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

by B. C. Lienesch

  “He also seemed to know some interesting people,” Agent Rivera continued, “This is Isaacs at a marina owned by the LOKS on Smith Mountain Lake. The marina is how they explain the legitimacy of their revenue stream. The man on the right there is Solomon Ash, the leader of the LOKS. The other man is Jerry—”

  “Jerry Johns,” Cole said.

  “That’s right,” said Agent Rivera, “The televangelist.”

  “Sure, I’ve seen him on TV Sunday mornings.”

  “He’s the president of Christ Sovereign College over in Virginia Beach, as well. But near as we can tell – and believe me, we did our homework – these three have no official connection whatsoever, making this photo of them at a dock at Smith Mountain Lake quite interesting.”

  Detective Cole picked up the photo and studied it. What the hell had Jeff Isaacs been into, she thought.

  “A minute ago, you said Jeff Isaacs ran a non-profit,” Agent Blair said, “I’m assuming by your phrasing you know he’s dead.”

  Lieutenant Ingle looked up at Agent Blair and then over at Detective Cole with alarm. Clearly, Isaacs’ death was news to him. Detective Cole was searching for the words to formulate an answer when Agent Blair slid another photo across the table. This one, another surveillance photo, was of her at the crime scene at Isaacs’ house.

  “Are you kidding me? You’re surveilling crime scenes now,” Cole asked rhetorically.

  “You have to look at it from our point of view, detective,” Agent Rivera said, “Here, we know this guy, now dead, is mixed up in something with some notable people, and then here comes this detective who knows him throwing her weight around at a crime scene that’s not hers.”

  “I wasn’t throwing my weight around,” Cole said, annoyed, “I was—”

  Agent Blair slid yet another photo across the table. It was of her standing on Isaacs’ lawn talking to Jackson Clay.

  “Finish that sentence,” Agent Blair said, “You were, what? Having a private conversation with the suspect?”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Cole snapped, “He’s not a suspect. There is no suspect. Isaacs put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger. If you had your intel right, you’d know that.”

  “We do know the COD appears to be a self-inflicted gunshot wound,” Agent Blair replied, “The question is why does it interest you?”

  “Because there’s still a little girl out there somewhere and maybe this guy had something to do with it. Look, if you want some sort of witch hunt, find another witch. I’m not your girl.”

  “We just want to understand what’s going on here. Right now, we have a lot of interesting puzzle pieces, and we need to understand how they fit together.”

  “Yeah. You and I both.”

  She turned to her Lieutenant.

  “Am I done here, sir,” asked Cole.

  Ingle didn’t give her a reason to stay.

  “Terrific,” Cole said, “You gentleman have a nice day.”

  She walked angrily out of the conference room and marched down the center aisle of the office.

  Sliding back into her desk, she put her head in her hands and forced herself to calm down. Whatever was going on, she was behind the curve. It was a feeling she didn’t much care for and one she was going to fix.

  She flipped through her notes to find the information of the man that had called her asking to verify Isaacs’ address as a favor to Jackson.

  Turning to her computer, she put in the name and searched Archibald Beauchamp.

  69

  Solomon Ash sat in the passenger seat, quietly judging the cretins on their drives home. The boors that slaved their way to and from work every day, spending a third or more of their life at jobs they hated to put food on the table for people they quietly resented. That wasn’t Solomon. That was never him. To him, the American dream was a hoax. A piece of propaganda to get schlubs to pay their taxes and participate in the PTA. He had no time for that. He never did.

  He watched as his Land Rover – other people drove him in it, sure, but make no mistake, the car was his and his alone – flew by the traffic jam, driving in the other direction. The thought made him grin. He’d never been one to go with the flow. To clock in at 9 and clock out at 5, that was for the imbeciles. Not him.

  He looked in the backseat at the two large men taking up a bench seat for three. Baron and Lester were Solomon’s personal muscle. If he were being completely honest, he trusted Baron and Lester more than he trusted his own brother. They were no less violent then Silas, but they were disciplined and dependable. His brother, bless his heart, was too emotional for his own good.

  “Safeties off, boys,” Solomon said to Baron and Lester, “Tell the boys in the other car, too.”

  Silas and three more men were following in another Land Rover. Baron and Lester unholstered their handguns, cocked them, and flipped off the safety before returning them to their holsters. Baron pulled out his phone and made a call.

  “We’re almost there,” he said, “Boss says lock ‘n’ load.”

  The driver turned off of US Route 58 a few miles west of Clarksville, following a rural road north. The road climbed gradually, traversing a small field, before diving down through land thick with the woodlands of southern Virginia. Meandering back and forth, it emptied into a private driveway that ran its way to an impressive Colonial style house on the mouth of the Dan River.

  Pulling in, the two Land Rovers diverged like bent fork prongs, blocking the three cars – two Cadillacs and a Lexus – in the stone-paved driveway. The men from both cars disembarked and fanned out, each knowing their job. Two jogged around the house towards the back door while two more posted up on the entrance of the driveway. The remaining two, Baron and Lester, followed Silas and Solomon to the front door.

  As Solomon casually jogged up the steps to the porch, the front door swung open and out stepped an older man visibly angry.

  “What in god’s name are you doing here, Sol,” said the man, “My family’s here, you fuck.”

  “First of all, Senator, it’s Solomon,” said Solomon, “And second, we know the family’s here. We were hoping they might join us.”

  Harlon Graves was the Virginia state senator for the 15th district, a confused polygon that spread out through south central portions of the state. Calling himself a pure nationalist, his coziness to a number of white supremacist groups had made him far too radioactive for any political party. But he had managed to stoke the flames of bigotry and intolerance in the area enough to steal a senate seat as an independent in a district that was 66% white. He’d run under the pretense that he was a working man and political outsider simply looking out for his fellow blue-collar friends and family. In truth, though, his family came from old money in the tobacco industry of pre-civil war Virginia, making the hardest thing he had to do on a day-to-day basis cashing out investments to fund his family’s lifestyle.

  “What the fuck are you talking about you little twerp,” stammered Graves.

  “Why don’t we go inside and talk about it,” replied Solomon.

  “Why don’t you get the fuck off my property before I call the sheriff,” Graves growled.

  A door kicked open behind the Senator inside the house and the two men who had circled around back now stepped through, one of them holding Graves’ wife by the hair, a ball gag muffling her shrieking.

  “Unfortunately, that’s not going to happen, Senator,” said Solomon, “Why don’t we step inside?”

  Solomon looked past Senator Graves to the man who wasn’t holding the senator’s wife.

  “Get the daughter, she must be upstairs,” Solomon said.

  Senator Graves went to yell for his daughter, but as he breathed in, the barrel of a .45-caliber Colt 1911 pistol pressed into his neck.

  “Why don’t we use our indoor voice from here on, Senator,” Solomon said.

  Baron pushed the senator inside and together the statesman and his wife were marched to their large antique walnut dining room table. The gro
up heard a scream come from upstairs, which caused Graves’ wife to start crying. A moment later, the man who went upstairs returned with a teenage girl, cuffed and gagged.

  Solomon’s men sat the mother and daughter side by side in the middle of the table and forced the senator down into a seat at the far end. Solomon scooted out a chair and took a seat next to the senator.

  “So, the reason we’re here, you must be wondering,” Solomon said.

  The senator stared at Solomon, his eyes filled with rancor, but didn’t say anything.

  “Well, senator, due to situations beyond my control, we are regretfully going to have to take possession of that item you took delivery of the other day,” Solomon continued.

  “Go fuck yourself, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Graves replied.

  Solomon looked at him confused.

  “Are you sure,” he asked, “I mean it can’t be every day one takes ownership of a young lady.”

  Solomon looked around at everyone, amused

  “I mean, hell, I’m in the business of it,” he said, “and even for me it never gets to be, you know, routine.”

  Solomon turned to the wife and daughter.

  “You have to understand, it’s about the money for me,” Solomon said, “Though I suppose for people like Harlon here, it’s about something a little different. Isn’t it, Harlon?”

  “I’m warning you,” Graves seethed, “Do not do this here, now.”

  “Is it about the missus?” Solomon pretended to ask quietly, leaning forward, “Things just not what they once were in the bedroom? You need something younger? Not unlike your pretty daughter over there.”

  “You leave her out of this, you understand me, asshole.”

  “Wait, wait. Did you take a girl because she’s like your daughter, Senator? I mean that is some kind of reverse Electra complex mindfuck if I’ve ever seen one.”

  Solomon let out a forced chuckle. Senator Graves tried to lunge at Solomon before Baron and Lester grabbed him by the shoulders and planted him firmly back in his seat.

  “Calm down, senator, we’re just having some fun” Solomon said, “Now, like I said, we are going to have to take the girl back. So, where is she?”

  “Fuck you,” Graves replied.

  “Senator, you’re not making this any easier on yourself,” Solomon said, “Normally, I would be happy to carry on like this. You use a four-letter word, I make a witty comeback, and we go 12 rounds like that. But for me, today, time is of the essence. That’s why I brought these men with me. We can do this transaction clean and easy, or, well, we can go the messy route.”

  Silas walked up behind Senator Graves’ wife, brandishing a bowie knife, and pressed the blade gently into the side of her neck.

  “Stop it,” Graves yelled, “Leave her alone!”

  “Tell us where the girl is,” Solomon said, his amusement gone like he flipped a switch.

  “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” Graves replied, still yelling.

  The man that had grabbed Senator Graves’ daughter from upstairs came back into the dining room.

  “There’s a separate building out back, looks like an office,” he said. “Down a walkway across the garden. Near the river.”

  Solomon looked at Senator Graves with piqued interest.

  “Oh, Senator,” he said, “You wouldn’t be playing Slick Willie down by the river, would you?”

  Senator Graves didn’t say anything. Solomon turned back to the man.

  “Check it out,” he said before turning to Silas, “Go with them.”

  Silas and the goons disappeared through the kitchen and out the back of the house. Solomon turned back to Senator Graves, who now sat quietly, his head slumped down, his elbows on the table.

  “She’s there, isn’t she,” Solomon asked quietly.

  Senator Graves didn’t answer him.

  “I asked you for your cooperation,” Solomon continued, “I told you we would find her.”

  Solomon shook his head, feigning disappointment.

  “Such a foolish man,” he said.

  “Please,” Graves said, his voice starting to crack, “Please, just let them go. They don’t even know what’s going on.”

  Solomon patted Senator Graves on his hand.

  “Oh, Senator,” Solomon said, “You and I both know we’re past that.”

  Graves slumped down further in his chair and began sobbing. Seeing this and reading what it must mean, his wife let out a muffled shriek through her gag and began to whine violently. Their daughter, confused, darted her eyes frantically between the two.

  “If it gives you any comfort, Senator,” Solomon said, “You should know, to me, this is strictly business. But, like I said, you put yourself in this position.”

  Senator Graves’ sobbing turned into something guttural, almost an animalistic howl, as he heard the backdoor kick open and bang against the wall with force. A young voice screamed as kitchenware knocked and clanged around. Silas appeared in the doorway, grabbing a teenage girl who was flailing in his arms.

  “Found her,” he said, giving a menacing smile, “Playboy here had a secret room below his home office. Regular sex dungeon. Kinky fuck.”

  “Ah, Miss Parker, I believe it is,” said Solomon.

  Standing up, he approached Sara Beth Parker who stopped flailing, suddenly paralyzed with fear. Solomon cupped her chin, softly stroking her bottom lip with his thumb. Sara Beth dry heaved as if she was going to be sick.

  “You know, I am not normally in the practice of learning my commodities’ names,” Solomon said, “But you, you have caused me a great deal of trouble. Truth be told, if I could do it all over again, I never would have had Silas and his goons snatch you from that parking lot in Harrisonburg. We would’ve taken someone, anyone else had we known what a handful you were going to be.”

  Sara Beth did nothing but stare at him, terrified even to blink. Solomon shook his head, as if he had been somewhere else in his head for a moment.

  “Anyway,” he said, his voice distant before gathering himself, “Take her to the car, would you?”

  Solomon turned and placed his hands on Senator Graves’ shoulders.

  “Well, Senator, it’s been fun, but I must be going,” he said.

  Lester, standing behind the senator’s wife and daughter, drew a semiautomatic pistol and attached a silencer to the end of the barrel. Senator Graves’ daughter began to cry just as hard as her mother.

  “Please, god,” Senator Graves murmured.

  Solomon leaned in to the senator so close that the 69-year-old man could feel Solomon’s breath on his ear as he whispered the last words he’d ever hear.

  “You’re a child fucker, Harlon. You don’t get god. You get me.”

  Senator Graves closed his eyes as Lester fired two rounds into the back of his wife and daughter's heads. He put his head down and sobbed as Lester matter-of-factly walked around the table, put the gun to the back of the senator’s head, and squeezed the trigger two more times.

  At that, the room became silent. Solomon took one of the cloth napkins and wiped at some blood splatter on the cuff of his shirt before stuffing it in his pocket. He turned to Silas.

  “Crack the safe to make it look like a home invasion then burn it all,” Solomon said, “Don’t be home late.”

  Silas nodded and smiled. As Solomon walked out the front door, Baron dropped off two jerry cans filled with diesel fuel on the porch then followed him out to the car where Lester was closing the tailgate to the Land Rover.

  “Are we good,” Solomon asked.

  “She’s sedated, now,” Lester answered, “She’ll be out for the duration.”

  “Good,” Solomon replied, “Let’s go.”

  70

  Jackson sat in his car across the train tracks staring at the small white cottage. Nat had moved out and most of their friends chose to keep their distance. Unable to concentrate on anything else, his pursuit of a Private Investigator’s license
had fallen by the wayside. All he had was this. Tracking down the man that took his boy from him.

  Now, he had found him. Or at least he had convinced himself of that. This small white cottage, at the end of a block of houses, snuggled up against the train tracks just west of the Port of Richmond, was where Dale Jeffers lived. Convinced Jeffers had taken Evan, he’d followed him for weeks, learning where he went. He knew now, on a Friday night like this one, Jeffers came home after stopping at 7Eleven for a pack of Busch and wouldn’t reemerge until sometime Saturday afternoon.

  Jackson put his car in gear and slowly pulled off the road, coasting into a field of tall grass, hiding it from passersby. He killed the engine and climbed out. Winter had come early in the form of a late November ice storm. Shards of frozen water pelted his face, as if admonishing him, begging him to turn back and go home. He stood on the train tracks and stared at the house. The electric blue light of the television illuminated the windows, flickering as the scenes changed.

  Reaching into his coat, Jackson pulled out an M9 Beretta. Fond of the model when he'd used it in the Army, he’d bought himself this one with custom work done to the barrel and the grip as a retirement present when he left the armed forces. The model, M9, had made him smile when Evan was born on March 9. He’d imagined the day Evan would turn 18 and he would give him the gun. He looked down at the it, thinking about that day that wouldn’t come now. It wouldn’t come because it had been taken from him, and Dale Jeffers was the man that had taken it. He clenched the gun in his hand and began walking toward the house.

  Of course, the gun was registered to him. He didn’t know everything about criminal forensics but he knew enough to figure there was a decent chance he’d be tied to whatever he did to Jeffers tonight. He didn’t care. He had lost everything. No. Rather, he had had everything taken from him. Now it was time to take whatever Dale Jeffers held dear.

  Walking up to the house, he quietly checked the door. To his surprise, it was unlocked. Jackson turned the knob slowly and pushed open the door.