Vendetta Stone (15 page)

The choir soloist sang “Find Victory Through Jesus.” Deacons brought offering plates full of bills, change, and envelopes containing checks to the front of the church, then placed them on the Communion table before walking down the aisles to sit with loved ones. At eleven thirty, Brother Armstrong rose to deliver his message of hope and faith—and more.

The bald
preacher, strong in both physique and spirit, walked to the pulpit and unbuttoned his navy sport coat. He withdrew several sheets of paper from an inner pocket, which he held up for the congregation to see.

“Brothers and sisters, welcome on this glorious morning for a divinely inspired message that will touch far more people today than I ever will with these words,” Armstrong said from the pulpit, putt
ing the notes back in his pocket.

“I just wanted
you all to see the sermon I’d planned to give this morning. After yesterday’s services for our sister, Angela Stone, who has gone on to a better world without pain and strife, I went home to write a message specifically for today. While many of you were bringing comfort and solace—and food, lots of food—to brothers Jackson and Patrick Stone and their grieving families, I went home to the solitude of my garden to find the proper words of hope, healing, and salvation that I thought Jackson needed to hear this morning. I spent hours writing and rewriting that message and now . . . now I’m putting it away. They are good words, but will save for another day.”

Brother Bob
smiled at Jackson, nodding as he spoke.

“Or perhaps I will share them in a private moment with
Jackson and his loved ones. You know that I—and your church family—always will be here for you, Jack.”

The preacher
’s eyes didn’t lock in on Jackson again. Instead, he held up four fingers and then pointed at the congregation.

“T
oday’s divine message consists of just four of the Lord’s most important words for troubled man, and they are out there today for all to see. Did you see them?”

Armstrong looked around
and smiled at the puzzled faces before he continued.

“
Surely you saw the message. In bold type in this morning’s newspaper with inch-high letters. Did you see it? Surely, it jumped out at you. It went out over the Internet on the paper’s website with the potential to be seen by millions. And while the message was a clever attempt to get readers to buy a paper, these four words stand among the Lord’s
holiest
of words. God delivered the message to Moses thousands of years ago, one of the Ten Commandments that God gave to mankind as instructions on how to live your life on Earth. Did you see the message? I pray at least one man saw it, one brother who needs to understand that message and embrace the Lord’s Sixth Commandment—Thou shalt not kill.”

No one in front of him or to either s
ide turned to look, but Jackson felt as if every set of eyes in the congregation were upon him. His face reddened as he looked up at the choir and saw eyes dart in another direction. He glanced over at Sheila and Patrick. Their expressions were impassive, but their dancing eyes followed the preacher.

Jackson was unable to concentrate on the rest of the sermon.
The preacher continued to expound on the “Thou shalt not kill” theme for the remaining twenty-five minutes. Jackson would later recall hearing the preacher say he should turn the other cheek, that the best revenge would be the act of forgiveness.

In the back of t
he church I scribbled notes, just glad I brought my recorder. Talk about being in the right place at the right time. I looked around the congregation as I wrote, hoping something dramatic might happen—as if the preacher’s words weren’t enough. But there were no “amen” shouts, no movement throughout the sermon. It surprised me as much as anyone that the newspaper’s clever headline became the sermon’s main focus. Fascinated, I watched an impassioned Reverend Armstrong hammer home his point, moving back and forth across the pulpit, using his hands to deliver points of emphasis. Now, he pounded his right fist into his open left palm.

“The Sixth Commandment is very clear on this matter; you shall
not
murder. There is
no
ambiguity. It’s a straightforward message. No matter the circumstances, do
not
take the law into your own hands. ‘Vengeance is Mine,’ saith the Lord. If you believe in the Lord Almighty, take Him at
His
Word.
Believe
that all accounts come payment due on Judgment Day. This message isn’t just for Jackson Stone. I am not singling him out because of his reaction to the tragedy that has befallen his family. It’s a message that all of us in the Christian community must embrace. In this wicked world, terrible things happen to good Christians every day.”

Reverend
Armstrong continued to pound away on the theme, knowing full well it would be a topic of discussion for many days to come and could cause friction within his middle-class congregation. But until he saw me ducking out a side door as the choir finished the closing chorus and Benediction, Armstrong didn’t know his message would reach the world at large. My notepad and cassette were obvious giveaways.

Armstrong walked to the back of the church where he would shake hands with his departing flock, hoping he’d get a chance to speak with me. He would, but not
right away. As I stood outside, I wondered how Jackson would react to being called out by both the police and his own preacher. I watched and waited.

The Stones remained seated
in the pew as those around them rose to leave.

“Bye, Mister Stone,” one young voice said as his mother shushed him down the aisle.
Jackson felt drained, as if he’d just survived a ten-round fight. His conscience waged a battle, knowing the preacher’s words rang true but what he must do also felt right. Supported by Sheila and Patrick, who rose when Jackson did, they made their way to where Brother Bob waited. He thrust a hand at Jackson.

“Hope
I didn’t rough you up too much. I was—”

“I know. D
oing your job,” Jackson said coldly and left without shaking the preacher’s hand. Patrick apologized and said his brother didn’t mean it.

Jackson
emerged from the church, and I plotted an intercept course, cutting across the parking lot to re-introduce myself.

“Hello again
, Mister Stone. Gerry Hilliard from
TenneScene Today
and—”

“I know who you are. What do you want?”

“I played a hunch you would be in church today and since I couldn’t reach you by telephone yesterday, I wanted to give you an opportunity to respond to Chief King’s comments about possible charges you could face if you continue to pursue this vengeance thing. And I’m curious about your reactions to the reverend’s sermon this morning. I sat in the back and watched. I half-expected you to get up and walk out.” I grinned at that last line, and it seemed to be the ice-breaker in our chilly, budding relationship. It also caused a turnabout in Jackson’s attitude.

Jackson
chuckled as his brother arrived, red-faced as if he’d just eaten the tongue-blistering medium quarter breast at Prince’s Hot Chicken Shack. “Yeah, the thought crossed my mind. Wait here a minute, and I’ll be glad to talk. Maybe you can join us for lunch. Talk to my kid brother.”

Jackson
sprinted back into the church, where he found Brother Bob. He met the preacher with true humility.

“I want to apologize for the ‘just doing your job,’ line, Brother Bob.”

“No offense, Brother Jack. We’ll talk about it soon.”

“
This is all still . . . raw emotion right now, but I promise I’ll explain everything someday . . . soon, I hope.”

Jackson
came out of the church and got in the backseat of Patrick’s car. I followed them to Patrick’s house in autopilot mode as I thought about where I wanted to steer our conversation. Sheila heated leftovers as the brothers led me into the den. We chatted a minute, then got down to business. I opened my notepad, turned on the recorder, and set it on the table between us.

“Sunday August
fifteenth. Jackson and Patrick Stone. So what’s going through your mind after that sermon?”

“Honestly? I’m kind of numb. I loved the headline, but I sure didn’t see that coming. But I’m even more determined than ever to find Angela’s killer. I
anticipated some harsh reaction, that not everyone would agree with or condone what I am trying to do.”

“Describe your meeting with Chief King.”

“Without getting into all the details, you heard the same basic spiel at his news conference. I didn’t know about
that
until I picked up the paper this morning.”

Jackson
shrugged his shoulders in a what-can-you-do fashion, adding, “I can’t say I’m surprised by the Chief’s reaction. He’s got his job to do.”

Jackson
paused, reflecting that he made the same comment to the preacher. He still felt bad about that and chose his next words with care.

“I don’t hold any animosity toward
the chief or the police. I’ve supported the police on many levels and became acquainted with several at the East Nashville precinct before this happened. I sincerely hope they find Angela’s murderer. He’s still out there somewhere and has to be stopped. If they can’t stop him, maybe I can. Someone has to. Might as well be me.”

“
How about possibly facing criminal charges? As the chief noted, it
could
be considered premeditated. Did you ever consider not going public with your mission, as you’ve called it?”

Jackson
shook his head.

“The answer to both of your questions is no, I didn’t. Cr
iminal charges are one thing. A conviction is another. I’ve got a good lawyer, and I think any jury would be sympathetic to what this monster has put us through. He deserves to die.”

Jackson
scooted forward and looked me in the eye to make sure
I
got the message.

“The second thing is I can’t do it alone. I
need
the public’s help to find this psycho. I’ve put up a hundred thousand dollars of my own savings and as soon as we get the paperwork complete, the public will be able to make donations at my Angela’s Angels website. All contributions will be used to: one . . . find Angela’s killer, and . . . two . . . increase the reward money as necessary, and . . . three . . . solve other murders and help other victims’ families long after we’ve found Angela’s killer.”

“What makes you think you can solve this crime if the cops can’t? I read your bio, so I know about your military training.”

My follow-up question caused Jackson to stiffen and cross his arms, almost belligerent.

“I’m not going to answer that, because I’ve got some definite leads that I want to check out and you never know who will read this—maybe even the gutless coward who killed an innocent woman and I’m guessing has killed before. I want to stop him before there’s another victim. I don’t know why, but I feel he’s still in Middle Tennessee somewhere. I’ll track him around the globe if that’s what it takes and spend the rest of my life in that pursuit until he’s found.”

I
hunched over, scribbling in my reporter’s notebook in case the recorder fouled up.

Sheila
brought in a tray of sandwiches, part of the cornucopia of food brought over by caring friends and neighbors.

“Oh not for me, thanks,” I said a
nd stood. “I need to get to the office and start writing. Deadlines, you know.”

Jackson
walked me to the front door, and I dug a business card out of my wallet, writing my home information on the back. My turn to lecture, just like the police chief and the preacher.

“You’re in the ad game and know how to manipulate the media. But if you’re honest with me, I’ll be fair with
you. You’re hot news now, but the day will come when the next big story bumps you off the front page. I won’t be your mouthpiece, but if you’ve got something you think I need to hear or know, call me anytime. That’s day, night, at the office, at home, or on my cell. I can help you get your message out. And I would rather see you face-to-face than at a news conference. I’ll be glad to converse off the record, and we’ll talk about what is on the record. But you can’t say something and then say ‘that’s off the record.’ No take-backs. And I’ll keep my editors in the loop on every conversation. Fair enough?”

With the ground rules
established, I stuck out my hand, and Jackson accepted it.

Scenes from a gorgeous Sunday afternoon:

Sally Thompson grew frustrated. The Channel 11 general assignments reporter left message after message for every phone number Clarkston left her while he enjoyed a beautiful Sunday at the lake or wherever he was. She couldn’t find Jackson Stone or his cell number, just an email address for his office. Patrick Stone’s voicemail asked her to leave a message. Darrin Jensen’s pager went unanswered, and she dared not call the police chief without going through his PR flak first. She looked at the latest blogs on the station’s website and other media sites for inspiration. She found it. A sampling:

Classic Country 750-AM:
At 11:57 a.m.,
BACKSTABBED
wrote: “Jackson Stone better watch his back because somebody might plant a knife in it. And if the killer doesn’t get him first, the cops will. You’re a dead man walking, whacko Jacko.”

Channel 11:
At 12:22 p.m.,
CAROL177
wrote: “Great headline in the paper this morning, bet you guys are jealous. Your coverage has been pretty good, but it seems like the media has been leaning too much toward the police. Treat Jackson fairly and don’t judge him too harsh.”

TenneSceneToday.com:
At 12:45 p.m.,
EXCOP
replied to
CAROL177
: “Stone is planning