“Are these guys really that dangerous,” Jackson asked.
“Up here, yeah,” Bear answered, “Down in town, they’ll mind their P’s and Q’s as much as they can, but this is their turf. They have a knack for, what’s the phrase, shooting first and asking questions later?”
“Law enforcement doesn’t get involved?”
“Law enforcement? Local sheriff figures what they do out here on their own is their business. Sure, if one of them has one too many in town they end up in the drunk tank, but out here? This isn’t the town.”
“And you just come out here to what? Mix it up with them?”
“I’ve been hunting these grounds ever since my daddy took me out here before I was even in school. The way I see it, they’re stepping on my toes, not the other way around.”
Up ahead in front of Bear, Jackson could see there was a break in the trees. As Bear got closer to it, he began to walk in a crouch before going all the way to the ground, army crawling. Jackson followed suit. As he scooped dead leaves past him, Jackson made his way just barely into the opening. The trees had parted on the edge of a steep mountain face that over looked a clearing in the forest below.
“There you go,” Bear said, handing him a pair of binoculars, “Welcome to cult country.”
Jackson looked down at the area. An array of buildings dotted the clearing with more nestled in the woods. Most of them were simple wooden structures except for a large, weathered, red brick building near the edge of the clearing. A rusting smoke stack came out of the back of it and towered over the forest surrounding it.
“What’s that large brick building,” Jackson asked.
“Part of an old abandoned lumber mill,” Bear answered, “The rest of it burned down decades ago. Folks who ran it never repaired it and just left. The first lokos lived in there before branching out as they got bigger.”
Jackson put the binoculars up to his eyes and took a closer look. People, mostly men, milled about like ants on an ant hill. Unlike ants, though, just about everyone was carrying a gun of some kind. Mostly hunting rifles slung around shoulders or pistols on the hip, but there were others walking around with assault-style rifles. It even looked to Jackson like a couple might be wearing body armor.
“These guys really believe in the second amendment, huh,” Jackson said.
“Oh, they love their guns alright,” Bear replied, “Can’t say that makes them very different than the rest of us around here, though.”
The doors to the red brick building swung open and out walked one of the men Jackson had gotten into it with at the bar. It was the guy whose face Jackson had smashed a beer bottle into. Someone had bandaged his face up with gauze wrapped around his head. It left his face partially concealed, but he was still wearing the same biker vest and faded jeans.
“It’s one of the guys from the bar,” Jackson said.
“The Kerley brothers, yeah” replied Bear, “I wasn’t lying when I said they were part of all this.”
Jackson watched the man as he walked around one of the wooden buildings and headed into the tree cover. A moment later a black van emerged, following a dirt-covered path between the buildings until it disappeared into the woods on the far side of the clearing.
He wondered if the Kerley brothers were the men who took Sara Beth that night. Had they brought her here? The van was here. An uneasy feeling came over Jackson as he thought about Sara Beth down there, a hostage to a community of armed, as Bear put it, lokos. Was she okay? Was she even still alive?
Jackson thought finding who took Sara Beth Parker would bring answers. For now, all it had brought was more questions.
Part III
Storm
50
The next day, Jackson was sitting in a motel in the tiny town of Gretna, unpacking his things. The Pitts Inn, a drab, one-level enterprise, had rooms arranged in a horseshoe that opened into a courtyard with a pool that hadn’t seen any kind of care for weeks. When Jackson asked if he could pay cash, the clerk asked if he was paying by the hour.
The Pitts Inn was aptly named, Jackson thought.
Overnight, he’d packed up and headed out of Harrisonburg and moved closer to the wooded valley the lokos called home. He’d returned quickly to his home outside The Plains to grab some extra equipment. If Sara Beth Parker was being held by the people in that complex, getting her out was going to be far different than what he normally dealt with. He picked up three more guns – two rifles and a shotgun – and all the camping and outdoor equipment his truck bed would fit.
Jackson had laid out each firearm on the bed in front of him, meticulously stripping down each, inspecting it, then cleaning it. He was halfway through working on the shotgun when his phone buzzed. It was Detective Bailey returning his call.
“Are you alone,” Jackson asked.
“Hello to you too,” replied Bailey, “No, I’m not. I’m in the office.”
“Get some place alone and call me back,” Jackson said.
Jackson put the phone down. He finished up the shotgun and put it aside, then went over to a large case and pulled out his digital SLR camera with a large telephoto zoom lens attached to it. He looked through the viewfinder and snapped a test shot when his phone buzzed again.
“Alright,” Detective Bailey said, “What’s up?”
“I need some information,” Jackson replied.
“What else is new,” Bailey replied.
“I need some info I think you’re going to want to deliver in person. No emails.”
“That’s cryptic. Are you still in Harrisonburg?”
“No. Gretna.”
“Where?”
“Gretna. It’s a town southeast of Smith Mountain Lake.”
“Jesus, what are you doing out there?”
Jackson paused.
“What do you know about the Living Order of the Kingdom of Solomon,” Jackson asked.
“The Living Or—you mean the gun nuts out there,” Bailey asked back.
“Yeah,” Jackson replied, “Are you familiar with them?”
“A little. Not enough to – wait, you think they had something to do with the Parker girl?”
“We can talk when we meet. Can you pull everything you guys have on them and meet me tomorrow?”
“All the way down there?”
“I’ll meet you halfway. Charlottesville. That park we used on the Dormer case.”
“Okay.”
Jackson ended the second call. He checked his watch. It was an hour before noon. He’d promised to meet Bear at his place for lunch and “talk about what to do next”. Jackson got the idea that this was all some sort of adventure for Bear, that he didn’t fully appreciate what was at stake. Still, Jackson knew he would be nowhere near as close to finding Sara Beth without the man’s help. He was thankful for that.
Getting all the extra equipment situated could wait. Jackson grabbed his things and headed out.
51
Bear lived in a quaint Craftsman bungalow north of Martinsville, its white siding in need of a good wash. Adjacent to the house was a camper trailer and a large, warehouse-style shed. It was from this large shed that Bear emerged in a seafoam green Ford F-350 Super Duty with a utility body as Jackson pulled up. Bear gave him a hearty wave before backing the truck into a tree. The paint marks on the trunk seemed to imply it wasn’t the first time.
“Son of a bitch,” Bear growled, hopping out to assess the damage.
“You alright,” asked Jackson, walking up.
“Yeah, I need to just cut that goddamn tree down,” Bear answered.
“That’s quite the color on it. The truck, I mean.”
“Yeah. Forest Service paint job. I bought her at auction a couple years ago. Just pulling her out to make room for the tractor.”
“You need any help?”
“Nah, c’mon. Where’s my hospitality? Let’s get some grub.”
Bear walked him up the front porch adorned with two couches clearly not intended for outdoor use an
d led him through the house. A living area just inside the front door had little more than a recliner, lamp and unnecessarily large TV. The room opposite had more furniture, all of which was centered around a mantle that held what looked to be collectible McDonald’s glasses.
“Did I lose ya in here,” shouted Bear from further in the house, “Come on out back.”
The house had a back deck that overlooked an impressive piece of property. A rolling grass hill slid down into an algae-covered pond tucked up against the woods beyond. Jackson figured it had to be no less than a couple acres.
“This is quite the place you’ve got here,” Jackson said.
“Thankya. I put a lot of work into it,” Bear replied, “You want a beer?”
“No, thanks,” said Jackson, “Little early for me.”
Bear shrugged and opened the can he had offered to Jackson. He walked over to the grill at the end of the deck and ignited the propane burners.
“Some burgers good with you,” Bear asked.
“Sounds great,” Jackson replied
The grill hissed with gas before igniting to life as Bear stepped inside for a moment and returned with a tray of patties, placing them on the table next to the grill.
“So, what does one do for a living to get themselves a place like this, if you don’t mind me asking,” asked Jackson.
“Oh, this and that. Mom and Dad left me a good bit of money, to tell ya the truth. Used to raise ostriches for meat and eggs,” Bear replied.
Jackson looked up at him, skeptical.
“I shit you not,” Bear said raising his hands, “I bought a hunting shop right in town over there. Another fella and I own it together. Nice guy.”
“Is that how you came to know these lokos,” asked Jackson, “Through the shop?”
“Oh, you can’t live within 10 or 15 miles of Lokoville without knowing who lives out there,” said Bear, “Maybe if you live under a rock or something, I suppose. Shit, some people out here do.”
“What do they do out there in Lokoville besides keep to themselves? They into anything? Drugs or anything like that?”
“Don’t really know, to tell you the truth. They don’t exactly let people in and have a look around.”
“Do you think they’re the type to take a little girl?”
“Let’s just say I don’t think they’re out there just for the peace and quiet, you know what I mean? There ain’t much they could be mixed up in that would surprise me.”
Bear threw the first patties on the grill, the meat sizzling as it hit the hot metal. He took out a salt shaker, sprinkled a handful into his beefy paw, and cocked his elbow and wrist in opposite directions, making a swan-like pose with his arm.
“Ha, you get it,” Bear said, “Like that salt bae guy on YouTube.”
Jackson gave him a gratuitous smile and nod. He didn’t have any earthly idea who Bear was talking about.
“Do you think that’s why they pack so much firepower,” Jackson asked.
Bear shrugged without looking up from the grill.
“More people have guns out here than don’t,” Bear said, “Them being armed might be the least crazy thing about them.”
“What makes them crazy, then,” Jackson asked, “You say they’re a cult. They have some sort of mission?”
“Not really that I know of,” Bear answered, “Mostly to do what they want and be left alone. Like I said, they’re not a friendly bunch. Even the ones that work the marina. You’d think they’d put on a smile for the customers. Uh uh.”
“The marina?”
“Yeah. They run a bait and tackle shop on Smith Mountain Lake with a small dock attached. Guys there call it the marina. I assume it’s how they pay for all that they have in the woods there. Must be pretty good business during tourist season.”
“I’m going to want to check that place out, too, then. Do they carry guns around there the way they do in Lokoville?”
“No, no. Like I said, out with the rest of us, they lay low as much as they can.”
Bear flipped the burgers on the grill and sprinkled them with salt again, this time without any theatrics. He polished off his beer, crushed it in his fist, and disappeared inside once more.
“I saw what they carried out in the woods, though. I ran back home and got some heavier stuff myself,” Jackson said, talking louder so Bear could hear him.
Bear reappeared at the door with a devilish grin on his face.
“Oh, brother, you didn’t have to do that,” he said with a menacing chuckle, “You want firepower, I’ve got your firepower right here. Follow me.”
Bear motioned him inside and led him down a hallway. The last room at the end of the hallway held little more than a large desk and a chair, but on the far wall was a built-in bookshelf filled to capacity. Bear walked over to the center of it, grabbed a hold of something, and pulled forward.
The center of the bookshelf swung outward like French doors to reveal an armament that rivaled a small barracks. Jackson clenched his jaw, feeling like it might drop if he didn’t keep it in check.
“Impressive, ain’t it,” Bear asked with a beaming smile.
“That’d be one way to describe it,” Jackson replied.
He looked the display over. There had to be over a dozen guns in all. Closer to two dozen, probably. There was everything from 9mm pistols to stuff he hadn’t seen since his Ranger days.
“Is that an M2 .50 Cal machine gun,” Jackson asked, doubting what he was seeing.
“Yeah,” Bear answered, “She’s a beaut, ain’t she?”
“Sure,” Jackson replied, “This all can’t be legal, though. I mean, there’s no way—”
“Eh, legal-ish.”
“Legal-ish?”
“You know. Quasilegal. What I like to say is, what big brother don’t know about, big brother don’t need to worry about.”
Jackson didn’t dare ask him how he went about acquiring such things and kind of feared this hunting shop Bear co-owned might be a front for something more nefarious. It was clear Bear could bring a gun fight if need be, but Jackson didn’t want it to come to that. Shootouts put holes in people. He didn’t want Sara Beth Parker anywhere near one.
Bear closed the bookcase and led Jackson back out to the back deck. Grease had pooled on the bottom of the grill and now a small inferno engulfed the ground beef on the grill.
“God, dammit,” Bear stammered as he rushed over to the grill.
Quickly, he scooped the burgers out of the flames and onto a plate, but the damage had already been done. All he’d salvaged was a pile of hockey pucks that loosely resembled burger patties.
“Well, I don’t think we’re having burgers today, I’m sorry to say,” Bear said, staring at the charred remains.
“That’s alright, I’m not super hungry, anyways,” Jackson replied.
Bear shut the lid of the grill to snuff out the fire. He opened up the trash can with his foot and shoveled the burnt beef into the garbage.
“Well, can I get ya a beer now,” Bear asked.
“Still good. Thanks, though,” Jackson replied.
Bear reached into the cooler and fetched himself another one, popping it open and taking a noisy slurp before wiping the excess foam off his beard.
“So, what’s the next step,” asked Bear.
“Well,” Jackson began, “We have to find out if the lokos really have Sara Beth. They must, but I have to be sure. And I have to know where.”
“You mean we have to know,” Bear asked, “Do you know why they’d want her?”
“God knows. You tell me.”
“All I know is those people are in it for themselves. If they’ve got her, and she ain’t one of them, she’s in trouble.”
Jackson sighed. Bear was only saying what Jackson had thought. That Sara Beth was in danger was a given from the start. But these people, these lokos, were a different beast.
He turned away from Bear and looked out at the backyard as he leaned against the railing. Jackson w
atched as a heron stalked something in the pond. It watched the dark void below, finding its target and moving stealthily around it. Then, in a blink, it struck downwards, hitting its prey with lethal precision.
“With you owning that shop and all,” Jackson asked, “you like to hunt?”
“Of course, yeah,” Bear answered.
“That’s good. That’s real good, Bear,” Jackson said, “Because we’re going hunting.”
52
The next morning, Jackson met Bailey at McIntire Park in Charlottesville, a sprawling recreational campus north of downtown just a few miles from the infamous 2017 protests led by white supremacists. With baseball fields, a skate park, hiking trails, and even a small golf course, it was a monument to suburbanite weekends. But here, on a weekday morning, the park was practically deserted save for Clay, Bailey, and a few park employees who kept a curious eye on the two cars parked side by side.
Bailey got out of her car and climbed into Jackson’s truck.
“Morning,” said Jackson, “Got you a cup of coffee.”
“That was nice of you,” Bailey replied.
“Least I could do,” Jackson said.
Bailey took the coffee as well as the two sweetener packets Jackson had left on top of it, and mixed them together, stirring with her finger.
“So, what have you got,” Jackson asked.
“Here,” she answered.
She reached into her bag and pulled out a folder overflowing with documents. She shuffled through them quickly, double checking everything was there, and then handed it over to Jackson.
“The Living Order of the Kingdom of Solomon,” Detective Bailey began, “Or LOKS, as we call them—”
“Lokos,” Jackson interjected.
“What,” Bailey asked.
“Nothing. A local I talked to calls them Lokos. Like crazy.”
“Ah. Well, most agencies’ shorthand for them is LOKS. Anyway, they don’t fit neatly into any one category. They’re part religious cult, part private militia, part co-op community. They basically check every box to ensure the authorities don’t lean on them too hard.”
The Woodsman (The Jackson Clay & Bear Beauchamp Series Book 1) Page 18