Anne Parker was sitting hunched on the railing of the overpass, her hair covering her face as she looked down. She was gripping the railing for balance on either side of her. Detective Cole took that as a promising sign.
She began to walk out to her, walking slowly as if Anne were an animal that might easily startle. When she got about halfway, she called out.
“Anne,” Cole said, “Anne, it’s me. Angela.”
Anne’s head turned. Detective Cole could see her looking back through a break in her long, brown hair.
“Anne, I just want to make sure you’re okay,” said Cole.
“Nothing is okay,” Anne murmured back.
A helicopter thumped overhead. Detective Cole could barely hear her. She reached for her radio and called back to the patrol supervisor.
“Whose bird is that,” she asked on the radio.
“Not sure. It’s not one of ours,” the sergeant radioed back.
“Well get it out of here,” Cole responded.
She put the radio back on her hip as the Sergeant burst a quick transmission acknowledging her. Cole took a couple steps closer to Anne.
“Talk to me, Anne,” she said, “Why are you out here?”
“I can’t do it anymore,” Anne replied.
“Anne, I know you’re upset, but this isn’t the way to handle it,” Cole said, “Hurting yourself isn’t going to fix this.”
“It’s what’s right. It should be me who suffers. I lost her.”
“No, Anne. You didn’t lose her. She’s out there somewhere. We’re going to find her. And when we do, she’s going to need her mother.”
“Where? Where is she? She’s gone. It should be me. I should be gone.”
“No, Anne, you should be right here, waiting for your daughter. You don’t want to do this. What if Sara Beth comes home tomorrow? Or the next day? Imagine all she’ll have been through. She’s going to need her mother. She’s going to need you, Anne.”
“What if I can’t? What if I’m not strong enough?”
“You are, Anne. You’ve made it this far. I can’t even begin to imagine what you’ve been through, and you’ve made it this far.”
Cole was now within arm’s reach of her. She put an arm out, placing her hand carefully on Anne’s back.
“Anne, it’s okay,” Cole said, “You can’t blame yourself. You have been so amazing. We want to help you. We want to bring Sara Beth home to you. But first, we want you to be safe. And okay.”
“I’m not okay,” Anne replied, “Look at me. Look at all this. This is not okay.”
“This is okay, Anne. We’re all here for you,“ Cole said, “We just want you to be safe.”
“I can’t. I can’t go back.”
“Why not, Anne?”
“The not knowing, the empty house, it’s too much.”
“If it’s too much to be at home, Anne, you don’t have to be at home. But this, this railing. This isn’t the place for you. Let’s come back over to this side.”
“There’s nothing for me back there.”
“Anne, there’s nothing for you down there. We’re all right here. Me, Scott, your friends. We’re here for you. We just want you to come off the railing.”
“Tell them I can’t, Tell them I’m sorry.”
Anne’s hands began to fidget, sliding up and down the railing. She looked further down, past her feet at the ground below. Her breathing turned shallow and rapid. Cole was losing her.
“Anne,” she said, “I’m sorry.”
In one motion, Cole swung her arms underneath Anne’s, bear-hugging her from behind. She lunged backwards, tugging Anne off the ledge and directly onto her as the two of them fell to the ground.
Immediately, a handful of firefighters and police officers rushed to their aid. Onlookers in the distance began to clap, but all Cole could hear were the guttural cries bellowing from Anne.
“No, please, no,” Anne cried, “I need this to end! Please, no!”
Detective Cole didn’t let go of her as she kicked and twisted, trying to get free. Cole squeezed tighter.
“I’m sorry, hon,” she said softly into Anne’s ear, “I’m so sorry.”
Firefighters and police officers surrounded them and helped control Anne. Cole held back tears as the first responders pleaded with Anne to calm down. Detective Doherty came running in, ordering other officers to get her off of Cole. The chaotic pile of arms and legs shifted sideways and Cole slid out from underneath, propping herself up on her elbows.
“You okay,” asked Doherty, squatting down beside her.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” Cole answered, catching her breath.
A handful of firefighters got Anne onto a stretcher where she laid back sobbing. She wasn’t fighting them anymore, more tired than anything.
“That was some slick move,” Doherty said, “You saved her.”
Cole watched as they buckled her in, pinning down her arms and legs. Anne Parker didn’t resemble the worried mother Detective Cole first met. She was something else. A creature of her own devastation. Wounded and disoriented.
“It sure doesn’t feel like it,” Cole replied.
She picked herself up off the concrete, shooing away a gesture of help from Doherty and walked back to the end of the bridge that was abuzz with activity. The patrol supervisor stopped barking orders into his mic just long enough to pat Cole on the back as she walked past. Cole didn’t feel it. A numbness came over her. Police officers, paramedics, and firefighters crisscrossed every which way around her. She didn’t notice any of it. They were blurs to her. Currents in a river. Someone leaned over and said something to her. She ignored it and kept walking.
It wasn’t until she got to the other side of the mess that she felt like she could breathe. She leaned against an ambulance and put her hands on her knees as she tried to calm herself.
When she felt she’d calmed down a little, Cole looked up and took stock of the crowd of people that had gathered. Just beyond the yellow tape, a grey Dodge Ram caught her eye. Jackson Clay was leaning on the front of it, watching the scene. Watching her.
Detective Cole walked over to him, ducking underneath the yellow tape. An officer who had been keeping his eye on Jackson, wary of the man but nervous about confronting him, saw her approach and eased his stance.
“You look like shit,” said Jackson.
“I’ll be fine,” replied Cole.
“For what it’s worth, I’m telling you the truth,” Jackson said, “I haven’t had any contact with the family.”
“I know. This was her. She’d been going downhill ever since it started. I didn’t think it was this bad. I should’ve seen it coming.”
“Bull. You’re not her psychiatrist. You don’t know what’s in her head.”
“No, I’m just the dick that didn’t find her little girl.”
Jackson didn’t say anything back. The two of them stood for a moment in silence, taking in the scene.
“We’re running out of time, Clay,” Cole said.
“I get that feeling, too,” Jackson said back.
“You sure Albert Perry is clean,” Cole asked.
“I saw it with my own eyes. He was an hour away from here when it happened.”
“Fuck.”
“I have something else I’m going to check out. Was about to head out before you called me.”
“Let me guess, you’ll let me know if anything comes of it.”
“Sounds good to me.”
Jackson pushed himself off the truck and walked past Cole as he fished his keys out of his pocket. When he got to the door of his truck, he stopped and turned back to her.
“I know I don’t have to tell you,” Jackson said, “But all this, this isn’t on you.”
“Yeah, I know,” said Cole.
Jackson nodded and opened the truck door.
“Clay,” Cole said.
“Yeah,” Jackson replied.
“Find her.”
Jackson nodded again and climbed into h
is truck. The engine growled as it came to life. He backed up slowly and turned around. Cole watched as he pulled out to the street and turned left, heading south. A moment later, the ambulance carrying Anne Parker maneuvered through the crowd and turned the opposite way, rounding a blue Hospital sign on the side of the road as it went.
46
It was late afternoon by the time Jackson headed out for Jeff Isaacs’ house. When he returned to his motel to grab his gear, he noticed the information from Detective Bailey had come in. He grabbed a sandwich from the Subway across the street as he went over it. There wasn’t much his research hadn’t already told him save for a couple of people that had been looked at. Jackson jotted their names down and continued to get ready to go, figuring Isaacs would be more than able to provide context to the information anyway.
As Jackson headed south towards Isaacs’ house, Detective Cole texted him to let him know Anne Parker was being kept at RMH Medical Center on what was called a 5150, or a 72-hour involuntary psychiatric admission to the hospital. Jackson could sympathize with what she was going through, Helplessness had driven her to contemplate leaving that overpass. It had nearly pushed him to do equally destructive things a lifetime ago. The hardest part of being pushed that far was coming back from it, and not everyone did.
As he got to the exit for Steeles Tavern and took the off ramp, an orange dot lit up on his dashboard. His fuel gauge was beginning to touch the white ‘E’ at the bottom. The gas station at the traffic light was the last one before Isaac’s house.
He pulled in, hopped out, and walked into the store. A young girl with a mouse-like face was behind the register. Jackson grabbed a bottle of water and put it on the counter.
“Will that be all, sir,” asked the cashier.
“That and 20 in gas, please,” Jackson replied, “Pump, um—"
He turned, looking back out the window to read the number on the pump he’d parked in front of. Instead though, Jackson’s eyes caught the back half of a black van stopped at the traffic light.
“Sir, the pump number,” asked the cashier.
Jackson didn’t hear her. He stepped towards the window, not taking his eyes off the van. Its front half was obscured by the 18-wheeler in front of it. Something inside him told him what he would see.
“There are other customers, sir,” the cashier pleaded.
The light turned green. The 18-wheeler lurched forward. Jackson didn’t blink. As the semi rolled forward the van came into full view.
Its xenon headlights burned like two bright blue balls of fire.
47
Jackson read the number off his pump and turned back to the cashier, jumping in front of another customer she had taken.
“20 on pump ten, please,” He said, “You keep the rest. Thanks. Sorry.”
He ran out to his truck looking for the black van, fearing he’d lose it before he could get enough gas in his tank to follow it. But the van didn’t continue on down the road. Instead it turned into the gas station and parked in front of the storefront.
A man climbed out of the side door with what looked like a scratcher ticket in his hand and went inside. He was young with blonde hair and a boyish face. His hoodie, jeans, and boots were all caked in dirt.
Jackson grabbed the gas pump and began filling up his truck, watching the man inside the store. He’d climbed out of the back of the van, which led Jackson to believe there were at least two more men in it taking the front two seats. There was no way to see from where he was standing, though.
The man inside waited patiently in line before cashing the ticket and then using some of the money to buy a pack of cigarettes. As he walked out, Jackson looked at the meter on the gas pump.
The gallons and dollar amount climbed slowly as gas poured into his tank. 16 dollars. 17.
The man climbed back inside the truck. 18. 19.
The van backed out and pulled away, heading for the interstate. 20.
The pump cut off with an abrupt click. Jackson put the nozzle back and jumped into his pickup, firing it up. He put it in gear and pulled out of the gas station, cutting off an old Trans Am whose driver flipped him off. Jackson didn’t see it. He didn’t take his eyes off his target.
Weaving in and out of traffic, it took him less than a minute to catch back up with the van as it drove the speed limit in the right-hand lane. Jackson pulled into the lane a couple cars behind and began following.
He pulled his P320 out from behind him and set it on the passenger seat. His mind raced, playing out scenarios how to intercept the van. Given the man had come out of the back, he assumed Sara Beth probably wasn’t inside, but he couldn’t be sure and knew he had to be ready for anything.
The van drove south on the interstate a half hour longer before getting off and picking up the Blue Ridge Parkway, winding its way around the spine of the Appalachian Mountains. With almost no traffic, Jackson had to place more distance between him and the van to keep from being spotted. Keeping it in his sights was tough, mostly catching glimpses of its taillights before it swung around another bend. Jackson wasn’t worried about losing them. Out here, roads were few and far between. Jackson would spot it if the van turned somewhere.
They continued on for almost an hour eventually making their way to the small town of Rocky Mount, where the van pulled into a dark parking lot. Jackson drove past, stopped at the next intersection and doubled back. Just as Jackson guessed, two men climbed out of the front. The guy that had run into the gas station climbed out of the back and joined them in front of a building that had clearly seen better days. A dimly lit sign labeled it as Crossroads Bar & Grill.
Jackson waited for the men to go inside before turning off the street and pulling into the parking lot himself. He climbed out, grabbed his P320 off the passenger seat, and slid it into its concealed holster on his belt.
He walked over to the van and looked quickly inside. The center console was littered with candy wrappers and cigarette packs. Two double gulp cups from 7-Eleven filled the cupholders. Jackson looked up behind the front seats. There was no barrier between the cabin and the rest of the van. He stepped back, looking around quickly for anyone watching, then pointed a flashlight inside the van. It was empty. He grabbed his phone and snapped a shot of the license plate then walked around to the driver’s side and did the same thing with the VIN before heading into the bar.
Crossroads Bar and Grill took the term dive bar to the extreme. An impressive collection of neon signs for just about every cheap domestic beer imaginable struggled in their dual role as interior lighting. A couple of pool tables sat in the back, their kelly green felt fading to a disreputable shade of seafoam underneath stains and water rings from countless drinks. The shelf behind the bar featured a handful of bottom shelf liquors and a tap limited to beers that started with either ‘Bud’ or ‘Miller.’ A vinyl sign below the TV showed a schedule of NASCAR races from three years ago. Time had literally passed the place by.
The three men he’d seen get out of the van had taken up seats along the bar itself and were having an animated conversation about something. Jackson stepped in and took up a spot on the far corner of the bar, several seats down from the three men. A bartender, wary of Jackson’s unfamiliar face walked over to him and placed a napkin on the bar.
“What can I get you,” he asked.
“Whatever’s good and cold,” Jackson answered.
The bartender nodded, reaching underneath the bar. He came back up with a Rolling Rock, twisted off the cap and placed it down on the napkin in front of Jackson.
“$2.50,” said the bartender.
Jackson reached into his back pocket and fetched his money clip, taking out a $10 bill.
“How about 10, and let’s keep them coming,” Jackson replied.
“Just as long as you save some for a tip,” the bartender said.
Jackson stared at the beer, holding it in front of him with both hands, as he listened to the three men continue their lively conversation. The two men
that had climbed out of the front of the van had long sandy hair and were clearly related. Their matching leather vests had some sort of insignia on the back. Jackson supposed it might be a bike club. They seemed to be giving the third guy, who was noticeably younger, grief over not getting some girl’s phone number back at the gas station. The ribbing turned into playful fighting as one of the men put the younger guy in a headlock and the other took his phone. Jackson watched, amused, as the younger guy tried in vain to break free while simultaneously flailing his left arm around in an attempt to get his phone back
As the play fight died down, the guy who had had his friend in a headlock sat back in his chair, looking over at Jackson who had been watching them. Jackson looked away and took a long sip from his beer. The guy got the other vested man’s attention and nodded over in Jackson’s direction. Smiling a menacing smile, he leaned over the bar, staring at Jackson.
“Say, friend,” the guy said, “You’re new here.”
“Passing through,” Jackson replied, “Just stopped to take a break.”
He took another sip from his beer.
“This isn’t the kind of place your type stops at. What, was Starbucks closed,” the guy asked, his friends laughing, “Couldn’t get a frosted mocha-chino this late?”
“Wouldn’t know,” Jackson answered.
The three men looked at each other. The guy who’d been talking to Jackson whispered something. The trio laughed.
“I think what my buddy is trying to say is you might be lost, friend,” said the other guy in a biker vest.
“I know right where I am. Friend,” Jackson said back.
The two men in vests got up off their chairs, their joking nature gone. The younger guy in the dirty hoodie seemed worried by how fast things had escalated.
“Yeah, you looking for something,” asked the first vested man.
“As a matter of fact, I am,” Jackson said, turning towards them, “Young girl went missing a few weeks ago. She was taken away by a van looking a lot like yours. But you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
The Woodsman (The Jackson Clay & Bear Beauchamp Series Book 1) Page 16