“Come on, Nat. That’s not fair.”
She turned and stomped up the stairs, getting so close Jackson could feel her breath, warm and angry, against his face.
“No, I’m glad you said something,” she said, “Because something needs to be said. It’s one thing that the cops in there don’t give a fuck. It’s not their kid. But he is yours, Jackson. So, where are you? Huh? You’re the big, bad ex-Army Ranger that wants to be a private eye. Do some detective stuff, then. Find our son!”
Indignation began to build in Jackson as he watched Nathalie storm off towards their car. He knew she was upset – hell, he was upset, too – but never would he go as far as to blame her for something as impossible as the situation they found themselves in. He could count on his fingers the number of times they had had a major fight. But now, standing on the stairs of the police station, the parental sin of losing his son placed at his feet by his wife, it felt as though something had broken that could not be fixed.
Jackson opened his eyes not to the sight of Nathalie but a ceiling fan whirring and whining as it begrudgingly blew the damp air of the hotel room down onto him. He rolled over, sat up, and checked his watch. It was just before five in the morning. Ten seconds later, his alarm buzzed on his phone.
He got up, walked over to the bathroom, and tore open a packet of coffee. It wasn’t his usual pour-over Gold Coast blend, but for free coffee it would certainly do. Listening as the little coffeemaker gurgled to life, he rubbed the rest of the sleep from his eyes. As his vision cleared, he saw the file Cole had dropped off last night. He grabbed it and began to thumb through the information on the man she’d found.
Albert Perry was convicted in 1995 for the 1994 rape of Lily McCall in the Finger Lakes region of New York state. Lily had been 16 just as Sara Beth was now. Perry was 31 when he was convicted, which would make him 55 now. Not too old that he couldn’t overpower a teenage girl again, Jackson thought.
The last page was a printout of Perry’s sex offender registry. He’d apparently moved last year from Watkins Glen, New York. Both his home and work had Swoope, Virginia addresses. Jackson couldn’t think why the area sounded familiar to him. The work address said it was a gas station. He opened up the map he had bought and double-checked it wasn’t where he’d stopped and grabbed Gerry’s fried chicken.
Confirmed. Gerry’s chicken was innocent.
He scanned the map looking for Swoope. As he found it, a cold, tingling sensation came over him. He opened up his laptop and googled both addresses. Both the gas station listed as his place of employment and his home were less than a mile off of Virginia 42, the state highway that made its way to Harrisonburg where inside the town limits it was called High Street. The same High Street the police car dashcam had seen the black van drive down the night Sara Beth Parker went missing.
“Son of a bitch,” Jackson muttered under his breath.
He quickly threw on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, grabbed his boots, slid a magazine into his P320 and holstered it. He grabbed his gear bag and was out the door in a matter of minutes.
39
Twenty minutes later, Jackson was nearing where his nav system put Perry’s home address. As he came around a bend, he saw the silhouette of a large building in the early dawn twilight with a sign illuminated near the road. His stomach turned in knots again as he read it.
John Lewis High School
Home of the Fighting Irish
Jackson’s nav system said he was less than a mile from the house. It was much farther than the 500 feet required by law, but with little else around, the revelation left Jackson with a sick feeling in his stomach.
As he drew near, he could see the house, perched on a hill, overlooking the rural highway. The house looked to be surrounded by open fields on all sides for at least a couple hundred yards. Jackson grunted as he saw this. Making his way up to the house wouldn’t be easy.
He stopped at the next intersection and made a U-turn, doubling back to the high school. There, the side of the road Albert Perry’s house was on was covered with trees. Jackson needed a place to leave his car and proceed on foot, but there weren’t many options and none of them were great. Parked in the school’s parking lot, his truck wouldn’t look out of place, but even at this hour faculty were probably already arriving, and all it took was one person seeing him park his truck and run into the woods before the police were called out for a suspicious person.
Instead, Jackson parked just off the highway past a wooded private driveway near the open field next to Perry’s house. With any luck, people passing by would assume the truck was with the residence at the end of the drive, and those in the residence wouldn’t think much of a truck down by the road.
Killing the lights and engine, Jackson looked around for headlights or signs of activity. Nothing. He opened his door, slung his pack on over his shoulders and began hiking up the hillside into the trees.
He loped to the tree line along the open field as he moved parallel to the house. Jackson followed it all the way to where another field shaved off the back side of the woods, cutting it into a square.
Perry’s house was less than a hundred yards away, nestled in a low bank of early morning fog that glowed with the first rays of sunlight. Jackson noticed the two fields were separated not only by wire fencing but a small trail. It was probably used by trucks and ATV’s to move things in and out of the fields. The road ran up to the back of Perry’s property as it wound its way around a small copse of trees. It was the best cover he’d have getting across the fields.
Keeping his upper half low, Jackson ran along the fence line, crossing the field fast and quiet. When he got to the trees on the far side, he ducked behind the thickest trunk and watched the house for movement. Nothing. Jackson had gotten across clean.
He turned and scanned the property. The only vehicle out in the open was an older model Subaru caked in dirt, but behind the house on the other side of the trees was a detached garage and a large shed, either of which were big enough to house the van. Maybe the van was in one of them, or maybe Albert Perry was out driving in it somewhere. There was only one way to find out.
Using the trees for cover, he made his way between the two structures where both had windows facing one another. He looked in the garage first. No cars. It had been turned into some sort of workshop. Jackson slid back down into a squat and walked over to the shed, popping up to peer in its window.
There was something large inside covered with some sort of tarp. Whether it was a van or not was hard to see in the relative darkness of the early morning. He’d have to get inside for a better look. The only problem was the shed’s doors were in plain view of the house.
Jackson moved to the corner of the shed and looked at its doors They were locked together with a metal clasp and large padlock, but the wood around the clasp was weathered and deteriorating. Jackson bet he could simply pry the whole assembly off.
He looked out at the house and scanned the windows one more time for any movement. They were dark and still.
Stepping slowly out from the cover of the two buildings, Jackson moved towards the shed doors. He pulled out his knife, jamming it in between the wood and metal, and pulled the handle towards him. The metal clasp and lock tore off the door and fell with a clunk at Jackson’s feet.
Brushing the splintered wood aside, he swung open the broken door. Now with more light on it, Jackson could easily see it was a van with an auto cover on it. He lifted up a flap far enough to reveal a portion of the grill and hood. A gold Chevrolet moniker shined in the sunlight just now coming over the horizon. He lifted the cover a little further to see the body was painted black. Now he just needed to see about the xenon headlights.
But just as Jackson began to wonder if the keys to the van were in the shed somewhere, he heard the distinctive click-click of a shotgun behind him.
“And just who the fuck are you,” asked a voice.
40
Jackson stuck his hands out to either s
ide showing there was nothing in them. It was an attempt to deescalate the situation. He’d lost count how many times between the service and his life now he’d had a gun pulled on him. To him, this was merely a matter of procedure.
“I said who the fuck are you,” the voice asked again, angrier, “You picked the wrong fucker to rob.”
“I’m not here to take anything,” Jackson replied calmly.
“Bullshit. Keep your hands up,” said the voice.
Jackson raised his arms a little. He didn’t want the back of his shirt to come up enough to show the P320 in its holster.
“I’m going to turn around, do not shoot me,” Jackson said.
He rotated in place slowly, turning around to come face to face with the man. He was a shorter man whose age showed, with liver-spotted ruddy skin and white hair that flowed into a bushy beard. It was Albert Perry. Somewhere between the field and here, in front of the shed, Perry must’ve made him and gotten the drop on him. Jackson clenched his fists, angry at himself as he thought about it.
“Well, you say you ain’t going to rob me. Who are you then,” asked Perry.
“I’m going to reach slowly for my ID, okay? Do not shoot me,” Jackson replied.
He reached slowly behind him and pulled his wallet out from his back pocket and extended it towards Perry with one hand. Perry stepped towards Jackson to examine it, taking one hand off the shotgun. He’d done exactly what Jackson wanted him to do.
In an instant, Jackson grabbed the barrel of the shotgun and pulled it forward, shoving the muzzle past his body and out of danger of shooting him. Perry’s loose grip on the gun came free. Jackson turned into Perry, throwing a right elbow into the man’s temple. When Perry brought his hands to his face, Jackson swung the butt of the shotgun into Perry’s sternum. Rocked by the two blows, Perry stumbled backwards. Jackson marched at him, swinging a leg behind Perry and throwing him to the ground by his chest. Before he could process that he’d made a mistake, Albert Perry found himself on his back with his own shotgun pointed at him.
“Albert Perry,” said Jackson, “We need to have a chat.”
“How do you know—Wait, what’s going on here,” asked Perry.
“Get up,” replied Jackson, “Walk over to the shed.”
“What are you going to do, shoot me?”
“Weren’t you just about to shoot me?”
“Fuck you, you’re on my property.”
Jackson ignored him. He motioned with the end of the shotgun.
“Up,” Jackson ordered, “Over by the shed.”
Perry stared at him long enough for his protest to register, then slowly pushed himself to his feet and limped over to the shed.
“There. Now what,” Perry demanded.
“That black van under there. One just like it was seen right where a 16-year-old girl was taken from Harrisonburg three weeks ago,” Jackson replied, “You have a history with teenage girls.”
“Wha—Hey, I had nothing to do with that,” Perry said.
“Didn’t you?”
“No, I sure as shit didn’t.”
“Of the hundreds of registered sex offenders out here, it turns out there’s only one with a black van, and he’s a convicted rapist of a girl the same age as the one that disappeared. That’s some coincidence.”
“You say I used this van? Look at it. Hard to get it to Harrisonburg without an engine.”
“What?”
“The transmission crapped out on it years ago. I’ve been scrapping it for parts. Go on look, the thing is gutted.”
Jackson motioned over to the driver’s door.
“Pop the hood,” he said.
Albert shuffled sideways towards the van, not turning away from Jackson and the shotgun. He opened the door, reached in with one hand and pulled the hood release.
“Alright, back up,” Jackson ordered.
Jackson walked over, keeping the gun trained on Perry, and opened the hood with one hand. Perry wasn’t lying; there was a gaping hole where an engine should be.
“So, what,” said Jackson, “This all could’ve been done in the weeks since.”
“Transmission went a year ago,” Perry replied, “I started selling parts not long after.”
“You have some way to prove it,” Jackson asked.
“Fuck you. You ain’t a cop or you wouldn’t be here like this. You prove it.”
“You’re right, I’m not a cop. Which should concern you, considering I’ve got your own gun pointed at you.”
“I don’t know what to tell you. Shoot me then.”
Jackson thought to himself. He needed another way to either confirm or clear Perry.
“Three weeks ago, last Monday,” Jackson said, “You know what you were doing?”
“What time,” Perry asked.
“Between 10 and 11 pm,” Jackson answered.
“Monday nights I work. The EZ Stop up the road. You can check for yourself.”
“Someone going to vouch for you?”
“The hell if I know.”
That was the place listed as his work on the sex offender registry. Albert Perry could be lying, but Jackson was starting to get the feeling he was telling the truth. With the gun still trained on Perry, he pulled out his phone and googled EZ Stop Swoope, Virginia. When the information came up, he pressed the phone icon. His phone dialed the number as he put it to his ear.
“EZ Stop,” said a gruff man’s voice.
“How’s it going,” replied Jackson, “My wife and I were traveling through a while back and she thinks she might’ve left a ring in the bathroom there.”
“Mm, haven’t seen anything like that,” the man said, “When’d you say you lost it?”
“Must’ve been maybe three weeks ago. It was a Monday night.”
“Ah, a different man’s been working Monday nights around here recently. He’s supposed to work tonight, in fact. I can ask him when he comes in.”
“And who’s that?”
“Al. Al, um, Perry I think his last name is.”
Jackson ended the call.
“When do you work next,” Jackson asked.
“Tonight,” Perry said, “Why?”
Jackson pumped the shotgun. One by one the shells fell out of it and rolled into the grass. He tossed the shotgun deep into the shed and approached Perry, getting up so close to him he could smell the chewing tobacco on the old man’s breath.
“I’m going to find out what happened to that girl,” Jackson said, “If I find out you had anything to do with it, I’ll be coming back. And if I come back here, it won’t be to ask more questions.”
Perry didn’t say anything back. Jackson began walking backwards.
“Let’s make this the last time we meet, Albert Perry,” Jackson said, “For your sake.”
Perry watched him, almost snarling. Jackson didn’t turn away from him until he crossed the field, then turned and ran into the woods.
Hiking back down the wooded hillside, Jackson made his way to where he had left his truck. He got in and drove down the road until he had a view of Perry’s drive way. Now that he had his face-to-face with Perry, he wanted to see how the man reacted.
But Perry didn’t leave the property. Jackson sat on the house well into the afternoon. No one came in or out.
Maybe Perry was lying, but the man on the phone had said Perry was working tonight and then Perry confirmed it without knowing what the man had said. There was good reason to buy Perry’s story, but it wasn’t bulletproof. Jackson decided he wanted to confirm Perry’s alibi.
Five minutes later, he pulled into the parking lot of the EZ Stop. As he walked in, a husky gentleman looked up from behind the counter. His upper torso looked as though it was trying to break out of the sleeveless camouflage constricting it. Tattoos competed with dark hair for real estate on his arms, back, and chest. Jackson wondered why he was minding a gas station in the middle of the afternoon and not playing tackle for the Steelers.
“Afternoon,” said Jack
son, “I was wondering if you could help me out?”
“With what,” replied the man.
“A little girl was taken from Harrisonburg about three weeks ago,” Jackson said, “Maybe you heard about it?”
“I think I remember seeing it on the news.”
“Yeah, she’s still missing. You didn’t happen to be working here on a Monday night a while back? Three weeks from yesterday?”
“No, can’t say that I was.”
“Ah. See I’m checking gas stations for a guy. I was going to ask if you remember seeing him.”
Jackson looked up at the camera over the man’s shoulder.
“How long do you guys keep the footage for those cameras,” Jackson asked.
“I’m not sure,” the man replied, “I think a month or so.”
“You mind checking if you guys still have footage from that night,” asked Jackson.
The man stared at Jackson as if trying to get a read on him.
“Who did you say you were with, again,” the man asked.
“I didn’t,” Jackson answered.
The man paused a moment longer, still seemingly trying to size up Jackson.
“There isn’t a reason you wouldn’t want to help is there,” Jackson asked.
“No, I suppose not,” the man said, “Back here.”
He waved Jackson over towards a door next to the register and opened it. Inside was a cramped office littered with papers. The man squeezed into the tiny office chair and opened something up on the computer.
“You said three weeks ago from last night,” the man asked.
“Exactly,” answered Jackson, “Right around 10:30.”
The man punched something into the keyboard and a window with grainy camera footage popped up. Jackson recognized from its frame of reference it was the camera behind the register. The two of them stared at the screen as the footage played.
“You know, it’s funny, you’re the second person today to ask about this night,” the man said.
“Oh yeah,” asked Jackson.
The Woodsman (The Jackson Clay & Bear Beauchamp Series Book 1) Page 14