Vendetta Stone (1)

by Tom Wood

  Clarkston heard the horns and saw in his rearview mirror the old car barrel through the light. But he didn’t make much of it until he turned right, crossed the railroad tracks, and eased through the four-way stop, then realized the old car behind him made the same maneuvers. A paid observer of life, Clarkston paid attention to the inner alarms going off and drove past his normal turn. Two streets later, Clarkston swerved right, hit the gas, and then made a hard left and whipped his car into the driveway of a vacant, tear-down house for sale. He shut off the car and waited. Some five seconds later, an old car—blue, he noticed in the streetlight’s harsh glare—roared down the street and sped out of sight. He waited for another half-minute before backing out of the driveway.

  Puzzled, Clarkston headed home for real. Who’s the stalker?

  SUNDAY, AUGUST 15

  1

  A beautiful morning spread its way across the Nashville skyline. The day began with a variety of reactions as those connected with the Angela Stone murder eagerly fetched their morning newspapers. Our outside sales for that Sunday edition were the highest since the Titans went to Super Bowl XXXIV in Atlanta.

  Jackson Stone woke up about a quarter to nine, feeling refreshed after an emotional, exhausting Saturday. His first thoughts were of Angela. He hoped they always would be.

  He showered, dressed, and joined Patrick and Sheila in the den, where they drank coffee and read the Sunday paper. A steaming cup of extra bold roast awaited Jackson as he sat. Patrick leaned over and handed him the folded front section.

  “You better look at this.”

  I woke up from a dead sleep at nine and joined Jill in the breakfast nook. She sat at the table with her right leg folded under her, enjoying her steaming first cup of fresh coffee. I looked over her shoulder at the front page. Wow!

  “Morning, babe,” she chirped. “You were late. Sorry I couldn’t wait up. I loved your story. And that headline! Perfect.”

  “Thanks. Wish I’d written it,” I said, filling my mug. “What a day. And today might be more of the same.”

  “What now? I thought we’d go to the Nashville Sounds ballgame tonight. It is my birthday you know,” she said, preening in her flowery sun dress.

  “Happy birthday, hon. That would be fun and relaxing. I hope I’m home in time. But first I’m curious to see what kind of reaction Stone gets in church this morning.”

  Jill’s jaw dropped. It had been at least five years since my last trip to church.

  Monica Clarkston had awakened her husband, Dan, at nine-fifteen, setting her cup of espresso on the bedside table and leaning over to plant a wet kiss full on the lips. It was his regular day off, so the Channel 11 star reporter ignored the outside world as much as possible, meaning he didn’t see the newspaper until later that afternoon. They spent the rest of the morning in bed, finally going to brunch in Green Hills, followed by a movie at their favorite art house.

  When they finally got home, Dan cursed when he read the main headline, wishing he’d used the catchy phrase in his report the night before. Up until that moment, his day off had been enjoyable.

  The Kings arrived home at nine-fifty from Midtown United Methodist Church, and the giant policeman’s mood had soured rather than having been lifted by the early worship service.

  He thought the headline in the paper stated his point perfectly and expected a good response at church. Just the opposite, King drew one sharp comment after another from fellow worshipers. Few appreciated his stance.

  “That poor man just lost his wife,” Edna Edmundson said shrilly to the chief on the front steps before services. “How could you talk to him like that? I hope he finds the killer before you do.”

  “Now, ma’am, you know two wrongs don’t make a right,” King said, keeping his cool. “Believe me, no one is more sympathetic to Mister Stone’s plight than me, but nobody can take the law into their own hands.”

  A few church-goers paused to watch, and Joe Davenport added his two-cents worth.

  “I think the police are afraid he’s going to find the killer before they do,” Joe said, and others nodded in agreement. “It’s going to give your department a black eye.”

  “No it won’t,” Marvin Kripkey said, standing a few feet behind the Chief. All eyes turned to him, including the Kings’.

  “If Stone catches up with his wife’s killer, do you think he’ll call another press conference to announce it? Angela’s death will remain an unsolved mystery.”

  The Chief stared dumbfounded at the crowd for a few seconds, then took his wife’s hand and led her into the church. But King grew so irritated and frustrated that he barely heard the sermon, which centered on the theme, “Do Unto Others.” King didn’t want anyone doing anything to anybody in his city.

  About ten a.m., Patrick Stone, sitting on the sofa, watched his brother re-reading the extensive newspaper coverage of Saturday’s events.

  “Jack, you okay? What’d you think about the Chief’s statement? He tore into you, didn’t he?”

  Jackson looked up, took a half-sip of his now-cold coffee.

  “I know what he meant when he said he understood what I was going through. But he didn’t understand me when I said I had to do this.”

  Jackson stood and looked at his watch. “How come you’re not dressed? Give me fifteen minutes, and I’ll be ready to leave for church. I feel a need to be there.”

  At ten-fifteen, Chief King began thumbing through the morning paper again. The television blared, but his thoughts centered on Jackson Stone and just what to do about him.

  “My department’s not going to take the blame if Stone gets himself killed,” King vowed as his wife set a fresh cup of coffee at his side. “Or somebody else, God forbid.”

  Mechelle King could always read her husband’s thoughts, even when he didn’t talk about his problems or seek her opinion. And while she didn’t always offer solutions, she’d been a good sounding board.

  “This is one fight you can’t win, Wil. You’ve got to figure out some way to stand up for what’s right without coming down too hard on Stone. Don’t make him a martyr.”

  After she left the room, King puzzled over his wife’s advice. Right, as usual.

  But how would he help Stone without hurting him?

  Both the Stones and I left for Belle Rive Baptist Church at about ten-thirty a.m. With three times as far to travel from my Hendersonville home, I should have left by ten, but thought I’d still get to the church on time.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to go?” I asked Jill after a final kiss at the door. “I’ll be glad to wait.”

  Jill straightened my tie and shook her head.

  “I don’t want you to have to bring me home before you head to the office. Just don’t make a scene at church.”

  I smiled and headed for the car.

  “There may not be a story. If nothing else, an hour in church won’t hurt me.”

  The Stones arrived at ten forty-five and took their customary seats seven rows back on the right side of the church, near the center aisle.

  I’ve always been on the right side, Jackson reflected as the organist played her prelude music. Am I now? He looked up to the large wooden cross on the wall behind the purple-robed choir that filed in and took their seats, and he prayed for guidance. He shifted and found Brother Bob’s eyes upon him, a curious smile on his face. Jackson nodded.

  Sitting between Patrick and Jackson, Sheila held each brother’s hand. She worried about Jackson and considered trying to get him an appointment with her friend Judy’s teaching psychiatrist, a Doctor Karnoff at Vanderbilt.

  At eleven sharp, the church music director stood, the choir members rose, and the congregation joined the singing of “Jesus, Lead Me to the Cross.”

  I arrived at church about five after eleven. The wreck at Trinity Lane had reduced traffic to one lane, or I would’ve been there on time. The choir’s voices greeted me as I opened the church doors, and a deacon handed me a program, whispering “Welcome, Brother
.” I nodded my thanks, smiled, and took a seat on the next-to-last row. I got out my pen, notepad, and microcassette recorder from jacket pockets, then laid them on the empty pew and glanced at the program. After the church welcome, hymn, Offertory prayer, and choir special would come the Pastor’s Message. I wondered if that message would be directed at more than one member.

  Back at his squalid Dickerson Pike motel, Delmore Wolfe woke with a start at about eleven-fifteen, grabbed a tallboy out of his mini-fridge and lit a cigarette.

  “What a wasted night. Good thing I got wasted,” he growled, scratching himself.

  Enraged that he failed to find out where the TV reporter lived, but certain that he’d find out eventually, Wolfe decided to play it carefully. After he had finally zig-zagged out of the West Nashville neighborhood near midnight, Wolfe drove around downtown until he saw the young guy in a darkened alley. He drove around the block three times before he hit the brakes.

  “So whaddya got?”

  “You coulda stopped the first time, man,” the dirty teen-ager said. “Ain’t no problems here. I can get whatever you want and more. This is our corner. Need some weed? How ’bout some speed?”

  “Got any Gold?” Wolfe handed him a wad of bills.

  The youth took the money and handed him two plastic bags full of pills and pot.

  “Not here, but check back tomorrow.”

  Wolfe’s head still buzzed Sunday morning. He slipped on his jeans, a tee-shirt, and his sneakers, and opened the door. The heat beat down on him, and the bright sun burned his eyeballs. He ducked back into his grungy room, put on his wraparound sunglasses, and crossed the road to the 1960s-themed diner. Outside the door, he popped quarter after quarter into the newspaper vending machine and got the last one. The diner’s air conditioner, set on high, couldn’t fully counteract the heat from the grills.

  “It’s hot as hell in here,” he barked at the short-order cook, who retorted, “Get used to it, pal.”

  Wolfe took the table at the far end of the diner and stared at the paper. Plastered on the front page were pictures of Stone grappling with “some old fart and a burly, mad cop,” as he later wrote in his journal of that incident. The bold headline hit a home run.

  I’ll be damned!

  Police to Stone:

  Thou shalt not kill

  Nashville man warned that quest

  for vengeance won’t be tolerated

  By GERRY HILLIARD

  TenneScene Today

  Nashville advertising executive Jackson Stone could face severe consequences — at least second-degree murder charges — if he were to succeed in his premeditated quest for vengeance stemming from the Aug. 3 murder of his wife, Angela, 35.

  That was the stern message police Chief Wilson King delivered Saturday morning to Jackson Stone just hours before Angela’s funeral at Belle Valley Memorial Cemetery. King reiterated that message at a press conference shortly after Stone made more headlines by announcing a $100,000 reward and the imminent launching of his “Angela’s Angels” website and hotline.

  “Our society seeks justice, not revenge. Society does not condone such actions,” King said during an emotional recounting of the 1982 shooting death of his grandfather in Memphis that he said led him to a career in law enforcement. King added that “any criminal behavior on (Stone’s) part could result in charges being filed against him. He would be treated like any other criminal.”

  Stone could not be reached for comment on the possibility of facing charges for what King called “vigilante justice.”

  The chief said he was concerned about a copycat

  CONTINUED ON PAGE 10A

  “You ready to order yet, hon?”

  Wolfe ignored the waitress, thumbing through the paper to continue reading. But instead of picking up the story on 10-A where it jumped from the front page, his eyes went to several photos on the facing page that accompanied an article on the Stone visitation and funeral. One, a vertical, showed a close-cropped picture of Herb Fletcher. Behind him, one could see the right shoulder and a few strands of hair on the head of a man with his back to the camera.

  Delmore Wolfe sighed in relief.

  2

  The choir soloist sang “Find Victory Through Jesus.” Deacons brought offering plates full of bills, change, and envelopes containing checks to the front of the church, then placed them on the Communion table before walking down the aisles to sit with loved ones. At eleven thirty, Brother Armstrong rose to deliver his message of hope and faith—and more.

  The bald preacher, strong in both physique and spirit, walked to the pulpit and unbuttoned his navy sport coat. He withdrew several sheets of paper from an inner pocket, which he held up for the congregation to see.

  “Brothers and sisters, welcome on this glorious morning for a divinely inspired message that will touch far more people today than I ever will with these words,” Armstrong said from the pulpit, putting the notes back in his pocket.

  “I just wanted you all to see the sermon I’d planned to give this morning. After yesterday’s services for our sister, Angela Stone, who has gone on to a better world without pain and strife, I went home to write a message specifically for today. While many of you were bringing comfort and solace—and food, lots of food—to brothers Jackson and Patrick Stone and their grieving families, I went home to the solitude of my garden to find the proper words of hope, healing, and salvation that I thought Jackson needed to hear this morning. I spent hours writing and rewriting that message and now . . . now I’m putting it away. They are good words, but will save for another day.”

  Brother Bob smiled at Jackson, nodding as he spoke.

  “Or perhaps I will share them in a private moment with Jackson and his loved ones. You know that I—and your church family—always will be here for you, Jack.”

  The preacher’s eyes didn’t lock in on Jackson again. Instead, he held up four fingers and then pointed at the congregation.

  “Today’s divine message consists of just four of the Lord’s most important words for troubled man, and they are out there today for all to see. Did you see them?”

  Armstrong looked around and smiled at the puzzled faces before he continued.

  “Surely you saw the message. In bold type in this morning’s newspaper with inch-high letters. Did you see it? Surely, it jumped out at you. It went out over the Internet on the paper’s website with the potential to be seen by millions. And while the message was a clever attempt to get readers to buy a paper, these four words stand among the Lord’s holiest of words. God delivered the message to Moses thousands of years ago, one of the Ten Commandments that God gave to mankind as instructions on how to live your life on Earth. Did you see the message? I pray at least one man saw it, one brother who needs to understand that message and embrace the Lord’s Sixth Commandment—Thou shalt not kill.”

  No one in front of him or to either side turned to look, but Jackson felt as if every set of eyes in the congregation were upon him. His face reddened as he looked up at the choir and saw eyes dart in another direction. He glanced over at Sheila and Patrick. Their expressions were impassive, but their dancing eyes followed the preacher.

  Jackson was unable to concentrate on the rest of the sermon. The preacher continued to expound on the “Thou shalt not kill” theme for the remaining twenty-five minutes. Jackson would later recall hearing the preacher say he should turn the other cheek, that the best revenge would be the act of forgiveness.

  In the back of the church I scribbled notes, just glad I brought my recorder. Talk about being in the right place at the right time. I looked around the congregation as I wrote, hoping something dramatic might happen—as if the preacher’s words weren’t enough. But there were no “amen” shouts, no movement throughout the sermon. It surprised me as much as anyone that the newspaper’s clever headline became the sermon’s main focus. Fascinated, I watched an impassioned Reverend Armstrong hammer home his point, moving back and forth across the pulpit, using his hands to deli
ver points of emphasis. Now, he pounded his right fist into his open left palm.

  “The Sixth Commandment is very clear on this matter; you shall not murder. There is no ambiguity. It’s a straightforward message. No matter the circumstances, do not take the law into your own hands. ‘Vengeance is Mine,’ saith the Lord. If you believe in the Lord Almighty, take Him at His Word. Believe that all accounts come payment due on Judgment Day. This message isn’t just for Jackson Stone. I am not singling him out because of his reaction to the tragedy that has befallen his family. It’s a message that all of us in the Christian community must embrace. In this wicked world, terrible things happen to good Christians every day.”

  Reverend Armstrong continued to pound away on the theme, knowing full well it would be a topic of discussion for many days to come and could cause friction within his middle-class congregation. But until he saw me ducking out a side door as the choir finished the closing chorus and Benediction, Armstrong didn’t know his message would reach the world at large. My notepad and cassette were obvious giveaways.

  Armstrong walked to the back of the church where he would shake hands with his departing flock, hoping he’d get a chance to speak with me. He would, but not right away. As I stood outside, I wondered how Jackson would react to being called out by both the police and his own preacher. I watched and waited.