The Woodsman (The Jackson Clay & Bear Beauchamp Series Book 1)

by B. C. Lienesch

  “Not at night, nope,” the woman said, “We close at 7 p.m. sharp every day. Have what’s left in here for dinner, and go on up and watch TV. Monday’s American Idol.”

  “Ah, I see. So, no one would’ve been down here after 7?”

  “Uh uh.”

  The woman boxed up his food, slid it into a bag to go, and brought it over to the register.

  “You said you want a water, hon,” asked the woman.

  “Yes, please,” Jackson answered.

  He pulled out his wallet as the woman went over to the fridge and grabbed a bottle of Deer Park.

  “You need anything else, hon,” asked the woman.

  “No, thank you,” Jackson answered.

  “Then that’ll be $5.34,” said the woman.

  Jackson handed her six dollars and she went into the drawer for his change.

  “I never caught your name, honey,” the woman said.

  “Jackson,” he said with a smile.

  “It was nice to meet you Jackson, my name’s Gertrude. Friend’s call me Gerry,” said the woman.

  “Nice to meet you, too, ma’am,” replied Jackson.

  Gerry flashed her big, warm smile again. He smiled, waving goodbye, and began walking out before a thought popped in his head.

  “Let me ask you one more thing, Gerry,” Jackson said.

  Gerry’s smile grew bigger as Jackson used her friends’ name for her.

  “Of course, hon,” replied Gerry.

  “You don’t know anyone around here with a black van do you,” asked Jackson, “Maybe someone that strikes you as a little odd or suspicious?”

  “Hm, can’t say that I do. Harold Avery has an old black van, but I can’t see him doing nothing wrong. Hell, I don’t know if he could if he wanted to, the old fart.”

  “No, this would be a newer black van, maybe no more than ten years old.”

  “Nope, can’t say that I know anyone with that.”

  “Alright then, have a good day.”

  “You too, hon. When you find out how good the chicken is you come back.”

  Gerry laughed, her belly jumping up and down as she did. Walking back to his truck, his phone rang. He grabbed it out of his pocket and looked at the screen. It was Detective Bailey. Jackson slid the green icon right and answered the call.

  “Hey,” Jackson said.

  “Hey, I’ve got what you asked for,” said Bailey, “I sent the info to you in an email. My personal email account, of course.”

  “Appreciate it,” replied Jackson.

  “Yeah, it’s people here and there until you get to Roanoke, where it seems just about everyone probably knows someone who owns a black van.”

  “Make sense. Pretty big city and all.”

  “Yeah, I guess. Hey, where are you, I hear cars.”

  “At some country store south of Harrisonburg. Don’t exactly know the town, if it even is one.”

  “Oh, you headed out to see Isaacs?”

  “Who?”

  “Jeff Isaacs. His info is in the case files. Remember, I told you his group had been helping. You said you were south of town; just thought maybe you were on his way to see him. He lives out that way in Steeles Tavern.”

  “No, I was just checking something out. Waiting for your call.”

  “Oh, okay. Well, this is your call.”

  “Thanks again.”

  Jackson ended the call. He opened up his passenger side door, slid the food in and pulled out the case files. He thumbed through the papers until he found the information on Isaacs again. Jackson opened up Google Maps on his phone and put in the address. The man lived about 40 minutes away. It couldn’t hurt, Jackson thought.

  He put the files away, walked around and climbed into his truck. The same older man working on the truck was still leering at him. Jackson nodded again and once again his effort was in vain.

  He put the truck in gear and headed out for Steeles Tavern.

  36

  Jackson took a right off a rural highway and pulled onto a driveway that ended at a double garage attached to an impressive Victorian ranch style house. Creamy gray with slate blue metal roofing, the house and surrounding property were immaculately maintained. A modest yard enveloped the house on all sides like a manicured grass moat that separated it from the dense forest the home was snuggly nestled into, the same woods that surrounded the highway Jackson had taken to get there.

  As he climbed out of his truck, Jackson saw Jeff Isaacs standing on the front porch, surprised to see someone drive up. Isaacs walked down the stairs and came over. Wearing a plaid flannel vest, matching cap, and jeans, he looked like someone who’d never hunted thought a hunter might look like.

  “Hello there,” said Jeff, “How may I help you?”

  “My name is Jackson Clay,” Jackson replied, “I heard you were familiar with the Sara Beth Parker case.”

  Isaacs look at him skeptically.

  “A little bit, sure,” Isaacs said, “Are you another detective?”

  “Another,” asked Jackson.

  “I’ve met and talked to Detective Cole and her partner,” Isaacs said, “What’s his name? Doherty.”

  “No, I’m not with them. Or the police.”

  “So, you know the Parkers?”

  “No. I’m just looking into the case. From what I understand, you yourself help out where you can.”

  An excitement came over Isaacs at the mention of his work.

  “I, well, my organization more so really focuses on helping the family cope,” he said, “We spread the word, sure, and get the missing’s name and face out there. But I’m afraid we aren’t some band of savvy investigators.”

  “But you’re familiar with the Parker case,” Jackson asked.

  “Sure,” replied Isaacs.

  “I was wondering if I could ask you about it. Fill in some blanks for me.”

  “Sure. Actually—"

  Isaacs looked around, as if unsure where to host his new guest. He turned the other way, facing the garage.

  “You know, I was just about to head out to one of our PACTV groups,” Isaacs said, “Not the Harrisonburg one the Parkers have been to a few times, but our Lexington one. It’s not far. It’d be a good way for you to get a sense of what it is we’re about.”

  Jackson was hesitant. He wasn’t sure what meeting with a group of other victims would do to help him bring Sara Beth home, but if it gave him an opportunity to find out what Isaacs knew, maybe it was worth it.

  “Okay,” replied Jackson, “I’ll follow you.”

  “Oh, there’s no sense in taking two cars,” said Isaacs, “You can ride with me. Don’t worry, I’ll bring you back in one piece.”

  Again, Jackson was hesitant.

  “Alright. Just let me get my stuff,” said Jackson.

  “Of course, no problem,” replied Isaacs, “I have to lock up and everything anyway.”

  Isaacs walked hastily down his walkway and trotted up the stairs.

  “We’ll take the Buick over there,” Isaacs shouted before ducking into his house, “Feel free to get in. It should be unlocked.”

  Jackson walked around to the driver’s side door of his truck, opened it, fetched his P320, and tucked it into the concealed holster clipped to his belt. He looked around, curious. The Buick was parked at the far corner of the driveway, far from the garage and the house. It struck Jackson as odd.

  Double checking that Isaacs wasn’t on his way out of the house, Jackson walked over to the garage doors. He cupped his hands around his eyes and put his face to the one of the windows. Inside was an Infiniti sedan and a Volkswagen SUV. No black panel van, not that Jackson really expected one.

  He heard the front door shut around the corner and quickly stepped away from the house back towards his truck. Isaacs walked into view and gestured over to his Buick.

  “Ready,” asked Isaacs.

  “Sure,” replied Jackson.

  The two of them got in and Jeff put the car in gear. As they pulled to the ed
ge of the driveway, Isaacs’ phone beeped and chirped in his pocket. He seemed to ignore it.

  “Do you need to get that,” Jackson asked.

  “No, it’s just an alert,” replied Isaacs, “Sensors over the front of the driveway. They alert me when they’ve been tripped.”

  Jackson hadn’t noticed it before, but now saw wood posts on either side of the driveway, knee high with infrared sensors.

  “Fancy stuff,” said Jackson.

  “Well, you can never be too careful,” replied Isaacs, “Evil is out there. I know more so than most. I suppose you do, too, if you look into stuff like the Parker case.”

  “I do,” Jackson said.

  They headed back towards Interstate 81, retracing the route Jackson had taken in but took the interstate south away from Harrisonburg. Jackson took in the view as farm land and truck stops dotted the valley landscape bordered by mountains.

  “So are you a private investigator or something,” Isaacs asked.

  “Something like that,” answered Jackson.

  “I see,” Isaacs said, “And the Parkers didn’t hire you?”

  “No, no one hired me.”

  “You mean you’re here on your own time and dime? That’s mighty of you.”

  “Just want to help.”

  “Yeah, I know the feeling. I lost my Olivia seven years ago. Went through a dark place but ultimately decided I didn’t want anyone to have to go through what I did. And decided to help.”

  “That’s noble of you.”

  “I don’t know about all that. I just want to help, like you said. Terrible thing that happened to the Parkers.”

  “Sure is.”

  “I told them when I first met them, I couldn’t get over how much Sara Beth looks like Olivia.”

  Isaacs leaned forward and fished a photo out of his back pocket and handed it to Jackson. He was right, Jackson thought. There was definitely a strong resemblance.

  “She was beautiful. I’m sorry you lost her,” said Jackson.

  “Yeah, me too,” Isaacs replied, “She was my world. Still is, really.”

  “And that’s what your group is about,” asked Jackson.

  “Exactly. Once I started trying to help, I was stunned by how many like me there were out there. I think none of us were ever aware such a community existed. It’s not like you advertise to people that your child was stolen from you. I decided to try and bring as many as I could together. To create a community where we could help one another.”

  “And that’s what PACTV is?”

  “Sure. Well, at least I hope so.”

  “Sounds nice.”

  “Well, you’ll see for yourself.”

  Jackson was caught up in memories as he and Jeff drove through the rolling hills of the southern Shenandoah Valley, on their way to meet the broken families. Parents that had the thing they loved most in this world stolen from them. They would never know how much Jackson Clay shared their pain.

  37

  It was after midnight by the time Jackson got back to the Econo Lodge in Harrisonburg. The support group meeting hadn’t been quite what Jackson expected. Though, if he were being honest with himself, he wasn’t sure what he had expected.

  Only four other people came besides Isaacs and himself, two sets of parents. Each had had a daughter taken from them. Jackson sat quietly and listened to them speak, but none of them talked much about their loved ones. It was clear the four of them regularly met there with Isaacs, making it more of a social event than anything else. The conversation meandered from the weather to the local baseball team to that one road the city refused to fix. Jackson couldn’t help but feel his time was being wasted. He needed information that would get him closer to finding Sara Beth, not the local news latest.

  As Jackson pulled into the parking lot of his motel, he saw the silhouette of a person leaning on the railing in front of his door. The full head of curly hair and gun-sized bulge on her right hip told him it was Detective Cole. Pretending not to notice, he walked over to the stairs and climbed them to his second-floor door. Of course, Detective Cole had seen him and was facing his direction as he turned the corner.

  “Detective Cole,” Jackson said, “You’re up late.”

  “As are you, Mr. Clay,” replied Cole.

  “I don’t remember telling you I checked in here,” said Jackson.

  “I’m a detective, Mr. Clay, I’m good at what I do.”

  Jackson took a deep breath, frustrated.

  “What can I do for you, detective,” Jackson asked.

  “You had Detective Bailey run down black vans south of town,” answered Cole.

  “I did,” replied Jackson.

  “Ignoring why you wouldn’t ask me, I assume your next step was to cross reference them with the state sex offender registry.”

  “It is, but I’ve been out chasing other leads down.”

  “Well, I wasn’t. I cross referenced the names and got a hit. Albert Perry. He’s registered for a first-degree rape conviction in New York state. Mr. Perry offered to drive a girl home from her high school after cheerleading practice let out. Instead, she was forced to have sex with him while he held a knife to her throat. He did twenty years and got out in 2015. His home address is registered outside a small town called Swoope about 35 miles south of here. Mr. Perry also happens to have a 2009 black Chevy Express.”

  Detective Cole handed him a manila folder with the information. He flipped through it, verifying everything she had said.

  “So why don’t you run it down yourself,” Jackson asked.

  “Come on,” replied Cole, “Because I have you. The finder. The thing that goes bump in the night.”

  “And it’s out of your jurisdiction on a case you’re not supposed to be on, right,” asked Jackson.

  Detective Cole didn’t say anything back.

  “I’ll get on it first thing in the morning,” Jackson said, “Goodnight, Detective.”

  Detective Cole took the hint and headed for the stairs. But before she disappeared around the corner, she turned back to Jackson.

  “What was the lead you were running,” she asked.

  “It turned out to be nothing,” Jackson said.

  She looked at him, suspicious.

  “It was a literal dead end, Cole,” Jackson said, his voice rising, “I’m not hiding anything from you.”

  Detective Cole gave a terse smile and nodded before descending the stairs. Jackson watched as she reappeared in the parking lot below, climbed into a Jeep Liberty, and left. He sighed again, still frustrated. Jackson Clay didn’t appreciate being micromanaged.

  He opened his hotel room door, and hit the lights. He tossed his keys onto the accent table and lowered himself onto the bed. Detective Cole’s lead was a good one, but he’d been at it for 20 hours straight already. He set the alarm on his phone for four hours and closed his eyes. Minutes later, he was somewhere else entirely.

  38

  Jackson stared at the can of ginger ale. He could hear the carbonated bubbles plinking off the inside of the can, coming to the surface as their soft gurgling echoed. Nat was next to him, the two of them sitting in chairs in Detective Greg Teasley’s office. He seemed like a nice enough guy, his desk adorned with photos of his two boys in Little League and Pop Warner uniforms. The youngest looked to be Evan’s age. Jackson wondered if Teasley thought about him as he searched for Evan.

  Detective Teasley opened the door and came in, sliding his ample gut between Jackson and Nat with a stack of papers.

  “Okay, we put together a media packet with the photos you gave us,” Teasley said, “We should start to see stories of him run beginning with the evening local news tonight. If stations want to interview you two, it would go a long way if you’re up to it.”

  “Of course, whatever we need to do,” Jackson replied.

  Jackson looked at Nathalie. She didn’t move, staring forward, a scowl tattooed on her face. Her leg was shaking. She did that when she was frustrated.

&nbs
p; Evan had been missing almost 24 hours. Detective Teasley and others had told them they were doing all they could to find him. Jackson had been grateful for their help. Nat, the few times she said anything, had only taken swipes at them for not doing more.

  “So, what do we do now,” Jackson asked.

  “Now, you let us do our job,” Detective Teasley answered, “We’ll pursue leads as they come in. Getting the word out will help. With a little luck, we’ll be busy here the next few days. The best thing for you two to do is go home.”

  “You want us to just sit on our hands and do nothing,” Jackson asked

  “Like I said, if the media calls, take their interview. Talk with friends and family. Maybe something will come back to you that you remember.”

  Nathalie snorted as she stood up and left the detective’s office, the door rattling as it banged against the wall. Jackson stood and thanked the detective for his time before leaving and jogging after his wife. He caught up with her just outside the front doors of the police station.

  “Hey, Nat,” he said, “What the hell was that?”

  “It’s bullshit, Jackson,” she seethed, “It’s all just bullshit.”

  “What are you talking about,” Jackson asked.

  “The flyers, the photos, the god damn media packet. It’s all just a game to them. They go through the motions and maybe they find the kid or maybe they don’t. But they checked their boxes so they’re good. Except it’s Evan now. It’s my kid. And I’ll be damned if they treat this like just another day at the office.”

  “They’re doing their jobs, Nat. What more are they supposed to do?”

  “Care, Jackson! They’re supposed to give a fuck. Did that guy in there seem like he cared about anything other than when 5 o’clock rolled around?”

  “Nat, they’re just calm. They’ve done this before and they know what they’re doing. We just need to trust them.”

  Nathalie snorted again.

  “We,” she echoed as she rolled her eyes.

  “Yes, we, Nat,” Jackson said, “Us.”

  “Last I checked, it wasn’t we that let him disappear. It was you,” she screamed.