Vendetta Stone (20 page)

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 did
n’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 paus
ed, 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 coin
cidence? 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 ov
er him in the last few minutes.

“Am I saying that God had a plan in p
lace 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 acc
ept 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.”

Every
one 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.

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. Could 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.

Fortunately, they were held at an advance outpost, well ahead of the Iraqis’ main surge, and there were just three guards and their inquisitor.

“
So,” Jackson whispered to Red, “if we get out of this, we can get back to our guys. If we can’t, I’ll see to it they don’t get anything out of us.” Red nodded grim approval.

Jackson expected to die that
day, by his own hand if necessary, and often dwelled on the incident. Once you’ve stared down death, life’s other problems seem easy.

The torture session began with drugs pumped into Big Red’s body, but he fainted
during the savage first beatings. The Red Brigade captain wanted information about the size of the Coalition forces, their positions, and ordnances the Iraqis faced. The Red Brigade captain knew that such information lay not in the head of Corporal James Collier Boyle, but felt certain that Second Lieutenant Jackson Lee Stone, serial number nine-one-eight-one-four-three-zero-zero-zero-seven-five-five, held such key data. The guards made Jackson watch, expecting his tongue to loosen from the fear of seeing what would happen to him if he didn’t talk. But they underestimated both Jackson and Big Red. They were Tennessee tough.

“Oooof.”

The whooshing escape of air from Red’s lungs was followed by a series of harsh, weakening coughs. The largest Red Brigade guard again had buried his large fist deep in Red’s gut as Jackson watched unblinking, trying to maintain a stoic composure. The following series of forceful, back-handed slaps flushed Red’s cheeks brighter than his close-cropped hair, then the guard paused and looked questioningly at his captain.

“Why do you let this continue? Tell us what we want to know. What are your orders? To where do your ground troops head?”

The captain
directed his interrogations at Jackson, not Red. A lick of parched lips was the only sign that Jackson heard the questions. Eyes front, he watched the guard resume wailing on helpless Red. He smashed at his ribs, chin, and kidneys, then moved behind Red and brought mammoth forearms down on his collarbones.

“Yiiieee—”

Red had gritted his way through the first series of blows, but the bolt of pain that shot from his shoulders to his toes elicited a scream of agony and then silence as Red fainted. The captain smiled as Jackson stared in horror, hoping Red’s bones weren’t broken. The captain didn’t care about breaking Red’s bones; he intended to break Jackson’s spirit.

“You can spare your friend . . . and yourself . . . further pain by telling me all you know,” the bearded Red Brigade captain growled in broken English, through broken teeth.

Jackson shook his head, and the captain snarled. “Oh, you’ll talk, my friend.”

The guards revived Big Red with a bucket of water so he could watch Jackson’s brutal lashing. Jackson took it all. His jaw purpled and swelled
from the guard’s heavy, well-timed series of punches. Jackson tried rolling with the deliberate, overhand blows, but being strapped into a chair he could soften them just so much. Blackness, thankfully, descended . . .

. . . “ohohgodhohnoooOOOOOGODNOOOOOOO!”

The ever-increasing, blood-curdling scream lifted Jackson from the muffled veil of darkness.
Jackson recovered full consciousness in time to witness the end of the second round of torture. Red’s left hand remained wrapped in bloody bandages, the index finger taken off at the second knuckle on the table in front of him.

Red blubbered, shaking spasmodically. Large beads of sweat, mixed with tears, ran down his face. One drop fell from his nose and he glared defiantly at the guard.

“You . . . I swear you’ll pay—”

The guard
smiled through yellowed teeth. And brought his flattened palm down on Red’s gauze-wrapped hand.

The agonized screams disturbed Jackson
most as the bearded Red Brigade captain and his guard turned their attention to him.

“See, my friend, what happens if you don’t talk? Spare yourself—and your friend’s other fingers—a
nd tell us what we want to know.” A defiant Jackson never got a chance to answer, spitting blood as he took another beating from the angry, powerful guard who enjoyed punishing the American pigs. Jackson’s awareness of pain ended when he passed out again, but it didn’t halt the beating . . .

. . . Darkness approached when Jackson came to, and the Iraqis celebrated a forward push. Jackson’s father had taught him well, first as the troop leader in the Boy Scouts and then as his position coach on the Hillsboro High School football team. So Jackson steeled himself for the challenge ahead. Strip-searched, of course, but Jackson didn’t need a weapon to deal with the likes of these, he decided. It would be over tonight one way or another.

Two huge guards came to take Jackson for another torture session, and when the first one pulled Jackson to his feet, he used the momentum to spring into the second guard. The element of surprise and anticipating his opponent’s reactions served him well. Two clubbing blows loosened the second guard’s rifle grip so that Jackson could grab hold of the gun and flip the stunned guard into the first one as he brought his weapon to bear on Jackson. A sharp chop with the gun butt broke the first guard’s neck. Jackson then swung the rifle like a 44-inch baseball bat and cracked
it against the second guard’s head.

Jackson took one dead guard’s long knife and
stealthily approached the front of the tent. A glance through the flap sent a surge of adrenaline through his body. Jackson sprang into action. Big Red, being tortured by the other two Iraqis, caught a hazy glimpse of the heavy fist flying directly at the bridge of his nose. It never connected, and the blood that spattered Red’s uniform wasn’t his own.

“Git ’em, Jack!”

Just like gutting a deer. In less than five seconds, two more members of the Red Brigade were dead, the knife buried to the hilt in the captain’s chest. Jack pulled out the knife and sliced through Red’s bonds. Red struggled to his feet and rubbed gingerly at the left hand with the severed finger as Jackson checked to see if any of their captors had heard the scrap. All clear.

“C’mon, buddy, we’ve still got a long way to go before we’re safe.”

“One second,” Red said, taking the knife from Jackson.

Big Red
turned and hacked the left index finger off his chief assailant, blood again spurting and turning the canvas tent floor wet red.

“
An eye for an eye and a finger for a finger,” Red said, flashing a wicked grin that Jackson returned. “Now let’s go.”

Jackson took the captain’s Soviet-made Tokarev .30-caliber sidearm, and they escaped under cover of darkness, walking fifteen miles in the desert as U.S. bombs pounded Iraqi positions. Clearly, the Red Brigade had bigger problems than the escaped Americans. Jackson buried the gun a mile from base camp for later retrieval.