Vendetta Stone (8 page)

SATURDAY, AUGUST 14

1

The alarm clock
’s light buzzing began at six a.m. sharp and built into an annoying crescendo that stirred Jackson Stone from a deep sleep. He slapped the alarm and climbed out of bed. After his first complete night of sleep in four days, he awoke refreshed, if a little groggy. He made a pot of coffee, got in the shower, dressed, and then fried the eggs and bacon as he watched TV news reports. A repeat of the Channel 11 interviews played while he ate. He was in the car by seven, and pulled into his brother’s driveway at eight sharp. Jackson noticed a blue-and-white sitting a couple of houses away from his brother’s home.

In addition to
Patrick and Sheila, his cousins arrived, but were soon leaving for the airport to pick up Angela’s sister and parents, flying in from Houston. They would go to their hotel to freshen up before meeting the Stones at the funeral home for visitation. The cousins left Patrick’s house at eight ten a.m., in case of traffic delays. At eight fifteen the doorbell rang.

Sheila answered and gasped,
startled to see the large, bald-headed, black policeman filling the front door, regaled in his dress blues, holding his cap in the crook of his right arm. The giant man cracked a slight smile.

“Good morning, ma’am. I hope you’ll pardon this interruption on such a solemn occasion, but could I speak with Mister
Jackson Stone?”

“Yes, certainly, Officer—
”

“Chief King, ma’am.”

“Uh, yes, of course,” she stammered, embarrassed. “Forgive me. I should’ve recognized you. One second, please.” She closed the screen door, but left the front door cracked and hurried into the den where Patrick was talking and Jackson wasn’t listening. He stared at his picture in the newspaper he held.

“Jack,” she said
, “you’ve got a visitor.”

While Jackson prepared for his first—but not last—face-to-face meeting with Chief King, others also made plans.

About seven-thirty a.m., Wolfe sat at the counter of the Greasy Spoon Cafe next to the small, aging Dickerson Pike motel, sipping on his third cup of coffee as Jackson Stone stared straight at him, pointing an accusing finger. Wolfe put down the front section of the morning paper and flipped to the sports section, but he couldn’t concentrate on either the story on the Titans’ preseason win or the eggs Joanie placed in front of him.

“Want your coffee warmed
, hon?”

“Not right now,” he said, shoving the eggs away and lighting a cigarette as he picked up the paper again and stared back at Stone’s picture. He studied
it intensely, scrutinizing every detail—the way his arm stayed close to his body, the dangerous eyes, the snarling lips—and compared it to the image of the soft man with a tear in the corner of his eye in the picture below. Clearly, the man turned his emotions on and off as easy as twisting a spigot. So what did that mean? Wolfe pondered that very question when the waitress came back.

“Sorry, hon, I’ve gotta ask you to put out your smoke,” she said, pointing to a sign on the wall prohibiting smoking in eating establishments, ef
fective August 15. “Your eggs’ve gotten cold. Want me to reheat ’em?”

With the cigarette pinched between his teeth, Wolfe offered an intimidating glance at Joanie, then looked at his bill and threw six dollars on the counter, grabbing the paper as he headed for the door.

“Naw
, thanks, hon. I’ve gotta get going. I’ve got a funeral to attend.”

He exhaled a smoke stream and stubbed out his cigarette.

In East Nashville, Herb Fletcher awoke at eight a.m., showered, dressed, said for Sarah to get up, put on the java, walked to the corner bakery to get the paper and some chocolate-drizzled croissants, slammed the door
after he returned because he still didn’t hear or see Sarah up, turned on the TV in time to see a replay of himself being interviewed on Channel 11, read and reread the stories in the paper about Jackson, went to the bathroom, and looked in on Sarah again. She lay awake, but still in bed and staring into space. Were those tears?

“Hey, baby,” he said, flopping on the bed. “You need to get up. It’s going on nine o’clock
, and visitation starts in an hour.”

“I’m not going. I can’t,” she said, and pulled the sheet over her head.

At my house in Hen
dersonville, I was lying toward the center of the bed when my wife slapped me on the rump with the morning paper. “Time to rise and shine, hon,” Jill said. “Coffee’s made and the eggs are about ready.”

I yawned, rolled over, looked at t
he clock, and panicked. Eight-thirty!

“Why didn’t you wake me earlier? I need to get going,” I said, heading for the shower. “I told you what today’s going to be like.”

“That’s why you needed the extra rest. Don’t worry, you’ve got plenty of time.”

After a
n invigorating five-minute shower, I dressed for the funeral and joined Jill in the breakfast nook. My plate—two poached eggs, two slices of Benton’s bacon, and a cinnamon bagel—rested on the warmer, and the coffee was still hot.

“This is great,” I told Jill through a mouthful of eggs as I scanned my
front page centerpiece story.

“Are you talking about breakfast or your story?”
she said.

“
Both,” I answered, ever the diplomat. “One’s filling, and the other’s fulfilling. What a great photo by Casey.”

“Yeah, I stared a
t it for ten minutes. You can’t help but feel sad for Jackson. Then I got annoyed with him for planning to go after God knows who. What do you make of him?”

“I’ve been trying to figure him out
since last night. I think Jackson is a driven, haunted man, trying to do something right, even if it’s wrong.”

Jill’s eyes lit up, knowing a great line when she heard one. “
That sounds like either a heckuva lede for tomorrow morning or the start of a great country song.”

“Yeah, I’m
undecided on which to write first,” I said with a grin. “I’d love to sit down and talk with Jackson. But right now I’m gonna swing by the office and then go to the funeral. Maybe he’ll say something after the service.”

Sheila ushered Chief King into the Stones’ den and took a seat on the sofa to his left. The brothers sat across from him and waited.

“
Mister Stone, I wanted to stop by before the services and pay my respects on behalf of myself, the police department, and the entire city of Nashville,” King said. He paused and pointed at the paper.

“And if I may be blunt on such a terrible day for you and your family, I also want to try and dissuade you from setting out o
n this . . . quest for vengeance. I understand the sorrow and anger you must feel right now, and we’ll put you in touch with some very good grief counselors, if you so desire.”

Jackson
listened patiently, trying to maintain control. But some of the past week’s raw emotions bubbled to the surface like hydrogen peroxide poured on a festering wound.

“Sir, thank you for coming out this morning, but with all due respect, there is nothing you can say that will cause me to change my mind or my mission. Yes, mission. I am
going to find the psychopath that murdered Angela and I . . .
am
. . . going to make him pay. An eye for an eye, Chief.”

King locked eyes
with Stone, who held his own in a test of stern wills before lowering his gaze and his defenses. It shocked Patrick because he’d never won a stare-down with his older brother. King focused all of his considerable willpower in an attempt to get through to Jackson.

“Mister Stone, do you have a gun?”

The
question surprised Jackson, though it shouldn’t have. That’s what cops do.

“No, I don’t own a pistol.”

“That wasn’t what I asked.”

“Yes. A
shotgun and a couple of hunting rifles. They’re registered.”

“
And?”

“A hunting knife. An axe. A baseball bat. A kitchen knife. My own two hands around that
animal’s throat. Whatever it takes,” Jackson said, rising to his feet. “How
dare
you come here and question me like this, on this day of all days. What’re you guys doing to catch Angela’s killer?”

The chief remained calm a
nd shifted his position as Jackson sat back down.

“We’re doing everything in our power, Mister Stone. I need you to listen carefully and understand what I’m about to tell you for your own good, even though it may not be what you want to hear right now. You need to stand down and let us handle this investigation. We
will
find your wife’s murderer. We’re very good at what we do and you would be in the way. Your cooperation is desired, but your interference isn’t. If you break the law, you will be treated as a criminal. Every minute we spend dealing with you is a minute less spent trying to find your wife’s killer.”

King st
ood at ease, towering over Jackson.

“
I’m sorry for having to speak so bluntly this morning. Go bury your wife, grieve with your family, lean on your friends and loved ones for support. But
don’t
try to take the law into your own hands.” He paused, relaxed his shoulders, and gave a quick nod. “Good day, sir, and again, my sympathies. Rest assured, your wife’s killer
will
be found and prosecuted to the full extent of the law. And if a jury of his peers finds him guilty, you will obtain
justice
whether he receives the death penalty or life imprisonment. And that must be enough.
That’s
how society behaves.”

The lecture ended, and a sullen Jackson stared at the knot in the wooden floor. Chief King moved to the door, then turned back to face Jackson.

“I do understand where you’re coming from, but if you’re using the Bible to justify your plans for revenge, remember that vengeance is the Lord’s work. Not yours.”

The verbal jab stung.
Jackson countered with what he thought would be the last word.

“But the Bible says no
thing about what tools He might use to exact His vengeance.”

The contemptuous police chief snorted and
flung it back in Jackson’s face.

“Don’t be a tool, Mister Stone.”

Don’t be a tool. Don’t be a tool. Don’t be a tool.

The stinging words echoed in Jackson’s mind, and he
sat immobile on his brother’s couch ever since the tongue-lashing by Chief King.

No more than five minutes
passed since the policeman’s departure. Patrick and Sheila had gone back to their bedroom to continue getting ready for visitation and the funeral. A morning of mourning was already off to a horrible start.

The doorbell rang again.

Jackson grew angry at the thought that the policeman might be returning with another sharp retort. He flung the door open. The scowl etched on his face gave way to one of surprise, then sorrow.

It was Belle Rive Baptist Church Pastor Robert Armstrong, who would soon be conducting the services for Angela.

“Oh, God, Brother Armstrong. I’m so, so sorry. I thought you were someone else.”

Jackson’s hateful countenance
momentarily startled the preacher, but he was used to harsh, sometimes volatile emotions in these situations. Instead of inviting himself into the house, he invited Jackson out. Jackson closed the door, and they headed down the street at an unhurried pace, bathed in the sun’s growing warmth.

“Maybe I deserved that.” Jackson told the preacher about King’s warning as they strolled. “But Angela didn’t.

“She didn’t deserve this ending
. I don’t understand why . . . how . . . God could allow this to happen.”

Armstrong nodded, having counseled other grief-stricken members of the congregation. He knew well the difficult lifestyle adjustments Jackson would face for the next few months, perhaps even years. Many mourners would question their faith; some would turn their backs on their religion; others would grasp even tighter to their beliefs to try and hold onto their sanity.

Friends and family often were not enough for the bereaved. Armstrong recommended Jackson attend a Christian-based grief support group, and suggested several close to his home.

“Most people, even Christians, have a hard time with issues surrounding their loss and God. Where was God? Why didn’t he stop this? She’s in heaven? I don't want her in heaven—I want her here. In a grief group, you hear such comments. You talk to people who have suffered similar losses
in their lives, find support and comfort, and learn some useful coping mechanisms.”

Armstrong gave Jackson a few gentle pats on the back.

“This isn’t something you have to do right away. Let’s just get you and the family through the day. We’ll worry about tomorrow tomorrow. And then we’ll take it one day at a time. I’m here for you Jack—your family, your church family, we’re all here for you.”

They walked silently for a couple of minutes, Jackson deep in thought. He’d already taken his first steps down a dangerous path and knew he couldn’t reveal—even to the preacher—the full depth of his plans.

So much depended on his tactics in the next forty-eight hours. This crazy scheme would never work if . . . Jackson stepped in front of the preacher, using his hardened glare to convey the truth beyond his words.

“This is difficult to explain . . . but over the next few days, you are going to be seeing another Jack Stone, one you’ve never seen before. The marine Jack Stone. I’m going to be doing and saying some things—I already have—that seem totally out of character for me. I have trust and faith in the Lord. I hope you’ll have a little trust and faith in me. Everything I’m going to be saying and doing—there is a reason for it.”

They resumed their walk, turning toward Patrick’s house and moving at a brisker pace as Jackson talked at a passionate level, less than manic but above conversational. He had to make the reverend understand.

“You know I
 believe everything happens for a reason. I might not understand it, and while I am very angry right now, I decided a long time ago I would never blame or question God for the method He chose to call my wife home, whether it was from a heart attack, an auto accident . . .” His voice dropped to a whisper, his head slumped, and he put his hand on Armstrong’s shoulder for support. “. . . or this. Good Lord. Maybe my stance, my faith, is being put to the test. I’ve always felt the best day of my life will be the day of my death.”

Jackson stopped again, and he buried his head in his hands.

“Maybe that will still be the case. But Angela’s death—saying goodbye to her? Today’s the worst day of my life.”

The preacher took Jackson by the arm.

“Let’s get you home.”