The Woodsman (The Jackson Clay & Bear Beauchamp Series Book 1)

by B. C. Lienesch

  The girl from Harrisonburg on the news. My friend says that was you.

  Silas replied acknowledging they had taken her. Jackson’s fingers went numb as he held the phone. He held it tighter as he continued reading. There was a back and forth, discussing what had happened before the user Amhaaretz sent a message as simple as it was sinister.

  Her. I want her.

  Scrolling faster, Jackson began speed-reading the conversation as fast as he could. Looking for any sort of clue.

  “Come on. Reveal yourself. Who are you,” he muttered to himself.

  The messages were intentionally vague. An exchange had clearly been set up and Sara Beth Parker had been given to this person. Shortly after a conversation working out the details of handing her over, messages stopped until a little more than a week ago when Amhaaretz started sounding nervous. Unsolicited, the person had sent Silas a message.

  This case of hers isn’t going away.

  A sporadic back-and-forth continued. The user sounding worried. Silas reassured them it would go away. Then, as Jackson scrolled further down, he nearly dropped the phone.

  Amhaaretz had sent a picture file of Jackson. It looked like a still taken from a security camera. Jackson was walking across what looked to be a road or parking lot. He scrolled down to the next messages. The words stabbed into Jackson like tiny daggers as he read.

  This man came to my house looking into the girl. I had to take him with me to Lexington so he wouldn’t find her.

  Jeff Isaacs had taken Sara Beth Parker.

  62

  Jackson tore down the highway, his truck cutting through the torrents of rain like a torpedo. Even on their max setting, his wipers couldn’t keep up with the barrage of water hitting his windshield. But he couldn’t slow down. He had to get to Jeff Isaacs. He had to get to Sara Beth. He had to be there now.

  Seconds felt like minutes. Miles seemed to stretch on forever. He reached for his phone and called Bear. It went to voicemail.

  “God dammit,” Jackson said, “Come on, Bear, pick up.”

  “Hey, it’s Archi – er – Bear. Uh, you know that to do,” said a pre-recorded message.

  “Bear, it’s me,” Jackson yelled over the wind and the rain, “Listen to me. Jeff Isaacs. He has Sara Beth. He lives off of Route 606 in Steeles Tavern. Take exit 205 from I-81 and go East about a mile. Wait for me there.”

  Jackson tried to think of the cars he saw at Isaacs’ house.

  “If you see a light blue Buick SUV, a white Volkswagen Atlas, or a black Infiniti sedan in the area, follow it and call me immediately,” Jackson added.

  He ended the call and looked at the time. It was almost 10. He estimated he was about an hour and 45 minutes away from Jeff Isaacs’ house. With a little luck, he could shave that down to 90 minutes.

  Jackson’s mind raced as fast as his truck. Could the Lokos connect him to Isaacs? Could they warn him before he got there? Would they warn him, or would they rather start dropping bodies? Maybe whoever had followed Bear to Harrisonburg was headed there now. There were too many variables. Too many unknowns. Jackson had to get there.

  He was rounding the city of Roanoke, catching Interstate 81 north, when his phone rang. It was Bear.

  “Bear,” Jackson said, “Talk to me.”

  “I think I’m outside the house,” Bear said, “You didn’t give me an exact address so I called that detective lady.”

  “You didn’t tell her Isaacs has Sara Beth, did you,” Jackson asked.

  “C’mon man, give me some credit. No, I told her I was supposed to grab some information on the way back and needed the address.”

  “Alright, stay on the highway. He has motion sensors on his driveway. God knows what else there is if he’s keeping abducted kids there.”

  “Gotcha, I’ll wait for you.”

  “I’m an hour out. Sit on the driveway. If anyone leaves, follow them and call me. Otherwise, stay put.”

  “10-4, brother.”

  Jackson ended the call and drove harder into the storm. For a week now, he had crossed half the state looking for a teenage girl whose only crime was showing a little rebellion for the first time in her life. Jeff Isaacs hadn’t just preyed upon her, he’d preyed upon her family, giving them false hope and comfort. Jeff Isaacs owed them more than just their little girl, he owed all three of them their lives back.

  Jackson Clay was coming to collect.

  63

  Half an hour before midnight, Jackson pulled up behind Bear’s Suburban on a lonely stretch of road near Jeff Isaacs’ home. He saw the door of the SUV open as he killed his headlights. Bear’s brawny silhouette stepped out into the stormy darkness and met Jackson at the back of his truck.

  “Any movement,” Jackson asked in a hushed voice.

  “No. It’s completely dark, actually,” Bear replied, “I noticed two other houses pitch black on the way in. I think the power might be out around here.”

  “Let’s assume it isn’t,” Jackson said, “Even if it’s out, he might have a backup generator.”

  Bear opened the back doors to his Suburban. Inside was a large assortment of the firearms and tactical equipment from his house. Jackson estimated he must’ve brought half of his personal armory with him.

  “I grabbed a few things when we were heading out; always better to be prepared,” Bear said as he slipped on a generously-portioned bullet resistant vest, “You still good with your pistol there?”

  Jackson looked at the display of firepower. He didn’t peg Jeff Isaacs for the gun-toting type, but he hadn’t suspected him to be involved with Sara Beth’s abduction, either. Besides that, he’d already been caught outgunned in one shootout tonight. He wasn’t about to let that happen again. He reached in and grabbed a Sig Sauer assault rifle equipped with a foregrip, scope, and laser sight.

  “Actually, you mind if I borrow this,” Jackson asked.

  Bear suppressed a grin, pleased an ex-Ranger approved of his curated collection of carnage.

  “By all means,” Bear replied, “In fact, I’ve got extra mags for that.”

  Jackson took the extra magazines from Bear and slid them into the pouches on the front of his vest. He scanned the weapons depot in the back of the truck once more, reaching in again and grabbing a throat microphone for his radio and a pair of night vision binoculars.

  “Better take these, too,” Jackson added, “Just in case.”

  Bear could no longer suppress his smile.

  “Good thinking,” he replied.

  “Let’s go,” Jackson said.

  The two crept slowly into the woods, disappearing into the dark foliage. Jackson couldn’t see more than a few feet in front of him, only catching glimpses of the house in the distance as lightning flashed across the sky. He pulled out the night vision binoculars and put them up to his face. Bear was right, the house was completely dark. If he hadn’t known better, he’d think the place was abandoned.

  Jackson tapped Bear on the shoulder and signaled for him to move to the far side of the house where the garage was while he went the opposite way. Bear nodded and split off.

  Jackson stalked forward slowly, his gun raised. In front of him was the tree line where the woods he was using for cover gave way to Isaacs’ manicured lawn. Posting up against a large oak tree, he got down on one knee at the edge of the yard and looked the property over through the green hue of the night vision goggles. He could see Bear on the far side, crossing the large driveway and heading for the garage.

  “Bear, can you hear me,” Jackson said, the microphone around his neck picking up the vibrations of his vocal cords.

  “Loud and clear, bud,” Bear replied.

  Jackson switched on the infrared pointer on the laser sight which shot out a beam of light only visible with the right equipment on. He waved the barrel of his gun, flailing the laser in the air to show Bear where he was. Bear did the same thing back.

  “Check the garage,” Jackson said to Bear, “Are all three cars I mentioned there?”


  “There’s a Volkswagen and an Infiniti inside the garage,” Bear replied, “And there’s a Buick on the far end of the driveway.”

  “He’s got to be here,” Jackson said, “Front porch stairs. Let’s move.”

  Their rifles up and pointed at the house, the two converged on the front porch stairs from opposite directions. There, Jackson signaled for Bear to follow him. He ascended the stairs quietly and scanned the windows for movement. As he stepped to the door, Bear came around to the opposite side. He looked at Bear and nodded. Bear nodded back.

  “On you, brother,” he said.

  With one swift strike, Jackson swung his steel toed boot into the door, knocking it off its hinges. The storm blew through the splintered door frame, the wind whipping rain into the entryway.

  Jackson’s rain-soaked silhouette stepped through the opening into the house. It was pitch black. He moved through the house in a counterclockwise direction, sweeping from room to room. As he scanned down a hall on the other side of the living area, the lenses of his night vision binoculars flared up from light coming through a doorway on the far end. Bear looked at him. Jackson motioned for him to follow.

  Moving down the hallway and getting closer, Jackson could see the glow was coming from the kitchen. Flipping off the night vision, he stepped off the wall into the hallway and scanned what he could see of the room. A light source was flickering, casting cabinets and small appliances in an eerie, dim radiance. As he got to the doorway, he leaned back against the wall and listened. Something metal clinked. Jackson moved.

  Stepping in, he covered the room in a sweeping arc, his rifle out in front of him. Jeff Isaacs was sitting at a table, a pair of candles illuminating his sullen face. He was looking down at a bottle of Johnnie Walker and a snub nose Ruger revolver in front of him.

  “You move for that gun, it’ll be the last move you make,” Jackson said.

  “I was wondering when you would put it all together,” Isaacs replied.

  “Did you hear me,” Jackson asked, “Move and I’ll shoot you.”

  “Detective Cole mentioned your friend here found the Living Order. I figured it was only a matter of time.”

  “I’m serious, Isaacs.”

  Isaacs looked up at Jackson, baring his soul in his eyes. They were red from crying. But it was more than that. They were heartbroken. Afflicted with overarching guilt.

  “I’m not going to shoot you,” said Isaacs, “I know how this ends.”

  “Stand up, move over there,” Jackson replied, motioning towards the kitchen counter.

  Letting out a sigh, Isaacs slid the chair back and did what he was told. Jackson kept the gun pointed at him as he moved across the kitchen. He put his hands on the edge of the sink and looked out the window at the storm causing mayhem outside.

  “What now,” Isaacs asked.

  “Sara Beth,” Jackson replied, “Where is she?”

  Jackson watched as Isaacs’ upper body began to shake, a faint, breathy cackle coming out of him. Bear looked at Jackson. Neither of them could tell if he was laughing or crying. Or both.

  “Oh god,” Isaacs said, “You don’t know.”

  Hearing those five words, Jackson felt his knees become weak as his body tingled with a million pin pricks. The rifle grew heavy in his hands.

  “What did you do,” Jackson said, fear peppering his voice.

  Isaacs’ breathy cackle became more pronounced. A laugh of disbelief.

  “What did I do,” Isaacs echoed, “What did I do?”

  Jackson dropped the rifle. It swung around his body on its sling as he charged at Isaacs. He grabbed the back of Isaacs’ head and shoved it down into the sink.

  “Where is she,” he yelled, “Tell me, now!”

  Isaacs’ laughter devolved into hysterical crying. Jackson shoved his head down farther, so much so that it was pressed against the cold white porcelain of the sink itself. He grabbed the stopper off the counter, plugged the drain, and turned on the faucet. Cold well water splashed onto Isaacs’ face as it pooled around his mouth.

  “Where is she,” Jackson yelled again, “What did you do with her?”

  “I -- I,” Isaacs muttered, trying to speak.

  Jackson pulled him upright, spun him around, and slammed him against the counter. Grabbing him by the collar of his pastel green polo, Jackson pulled his face so close to his own he could smell the scotch on Isaacs’ breath. He looked at the man, who now refused to make eye contact with him. His hair was wet and unkempt, his pupils dilated. Jackson thought he looked as though he had been caught out in the storm.

  “What did you do,” Jackson growled.

  Isaacs wouldn’t look up as he answered.

  “I gave her back.”

  64

  It took every bit of self-control Jackson had not to take his hands off Jeff Isaacs’ shirt collar and place them around his neck.

  “What do you mean you gave her back,” Jackson snarled.

  “I – I made a mistake,” Isaacs replied, sobbing, “I just wanted my Olivia back. And that girl—”

  “Sara. Beth. Sara. Beth. Parker,” Jackson said, shaking him once, “She had a name. And it wasn’t Olivia. She wasn’t yours to have.”

  “I – I know that now. I thought that maybe I could just take her, and we could be a family. Like the one I had. But I was wrong. And then you came around, and I knew it was a matter of time.”

  “So, what? You gave her back to Solomon and Silas? Like some fucked up return policy?”

  “It was the only wa—I didn’t know what to do. I was scared. They wouldn’t take her back at first, telling me she was my problem now. But I said I’d let her go to the cops.”

  “And so they took her.”

  “Solomon came himself. Said he had to figure out what to do with her. He sent some men, then, to scare me into not talking. Not long after that, they came back and tossed the place. Said right after they left here was the first time they ran into you and asked who you were.”

  Jackson thought back to the evening he’d first spotted the van. He’d been on his way to Jeff Isaacs’ house when he stopped for gas. That’s when he’d seen them. As he thought back now, the van had come from the direction of Isaacs’ house.

  Son of a bitch, Jackson thought to himself.

  “What are you going to do,” Isaacs asked.

  Jackson thought, looking for the best solution. Looking for the play. He’d expected Sara Beth to be here. For her to be freed and Isaacs to be arrested. But her not being here made things complicated. Turning him over was still a possibility, but he didn’t have Sara Beth. He needed cards to play if he was going to get her back. Jeff Isaacs was a card to play.

  “You’re coming with us,” Jackson answered.

  “Like hell this pedo-fucker is,” Bear stammered, drawing his Desert Eagle from its holster.

  Jackson turned and shot him a look. Bear stepped back and holstered his gun.

  “You’re coming with us and that is it,” Jackson said assertively.

  Isaacs’ shoulders sagged, his upper body drooping and placing all its weight onto the clenched fists of Jackson.

  “If you’re going to kill me, just get on with it,” Isaacs lamented.

  “I’m not going to kill you,” Jackson said, “But you don’t get to walk for this.”

  Isaacs started to nod in defeat, but then the nodding became convulsive. He was going to be sick. Jackson spun him towards the sink just as Isaacs’ guilt purged itself in the form of his stomach’s contents.

  “Oh for fuck’s sake,” Bear said.

  “I’m sorry,” Isaacs replied, “I truly am.”

  He reached for a dish towel on the counter and wiped his mouth.

  “You good now,” Jackson asked.

  “Yes, sorry,” Isaacs answered, “I’ll go. Please, just let me clean myself up in the bathroom.”

  Jackson grabbed him by the shoulder and the hip and moved him towards Bear.

  “Take him to the bathroom,” Ja
ckson said, “Leave the door open and watch him.”

  Bear nodded and led Isaacs around the table and into the hallway where the two disappeared. Jackson leaned against the cabinet, listening to the rain rap on the metal roof overhead. A muffled clap of thunder roared through the sky. He thought about what to do next.

  Yes, Jeff Isaacs was a card to play, but the plays were limited. His fate ultimately played out two ways: being turned over to the authorities or being turned over to the Lokos. Neither option was great. Not while Sara Beth was still out there.

  Jackson looked at the morbid place setting Isaacs had prepared for himself. The candles in cryptic black iron holders. The half-drunk bottle of Johnnie. The revolver that wasn’t there.

  Jackson shook his head, as if doubting his vision. Everything was there but the gun. He went to the table and looked. It wasn’t there. He checked the kitchen counter. Nothing. Where was the gun?

  And in one horrifying moment, Jackson realized what had happened.

  “Bear,” Jackson screamed.

  But as he jumped into the hallway a loud bang echoed off the hollow wooden walls and vibrated through the floorboards below. Bear flinched, caught off guard, and fell to the ground.

  Jackson ran to him, patting him as he looked for a gunshot wound.

  “Are you hit,” he said, panicked.

  “No, no,” Bear answered, “It wasn’t me.”

  Crouching on the ground, Jackson turned and looked inside the bathroom. Jeff Isaacs’ lifeless body laid on the black and white tile floor, a red hole the size of an orange replacing the upper part of his face. His hand was still clasped around the snub nose Ruger, a single trail of smoke dancing upwards from the muzzle. Blood splatter covered the mirror and the bathroom’s art deco interior.

  Jackson turned and looked back at Bear.

  “I’m sorry, Jack,” Bear said disappointed in himself, “I didn’t see the gun.”

  Jackson looked back at the bathroom.

  “This isn’t on you,” Jackson replied, “All of this. All of this is on him.”