The two vested guys rounded the corner of the bar and stepped closer. Jackson took another swig from his beer, not breaking eye contact with them. The younger guy watched nervously from his bar stool.
“You some sort of cop,” asked one of the vest-clad men.
“No, he’s not a cop,” said the other, “But whatever he is, he talks too much.”
“I guess that means we’re done talking then,” Jackson said.
The first guy lunged at Jackson. Jackson slid to the side, dodging the man’s grasp as he smashed his bottle of Rolling Rock into the man’s face. The second guy threw a telegraphed right-handed punch that Jackson ducked before coming back up and planting a fist of his own into the man’s sternum. The man doubled over, gasping for air. Jackson planted a boot on his chest and kicked outward, propelling him backwards into the far wall. Jackson then turned back to the first man, took him by the head and rammed him into the bar. Neither man got up from the ground. Jackson looked at the third, the younger one, who was now ghost white with panic. As Jackson stepped towards him, he turned to run but a swinging pool cue came down and cracked him in the chest. A man as thick as a bourbon barrel came around the far side of the bar, tossing aside the pool cue he’d just struck the guy with.
“And just where do you think you’re going,” asked the large man, “This fine gentleman asked y’all a question.”
The three men collectively groaned in response. The younger one crawled like a crab backwards towards the far wall as Jackson and his newfound husky ally approached him from opposite sides, cornering him.
“Fucking kill them, Mack,” one of the other men whined from the floor.
“Mack, huh,” said the large man, “That’s a cute name.”
Jackson watched as Mack pulled a butterfly knife on the man, who in turn chuckled.
“Oh, Macky boy,” the man said, “You ever hear the one about the guy who brought a knife to a gun fight?”
The man reached into the small of his back and pulled a Smith & Wesson .357 revolver from underneath his Mossy Oak camouflage coat.
“I don’t know about him, but I sure as shit have,” said a voice behind them.
Jackson and the large man turned to see the bartender place a shotgun down on the bar top.
“Perhaps you all best leave,” the bartender said.
Mack took advantage of the momentary distraction to run past Jackson for the front door, doing his best to corral his two friends off the floor as he went. Together, the three of them stumbled out into the night. A minute later Jackson heard an engine come to life followed by the squeal of tires spinning.
“You all, too, now,” said the bartender.
The large man put his arms up, obliging the bartender and headed for the door. Jackson pulled a $20 dollar bill out of his money clip and put it on the bar.
“Sorry about everything,” Jackson said.
The man only gave a short, annoyed grunt in response. Jackson followed the large man outside.
As the door opened, a cool breeze blew into Jackson. He watched as the man who had helped him walked over to a fire truck red Chevy Suburban that had to be from the early 90’s.
“Have a good night,” Jackson said as he walked past.
“I’m Bear, by the way,” said the man, “In case you were wonderin’ who saved your hide back there.”
The man spoke with a southern accent as thick as gravy. His name piqued Jackson’s curiosity.
“Bear,” Jackson said, “As in the animal?”
“Yep,” Bear said, “I have a real name, too. Long as hell. But folks just got to calling me Bear. So, Bear it is”
“Alright, Bear,” Jackson replied, “Thanks for your help back there.”
Jackson turned to continue walking, but Bear wasn’t done.
“Y’know, if you need help trackin’ those clowns down, I can give ya a hand,” Bear said.
“That’s alright, I’ll manage,” Jackson replied.
“Sure, sure. Well, can’t say I didn’t offer,” Bear said back.
The statement stopped Jackson again. This time he was the one that wasn’t done.
“You’ve seen those guys around before,” Jackson asked.
“Of course. Those dingleberries are always around causing trouble,” Bear answered, “Them and their lot.”
“Their lot,” asked Jackson.
“Sure. There’s a whole group of ‘em. Live off in the woods maybe 30-40 minutes from here.”
“There’s more of them?”
“Oh, plenty more.”
Jackson turned back now, walking towards Bear. The large, burly man who had whacked one of the guys he’d been following with a pool stick now had his undivided attention.
“Alright, Bear,” Jackson said, “Is there a place we can talk?”
“There’s plenty of places, but I don’t meet with strangers,” Bear said giving a big, boyish smile.
It took Jackson a moment to understand what Bear was getting at.
“Sorry about that,” he said. “I’m Jackson. Jackson Clay.”
“Jackson Clay, good to meet ya,” said Bear extending a hand, “Name’s Archibald Beauchamp.”
“Archibald Beauchamp,” repeated Jackson.
“Yeah. My folks are from New Orleans. Ma was a big Archie Manning fan. Don’t ask.”
“I didn’t.”
“Anyways, like I said, you can just call me Bear.”
Jackson met his hand with his own and shook it.
“Alright, Bear,” Jackson said, “So is there a place a we can talk?”
“Well,” Bear replied, “I suppose you could buy me a beer. You know, on account of I didn’t get to finish mine back there. Thanks to you.”
Bear flashed another boyish grin.
“You got another place to get that beer,” asked Jackson, “I’m guessing Moe Szyslak in there isn’t going to welcome us back anytime soon.”
“Moe, like The Simpsons,” said Bear, letting out a hearty laugh, “Well, man. Shoot, I don’t know. Actually, you know, there’s an Applebee’s on up the road and I could go for some riblets. I was going to get dinner here. But you know.”
Bear’s cravings were leveraging the situation. Jackson smiled and nodded.
“Sure, Bear. Food’s on me,” he said
“Alright then,” Bear said with a giddy smile, “Meet ya there?”
Jackson gave him another polite smile.
“No problem. I’ll follow you.”
48
Ten minutes later, Jackson was seated opposite Bear Beauchamp in an Applebee’s, as Bear had promised, just down the road in Rocky Mount. On the way over, he’d called Detective Bailey and asked her to run Bear’s record. She’d already gone home, but put Jackson in touch with a detective still there who ran Beauchamp and sent Jackson the information.
Aside from a couple of speeding tickets and one “Willful Discharge of a Firearm in a Public Place,” Bear Beauchamp was a 38-year-old Martinsville resident who had few run-ins with the law. Jackson couldn’t help but wonder if the man had an angle beyond just a free meal in all this, but for now he was happy to have whatever Bear knew.
On top of the riblets, Bear had decided he needed to start off with some wings. He’d eaten one too many without anything to wash it down and was now panting as he looked around for the waitress.
“Okay, hon, we didn’t have any Miller High Life, so I brought you a Miller Lite,” said the waitress, “Is that okay?”
Bear nodded hastily, motioning with his hand for her to bring it over. He took it from her hand, nodded in thanks, and put half of it away before coming up for air. Jackson had never seen anyone with such a voracious appetite for fermented grain and meat.
“How is it,” asked Jackson.
“It’s no High Life, but it’ll do right now,” Bear answered.
“High Life’s that good, huh,” Jackson asked.
Bear put down the beer and looked at him with a serious stare.
“It’s the
champagne of beers, Jack,” he answered before letting out a breathy howl.
Bear laughing the hardest at his own punchlines was becoming a thing.
“It’s too bad they don’t serve it no more in yuppie places like this,” Bear said, “Everyone wants microbrews and IPAs and organic ciders these days. Can you imagine? Microbrews. Who wants a tiny little beer?”
Bear slammed his fist and laughed again.
“Applebee’s is a yuppie place,” Jackson asked.
“Any place with clean bathrooms is a yuppie place to a rural lifestyle enthusiast like myself,” Bear said smiling.
“Rural lifestyle enthusiast?”
“Yeah, it’s like redneck, but more polite. Us rednecks prefer the term.”
Jackson had known many self-described rednecks in his life. He’d never heard the term before. The waitress returned, dropping off a stack of napkins at the table. If Bear had noticed the insinuation, he didn’t seem particularly offended.
“Are you sure I can’t get anything for you, hon,” the waitress asked Jackson.
He watched as Bear actually let out an involuntary growl biting into a chicken wing.
“I’m good, thanks,” answered Jackson, “I’ll stick with my iced tea.”
The waitress smiled and headed off to another table. Jackson watched as Bear made a slurping noise, pulling a bone lengthwise between his lips. He dropped it on the plate and grabbed a couple of the napkins, wiping buffalo sauce from his beard.
“So, those guys back there,” Jackson said, “You say you knew them.”
Bear nodded as he tore into another wing.
“Everyone around here knows their type,” answered Bear, “No one’s particularly fond of them, neither.”
“What do you mean ‘their type’,” Jackson asked.
Bear waited a moment, chewing what was in his mouth and swallowing it before leaning in closer to Jackson and speaking in a hushed tone.
“The Lokos,” Bear said.
“The who,” Jackson asked.
“The, um. Hold on, I know their full name. The Living Order of the Kingdom of Solomon,” Bear answered, “You ever heard of them?”
Jackson wasn’t sure if this was a set up for another one of his jokes.
“No, can’t say that I have,” Jackson answered.
“They’re a group. A, what do you call it, a cult, I guess,” Bear said.
“You’re saying these three are members of a cult,” Jackson asked skeptically.
“Yeah. I mean, what else do you call a group of people that live off in the woods and keep to themselves?”
“That’s what they do?”
“Yeah. A group of them have a place in the woods. They have some name for it. The New City or whatever. The people out there call themselves the Living Order of the Kingdom of Solomon. I just got to calling them Lokos for short. You know, on account that they’re batshit crazy.”
“Lokos?”
“Yeah. Like the Mexican word for crazy or whatever. Their name, it spells out—”
“I got it. So, what do they do out there?”
“Shit, whatever the hell they want. No one messes with those fuckers. If for no other reason than they’re armed to the teeth.”
“And they all stay at this place? The New City?”
“Lokoville. That’s what I call it. Easier. Sure, they’ll go out and do shit. It’s not unlike them to be at a bar like they were. But they spend most of their time there. All of them live there.”
The waitress came by again and dropped off Bear’s riblets as well as a handful of wet-naps. Again, Bear didn’t seem to mind the implication as he slid aside the devoured chicken limbs and began pulling off pieces of barbecued pork and popping them into his mouth.
“So, do you know where this place is,” Jackson asked, “Do you know how to get there?”
“I can do you one better,” answered Bear, “I can show you myself. Not now, though. Too dangerous at night. Tomorrow morning, we can go if you want.”
“You’d do that,” Jackson asked.
Bear nodded as he began dissecting his second riblet. Jackson realized in all that had happened he’d never visited Jeff Isaacs to ask what had happened to Olivia and whether or not it could have anything to do with Sara Beth. Obviously, the van was more important. And now there was all this. And Bear, who had seemed to wiggle his way into the middle of it for very little. Now Jackson was curious.
“Let me ask you something,” Jackson said, “Why are you doing all this? First stepping in at the bar, and now with this group?”
Bear put down the riblet and stared at Jackson. He seemed almost offended by the question.
“You said this was about a little girl, didn’t you,” Bear asked. “Someone took her or something?”
“A sixteen-year-old girl from Harrisonburg, yes,” answered Jackson.
“Well who wouldn’t want to help find some poor girl,” asked Bear. “And besides, those guys are assholes.”
Jackson didn’t say anything back. The simplicity of his reasoning was refreshing. Jackson had spent the last three days turning over rocks, looking in places people didn’t want to think about, looking for a little girl. And here, in all this wrong, was Archibald ‘Bear’ Beauchamp, who wanted to help for no other reason than help was needed. A little smile stretched across Jackson’s face.
“Say, Jack,” Bear said, “You want to go halfsies on dessert?”
49
The next morning, Jackson met Bear on a quiet stretch of farmland road where one two-lane highway intersected with another. The area – exceptionally rural even for southern Virginia – was between Smith Mountain Lake and Martinsville, the small town known for its NASCAR events.
Jackson spotted Bear’s old red Suburban as he came around the bend and pulled up behind it. Bear was unloading a 4-wheel drive UTV with side-by-side seats and a small storage bed in the back, all covered in a RealTree camouflage wrap. He backed it up off a trailer attached to his truck and parked it facing down a dirt road that pointed directly at a wooded mountainside to the west.
“That’s quite the vehicle there,” Jackson said, getting out of his truck.
“Yeah, us rural lifestyle enthusiasts love our toys,” Bear replied.
“Are we just leaving our trucks here,” Jackson asked.
“Yeah, we’ll just lock ‘em up. Nobody will bother ‘em out here.”
“Alright, if you say so.”
Bear grabbed a jerry can of gasoline out of the tailgate of his truck and put it in the back of the UTV. He shut the tailgates on both vehicles and walked around to the passenger-side door of his Suburban.
“Are you strapped,” Bear asked.
“I have a Sig Sauer P320 in my truck,” answered Jackson.
“Probably best if you grab that,” Bear replied.
Jackson remembered Bear saying the Lokos were armed, but was surprised when he saw Bear step out of his truck carrying a Ruger AR-556 Rifle with a holographic sight, foregrip, and flashlight. Jackson had carried less special equipment as an Army Ranger.
“Is that really necessary,” asked Jackson, nodding towards the rifle.
“What, this? You know what they say in boy scouts: be prepared,” Bear answered.
“I don’t remember many boy scouts having assault rifles,” Jackson said.
“Must not have been in our troop, then,” Bear replied.
Jackson fetched his pistol out of his truck and slid it into the leg holster on his side.
“You ready,” Bear asked.
“Yup,” Jackson replied.
“C’mon then, hop in,” Bear said.
The UTV growled to life as Bear keyed the ignition. He put it in gear and took off down the dirt road. The field of soy beans on Jackson’s right gave way to a thicket of trees as they slipped in underneath the wooded canopy. The road transitioned into a gravel grade barely wide enough for two cars side by side. Climbing in elevation, it wound its way around the face of the mountain, with the eart
h ascending upwards towards the sky on Bear’s side and sliding downwards into a steep ravine on Jackson’s side. Without the luxury of some sort of guard rail, Jackson had a clear view all the way down as the UTV traced the edge of the road.
Bear took the twists and turns of the road at speed, anticipating each bend the way only someone very familiar with the area could. Jackson was leaning out of the UTV looking down the steep mountainside when a large limestone boulder flashed past him, brushing him backwards into the vehicle. Bear let out a boyish cackle and helped Jackson right himself.
“You okay, buddy,” Bear asked, still laughing.
“Fine, thanks,” Jackson retorted, less than amused.
He looked back at the boulder that had nearly taken his face off. It was one of a pair of monstrous rocks that dotted each side of the road like an entranceway.
“This road is the only road across these mountains here for miles,” Bear yelled over the engine of the UTV, “It has some official county name, but folks here just get to callin’ it the mountain road.”
“And this goes right to where this group is,” Jackson asked.
“Their place is off of this,” Bear answered, “Trust me, you won’t get there before running into dudes with guns.”
“Is that the plan for today?”
“Hell no. Not if I can help it. I know a spot where you can see the place. Just have to keep an eye out. The area is always crawling with those lokos.”
The road climbed to a peak where an even smaller dirt road intersected it. A wooden sign read Callands-Gretna Gap with an arrow pointing. Bear pulled the wheel hard to the right, the UTV skidding sideways as it made the turn. This smaller road, barely wide enough for the UTV, climbed even higher from where the other peaked. Bear took the UTV all the way up it before coming to a stop as the road leveled off.
“We’ll walk it from here,” Bear said, “Any closer and the lokos will hear the Ranger from the overlook.”
Jackson assumed he was referring to the UTV.
“I’d make sure there’s a round in that peashooter of yours,” Bear said grabbing his rifle.
The Woodsman (The Jackson Clay & Bear Beauchamp Series Book 1) Page 17