clomped up the stairs. A door slammed shut, and then, silence. Once again, she was alone. She used whatever the handcuffs were attached to to pull herself into a sitting position, then moved her head close enough to her hands that she could undo the tie. She looked around. Tiny windows lined the far wall near the ceiling. Enough ambient light came through them that she could just barely get a feel for the room she was in.
It wasn’t a broom closet by any means. The room was cavernous and mostly empty save for a few things Sara Beth couldn’t make out along the wall. It must be a basement, she thought. Or some sort of storage. A place people stored things until they needed them. Now, she was one of those things.
She closed her eyes and tried to not think about what she was needed for.
32
Jackson sat in his truck, parked in the parking lot of a Dunkin on the far south end of Harrisonburg. He was waiting to meet Detective Cole who had told him she could get him the relevant footage after running by her office first.
Figuring he’d be in the area a few days, Jackson had gotten a room at an Econo Lodge in town after his talk with Russell Daniels. He wanted to go back and talk to Eddie Vaccaro, the owner of the appliance repair shop but figured he wouldn’t know any more than Daniels did, and grilling Vaccaro might lead him to retaliate on Daniels in some fashion. It would almost certainly do more harm than good.
Instead, Jackson focused on what Daniels told him. On his way to the Dunkin parking lot, he ran into a gas station and bought a street map of the area. He found the appliance repair shop and traced the route Daniels said the van had taken with a pen. Heading in that direction, the fastest ways out of town were either US 33 to the northwest or State Route 42 to the southwest. US 33 wound its way through the mountains, eventually crossing into West Virginia. State Route 42 ended at US 250 just outside Staunton. Neither was a more likely option than the other.
He was studying the map when he spotted Cole’s unmarked police car pull in. Jackson flashed his headlights to make sure she saw. She pulled into a spot next to his truck, got out, and climbed into his passenger seat.
“There are six cars in the parking lot,” said Cole, “You think I can’t make your giant Ram pickup?”
“Just trying to help,” Jackson replied.
Detective Cole reached into the breast pocket of her blazer and pulled out a thumb drive, handing it over to Jackson.
“That has the dashcams of patrol units that were in the vicinity of the appliance repair shop during that 10 o’clock hour,” Cole said, “There’s a couple stationary traffic cameras, too, but they’re few and far between and mostly further downtown. I’ve been over it all a dozen times. I’m not sure what you’re expecting to find.”
Jackson wasn’t sure he wanted to tell her about Daniels and the van. At least not yet.
“I might have something,” he said, “I need to check it out for myself.”
Cole shot him a look.
“What,” she asked, “A person? A vehicle? From the lot?”
“I’ll check it and if it’s something, I’ll let you know,” Jackson answered.
“It was enough to put in a call for this footage,” Cole said, “Come on, level with me.”
Jackson didn’t respond. He couldn’t blame Cole for being eager, but Jackson wasn’t interested in being micromanaged. Working alone meant moving faster. And in his experience, being fast was everything.
“You brought me in on this. Now you have to trust me.”
“Trust you when you don’t trust me,” Cole snapped.
Again, Jackson didn’t say anything back right away. She had a point. He was going to need her help. She’d put together a thumb drive of the footage largely without questioning him. It wouldn’t help him if she decided to become less cooperative.
“I asked you about Russell Daniels,” Jackson said.
“Yeah,” replied Cole, “I told you we cleared him.”
“He didn’t take her, but he was there that night when it happened,” Jackson said.
“What? How do you know this?”
“I followed him. Last night he left his house and went to the shop.”
“And what happened?”
“Questioned him. He gets paid under the table to do chores. He was in there when it went down. Says he saw a dark colored van pull in to the back. A half hour later it took off.”
Detective Cole sat back in the passenger seat, stunned. They had looked into Daniels. He was clean. Even his Parole Officer had attested to how much Daniels had been doing to get his life back together. They’d crossed him off and moved on. Now Cole couldn’t help but wonder if they’d been careless.
“Did he get a make and model,” asked Cole, “What about a plate? At least partial?”
“Dark work van, that’s all he saw,” answered Jackson.
Detective Cole went quiet as she thought to herself again.
“Let me work it,” Jackson said, “If I need something more, I’ll let you know.”
“Alright,” said Cole, “You let me know if you get a hit, though. Okay?”
Jackson nodded as she opened the door and climbed out. Before she’d even unlocked her car, he put his pickup in gear and pulled out. The coming night would mark three weeks exactly since Sara Beth had been taken. Jackson had ground to make up.
And fast was everything.
33
A part of her was incredulous. How many nights had she staked out the repair shop? Russell Daniels never came wandering by while she was watching. She kept playing things over again in her mind, asking herself if she’d been too quick to clear Daniels. If they’d known about the van a couple weeks ago, maybe Sara Beth would be home now. The thought made Cole sick.
She chose not to think about that but instead think about the van. It was something, but without a license plate number, it was still a longshot to find. There had to be dozens of dark-colored work vans in the Harrisonburg area. Even a make or model would help narrow it down. She was thinking about going to Russell Daniels and pressing him for details when there was a knock on her cubicle.
“Hey, where were you this morning,” asked Detective Doherty.
“I was here at 8, like always,” answered Cole, “I just ran back out real quick to grab coffee with an old friend.”
“Well, look at you. Two social outings in as many weeks,” Doherty said, chuckling, “Aren’t you the socialite?”
He looked over at her screen and saw the dashcam footage from a patrol car up. Even without context, he knew what it was.
“What is that, your tenth time going over that stuff,” said Doherty, nodding at the monitor.
“Something like that,” Cole replied.
“Any kidnapper magically appear that we missed the first nine times,” Doherty asked rhetorically.
“Have to try something, you never know what you’ll see with fresh eyes.”
“So, try something else. You’re going to run yourself ragged looking at the same stuff over and over. It’s not good for your eyes, staring at a screen like that.”
“I’ll be okay, thanks.”
Doherty shrugged his shoulders and disappeared. She swiveled around in her chair, turning back to the computer, and pressed play on the footage. She was watching Officer Brad Cook drive around Court Square and the old courthouse, but Cole wasn’t really paying attention. Doherty’s estimate was on the conservative side of how many times she’d watched the same footage. She knew it so well she could give you the play-by-play. The Prius going much too slow in front of Capital Ale House. The woman struggling to walk two dogs at the intersection with Market Street. It all played out the same way it had a dozen times before.
Cole sighed, frustrated, and checked her watch. It was an hour until noon. She’d committed to only drinking caffeine in the morning, an idea supplied by Doherty after she mentioned how little sleep she got. If she went now, she could work her way through one more red eye coffee. She stood up, stretched, and walked down the hall, leaving the dashcam footage playing on her screen.
The video showed Officer Cook as he came around the west side of Court Square and turned right, heading northwest on Market Street. He drove three blocks before a red light at High Street stopped him. The camera remained still as cross traffic drove along High Street, a medley of cars crossing left to right and right to left in random order. As the traffic lightened, the light turned yellow, then red, but not before one last car zoomed through the screen.
A black van with bright bluish white headlights sped to make the yellow light.
It was headed in the direction of the repair shop.
34
Jackson felt his heart thump hard as if it were bouncing off his chest wall as he watched his laptop screen. He stopped the video, skipped back, and played it again. And again. Sure enough, a black van with xenon headlights headed in the direction where Sara Beth had been taken. He looked at the timestamp on the dashcam footage. It read 10:06 p.m. Russell Daniels had said that the van had been behind the appliance shop for about half an hour. 30 minutes from 10:06 was right near the window when the police believed Sara Beth Parker disappeared.
He had the van.
As the van passed through the middle of the frame again, Jackson paused the video. It was a standard black panel van, a more recent model. It had the boxy shape and straight lines of a domestic make, he thought, most likely a Ford or Chevy.
Jackson pulled out the street map he’d bought and looked it over again. The patrol car was facing northwest on Market Street, which was also US Route 33. If the van had followed High Street into town, it had come from State Route 42, one of the two ways Jackson suspected the van also left town.
That highway paralleled Interstate 81 heading south out of Harrisonburg. Jackson wondered if perhaps whoever took Sara Beth had been traveling that way to avoid major highways and the state troopers that patrolled them. It would’ve been the smart play, he thought, and whoever had taken her did not strike Jackson as particularly dumb. But that in and of itself wasn’t much of a lead. Interstate 81 ran all the way into Tennessee.
He looked at the route the interstate took, tracing its way as the major thoroughfare through the Shenandoah Valley. The valley south of Harrisonburg was as good a place as any to start checking for registered vehicles.
Jackson pulled out his phone and called Detective Bailey.
“It’s me,” he said after a couple rings, “I need a favor.”
“What is it,” asked Bailey.
“I need a vehicle registration search,” asked Jackson,
“Jesus, you have a vehicle already?”
“I have a description. Can you help?”
“Sure. What’ve you got?”
“I’m looking for a black panel van registered somewhere in the Shenandoah Valley between Harrisonburg and Roanoke, the closer to I-81 or Virginia 42 the better. Ford or Chevy make. Say 2003 or newer.”
“Okay, it’ll take a few hours.”
“Alright. Thanks.”
Jackson killed the call. He stared at his laptop screen thinking what to do next. The image of the black van crossing Market Street along High Street was still paused, a dark cloud of a figure filling the driver’s seat. Who was that driving the van? Where had he come from? At the very least they had come from High Street south of Market Street.
Jackson grabbed his keys.
He wanted to see for himself.
35
The drive out of Harrisonburg for Jackson was a slow devolution of urban development. Where the intersection near the appliance repair shop was comprised of four city blocks built to the sidewalk, ten minutes further down the road Jackson found himself driving through rolling hills interspersed with the occasional warehouse or fast food chain. Another ten minutes and two towns later, it was nothing but rural farmland. Pure white clouds formed on the horizon, floating effortlessly across the valley towards the Shenandoah mountains. It was pristine country. For a moment, Jackson nearly forgot the dark factors that had brought him out here.
He imagined the van driving the very same road on a Monday night three weeks ago. Any other cars would have been few and far between. Driving through sleepy farm communities, whoever had taken Sara Beth would’ve been all but invisible.
As Jackson passed an elementary school, the rolling farmland gave way to a small cluster of rural houses, on the far side of which was what looked to be a gas station. Seeing it, he realized it was the first gas station he’d seen for miles, and wondered if he might get lucky a second time.
Pulling in, the sign out front read Duke’s Country Store with the word Groceries painted in big blue letters. The metal canopy over the two gas pumps was faded green and didn’t have a brand of gasoline like most stations did. The white brick building had two garage bays attached to it. Out front of one sat a rusted brown early 90’s F-150. An older man with a weather-beaten face and unkempt white hair was working under the hood of it. He turned and looked
at Jackson, grabbing a cloth from his tattered coveralls. Jackson gave the man a polite nod as he headed inside, but only got a wary stare in return.
Opening the store’s front door, Jackson was welcomed by the scent of warm spices. The store itself couldn’t have been more than twenty feet each way, crowded with tiny aisles of food that wouldn’t expire for a decade. On the far side sat a checkout counter next to a display case glowing red with hot food under heating lamps. A paper sign handwritten with a Sharpie sat on top and read ‘The Best Damn Fried Chicken This Side Of The Valley!’ Jackson was reading the sign when a woman’s voice spoke.
“We ain’t lying,” she said, “God’s honest truth it is.”
The woman appeared from behind the register, greeting him with a big smile as warm as the display case. Short and stout, the woman was wearing a red flowery apron that matched her ruby dyed hair.
“Did you make this yourself,” asked Jackson, mustering what charm he could.
“I sure did,” answered the woman.
“I’ll take a couple of pieces for the road,” Jackson said.
“Three pieces and you get a can of coke with it.”
“A bottle of water and you have yourself a deal.”
The woman gave another warm smile. Jackson had to hand it to her: she was a salesman as well as a cook.
“Do you mind if I ask you something,” Jackson said as she began putting the food in a box, “Do you remember that night a while back that girl disappeared up in Harrisonburg?”
“I saw that on the news,” replied the woman, “That was a few weeks ago, wasn’t it?”
“Three weeks tonight, actually,” Jackson answered.
The woman poked her head up over the display case.
“You a cop or something,” asked the woman, curious.
“No, nothing like that,” Jackson replied “But so do you remember seeing anything?”