by Tom Wood
Jackson worked his way down the right side row of columns when the silence shattered, making him jump as it echoed throughout the chamber.
“Jack! I didn’t hear you pull u—.”
Angela? What the—
A shiver ran up his spine at once again hearing a golden voice, now silenced, but he understood the recording was supposed to distract him.
“Hiya, Angie baby. Remember me?”
What did he mean, they’d met before, Jackson wondered as his heart thumped in his chest. Barely conscious of his breathing, he calmed himself and tried to focus on the very real danger somewhere in front of him.
“You won’t get away with this,” his wife’s struggling voice echoed. “My husband will be home any minute. He’ll kill you. You don’t know his temper.”
The shock of hearing his wife’s voice again produced the opposite psychological effect on Jackson.
It was meant as a diversion to lure the hunter into a death trap, but the recording sent an icy coldness through Jackson as he moved from post to post. His nerves tingled, all senses heightened. Not there. Not around that one. That one? No. All clear. On to the next one.
The tape kept playing. Her killer’s bullying voice echoed. “Ooooh, I’m sooooo scared, baby. Maybe I’ll wait up for him, after I’m finished with you.”
Shutting down the recording became Jackson’s priority in order to corner his quarry. The sounds of the scuffle and his wife’s panicked screams seemed to come from the far side of the room. Holding the gun with both arms extended, he sprinted over there. His heavy footsteps were covered by the voices, and he ducked behind a column.
While continuing his methodical search of the temple, Jackson remembered saying that he’d wanted vengeance, not justice. But what he felt coursing through his veins was a cry for justice from souls whose lives were stolen by this hellish beast, including Angela, his unborn child, the Fletchers, and how many others? For days, Jackson had put himself in the crosshairs to flush out this animal. But he also endangered other lives and that weighed on him. Now at the crux of a life or death decision, the question was, did he keep the killer pinned and wait for the police to arrive, trying to make a citizen’s arrest, or end it here and now? Jackson’s paradigm shift in thinking began, but any decision would soon be taken out of his hands.
“God, protect me,” he prayed. He found the smartphone behind a column, freezing as he glimpsed video of his wife’s final struggle. He squatted and tapped the off button. Danger lurked, but the gun made him feel safe.
Wolfe’s survival instincts kicked in as well. Silence and surprise were the keys as his prey neared. Once on the move, Wolfe sought the perfect moment and place to strike. Time to finish off Stone fast and get gone before the cops arrived.
Dropping to one knee behind a large cast sculpture of a Greek wrestler’s torso, Wolfe savored the moment when Stone moved within range, the way he waited for all his victims. That’s it . . . closer . . . closer . . . the ancient weapon felt so good in his hands. As Jackson knelt and turned off the recorder, one death scene ended, and the time for another arrived. Wolfe came up swift, expecting to rip through flesh and organs until he connected with bone.
Jackson would never quite know for sure what made him turn at the last second. Maybe a flicker of light caused by Wolfe’s sudden movement, perhaps sheer intuition, possibly God’s divine intercession on his behalf, a prayer being answered.
But it sure sounded like Angela.
Unlike the tinny smartphone recording he’d heard, this voice of his guardian angel hadn’t been that tiny whisper one often hears described or reads about in those books on being touched by an angel in an afterlife encounter. It came as a full-throated shout in his left ear.
JACK!
He whipped his head around just in time to see Wolfe rising for the kill. The Russian pistol saved Jackson’s life as ancient metal met modern, but the parry caused him to lose his grip and sent the gun skittering across the floor.
That vile grin angered Jackson, who didn’t need a weapon to put down a rabid animal. A spinning kick blocked the next thrust toward his midsection and sent the blade flying. Now with both unarmed, the odds were even again. Just the two circling, looking for an opening in the ultimate winner-take-all.
Jack’s powerful right would have done tremendous damage if it had connected solidly, but it grazed a whiskered chin as his foe danced in and out. Wolfe’s bull-rush pinned him against a headless statue, and the force of the attack sent Jackson reeling, but he threw an uppercut that jarred Wolfe and gave room to maneuver. He whipped two jabs in Wolfe’s face and followed with an overhand right that would have dropped many men. Wolfe roared at the stream of blood from his nose that splashed both and again dove. Jackson went down hard. Wolfe’s steel-toed boots broke ribs, and Jackson just avoided a crushing head-stomp. He grabbed the leg and twisted hard. Knee ligaments popped, and Wolfe screamed, but didn’t go down.
Instead, the pain focused Wolfe not on his desire to kill, but to flee. Survival instincts kicked in, and he needed time to recover. His good leg flashed out and clipped Jackson’s head, breaking his grip, and nearly his neck. Wolfe limped for the emergency exit and scrambled out the door. The steps were slippery and he almost fell, then hit the open field.
I entered the Parthenon and assessed the situation. Shocked to see the woman on the floor, I pressed forward when I saw her breathing. I heard police sirens in the distance and moved faster. As Wolfe scrambled out the far exit, I saw Jackson lying on the floor and rushed to his aid.
“Where’d he go?” Jackson rubbed his tender ribs. It was difficult to draw a breath, but he fought through it.
“I came in that way. Nobody passed me. He must’ve gone through there.”
Outside, Big Red arrived and sought out his old buddy. He missed Jackson at the picnic shelter, couldn’t find his own truck. He didn’t know of the vehicle switch with the bartender. The cab drove by the bandshell, then around the lake, back to the picnic shelter. Following the cab and watching for signs of Stone, Officer Mendez saw me entering the Parthenon. Mendez stood watch on the wrong side of the museum, or he would have run smack into Wolfe. Red took up a position on the right side, having left the cab to search for Jackson on foot. Red and Wolfe saw each other about the same time. The latter spun and headed back to the Parthenon.
Red wondered why that guy running in the rain by himself suddenly turned around. The emergency exit opened again, and there stood Jack, his shirt torn and holding his arm to his ribs.
“Which way did he go?”
Jackson used the same hand signals that had saved their hides more than once during the Gulf War. Red went left and Jackson right. Inside the museum, Mendez called an ambulance for the unconscious woman, searched the upstairs chamber and found the gun Jackson had lost, then retreated the way he’d come. Whitfield, still a minute away, hoped he wasn’t too late because of traffic.
I emerged after Jackson, and watched the west side of the rectangular museum. Red studied the north side, looking for possible hiding places in the grove of trees near the lake. Mendez left from the south exit and looked for the ambulance, as well as the man they were chasing. Jackson scanned the south side and open field as far as the tree line.
Wolfe had vanished into thin air, like Jackson did at his very first press conference when he announced his quest for vengeance.
We were all looking in the wrong direction.
Jackson wasn’t alone when he exited the Parthenon, or Wolfe might have attacked. But because of my presence, Wolfe figured the only way out was up. Rain made the renovation scaffold slippery and his leg hurt, but whether from the drugs in his system or acting on pure adrenaline, Wolfe scrambled up the ninety-foot framework. He’d hide on top of the museum, let the cops think he got away, then descend at sundown and get out of Nashville. Another thunderclap drew Stone’s attention. When he looked at the dark sky, he saw Wolfe scrambling over the slanted rooftop. Jackson missed his gun. He began climbing
.
Ninety feet above the ground, Wolfe wished for more pills. He wished for an end to the rain. He wished he’d never come to Nashville. He wished himself anywhere else. None of his wishes were granted.
Whitfield arrived and found Mendez, the injured woman—and me. He cursed and made me promise to leave or at least pull back as the ambulance arrived. The cops looked for Stone and their mysterious stranger. Both were gone.
Jackson almost gave in to the rib pain, but prayed for strength to bring this killer to justice. He vowed to make the world understand his motives. If he survived the day, he promised God.
“I need you, Lord,” Jackson said, gasping. “Don’t desert me now, don’t desert me now.”
The tropical-force wind and rain picked up again, as did the life-or-death risks. Not ready to die, Jackson would make that sacrifice if necessary to bring down this killer.
He reached the top of the scaffold and peered over the bars, which shook something fierce in the wind. Wolfe lay on his stomach, his arms wrapped around the base of the gryphon statue that sat at the roof’s apex, and not looking Stone’s way.
The smart thing, Jackson knew, was to descend and let the professionals take it from here. It wasn’t like his quarry had anywhere else to run or hide.
But Jackson couldn’t do that. The only thing left to him in this world, the only thing that mattered now, the only thought coursing through his mind, driving his body forward—bring down the killer. For Angela.
He inched onto the roof and dropped low, trying to keep from being blown off by a gust. He struggled for footing but gripped the dimensional tiling that made up most of the Parthenon’s roof. The latest restoration project included the addition of a state-of-the-art sunroof above Athena to add natural lighting to the museum. Sun filters allowed more light or darkened the room below depending on outside conditions. Sketch artists loved the way it changed lighting on Athena; administrators loved how it saved on enormous light and heating bills.
The wind slowed somewhat and Jackson rose to his knees to scoot further up the roof. He hoped to reach Wolfe, still clutching the statue, before being spotted. He knew how it would go down, how they could go down if seen. Jackson wrestled loose a piece of the tile roof to use as a weapon. His grip slipped, and he almost went tumbling. A jagged lightning streak flashed across the sky, drawing Wolfe’s attention.
Lit up in the darkened sky the way stage spotlights focus on Toby Keith or Taylor Swift in a live performance, the way the neon on lower Broadway made nightlife come alive, this light show almost caused the death of Jackson Stone.
Wolfe’s screaming curses matched the peal of rolling thunder as he saw Jackson. The lightning crackled again, and Jackson could see madness in Wolfe’s eyes so it shouldn’t have been a total surprise that Wolfe sprang directly at him. Only one way down, only one final descent remained for Wolfe.
“Damn you to hell.” A guttural snarl as he leapt at Stone.
Jackson saw the final assault in slow-motion and rolled with it. The movement kept them from pitching off the roof onto the concrete below. Instead, their momentum carried them backward toward the new section of roofing. They rolled, punched, kicked, scratched, and bit each other as they fought for any edge. More blood flowed. Wolfe got to his feet first and lashed out with steel-toed boots, breaking more ribs. Wolfe tried to stomp the life out of Jack, who somehow managed to roll out of the way of that size thirteen, triple-E deathblow aimed between his eyes. Jackson could count the crossing patterns on the sole of the heavy black boot about to crush his head. He would later recall the one overriding thought from that harrowing life-or-death instant: To let go and let God take control of his fate. And though perhaps it was the fierce winds, Jackson would swear to closest family and friends that it felt like he’d been pushed.
Either way, Jackson Stone’s head no longer lay where Wolfe’s powerful stomp connected with the sunroof. Tiny cracks in the glass rippled like a rock tossed in a still pond, spreading in all directions. Within seconds, the sunroof’s integrity gave way. So did the glass.
Jackson understood the fall and the feeling. On a 2009 weekend excursion to Six Flags Over Georgia in Atlanta, Angela had dared him to go with her and Patrick on that 200-foot, dead-drop thrill ride. Jackson said no way, that he’d watch the kids with Sheila while they threw up their lunch. Angela laughed and called him “a wuss,” and Patrick joined in, “Scared, big brother?”
His manhood challenged, Jackson reluctlantly took his place in line with Angela and Patrick. They were strapped in standing up and lifted sixteen stories. Then they fell, plunging toward the ground in a heartbeat. The braking system kicked in at the last second before they splattered on the concrete. After being unstrapped, Angela turned pale and looked ready to puke.
Jackson swore he’d never do anything like that ever again, yet it happened again, except this time with no braking system. The jarring sensation of the cracked sunroof giving way awakened every nerve. His eyes opened wide to see a shocked Wolfe either plunging or lunging toward him.
Jackson twisted in mid-air just enough to spare his life. A golden rod flew past his head and Jackson reached out; it seemed like someone extended a pole for him to grab and be pulled out of this nightmare. He clutched at a yellowed barber pole, and his downward descent slowed. He still landed hard, dislocating his left hip and breaking his right leg in three places. But he lived. Jackson said a Hallelujah and opened his eyes, collapsing on his back on the shards of glass.
Wolfe’s fall had been broken, too. Suspended some thirty-five feet above Jackson was the impaled body of Delmore Remus Wolfe. The spear of Athena, the goddess of wisdom and prudent warfare, struck him square in the chest. Shocked eyes registered his final surprise, and lifeless orbs stared as his mouth hung open.
Red reached Jackson first, with me a close second. Bringing up the rear, the two policemen arrived in time to witness his near-fatal plummet.
“Man, I’m sure glad to see you alive,” Red said.
“Me too,” Jackson said and passed out. Another ambulance arrived and took him away.
As Chief King and more police cars arrived, I stepped back unnoticed and then moved to a quiet corner of the downstairs art gallery. I first called my wife to assure her and say I’d be home late, then phoned my city editor, Carrie Sullivan, with the breaking news. She first fired off emails to the publisher and executive editor, telling them of my safety, then ordered every available reporter and photographer to Centennial Park. But editors and reporters read over Carrie’s shoulder while she pounded out my dictation about the final Parley at the Parthenon, as the next morning’s headline trumpeted it.
I composed my thoughts and began.
“Open paragraph. A miracle occurred at the Parthenon on Thursday morning. Period. New paragraph. Less than a week after swearing vengeance against the man who brutally murdered his wife Angela comma Nashville’s Jackson Stone survived a final showdown with an as yet unidentified man who tracked Stone to Centennial Park and tried to add another victim to his bizarre Nashville killing spree. Period. New paragraph. The confrontation in a driving rain ended with Stone surviving a seventy-foot fall through the Parthenon’s new sunroof and his assailant’s death by impalement as he landed on the spear of Athena. Period. New paragraph. Stone comma injured in the fall comma was rushed to a nearby hospital. Period. The extent of his injuries is not yet known. Period. New paragraph. Check back at TenneScene Today Dot Com for updates. Period. Close.”
“Incredible! Great job, Gerry,” said Carrie, breathless and giddy at the same time. “Help’s on the way. Call back when you’ve got an update.”
Jackson Stone’s ordeal was almost over, but mine had just begun. That’s how newspapers work. I had interviews to conduct, facts to gather, deadlines to meet. It would be a long year.
EPILOGUE
It’s Monday, February 13, 2012, and Jackson Stone’s trial ended last Friday at ten fifteen a.m., following four days of testimony and one overnight of deliberation
s. Yes, there was a trial following the Showdown at the Parthenon, as it came to be called. Some people didn’t think there should have been a prosecution. They thought Jackson was a hero. But law enforcement couldn’t—or wouldn’t—let a man go around making threats about getting vengeance.
I spent the rest of Friday talking to witnesses, lawyers, policemen, and jurors, then headed to the office. Our comprehensive coverage for the Saturday paper included a mainbar from me, sidebars from Shelley Finklestein and Tony Smith, columnist Cheryl Hanson’s perspective, a breaking news editorial, six color photos, three informational breakouts, and a timeline chart.
After covering the trial for the paper, I began organizing all the pieces of the puzzle—all the information, evidence, journal entries of the killer, and charges against Jackson Stone. Like I said earlier, I was just a reporter who got a little too close and became part of the story. Now that story was mine to tell.
Below is a recap of the aftermath.
Delmore Wolfe
Wolfe’s identity remained a mystery at first. His fingerprints were not on file anywhere, and no photographs existed besides the newspaper and the coroner’s.
The old blue Firebird with Arkansas plates was not registered in Wolfe’s real name. Wolfe’s identity was finally revealed following the discovery of his journals, when the Dickerson Pike motel day clerk called police a week after the showdown, after he saw a picture of the man in room thirty six on Ed and Tara.
Jackson Stone’s Recovery
An ambulance crew stabilized Jackson’s ribs, hip, and leg immediately after the fall and transported him to the emergency room at Centennial Hospital, just across the street from the park. Surgeons inserted a steel rod into his right leg, broken in three places. The hip easily popped back into place, with no nerve damage. Doctors taped ribs, cleaned up facial cuts, and diagnosed a concussion. Jackson spent a month convalescing at his brother’s house before the hard cast came off, and he wore a walking cast for another month. Then he went to rehab every other day for another three months.
