Vendetta Stone (1) Page 17

  As Jackson headed for the bathroom, he wondered what the cop did.

  When he returned, he got his final surprise of the night. He could ask the cop in person why he’d been suspended.

  Being seated two tables away were Sergeant Whitfield and his wife.

  Jackson re-introduced himself, not surprising the policeman in the least. In planning a run-in with Jackson, Mike had asked around and learned of his affinity for the pub. He figured Jackson would show up there eventually.

  “Come sit with us,” Whitfield said, introducing Marti.

  “Sure I’m not interrupting?” Jackson asked, not wanting to let on what he’d just seen on television.

  Whitfield laughed, and Marti flashed a weak smile. “Nah. You didn’t hear this from me, but I’m off duty tomorrow. And a few days after that.”

  As he retrieved his beer from the bar, Jackson silently reflected that he might also be off duty tomorrow. And a few days after that.

  The evening’s major shocks were over for hunter Jackson. But not for the hunted Wolfe.

  He thought about trying to tail the TV reporter again because he saw the six o’clock report about Stone being sought for a national talk show. Agitated by that revelation, Wolfe felt better after seeing the segment about the cop getting suspended.

  One thing that kept Delmore Wolfe from being caught all these years was that he learned all he could about potential adversaries. Once he saw a policeman’s name in the paper he found out everything he could about who might be hunting him. He would go to the library and read local papers about their past cases, their successes and failures, and tried to think like they did to stay a step ahead. So far, that paranoid strategy had worked.

  Instead of going after Clarkston, he decided to check out his true quarry in East Nashville.

  He drove past the Stone and Fletcher houses—all quiet and no lights on at either house. “No bodies home. Stop, yer killin’ them,” the comedian later wrote in his journal.

  As Wolfe cruised around East Nashville, a series of powerful growls rumbled through his stomach. He pulled into the tavern’s packed parking lot and went inside.

  He never liked being startled, not since that little jerk back in high school—he forgot his name but remembered the twerp never tried that again—snuck up behind him and pushed him down the hill. Wolfe straightened him out good that day and—Rudy, yeah, that pint-sized pissant—Rudy exhibited the scars, mental and physical, to prove it.

  But Wolfe received one of the most unexpected astonishments of his young, twisted life at the popular but quaint restaurant called Eddie Paul’s Pub.

  He went straight to the bar, ordered a scotch on the rocks, and asked for a menu. He swiveled around and saw Jackson Stone sitting at a table about a dozen feet away, talking to a young blond-haired couple. He didn’t know either person, but studied them. The guy looked familiar, but he couldn’t place the face. Then it dawned on him—what’s he doing here talking to him?

  Wolfe downed his drink, left a ten on the bar, and left as quickly as possible without making a scene. Deep in conversation, neither Jackson nor Mike Whitfield noticed Wolfe or saw him exit the building.

  But the security cameras did.

  TUESDAY, AUGUST 17

  1

  The insistent alarm clock made his head throb harder. It felt like it took forever to crawl from the bed and stagger across the room to shut it off. Yawning, Jackson made coffee, and took a Goody’s powder to fight off the hangover. He flipped on the TV and slumped on the couch, rubbing his face and trying to remember last night. “How many beers did I have?”

  It took him a few minutes to remember how he got home. Oh yeah, Mike and his wife followed after he insisted on driving his car.

  “He probably would have given me a DUI if he still wore his badge. He’s all right,” Jackson mumbled.

  Because of his cover-story suspension, Whitfield had asked Jackson to call him Mike and not sergeant. They’d talked for hours at the bar, and it got plenty deep.

  Jackson learned where the investigation stood, and about the lack of physical evidence. They chatted about why Jackson went to the media like that, where he thought he might find Angela’s killer, and what Jackson would do to the murderer if and when he found him. Perhaps because of the beer, Jackson found himself opening up to Mike. He said he’d start by cutting the guy’s heart out. Mike said he should start lower, a non-chemical castration with a straight-edged razor. Jackson laughed and said he would hold him down if Mike would do it. When Marti shivered and said to cut it out, Mike laughed and said that’s just what they’d do. Jackson snorted so hard, beer spewed down his chin.

  They talked about the suspension. Mike admitted plans to check into rehab for a week and wanted a night out with his wife before then. Jackson said to let him know how it went because he’d started thinking he might face similar issues. They cussed and discussed Chief King and why he came down so hard on Jack. Mike said the chief didn’t make the laws, just enforced them. Jackson understood, but could live with prison time if it meant Angela’s killer died.

  But the conversation didn’t run as deep as Mike believed at the time.

  They argued the morality and ethical issues of Jackson’s quest, and the more they debated it, the more suspicious he became of Mike’s motives. Jackson had just ordered his fourth beer, but he was never thinking more clearly.

  Mike might be on suspension, but he was still a cop. And he was asking a lot of questions, Jackson thought.

  When it turned into a verbal sparring match, Jackson decided to employ the rope-a-dope tactics used with such great effectiveness by Muhammad Ali in his 1974 “Rumble in the Jungle” match against George Foreman. In the ring, the strategy was to let the opponent come out swinging and tire himself out by either missing or landing ineffective punches. Jackson’s plan was to dodge and weave, and maybe win over the policeman.

  Mike fired the first shot. Right between the eyes.

  “So if you find this guy and carry out . . . whatever . . . do you think you’ll go to hell for this?”

  Jackson squirmed, and hoped he wouldn’t be the one to come off looking like the dope, but decided the best way to keep investigators from learning his true motives was to respond with part truth and part what they expected to hear.

  And a shoulder shrug.

  “I’ll beg God’s forgiveness and pray I’m with Angela for the rest of eternity.”

  “Instead of begging God’s forgiveness for hunting down another man, perhaps you should listen to Reverend Armstrong and forgive your wife’s killer.”

  Jackson shook his head. “I only hope God forgives me, but I won’t do that. I just can’t. How horrible do I sound? I know I’m not setting a proper example of a Christian, but I’ve got to do this. I’m doing the right thing for me.”

  “Are you hearing yourself? Ex-Marines should know when to stand down. This is one of those times. Hopefully, my suspension will be over soon, and I’ll be back on the case. Tell you what, if you stop acting so loopy, I’ll keep you in the loop till we find this guy. We will get him.”

  “Not if I find him first. There won’t be anything left to find.”

  “That’s a heavy load, all that hate you’re carrying.”

  Mike paused, took a swig and switched tactics.

  “Have you directed any of that anger toward God for taking Angela from you? Do you blame God for anything?”

  Jackson gave an emphatic “no” head-shake. “Let me amend that. Of course I’ve been angry, but it’s because I don’t know or understand God’s plan for Angela . . . or me. I just know things do happen for reasons we can’t comprehend. And they happen on God’s timetable, not ours.

  “We’re all here for a finite time before moving on to our eternal home. My best friend, same age, twenty pounds less than me, a runner, died last year of a stroke. Why him? Why not me? My parents died in the 1998 tornado that roared through Nashville. They were planning a trip to Miami that April, but decided to delay
it a week because mom wasn’t feeling well. If they’d gone to the beach as planned, they might still be here today. We had an accident one time when a kid ran a red light. If we’d been at the intersection five seconds earlier, or five minutes later, we’d have avoided that mishap. Or he might have been five minutes later, and the crash still would have happened.

  “Do I blame God for any of those incidents? Was that fate, or destiny? Was it coincidence? Just plain bad timing? I don’t know.”

  Jackson was sitting on the edge of his chair, and both Mike and Marti were amazed by the change that had come over him in the last few minutes.

  “Am I saying that God had a plan in place for Angela’s time to be up and the means of her death? Absolutely not,” Jackson said. “That would be falling into the blame-game trap. I admit I don’t have answers, but I have faith. I accept what happened to Angela.”

  “If you accept that,” Mike said, “why can’t you accept your preacher’s message? You know . . . those parts about ‘thou shalt not kill,’ and ‘vengeance is mine saith the Lord.’ You heard that, didn’t you? Preacher to Jack. Come in, Jack. Roger that, Jack.”

  Everyone laughed, a break in the building tension. But Jackson turned serious again.

  “All I can tell you is that I feel so strongly, as strong as I have ever felt about anything, that I’m doing what I’m supposed to be doing. I accept Angela’s death, and I accept that I am destined to play a key role in catching and punishing Angela’s killer.”

  “Maybe so, maybe so,” Mike said. “Whatever happens, I hope someone’s watching out for you. Or over you.” He paused. “Do you believe in guardian angels?”

  “Yes. Mine is named Angela.”

  Mike smiled, and ordered another round.

  Like Stone, others were having trouble getting going that morning. Chief Wilson King rose before dawn, as usual. But instead of putting on his uniform and fighting West End traffic to go downtown to work, King donned a lightweight jogging suit that would get rid of the excessive sweat that poured off his large frame and laced up his size 18EEEE running shoes. He headed for the new public park in Antioch on the southeast side of Nashville near Percy Priest Lake. The first golden rays of the morning sun showed few people out using the jogging trail. King stretched his calf muscles as he watched the runner approach, rounding the last curve before hitting the front straightaway. King studied the man coming at him. There was something different about him, about the way the sun glistened off this guy’s hair. The familiar build, but a shock of brown hair, a dark, bushy mustache, and he wore darkened glasses.

  2

  Up early myself, I flipped through the paper as I stirred creamer into my coffee. My twelve-inch bylined story on Whitfield’s suspension had been whittled into a four-inch lead item that topped the local briefs package on page 5B. I skimmed the national news, read the editorials, and then the comics. I saved the sports section for last, a habit developed as a teenager when playing high school football, basketball, and baseball.

  The new K-Cup Kona coffee I selected hit the spot, and I reminded myself to ask Jill to get that assortment pack again. I took another sip and turned on my laptop, clicking onto the paper’s website, then clicked on local briefs. There were eight comments.

  At 6:10 a.m., GOOBERS wrote: “They’ll never catch Angela’s killer now. This Sergeant Whitfield was supposed to be the finest of Nashville’s finest.”

  At 6:22 a.m., SNITCH wrote: “The sarge is a lush. My brother’s friend has a pal whose uncle knows a cop who works out of that precinct and he says Whitfeld goes into rehab today, that he got caught drinking on the job and failed a breath test.”

  Horrified, I didn’t bother reading the rest. Instead I picked up the telephone and called the office. The receptionist transferred me to online, but nobody, no answer. They didn’t get in until eight o’clock. I cursed and left a message. That is what’s wrong with this system, as message

  board posters can say anything, whether inaccurate, a half-truth, or a half-lie.

  “This is Gerry Hilliard in news. I’m calling from home at seven-thirty. I’m leaving now, but as soon as someone gets this, please take down a comment from Snitch on the local news section. The headline says ‘Metro suspends veteran policeman.’ It contains potentially libelous information that could get us sued.”

  I dressed and prepared to head out the door, when Jill got up for a kiss ’bye.

  “I made your coffee,” I said. “It’s waiting by the paper. I’ll try to be home by five unless something comes up.”

  I turned on NewsTalk 990-AM to hear who George Dunkirk would skewer that morning. I’d met Dunkirk on several occasions since the right-wing radio talk-show host began writing a semi-regular column for TenneScene Today. Even though we disagreed politically, I got along well with George. The “bump music” lowered as his pounding voice crackled.

  “We’re dedicating this morning’s show to Nashville advertising executive and recent widower Jackson Stone, whom many of you are now calling Stony, thanks to Howlin’ Bob over at our sister station,” Dunkirk said. “Our crack research team uncovered a few details about Stony’s sparkling service record for our glorious country, and I’ll bring on a special guest who will tell us why he thinks Jackson Stone will track down his wife’s murderer. So if you’re listening out there, Stony, give us a call. We would love to talk with you. We’ll be right back on the B-I-G network.”

  Jackson got in his car and turned on the radio, preset to 990-AM. Backing out of his driveway when Dunkirk’s voice came up after the break, he hit the brakes and listened for a minute, then drove to work in another daze. If not so distracted, he might’ve noticed the newspapers really starting to pile up on the driveway next door.

  Dunkirk boasted the Nashville morning drive-time’s top-rated show, so Jackson, myself and thousands of others listened, enthralled by every twist and turn in the murder investigation.

  Not gonna be much fun at work, Clarkston thought as he drove to the television station. Telephone lines lit up at the radio station. Attorney Stan Allenby shook his head while he sat in line at the gas station, wondering if his client and friend would wind up in jail. Marty Martin almost wrecked as he drove past the power station, wondering if he’d ever really known Stone.

  The commercial ended and Dunkirk came back on the air. Jackson smiled as he recognized the familiar, one-of-a-kind accent of his old “country cuz” war buddy from Lynchburg, Tennessee. Jimmy ‘Big Red’ Boyle possessed such a distinctive Southern drawl that Jackson often joked Red was the only person he knew who turned a one-syllable word like “Jack” into a three-syllable cadence that came out something like “Juh-aihh-uck.” Even to life-long Tennesseans, the country accent tortured ears at first, then it just fit Big Red, whose shaggy hair might best be described as copper-colored. After a few minutes, listeners warmed up to his Tennessee twang inflections.

  “We’re talking this morning with Jimmy ‘Big Red’ Boyle, who served in the Marines during the Gulf War in the 1990s,” said Dunkirk. “I want to read you an email that Jimmy posted over the weekend at our B-I-G sister station, Classic Country 750-AM. I quote, Jack Stone is a great American. I was stationed with him in Kuwait in 1990-91 and he saved my life. Too bad he couldn’t save his wife. If he’d been there, the killer wouldn’t have had a chance. Jack, if you see this, remember that you can call on Big Red for anything, partner. I owe you one, buddy. Unquote.

  “Jimmy . . . I’m just going to call you Big Red . . . you need to work on your spelling, but I think we all get the gist of your message. Like so many others, I am fascinated by this public war that your old friend Jackson declared against his wife’s murderer. Based on your personal experiences, what makes you certain he’ll avenge his wife?”

  “Shu-ucks, Muh-isst-uhr Dunkirk, I would not be here talking to you today if it wasn’t for Jack. He sure saved my life over there, just like I wrote. I never expected to talk about him with you, though. I listen every morning, and it’s a real honor. Co
uld you sign a picture for Big Red and send it to me after we’re finished talkin’?”

  I laughed as I drove. Like most TV/radio personalities, George scarfed up the compliments the same way he devoured those little square Krystal burgers—by the sack full. But he did come across the radio sounding humbled.

  “The honor is all mine, sir,” George said. “And thank you for your service to our wonderful country. My secretary here at B-I-G headquarters will send out a photo this very afternoon. But let’s talk about Jack. It’s quite a tale, I’m told, and all of our listeners would like to get to know Mister Stone better.”

  For the next five minutes, Big Red’s recollections and the warm sunlight streaming through the car windows did a number on Jackson as he drove toward work. His mind wandered as reflections from the sun-splashed car in front of him took Jackson’s mind off present problems to the life-and-death ones they faced together in January 1991.

  Their Marine unit hit the ground just outside of Rybadashi that morning during Op Payback. Seventeen U.S. sailors died aboard the USS Roughrider when it struck a mine and drew fire from an Iraqi warship. Roughrider responded by blowing the Iraqi gunboat out of the water while U.S. missiles shot down two Iraqi jets. Bunkered Iraqi forces faced relentless shelling by two other aircraft carriers patrolling the Gulf.

  Saddam’s Red Brigade tried to stem the tide of advancing forces by conducting an all-out assault that would push the ever-growing coalition forces out of his claimed lands. It would fail, but not before more U.S. and Coalition lives were lost. Big Red and Jackson were almost part of those casualties. Tank shells sent bodies flying, and Greek General Calathis was one of the first losses. Then the ground surge began and the Coalition forces stemmed the Red Brigade tide.

  Jackson flashed a grim smirk as he drove across Victory Memorial Bridge into downtown, recalling how he and Big Red got trapped behind the advancing Iraqi forces after everyone else fell back. The Iraqis took them prisoners, and wanted information, and wanted it quickly. That meant inflicting inhumane, unbearable torture to learn what they could. Jackson blamed himself for their getting caught. With some of his men pinned down, he refused to fall back when the order came, and Big Red stuck by his side. His men escaped to safety, but not he and Red.