Vendetta Stone (18 page)

The chief
mulled this. The silence made Whitfield twiddle and pick at his nails. When King finally leaned forward on his desk, a sly smile crossed his face.

“
So how would you like to be . . . Lieutenant Whitfield? Here’s my plan . . . .”

Jackson turned on his radio as he backed the car out of the driveway, on his way to work and an eleven o’clock meeting with his boss and old friend, Matthew “Marty” Martin. Preset to NewsTalk 990-AM, the radio blared. Right-wing radio host George Dunkirk hit his stride, taking pot-shots at politicians and breaking down breaking-news topics.

“A
nd I applaud Jackson Stone, who has suffered an immense tragedy, in trying to find his wife’s killer,” Dunkirk said. “That’s what’s wrong with this great country. Not enough people out there are willing to do whatever it takes to get these scumbags off the street permanently. Pushed too far, he’s pushing back.”

Jackson
switched to the more liberal-minded Howard Baldwin on Hot 100-FM.

“A
nd what I can’t figure out is why Chief King doesn’t just go ahead and throw this Stone in jail and throw away the key. He’s a menace to society, if you ask me. I sure don’t feel safe with him on the streets gunning for who knows who. Do you feel safe, Nashville? Let me know at six one five four two—”

Jackson
switched to Golden Oldies 58-FM, dismayed to hear more of the same.

“A
nd I’d like to dedicate the 5th Dimension’s ‘Stoned Soul Picnic’ to Jackson Stone, a great American,” the caller said.

“Okay, cat,”
drive-time deejay Howlin’ Bob Smith screamed in his trademark raspy cigarette voice. “Stony, this one’s for youuuuu!”

Jackson
cut off the radio and drove to work in silence.

Everyone acted
sympathetic when Jackson arrived at the office just before nine a.m., but they yammered all day about the controversy he’d stirred. His secretary brought in a pile of mail and messages, not to mention he had backlog of emails to go through after his two-week absence. An hour later, he sighed and returned another call.

“Good morning. The
Ellen DeGeneres Show. This is Michelle Albright.”

“T
his is Jackson Stone. I’m returning a call.”

The perky voic
e took on a pleased, but urgent tone.

“Thank you
so
much for calling, Mister Stone. I’m a producer for Ellen, and we’ve all been reading about your wife’s tragic death and your bold stance. We would love to schedule you this week.”

“Oprah’s people called too. And so
did producers from Maury, Leno, Letterman, along with
Today
,
The View
, and
60 Minutes
and all the rest. I’ll tell you the same: I’m not yet ready to do a national show. Tell Ellen I would love to be on her show in the future, but things are moving too fast right now. Today’s my first day back at work.”

“Fine. I’ll check back with you in—”

Jackson hung up as new email arrived.

Sent by: Marty Martin. On: 08/16/10 at 10:38 AM

To: Jackson Stone

Welcome Bac
k Kotter! Can you join me in five?

Jackson
replied:

Be right there.

He put on his jacket and walked down the hall. Marty gave him a hug.

“G
ood to see you. You doin’ okay?”

Jackson
shrugged. “It’s been pretty crazy.”

“Yeah, t
hat’s what I wanted to discuss. I can’t imagine what you’re going through, but you’ve got to know this isn’t the kind of PR we need in a tough business climate. I put out fires all weekend, but our clients hate the negative publicity you’ve generated and how it might affect their products.”

Jackson raised an eyebrow—and his voice.

“Are you firing me, Marty? Because on my desk is a stack of messages from producers for Oprah, Doctor Phil, Katie, Ellen, Jay Leno,
60 Minutes
, the
Today
show, all fighting to book me on their shows. I put them all on hold for now. But hey.” He shrugged.

They talked
several more minutes without any clear-cut understanding and agreed to meet again after lunch.

Two hours later,
an impasse still existed, and the meeting ended on a sour note. Marty remained convinced that clients would start bailing if Jackson stayed on the front page much longer. Marty didn’t want to fire his best friend, but felt he might be forced into it and cussed Jackson for putting him in that position.

“
All I’m saying is just cool it for a while. Let all this die down. Otherwise . . . the firm might have to distance itself,” Marty blurted, embarrassed.

Red-faced
Jackson stood his ground, determined to find Angela’s killer before the cops.

“I’m sorry you feel that way. I’m not quitting. My job or my search.”

They decided to talk again the following morning, and Jackson left for home. He’d hoped returning to work might restore some sense of normalcy, but no.

Driving with the air conditioning on high calmed him.

The more Jackson thought about it, the more leaving the firm appealed. He’d go hunting.

Sheila Stone woke up early with the kids, fixed them breakfast and waited until nine to call Doctor Karnoff’s office. Sheila explained that the appointment wasn’t for her, but her brother-in-law, who made a big splash in the newspaper and on television over the weekend.

“
You mean Jackson Stone?” The polite receptionist had overheard Doctor Karnoff talking about him, and knew she would love to sit down with him and peer into his mind.

T
he receptionist informed her that the doctor wasn’t accepting new patients.

“Well,
I’m sorry to hear that,” Sheila said. “Perhaps you or the doctor could recommend—”

“
Tell you what. Let me pass this information along, Mrs. Stone. That’s the best I can do,” the receptionist said.

At ten
fifty, Erica Karnoff called, cordial, but obviously excited at this opportunity.

“I would be
happy to talk with Jackson. I understand your concerns, and normally, we would not be having this conversation, but I recognize this is an extremely unusual case. All I know is what I’ve seen and read in the media.”

They chatted
several minutes, then Karnoff said she must get to class and wondered if Mrs. Stone could bring Jackson in Tuesday about two thirty.

“Thank you ever so much, Doctor,” Sheila said, relieved. “He’ll be there.”

G
etting Jackson to the appointment would take some ingenuity. A woman’s touch.

Sheila
called him about three.

“Hi, Jack, I wonder
… can you give me a ride to Vandy tomorrow afternoon? Say about two? I’ve got a doctor’s appointment.”

“
I’d love to, but—”

“Great, I really ’preciate i
t. Patrick put my car in the shop, and he’ll be in Lebanon. If not for you, I’d have to rent a car because I’m not about to call a cab or take a bus or—”

“Fine,”
Jackson said, cutting her off. “I’ll be there unless something comes up. See you then unless you want to go to lunch first.”

“I
can’t. The appointment should take about an hour, and you’ll have to wait unless I can get Janie to pick me up.”

Jackson
assured her he could do this for her after all she’d done for him. Sheila got a little teary-eyed for lying to Jack. But he needed to talk to somebody, and she hoped Doctor Karnoff could help.

About that same time, Sheila wasn’t the only person close to Jackson Stone discussing him with a third party. Reverend Armstrong returned to his office after having visited three Nashville hospitals and two nursing homes. The church secretary had left several messages at his desk.

The last
came from Mark St. John at
The Witness
, the Baptist bi-monthly publication circulated nationally and in fifty-four countries.

Curious, he dialed the
main number, and got transferred to St. John, a senior writer and editor.

“
We’ve read about you, and your ministry to Jackson Stone,” St. John said. “We’d like to interview you on the subject of owning and carrying a gun versus the stance you’ve taken in church. You delivered a
powerful
message Sunday, and the gun control issue is a divisive subject among church members, pitting those who want guns for personal protection and the Biblical message you presented.”

Erica Karnoff looked forward to the session with Jackson Stone. She finished up her final class at five and stopped by her office before heading home. She sat down and punched in the cell phone number of her New York agent, Katherine Robinson, who often worked late. The call went to voicemail so Erica left a message that she expected to be returned as soon as the agent heard it.

“Katherine? I
t’s Erica. Listen, I’ve thought it over and I believe I can do that next book you wanted after all. How much were we talking about? Give me a call. Ciao.”

Erica
was working her way through her inbox when the telephone rang. She recognized the number and smiled.

“Y
ou’ve just made my day,” Katherine said. “Tell me all about your next bestseller.”

Erica laughed
, but struck a serious tone.

“T
here’s a fascinating story developing in Nashville. I must get clearance, but have you heard of Jackson Stone?”

Monday went fast for all except Delmore Wolfe, who slept till noon. On his last trip past Stone’s house in East Nashville, he’d spotted a coffeehouse he wanted to check out. His head pounded like a bongo drum, and he needed a caffeine fix, as well as some other stimulants, to get through the day. Wolfe made the short drive over, ordered a dark roast coffee and rare roast beef sandwich.

While waiting for his order, Wolfe surveyed the mostly empty seating area. A middle-aged woman picked at her salad as her husband read the
newspaper. When Wolfe saw the “Gospel truth” headline over the guy’s shoulder, he clenched his teeth to keep control.

His order came, As t
he couple got up to leave, Wolfe leaned toward the man with the folded newspaper.

“Can I look at that, if
you’re done?”

It was more statement than question.
The paper stayed.

Wolfe
didn’t like what he read, not one bit. All his past crimes generated much media coverage, but none like this. All because of those whiny, pitiful cries for retribution—“I don’t waaant justice, I waaant revenge.”

“Stuff
happens, dude,” Wolfe said to no one but himself as he took the newspaper with him and drove back to his room. He decided to hole up for the day and catch up on his journal, writing down all these feelings and more. He might get out after he saw the news.

Wolfe
unlocked two suitcases filled with his collection of rambling journals, detailing his transformation from a kid with a mean streak into the rage-filled monster whose diaries

would mark a trail of unsolved homicides across the South. They would
later enthrall FBI profilers who had failed to connect the dots to the murders he claimed.

He
never knew his parents, drug-abusers who met in high school in Tupelo, Mississippi, the birthplace of Elvis Presley, the “king of rock ‘n’ roll.” When Wolfe’s journals came to public light, some pundits referred to him as the “king of rot in hell.” The nickname stuck.

Relatives
took in Wolfe, raising him on a farm in northeastern Arkansas, near Memphis. His earliest victims were field mice and other barn pests. Wolfe not only liked killing things, he excelled at it. But when he started torturing the cats and “accidentally” killed the family dog, Delmore’s life changed forever. In one of his earliest journal entries. Wolfe wrote:

“Ole Harry’s gonna pay for that someday. The mark of the beast is upon me and this Wolfe will bite back.”

Apparently, Uncle Harry gave him a horrific beating to show him how it felt, leaving nasty scars on his back and butt and uglier scars on his soul. Aunt Vera ignored it, not saying a word and didn’t take him to the hospital to treat a fractured arm and likely head injury. Wolfe needed three months to recover physically, but never recovered mentally.

On the one-year anniversary
of his horrific beating, a farming “accident” claimed the lives of Aunt Vera and Uncle Harry. At age thirteen, he went to live with his maternal grandmother. Wolfe wrote little about that four-year span, but unearthed clues indicate a period even more torturous than his childhood. He lived off the inheritance after his grandmother’s “accident” and drifted through the South unnoticed because he didn’t need a job. When he worked, it consisted of menial labor, skills picked up from his uncle on the farm. He wanted cash, which employers also preferred. He acquired several drivers licenses, none in his true name, paid no taxes, and had no criminal record.

T
he monster became the invisible man.