by Tom Wood
Jackson noted the concerned look and the worry in Patrick’s voice and recognized the truth of the situation. Rubbing his temples as he closed his eyes, he half-whispered, “You’re right, by God, you’re right.”
Patrick sighed with relief. His message got through to Jack. But not in the way he intended. Jackson took the reproach in a different manner, knowing he must begin training to somehow hunt down Angela’s killer himself.
Patrick’s harsh words had been echoed by an unrecognizable Jackson Stone, one shaped by horrific war experiences. Those harrowing combat-zone moments had made Jackson into a man of swift, deadly action when the need arose. With the help of Angela, Jackson thought he’d buried that dark side of his personality. But it would soon come roaring back with a vengeance.
Patrick could see the pain on his brother’s face, but he also saw other emotions pushing to the forefront—anger, resolve . . . and something else. It was like Jackson was morphing into someone else. His eyes showed he was turning the tables. Instead of remaining a victim, along with his victimized wife, he was becoming . . . a savage hunter.
It was dusk when Jackson’s US Airways flight from Charlotte landed in Nashville. He speed-dialed their house number as he got into his royal blue Honda Accord. No answer. He had already tried calling three times since disembarking. By the time he was a mile away from the house, it was dark, and he was ticked. Still no answer.
He called Angela’s cell phone number, thinking she might be next door, and was briefly fooled when her voicemail answered. Her voice bubbled, and so did his in hopes she’d gotten over her mad spell from the night before.
“Hi hon. I’m just off the plane, and I’ll be home in a few minutes if traffic’s not too bad. Can’t wait to take my favorite gal to her favorite restaurant. See ya.”
He had a foreshadowing that something might be wrong when the setting sun was blotted out by a huge dark cloud. He turned on the car radio, preset to one of the news channels. “And for tonight,” the announcer said, “there is a thirty percent chance of rain, extending into—”
Home. Jackson pressed the garage door opener and turned into the driveway. The outside security lights were off. Angela always turned them on for him. Her champagne-colored Subaru was not there. Jackson stopped in the driveway and got out. The first thought to cross his mind was that Angela was still so incensed that she’d gone to dinner without him. It was his turn to throw a tantrum if that turned out to be the case. Maybe she’d left a note.
Jackson reached into his pocket for his keys. They snagged on a thread, and he gave a yank. He pressed on the keychain’s LED flashlight, and the garage lit up pale blue. Reaching for the lock on the side door to the kitchen, he realized the door was slightly ajar and gave it a push.
“Angela? You home?”
He flipped on lights as every nerve tingled. Nothing seemed amiss in the kitchen. All the off-white chairs were pushed neatly against the tiled table, and the fresh flower arrangement in the center exuded a strong, sweet scent. A lower cabinet drawer stuck out half an inch. Meticulous Angela always wanted everything in place and orderly. Jackson always kidded her about being a neatnik, so he immediately sensed something wasn’t right. Below the drawer . . . was that a small dirt spot? He leaned over and peered closer. That darkening spot, not quite dried, was red. Blood red.
“Angela?” Jackson’s body tensed, then he screamed.
“Angela!”
His frantic and fruitless search began, and he shouted again for his wife as he raced into the den, hoping to find a note . . . something, anything. Nothing seemed out of place. His chest tightened as he hit the stairs, slapping light switches before throwing open the bedroom door.
“Annnnngel-uuurp.”
The physical illness came at first sight of the streaked, blood-stained bed sheets. Jackson dropped to his knees, wailing like the proverbial banshee.
“Oh my God. Oh. My. God! OHMIGO-O-O-O-O-D!”
He struggled to his feet, checked the bathroom—where was she?—looked in the closet—was an intruder still in the house?—grabbed up his cell phone and called 9-1-1.
The cops’ arrival led to the discovery of the Stones’ Wolfhound out back, its neck broken. Investigators pored over the house and issued an all-points bulletin. Neighbors, curious about the flashing blue lights on their quiet street, came to see what was wrong, and community watch volunteers began a search. Patrick and Sheila arrived and tried to keep Jackson calm. But at one point Jackson ran to the closet and came back with his hunting rifle. Patrick grabbed hold of the gun, forcing the barrel toward the floor. “Jack, you can’t do that! Let the police handle this. They’ll find her. Don’t go off half-cocked and assume the worst.” Jackson let go of the gun, slumped to the couch, and cried.
3
One of the most often-repeated clichés about revenge is that the taste is sweet. As Sheila walked in with plates for the brothers, revenge smelled like eggs. Scrambled, with smoked cheddar cheese, and a dash of Worcestershire sauce.
After a couple of bites, Jackson set the plate on the ottoman, leaned back, and closed his eyes, and Sheila headed back to the kitchen to clean up. Patrick scraped the eggs off Jackson’s plate onto his own. The sudden blare of the “Halls of Montezuma” telephone ringtone made both men jump. Sheila answered at “to the shores of,” and handed the phone to Jack. Patrick left to get dressed and give Jackson privacy.
“Good morning, Jack. Did you see the newspaper?” attorney Stan Allenby asked.
“Yeah. When did the cops decide I’m no killer?”
“It’s not over yet. The police want to interview you one more time this afternoon, then they’ll release an official statement. Can you be at the East Precinct between three-thirty and four? We should be done by five.”
“That’ll work. I need to take care of a few things beforehand.” Jackson hung up, went to the kitchen, and topped off his coffee. It was nine a.m., and Sheila and the kids were leaving for a shopping expedition to get them suitable attire for Aunt Angela’s funeral.
Once Jackson figured a course of action, he mapped out the best way to mobilize. Once a “lean, mean fighting machine,” he now had a routine workout of little more than raising a coffee mug or a beer bottle to his mouth.
But for the most important ad campaign this award-winning advertising executive would ever undertake, he hoped and prayed that one certain individual would receive his message loud and clear.
Jackson folded the paper where my article appeared and drew a bold circle around the small agate print at the end of the story, the part that read, “Got a news tip for us? Please contact [email protected].” He handed the paper to Patrick, who came into the room buttoning his cuffs.
“Look, I’ve got some errands to run, and then I’m going to meet Stan Allenby over at the East Precinct,” Jackson said. “Call this Hilliard guy, all the TV and radio stations, The Associated Press, and anybody else you can think of, and tell them I’m ready to make a statement about Angela’s murder. Tell them to be at the police station at five. I’d like you to be there, too.”
Patrick looked up from the circled number and studied his brother. Jackson appeared calm and rational for the first time since the whole ordeal began.
“Are you sure this is the best time to talk to the media? Why not wait until after the funeral?”
Jackson shook his head adamantly. “No, it must be today. Stan expects the cops to say I am no longer being considered a suspect. I’ll make a statement that needs maximum exposure.”
Jackson strode to the entry closet with Patrick hot on his heels. Digging out the tan sport coat and slipping it on over his navy short sleeve, Jackson bolted out the door.
“At least clean up a little. You need a shave,” Patrick shouted while his brother backed his Accord out of the long driveway.
Patrick called right at noon, just as I turned off my computer and started to head out for lunch somewhere on West End. A little annoyed, I picked up on the second ring.
“Newsroom. This is Gerry Hilliard.”
“Mister Hilliard? My name is Patrick Stone, Jack’s brother.”
My tone changed from business-like to sympathy. “Of course. I’ve tried calling Jackson a couple of times. How’s he doing?”
“It’s been tough on him . . . tough on all of us, but Jack most of all. Anyway, Jack asked me to call all the media and let them know he’s willing to talk to all of them. He’ll be over at the East Nashville Precinct this afternoon about five.”
I said I’d be there, thanked Patrick for calling, and looked for my city editor, Carrie Sullivan. She emerged from the mid-day news meeting and headed for the stairs, probably on her way to the lunchroom two flights down, with managing editor Ken McGuire and a couple of other departmental editors. Catching her between floors, I told her about Patrick’s call. The fact that he called a press conference instead of doing one-on-one interviews meant it wouldn’t see great play in the Saturday paper unless I cornered him alone and got something fresh after the news conference.
“Go ahead and put out a photo order, and I’ll try to clear it with Brad,” Carrie said. Brad Moore was our photo editor. “They’ve got at least two other assignments, so it might get canceled. I’ll tell Ken now, and we’ll go over it at the three o’clock news meeting. Stop in before you leave.”
I went back to my desk and keyed the information the photographers needed into the assignment template, then called Brad to give him a heads-up.
“Yeah, I’ll see who’s least busy,” he said. “We’ve got two high school football jamboree assignments, but somebody can catch it if it’s quick. We need something for the B-section front.”
I thanked Brad and headed to lunch myself. The menu selections downstairs were grilled salmon and vegetables and a slice of bread or Salisbury steak with green peas, buttery mashed potatoes, and a roll. I went with the latter and added a Diet Coke out of the fountain machine. Carrie and the other editors finished, but she lingered while I dug in.
“Your cop sources got any leads now that Stone looks to be in the clear?”
I shook my head and swallowed a mouthful of my scrambled peas-and-potatoes mixture before answering. “I don’t think so. It’s pretty puzzling. I heard this morning that Stone’s being grilled about four, and his brother confirmed it, so it makes sense that he’d talk to us after that meeting. I’ll swing by the station house right after I finish here and see what else I can learn.”
“Keep me posted,” Carrie said, picking up her messy, half-eaten tray of food. She headed back upstairs, and I sat there wondering what Jackson Stone could possibly say that differed from the grief expressed by hundreds of other family members of crime victims. I had no clue.
4
En route to the East Nashville police station, Jackson stopped to bid a final, private farewell to Angela at Eddie Paul’s Pub. Just about every afternoon for at least a decade, Jackson had stopped off at his favorite hangout, now part of a local chain of family-oriented restaurant/bars. On weekends, Angela joined him, and they’d spend a few hours in front of one of the big-screens. Often they ate. At other times, it was a launching pad for dinner elsewhere or maybe a movie or a ballgame.
He waved to a couple of old cronies as he took a familiar stool at the oak-paneled, sports-themed bar and ordered a LandShark. Louie, the gray-haired, overweight bartender, recognized when a guy ached and needed to be left alone. Louie pushed the beer toward him and resumed clean-up duties.
Jackson drained half the bottle in a gulp and reflected on how his life had changed over the years, from his tough, fit Marine days to a middle-aged ad exec who might—just might—be dealing with a drinking problem. Jackson felt that the years of entertaining clients had finally caught up with him and admitted to an excessive, addictive lifestyle. But it didn’t mean he’d forgotten all his military training. He almost made it into the Scout Sniper unit. The elite USMC school washed him out because of a severe back injury, not his accuracy. That dream died and now another loss.
Angela. My God, why did this happen?
Jackson had first met Angela at a 1995 Halloween fundraiser at Eddie Paul’s Pub for one of Vice-President Al Gore’s go-green global initiatives. The fundraiser itself wasn’t held at the intimate sports bar, but the post-party was, and Angela Crosby was the featured entertainment. Jackson’s firm, Martin and Robbins, handled all promotional aspects for the event, and Jackson, assigned to stage the after-party reception, chose Eddie Paul’s because of its proximity to Shelby Park, where the formal fundraising announcement took place.
Jackson had booked Angela as a favor to his boss, Marty Martin, who knew her political leanings and musical talents. Just like Angela, her audition tape had proved a knockout for Jackson, who didn’t hesitate hiring her. It ranked as the smartest decision he ever made, both personally and professionally. He’d watched her move easily back and forth across the stage, playing to the distinguished guest of honor. Angela paid equally close attention to Jackson, first noticing the lean, muscular, six-foot-two former leatherneck talking with his boss. His lazy, easy-going grin put a smile on her face, and she was drawn to the magnetizing eyes that sparkled when he looked her way.
After the show, Marty made the formal introduction. “And this is—”
“Jack Stone,” she said real cool-like in her soft Texas drawl, extending a demure hand and thrusting her hip playfully. “I caught you watching my . . . aaact. Howdja like?”
Jackson sure did, but he wasn’t letting on just yet. His voice took a more serious tone.
“You were wonderful, Miss Crosby. One thing bothered me, however.”
The smile vanished. “And what might that be?”
“Those tight-fitting jeans you’re wearing. I was going to ask how you breathe. But I think I know the answer because you’ve taken my breath away.”
A corny line, but she laughed at the set-up. He’d won her.
They were inseparable after that and married a year later on Halloween at Eddie Paul’s. All the guests wore outrageous costumes.
During their first year of marriage, Jackson and Angela had adjusted to different lifestyles, him working days and her nights. Jackson went to most of her local club appearances and missed her something terrible when she hit the road.
Angela had confronted Jackson head-on about the darker side of his personality. It scared her. Much of their heart-to-heart conversation focused on his military background, a time he rarely discussed. Angela could touch his physical scars, but not the mental ones.
“What happened to you in Kuwait musta been horrid, but everything I know and trust and feel tells me it happened to you for a reason. Everything happens for a reason. Never forget that,” Angela had told him. “Someday, Jack, you’ll be able to draw on those experiences, and they’ll get you through whatever test you face in this life. And if you don’t get through it, there’ll be a reason for that, too. And I’ll weep over you, pray for you, and then get on with livin’. Same rules if it’s the other way around.”
Jackson, sitting at the bar with tears in his beer, half-laughed, half-sobbed to himself, thinking about Angela and how good she was to him and for him. Am I going crazy? “I’m losing it,” he mumbled. He wiped his eyes dry. Marines don’t cry. Nobody could help him now.
“Hey, Jack, you okay?” Louie asked as he wiped the counter.
“No. No, I’m not,” Jackson said. “Nothing’s ever going to be okay again.”
“Look, I know I’m just your bartender. But I’m your friend, too. You’ve been coming here a lot of years now, and some guys don’t like to talk much about their problems. But you’ve got more friends than you know. So if you want to talk about this—now or later—you know where to find me. And if there’s anything you need—anything—all you gotta do is ask. What happened to Angela is unforgivable. If I could get my hands . . .” His voice trailed off.
Louie’s gesture touched Jackson. He experienced an emotional overload during the last week—shock, ho
rror, grief, and a lot of anger—so much so that he thought nothing remained. But this crusty bartender reached out, and more importantly, reached him. Considering his plan, he just might need a friend—someone who wouldn’t turn on him or turn him in. Jackson smiled and spoke an octave lower out of the right side of his mouth in his best Humphrey Bogart imitation.
“Thanks, Louie. Is this the beginning of a beautiful friendship?”
Louie grinned back, causing his sagging wrinkles to change direction. Glad to see the sudden switch in Jackson’s demeanor, he fired back.
“Watch it, pal. This ain’t no Casablanca.”
“And I’m no Bogey, right?” said Jackson. “Well, I appreciate the gesture, and I’m going to take you up on that someday soon, if you want. But I’ve said enough. I’ve gotta get going right now.”
“Whattya mean?” Louie said, surprised-like. “We ain’t even talked. Grab a table, and I’ll be right over.”
Louie started to take off his apron, but Jackson held up a hand to stop him.
“Catch the six o’clock news, and you’ll see what I mean. I’ll come by in a few days and we’ll see if you still want to talk.”
Jackson drained the rest of his beer and raised the bottle in a final silent toast to Angela, as a puzzled, but curious Louie watched him exit. Jackson looked around the old bar, unsure if he would ever return.
Stepping from the dark interior into the bright sunshine made Jackson half close his eyes while he fished the Ray-Ban aviator sunglasses out of his jacket pocket. In the car, he pulled the visor half-down, backed out, and made his way through the stop-and-go afternoon traffic on Gallatin Pike, the city’s major route north out of downtown that wasn’t an interstate. Like all of East Nashville today, businesses along that road reflected a cross-section of the community on the comeback. An influx of new retail and chain grocery stores and restaurants stood alongside the numerous Hispanic and other ethnic eateries and time-worn, outdated 1960s shopping centers and strip malls.
