Vendetta Stone (1) Read online

  Delmore Remus Wolfe took another slurp from his ice-cold bottle of beer, savoring the taste, then used his sleeve to wipe the trickling stream that dripped on his unkempt beard. He put down his beer before setting the cue stick back on the wall stand, then turned to the old juke box. Wolfe had grown up on the “outlaw” sound and disliked most new country music listed. He needed Merle or Cash or Hank Jr. to get his juices flowing, but Corey’s smug tone penetrated Wolfe’s thoughts as he fed coins into the machine.

  “C’mon, dude, pay up,” Corey said belligerently, holding out his hand. He stood an inch taller than Wolfe and maybe fifteen pounds heavier, and his muscular frame indicated a penchant for a good number of hours spent in the gym, so Corey didn’t hesitate about throwing his weight

  around. He should. It’s always good to size up your competition when throwing up a challenge.

  Corey misjudged.

  “You heard me,” he said, more aggressive. “I want my money.”

  Corey flinched when Wolfe slowly turned from the old-fashioned Crosley jukebox and glared.

  “Don’t worry. You’ll get what’s coming to you.”

  Wolfe picked up his bottle and headed for the door. Corey whistled and waved to catch the attention of Bubba Nelson.

  Bubba threw a twenty on the bar, and followed his fishing buddy outside.

  Wolfe smiled as he headed for his rusting, faded blue 1998 Firebird.

  “Hey man, where you going?” Corey closed the gap, and shouted over his shoulder to Bubba. “Rabbit’s running, Bubba! Don’t let him get away.”

  “You want your money, don’t you? Come and get it,” Wolfe said as he turned the corner of the building and stepped into the darkness.

  “I sure wi—”

  Wolfe’s left fist lashed out and dropped Corey the way Baltimore Ravens linebacker Ray Lewis slammed Tennessee Titans running back Eddie George in the 2001 NFL playoffs. A crunching, steel-toed kick to the ribs followed seconds before Bubba rounded the corner. Wolfe switched the beer bottle from his right hand to his left, put his might into the swing, and connected with the just-arriving-Bubba’s cheekbone, the glass shattering at the impact. Bubba’s body went starched-shirt stiff and his head struck the pavement first. Neither downed man felt the savage stomping that ensued, though they would spend months recuperating from their many internal injuries and broken bones. Corey lost a spleen, while Bubba went on the wired-jaw diet and lost forty pounds.

  Finally, Wolfe expended his furious energy and leaned over the two bloody pulps, emptying their wallets. “You guys owe me a beer,” he said, adding a final kick.

  16

  Jackson Stone popped open another beer and settled back on the bed just before the phone rang. He put the beer on one of the coasters Angela bought during their last vacation to North Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, the one that promised “Sun and Fun.” He looked at the caller ID, and answered, even though he didn’t feel like talking to his brother.

  “Hi, Patrick.”

  “It’s Sheila. I thought you might be there.”

  “Oh. How’s the bro?”

  “Out of his mind and out looking for you. How are you?”

  “I’m handling it, I guess. I’m not looking forward to tomorrow, but I’ll be strong for Angela. That’s what she’d want.”

  “But she wouldn’t want you planning revenge in her name, Jack. Let the police handle it.”

  Jackson’s tone grew cold. “I can’t do that, Sheila. I won’t do that.”

  “You’re going to get yourself ki—” Sheila paused. “I hear Patrick pulling into the driveway now. He’ll want to talk to you.”

  Checking his watch, Jackson saw it was almost time for the ten o’clock reports.

  “Look, I want to catch the news and get some rest. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day. I’ll see y’all in the morning.”

  “Jack, I didn’t—”

  Jackson hung up on Sheila, then unplugged the phone, and turned off his cell phone. He picked up his beer and focused on the television, turning up the sound. The truck commercial ended, and a Channel 11 news promo came up. Cameron Knight looked up from his script and flashed a wooden smile.

  “Coming up at ten, the whole city is talking about one man’s plans for vengeance over the recent death of his wife. And in sports, the Titans play their second preseason game as the high schools kick off another campaign.”

  Jackson changed from one channel to the next—yep, lead story on all four local stations. Each news station visited his home, and two tried to talk with his brother. He switched back to Channel 11 and tightened his lips as the picture cut to a live remote.

  “We’re outside the Stone home with neighbor Jeannine Jones,” Clarkston said. “Ma’am, what’s the reaction around here since word spread of Jackson Stone’s declaration for revenge?”

  Stone almost laughed, because the eccentric Jeannine at this hour normally would have her face covered in cold cream, cuddled in bed with her cats at her side and one of her “stories”—a long-winded, over-written romance novel—in her hands instead of watching the late news. But Jeannine on the screen, wearing a bright red dress with a light blue sash and way too much makeup, enjoyed her fifteen seconds of fame as one of Angela and Jackson Stone’s “close” neighbors.

  “Well, I haven’t talked with anyone except Mister Fletcher,” she said, glancing toward an off-screen man on the other side of Clarkston. “But I was shocked—not like when poor Mrs. Stone died, but it really surprised me. Mister Stone didn’t seem like someone so vengeful.”

  “Thank you,” Clarkston said, swiveling to his left and followed by the camera. “This is Herb Fletcher, who lives next door to the Stones. Sir, I understand you talked to Mister Stone after he made his chilling statement this afternoon.”

  Jackson sat up and paid close attention to what his next-door neighbor would say.

  “Well, I tried. Jack stopped by the house about an hour after he spoke. I asked what I could do to help him, but he left without saying a word.”

  “You personally want to help him avenge the death of his wife?”

  “Well, I didn’t mean it like that. I want the person punished, of course, but it’s not something I could do. But if anyone can, Jackson can. I’ve been hunting with him.”

  Clarkston faced the camera and struck a pensive pose.

  “Can Jackson Stone find his wife’s killer? And if he does, will he turn him over to the police or actually carry out his vendetta? We’ll try to learn a little more about Mister Stone over the next couple of days and what his plans are for the future. We tried to talk to him after his news conference this afternoon without success. Perhaps he will be more forthcoming after his wife’s funeral tomorrow or in the coming days. Live from East Nashville, this is Dan Clarkston reporting for Channel Eleven News.”

  Clicking off the TV, Jackson pulled the covers up around his neck and asked himself the very questions the TV reporter posed. Could he find his wife’s killer? And if so, then what? Jackson wrestled with his conscience for choosing such a dangerous path. After about thirty minutes, internal debate gave way to a fitful night of sleep as Jackson endured vivid dreams of Angela running from some unseen danger. He never quite caught up to protect her.

  17

  Next door to Jackson Stone’s home in East Nashville, following Herb’s interview with the Channel 11 reporter, a teary-eyed Sarah Fletcher chewed her fingernails ragged. She shut off the television in a state of hysteria, and scrambled up the stairs before her husband re-entered the house. Did she get her best friend killed?

  Raking her hands through her hair, Sarah reeled as she got in bed, pulled covers over her head and cried silent tears. Tell Herb? No way. It would destroy him and their marriage. She couldn’t confess her sins to Jackson—could she? What would she say? What could she say? She didn’t know for certain what happened that night. But if he wanted to find the killer, she might hold the clue to solve this otherwise random act of violence. She squinched her eyes and pr
ayed for guidance from God above and for Angela’s soul. Please don’t blame me for your death. Tears gave way to fitful sleep—and nightmares of the mysterious young man who she inwardly knew killed Angela. This time, he came for her.

  A review of Nashville Nielsen Ratings for that night’s ten p.m. time slot showed that eighty-nine percent of the homes in the Metro area tuned into one of the four local newscasts to see the latest on Jackson Stone. Most wanted to stay informed on happenings in their community, while some enjoyed watching a train wreck like Jackson’s meltdown. But a small group—including me—maintained a vested interest in the Jackson Stone saga.

  Flipping off the TV in the den of our Hendersonville home, I smiled inwardly. Pleased with myself that, apparently, I alone made contact with Jackson Stone after the press conference (I didn’t know then about Sheila’s call), I planned to stay three steps ahead on this story. Going through brother Patrick seemed the best bet, and Jackson might speak after the funeral.

  As I tugged on my PJs and fell into bed, two trains of thought raced through my mind. The first was that maybe Stone lost touch with reality. I wasn’t qualified to answer, but that Vanderbilt psychologist I’d interviewed last spring on a case, Doctor Erica Karnoff, she might shed light on Stone’s state of mind. The other idea was far more dangerous—could I find Angela Stone’s killer before the cops or Jackson Stone got hold of him? It took me awhile to get to sleep as I pondered that one.

  Sprawled on the dirty, food-stained sofa in room 36 of the $29.95 a night motel on Dickerson Pike on the north-central side of downtown Nashville, Wolfe stared at the TV and opened a beer, amused by what he’d seen. Good thing he’d come on back to the grubby motel where he holed up, paying by the month at the rate of $200 per week. Wolfe drove back across town because he figured the cops would be looking for whoever put those guys in the ER. He’d kept tabs on the news since before he picked up that prowling cougar. He’d been on the hunt, too, looking to satisfy that all-consuming blood-lust.

  It happened on Wolfe’s third night in Music City, the latest stop on his self-styled “Tour of Death.”

  We now know Wolfe left bodies across the South for almost five years, and was never connected to a single death because his patterns were unusual even for serial killers. He left behind little, if any, physical evidence. He stayed on the move, going from city to city and victim to victim. In one town, he might go after elderly white women. Moving on to another city, he might target young Latino women. In the next, he might seek out a suburban wife and make it look like a home invasion gone wrong, followed by an inner city coed he attacked while jogging, followed by a model who disappeared after a night out with her boyfriend. The randomness of his selection of victims contrasted other compulsive methods: Three women over a six-month period, always. Then on to another city, often bigger ones like Atlanta, Dallas, New Orleans, Tampa, Miami, and Charlotte because the deaths were even less likely to be connected in a major metropolitan area.

  Wolfe kept a meticulous journal of each and every death he caused over the years, taking great care to detail how he sized up each victim before attacking. Sometimes it required several days of stalking, other times a spur-of-the-moment decision such as the one that led to the Stone woman becoming Number 49 on Wolfe’s hit parade. His now-infamous diaries cemented his legend.

  His face crinkled into a sneer at Stone’s first words, “I don’t want justice. I want revenge.” The cops never came close to connecting Wolfe to even one of his murders. This might be fun, he wrote in one journal entry. So Stone wants revenge? Good luck with that one, dumb ass. Hell, I wanna be king of the world. Or a high-paid CIA assassin! Maybe I should send ’em my resume.

  Wolfe hadn’t killed a man since getting rid of his aunt and uncle over a dozen years ago, when he was thirteen. He was suspected, but not connected to their “accidental” drowning when the small fishing boat tipped over. His grandmother took him in and raised him on the farm until her “accidental” fall from the tractor that ran her over when he turned seventeen. Then Wolfe disappeared for a few years before embarking on his “mission.”

  But Wolfe’s amusement turned to anger when he saw Herb Fletcher interviewed. He intended Fletcher’s foxy wife as the target that day and, well, things happened. She didn’t know his true name, but could identify him. Mistakes could be rectified, as he wrote in this journal entry.

  And then I’ll take care of Stone. He wants revenge, huh? He wants ME? He WANTS Me??? Yeah, he’s gonna get me. I’m gonna go after him. I’m gonna make him bleed. Come and get it.

  That thought made him smile as he thumbed through newspapers and found an obituary for Angela Stone. At the bottom it read, “Visitation 10 a.m., Belle Valley Memorial Funeral Home and Cemetery. Graveside service at noon.” The lights went off and an ever-present, smoldering rage slowly gave way to a dreamless night of sleep.

  At the West Meade home of Sheila and Patrick Stone, the couple engaged in a heated argument after watching the newscast. Sheila made the mistake of telling Patrick she’d talked to his brother. “But he didn’t want to talk and hung up on me.”

  “Where’d you find him, or did he call first?”

  “No, I called him. At the farm. He said he’d be here in the morning.”

  Patrick cursed and grabbed for his car keys, but Sheila got to them first. “No sir, you’re not going off half-cocked to Murfreesboro to face your brother at this hour. You wouldn’t get there until after eleven and wouldn’t get home until two. You’d sleep through the funeral.”

  Patrick failed to persuade Sheila to surrender the keys, and she at last convinced him it wasn’t in anybody’s best interest to go down there all hot-headed and confrontational.

  “All right, but I’m still gonna call.”

  Sheila kept silent as the phone rang and rang and rang. They went to bed mad, but for different reasons. Both suffered bad nights of sleep, Patrick dreaming of punching his brother in the nose, while Sheila’s dream focused on helping Jackson get some professional help.

  “Perhaps he will be a little more forthcoming after his wife’s funeral tomorrow or in the coming days. Live from East Nashville, this is Dan Clarkston reporting for Channel Eleven News.”

  Wilson King, the second African-American in Nashville history to rise to the rank of Chief of Police, turned off the TV in disgust as he watched in the den of his posh Tudor home off West End. After finishing his speech to the Hermitage Ladies Auxiliary, Nashville’s top cop received a text message about nine-thirty from the Metro police spokesman. It said the Stone murder case took an odd turn, that the Chief should hurry home in time to watch the ten o’clock news and that he set up a press conference tentative for tomorrow at two-thirty, but could be changed to any time the Chief wanted. King messaged back his approval of the time. Now he might pay a little visit to Mister Stone before his wife’s funeral.

  “That stupid, stupid son of a—”

  The telephone rang, and King grabbed it midway through the second ring.

  “Did you see that nut?” District Attorney Logan Trulowicz said. “I’m tempted to issue a warrant for his arrest right now.”

  “Calm down, Logan. I’m going to read him the riot act in the morning.”

  Trulowicz picked up on the coolness and responded in kind.

  “Glad to hear. It sounds like you’ve got this situation under control, or will soon. Sorry for the intrusion, Wil. Good night.”

  King hung up and stared into space, wondering if he could control the “situation.” He’d set Stone straight, damn it, “and that’ll be that.”

  After a scotch and small bite to eat (the rubber chicken at dinner left him still hungry), King and his wife turned in for the night. “This case,” he explained to his wife, “could be a major embarrassment for the department if Stone worms his way into it.”

  Left unsaid was that it could derail the Chief’s future political hopes. Then an idea came to him that would help him sleep better than a glass of warm milk. His wife purred
as he lightly stroked her back. “You know, babe, if my guys can solve this one in a way that will satisfy Stone, the media, and the public, it might kick-start a run for the mayor’s job in 2015.” King slept hard, dreaming of little old ladies, kissing babies, and shaking hands non-stop.

  The blogosphere never sleeps. So while all the major players managed to get varying degrees of rest, bloggers at various Nashville media websites continued throughout the night to churn out messages of sympathy, hope, pity, fear, concern, hatred, venom, envy, foolishness, sheer lunacy, and a gamut of other emotional reactions. A sampling:

  TenneSceneToday.com: At 11:22 p.m., PAYBACK THYME wrote: “The man who killed Jackson’s wife should be hunted down and shot like the mad dog he is. And if I ever climb out of this wheelchair again I’d sure help Stone track him down.”

  Classic Country 750-AM: At 12:15 a.m., COUNTRY CUZ wrote: “Jackson 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 would be in the ground instead of Angela. If you see this, Jack, remember that you can call on Big Red for ANYTHING podner. I owe you one buddy.”

  Liberal Talk 89.9-FM: At 12:57 a.m., NOHOPE4U wrote: “What kind of whacko is this guy? I bet he’s out playing golf Monday in the O.J. Invitational, trying to find the killer, when the place he needs to look is in the mirror.”

  Channel 11: At 1:39 a.m., JOHN DOUGH wrote: “My money’s on the cops getting the killer first. Even if Stone gets to him first, I don’t think he’s got the stones to pull the trigger.”

  Golden Oldies 58-FM: At 2:14 a.m., RAY OF SUNSHINE wrote: “From each acorn springs a sturdy oak that our eyes will someday see. So move on, Jackson Stone: Stand tall and grow toward your final destiny!”