“What do you mean?”
“It’s guns and religion. You push too hard and miss, you’re looking at a lawsuit. Hell, most of these groups are right wing but you’ll have the ACLU coming to their defense. No one wants that kind of a headache. Plus, unlike most religious groups, LOKS isn’t very big on recruiting. They mostly keep their numbers a close-knit group.”
“Making it hard to get someone inside.”
“Right. That’s usually what’s needed to break these types of cases. Both FBI and ATF have tried a couple of times over the years. Neither got close.”
“Are they truly religious or is it just for show?”
“The honest answer is we don’t know. The guy that seems to be in charge is named Solomon Ash. He was born Benjamin Asher, but changed his name a few years back, well, we’re guessing for the Kingdom of Solomon bit. He has a brother, too. Silas Asher. He seems to be in some sort of leadership role, as well. It’s all in those files there.”
“I see.”
“In terms of legitimacy, they tried and failed to file as a 501(c) charity. That’s how most religious establishments avoid taxes and prying eyes from the government.”
“So they aren’t officially a religious group?”
“Not necessarily. The IRS has the strictest standards for proof. Anyone trying to prosecute them in court would have a much harder time. Judges aren’t quick to mess with the first amendment, even if it involves a pair of career criminals.”
Jackson thumbed through the files until he came to the information on the Ashers. Both had been born to a Lilith Asher, Benjamin – or Solomon – in 1984, and Silas in 1990. Lilith Asher was born in 1969, making her just 15 when she had Solomon. Her official record began when she was an adult, at 18. A series of soliciting and possession charges for the better part of two decades until her death in 2006 at age 37.
“Tough family life,” Jackson said.
“Yeah,” Bailey replied, “Solomon and Silas were wards of the state for the vast majority of their childhood. It’s not in there because the files are sealed, but their mother’s legal trouble began the year after Solomon was born. Her parents took care of Solomon for a few years, hoping their daughter would get clean. But sometime after she developed a record as an adult, they gave the kids up.”
Jackson continued to read Solomon’s and Silas’ files. Neither one finished high school. Solomon attempted to enlist in the Army but washed out. The next year he became Silas’ official guardian. From there, their records told most of their story. Silas appeared to be simple and violent. A slew of aggravated assaults that were never pursued, an aggravated robbery, and a resisting arrest with assault on a peace officer. Solomon’s record, on the other hand, read like a sociopath’s origin story. Animal cruelty, grand theft, destruction of property. Jackson put a finger on the page when he got to one line in particular.
“What’s this attempted kidnapping with Solomon,” Jackson asked.
“Well, Benjamin at the time,” Bailey answered, “Apparently he bought a car from this guy only to find out the car was missing several parts. The guy thought he could sell some chump the car and then hold onto some parts to sell to someone else. Asher shows up to this guy’s house with a snub nose revolver and holds the whole family inside the house until the guy gives him his money back.”
“What a guy,” Jackson exclaimed.
“Which one?”
“Exactly. Do you think he could escalate to actual abduction?”
“Who knows. Probably. I think the question to ask is to what extent? He doesn’t strike me as a sex predator, so what would be his need for taking a girl like Sara Beth?”
“I guess that’s for me to find out.”
“I guess so.”
Detective Bailey zipped up her bag as Jackson continued to flip through a few pages. She looked down at the page he was studying. It was the business information on the bait and tackle shop on Smith Mountain Lake that the Lokos ran.
“What do you know about this business of theirs,” Jackson asked.
“Not much,” Bailey answered, “They opened it shortly after their 501(c) application failed. Probably got some good advice to make their finances look legitimate. They claim the profits off of that place pay for everything at their compound. It’s hard to prove otherwise, given their secrecy.”
“Maybe it’s time someone took a closer look,” Jackson said.
He closed up the file packet and put it on the rear seats. As Detective Bailey watched him reach back, she noticed the Pelican case sitting on the rear seat. She spent enough time in law enforcement to know it was for a gun.
“Jackson,” Bailey said, “I know I don’t have to tell you this, but if you’re going to go looking around at these guys, be careful.”
“I always am,” Jackson replied.
“I’m serious,” Bailey said, “From what my colleague in the ATF told me, these guys don’t fuck around. The local law enforcement looks the other way on most everything. If you go snooping around out there, these aren’t the kind of people who call the police to report a trespasser. These are the kind that shoot you and dig a hole in the woods.”
“I’ve got it.”
Bailey gave a nervous smile and nodded before climbing out of the truck.
“If you need anything else,” she said, “Just call.”
Jackson watched as she walked over to her Jetta and pulled out. He took out his phone and punched in a number.
“Bear,” he said, “It’s Jackson. Meet me at the Lokos’ marina this afternoon. It’s time to get to work.”
53
Penhook Bait & Tackle sat like a hangnail on one of the countless fingers of land that clawed at Smith Mountain Lake. A large asphalt parking lot sun washed by years of existence sloped down into and dwarfed the quaint sky-blue shop that sat at the edge of the water and the small array of docks that lay beyond. Next to it, a strip of large garages, no doubt intended to house boats, lined the bottom of the parking lot with a tattered trailer home bookending it on the other side.
Jackson and Bear rolled up on the parking lot slowly, scoping the place out. Unlike the New City of David, which had been busy with people scurrying about in every direction, the bait shop looked deserted from the outside. Only one truck with a boat trailer was parked in the parking lot.
“Doesn’t look like much,” Bear said, “Maybe they’re closed.”
“No, there’s someone in there,” Jackson replied, “Just isn’t busy.”
Jackson drove across the lot and parked in front of the bait shop. He climbed out and looked around. The area was serene. Houses and docks dotted the sprawling coastline, interspersed with sassafras, oak, and maple trees. He imagined in mid-summer the area filled with the sounds of vacationers and day trippers relaxing on the lake, kids playing as boats roared by. Now, though, it was just quiet.
Behind him, a creaky door kicked open and a man in a dirty shop apron stuck his wiry frame out from the bait shop.
“Can I help y’all,” the man asked, almost suspicious of them being there.
“Yes, you can, actually,” Jackson said, “Sorry, I was taking in the view. It’s beautiful here.”
“Yeah, I suppose,” replied the man, “What do you need?”
“Actually, my friend here and I were looking to keep our boat around here somewhere and we figured we’d check out your shop.”
“Alright, well come in here. I’ll get you our information on dockage.”
Bear and Jackson followed the man into the shop. Inside, the store was filled with cramped aisles lined with fishing and boating equipment. A counter on the far side had pricier items like poles and reels behind it.
“You break anything, you’re paying for it,” the man said, minding Jackson’s wandering eyes, “I’ve got your information over here.”
He stepped behind the counter and began looking below. Jackson watched him from the far end of the counter. The man was an older man, with a short, unkempt beard and receding hai
rline, both of which were venturing to gray. His denim shop apron was smeared with a confused mixture of grease and oil and got in his way as he shuffled things around on the ground. Jackson heard the man rattle off a few four-letter words before popping up with a large binder. He opened it and swung it around to face away from him.
“These are the rates by length of time,” the man said, “If you sign up before the end of the month, you get a 5% early discount.”
“Alright, perfect. Thanks,” Jackson replied, walking over.
He pretended to look over the rates as a prospective customer would. When he felt he’d studied them long enough, he looked back up at the man.
“Seems pretty reasonable,” Jackson said, “You mind if we walk out there and take a look for ourselves?”
“Fine,” the man said, “Just don’t go wandering off. And like I said, you break anything, you’re paying for it. I don’t care if it’s for sale or not.”
“Not a problem,” Jackson replied.
He walked out the side door with Bear in tow and followed the steps down to the water. The center dock was built on posts driven into to the lake bed. Smaller floating docks affixed with stairs branched off on either side forming the boat slips. The whole thing struck Jackson as a barebones operation.
“I don’t very well think she’s down there, buddy,” Bear said from behind.
Jackson turned to look at him.
“No, but there’s those garages and a trailer over there,” he said, “We need to have a look in there.”
“And how do you plan on doing that with Oscar the Grouch in there,” Bear asked.
“You’re going to chat him up,” Jackson answered.
“I’m going to what? About what?”
“Talk to him about fishing or something.”
Jackson walked past him and began heading back towards the store.
“Fishing,” Bear said with a look of disgust, “I use a gun, Jack. No pussy stick and string.”
“Then ask him about shooting fish,” Jackson retorted.
Bear muttered something under his breath but Jackson couldn’t make it out. He took the stairs to the store two at a time. When he got to the back corner of the building he turned and looked at Bear walking at a more leisurely pace, protesting his role in the plan. Jackson waited until Bear was looking back at him then made a gesture with his face for him to go into the store. Bear, continuing passive rebellion, ambled towards the store and opened the door.
“Say, uh, what kind of motors do most folks run around here,” he asked as he disappeared inside.
The door shut and a muffled conversation continued.
Jackson waited a minute and then slowly crossed the back of the store. From there, at the point of the little finger of land, Jackson was concealed from everything except the water.
He checked the gap between the store and the garages. There was no one. Ducking down, he hurried across the opening and continued making his way along the back of the garages.
At the far end was a door with a window. Sliding his way down to it, Jackson put his face to the glass and looked inside. Each bay of the garage housed a boat in a varied stage of disrepair. All four were raised up, making it easy to see the rest of the garage area by the light that filtered through the large door windows on the other side. There was no one inside.
The last thing he needed to check before doubling back to Bear was the trailer. But situated in the open several hundred feet from the garages, there was no way to get there while remaining hidden. Jackson had no choice. Checking that no one was watching him, he stood up and casually walked over to the trailer.
The trailer itself was 30 feet long, sitting on four tires and a trailer post. The mud caked on the outside complimented the brown and beige paint scheme.
All four windows on the face of the trailer, including the ones on each door, had the blinds drawn. Jackson walked up to the first door and knocked on it, listening carefully. No one answered, nor did he hear any movement inside. Carefully, he checked the door handle. It was unlocked. Jackson looked around, double checking again that no one was watching, and opened the trailer door.
“Hello,” Jackson said to the empty space inside.
Nothing returned his greeting.
He stepped up on the metal step hanging from the bottom of the trailer and leaned inside the door. From there, he could see the interior from end to end. It was empty. With a sigh, Jackson stepped down and shut the trailer.
Walking briskly, he headed back to the shop not worried about being spotted. Even before he got to the door, he could hear the clerk yelling something inaudible inside. Jackson steeled himself for a confrontation.
“Is everything okay in here,” asked Jackson.
Bear turned and looked at him with an incredulous look on his face.
“Jack, this man has never seen Cannonball Run,” Bear said, flustered.
Jackson exhaled, both relieved and unamused.
“I’m sorry for my friend. Low blood sugar and all,” Jackson said to the store clerk as he grabbed Bear to usher him out, “I had a look around. Nice place you’ve got here. We’ll be back for sure.”
Jackson waved and stepped out, shoving Bear in front of him, before the man could reply. Bear was chuckling as the two of them walked back to Jackson’s truck.
“Smooth,” Jackson said.
“What,” Bear asked with a devilish grin, “He was so annoyed with me, he didn’t bother to wonder where you were.”
Jackson didn’t say anything back. Bear was smarter than he let on.
“So, did you find anything,” Bear asked.
“No, no signs of her here,” Jackson replied.
“So, what’s next,” asked Bear.
“I want to get a closer look at the compound. Lokoville. Is there a way to get closer?”
“There’s always a way to get closer, it’s just a matter of whether or not we’re noticed.”
“We need to find her. If she’s not there, someone there knows where she is. First thing tomorrow morning, we go back in there.”
“You got it.”
The two of them climbed into Jackson’s truck.
Across the long, sloping parking lot, hidden underneath a thicket of low-hanging oak trees, the Kerley brothers, each nursing wounds a few days old, watched from their black van as the two men that had pummeled them in a bar fight pulled out of the bait shop parking lot.
“It’s them, alright,” said the one in the driver’s seat, “Call him.”
“Fuck that,” said the other, “You call him.”
The driver stared at his brother, but the staring didn’t coerce his sibling to make the call. Muttering something under his breath, the one behind the wheel pulled out his phone, punched something in, and put it to his ear.
“Sir, it’s them,” he said, “The two guys I told you about. They’re snooping around the marina.”
A gravelly voice with a southern drawl answered back on the other end of the line.
“Follow them.”
54
As Jackson headed back to his motel in Gretna, he thought about the Lokos’ compound in the middle of the woods. The couple hours he and Bear had watched the place it had been a hive of activity with little or no chance for someone to sneak in undetected. Going in at night probably wouldn’t be any easier. The Lokos seemed to value privacy above all else.
Jackson headed East on State Route 40, the sun reaching out behind him with its last few forlorn rays of light as he drove into the indigo sky ahead. The road cut an east-west trail just south of Smith Mountain Lake through the woodlands of southern Virginia, pockmarked with the occasional small farm. A brisk wind rippled through his open windows as the warmth of the day disappeared with the sun.
Coming around a bend in the road, he slowed as he saw brake lights ahead. A construction crew was working on a bridge up ahead and had closed the road down to just one lane. His side was stopped as cars headed the other way passed through one by one.<
br />
It took only a minute or so for the cars to drive past, then the red taillights in line ahead of Jackson began to move into the other lane. Jackson lumbered forward in his pickup with the traffic. When his turn came to drive around, he waved at the flagger waving him through. The flagger waved back before putting his hand up in a “stop” gesture to the next car in line. Jackson was the last one allowed through.
But as he drove around the construction, he heard commotion behind him. One car honked, followed by a second car. Men from the construction crew yelled as a car in line behind him decided it too was coming through and cut off the cars ahead of it as it pushed its way across the bridge.
What a jackass, Jackson thought.
But as he drove on, he noticed the car that had been in such a rush to push through was now hanging back, almost intentionally. Traffic was moving slow enough that those who had been waved through together were still almost bumper-to-bumper. The car behind Jackson, though, kept its distance. Something was wrong about it.
As he approached Gretna, Jackson took a sharp left away from his motel. The headlights behind him followed. When he got north of town, he took the first exit, a right turn, for Blue Ridge Drive. The headlights behind him took the same turn. Blue Ridge Drive looped back in a meandering arc south towards Gretna. Jackson took it the whole way, driving 5 mph under the speed limit. The headlights behind him followed, always keeping their distance. They’d followed Jackson almost in a complete circle around the small town.
He was certain now. Someone was following him.
Jackson reached for his phone and called Bear, whose quick answer surprised him.
“Jackie boy, I was just about to call you,” Bear said, “Those Lokos from the bar. They were in that black van with the bright headlights. I think they’re following me.”
“Yeah, I’ve got a tail, too,” Jackson replied, “Someone must’ve not liked us snooping around the marina.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” Bear said, “What do you want to do?”
The Woodsman (The Jackson Clay & Bear Beauchamp Series Book 1) Page 19