Vendetta Stone (9 page)

The Stones arrived at the funeral home at nine thirty a.m. to spend a few private moments with Angela’s family before the visitation began. The temperature was already hovering at ninety degrees, on the way to a record one hundred and seven, but that didn’t keep people away. The line snaked around the building through a queue of velvet ropes, winding down the driveway and halfway to the street. And more cars were arriving every minute. Four television trucks parked outside, with the Channel 11 van in the process of extending its antenna skyward to do a live remote.

Dan Clarkston got out of the passenger side as the funeral director ran up.

“I’m afraid you people need to leave. This is private property and a private ceremony,” a dignified, well-meaning Arthur Greaves said.

“I’m sorry, but this is a news story
, and we’re not leaving,” Clarkston said. “We’ll move our van to the street and stay in the background until after the ceremony ends and everyone clears. Is that satisfactory?”

The
funeral director nodded and started to speak, but Clarkston cut him off as I arrived.

“We won’t tape the funeral without permission, but I do plan to attend. Also, I
want to talk for a moment with Mister Stone or a family representative.”

“Me too,” I said. “I’m from
TenneScene Today
.”

“If you’ll wait over there,” Greaves pointed, “I’ll find someone.”

Clarkston and I both turned and watched the parking lot scene. The line of sympathizers
grew longer. Cameraman Pittard shot video and a couple of anti-violence protesters stood on public property by the entrance to the funeral home. “Don’t Dishonor Your Wife’s Memory” read one man’s sign.

“N
ice article this morning,” Clarkston said, making small talk to break the silence. “That photo was unbelievable. So what do you make of this guy?”

I shrugged. “He’s in a lot of pain right
now. But I think he’s sincere.”

“I think he’s a nut,”
Clarkston said, turning to stare again at the growing crowd.

Like our confrontation with the funeral director, several others took place that hot, humid morning.

Angela’s red-faced sister launched a verbal assault as soon as
Jackson walked into the parlor where floral arrangements surrounded Angela’s mahogany closed coffin.

“Why are you doing this?
Look what’s going on outside? Who
are
all these people?” his sister-in-law Christine said.

Jackson
comprehended he must remain calm on an emotional day for everyone. He and Christine often butted heads, but he didn’t want a scene with the cameras there to make matters worse.

“I know it doesn’t make much sense right now, but
please believe I’m doing this
for
Angela.”

“I can’t
make any sense of this,” Angela’s father fumed as his wife Mona wiped her eyes. Jackson’s brother shuffled like he needed to go to the men’s room.

“Look, Fred, it’s
something I—”

A welcomed
knock at the door broke the growing tension.

“Excuse me, Mister Stone. I hate to interrupt
, but I need a moment.”

“Yes
, Mister Greaves?”

“There are some members of the press outside asking to speak to you or a representative of the family.”

“I’ll go,” Patrick said, but Jackson stopped him with a hand on his forearm.

“No
, I’ll handle this. I’ll be right back, but let’s get through this day for Angela’s sake. Please, all of you must believe I’m trying to do right by her. I cannot bear thinking of spending the rest of my life without her, and I need your support,” he said, choking back his own tears as he again glanced at the coffin.

S
everal other media representatives had gathered by the time Jackson and Greaves approached. The funeral director whispered something to Jackson and left to attend to other details. Jackson spoke softly, even warmly, but his mesmerizing eyes spoke sharper.

“
I don’t have any comment now, but I’ll speak after the funeral. I understand you think this is worthy of coverage, but please respect our family’s wishes and allow us this time to grieve and say a proper goodbye to Angela. I don’t want the services taped, but I’ll allow one pool photographer and one videographer access to the visitation for thirty minutes. I’ll allow reporters access for the first thirty minutes of visitation, and you may attend services as long as you’re discreet. If any of you don’t adhere to this, Mister Greaves will escort you
all
off the property. Are we clear?”

I looked around
at my fellow media members, who were taking the same inventory. Clarkston shrugged his shoulders, so I nodded. Jackson abruptly departed, shaking his head at the growing crowd of two-hundred-plus people gathered outside. A woman Jackson didn’t recognize called out his name. Another waved. Several people down on the street thrust homemade signs at arriving cars. Jackson expected his actions to stir the city and touch nerves, but this? Beyond anything he’d ever anticipated.

But he’d asked for it.

The Stones and Angela’s relatives stood in a long row about ten feet away from the casket, wreaths, and beautiful flowers, greeting friends, even long-lost ones, neighbors, business associates, and many strangers moved to attend visitation after reading the morning paper or watching Jackson on television.

A wrinkled, gray-haired woman and her granddaughter approached
Jackson, and the old woman clasped his hand with her tiny, arthritic hands. The young girl stood close to her grandmother’s side.

“I met your wife about a year ago at the
Outreach center,” she said. “She was so sweet to us. So when I saw what happened I just wanted to come express my sorrow and share in your grief. I pray for her every night. I hope you find her killer.”

“Thank you, ma’am. Right now, I’m just coping one day at a time.”

With a few variations, the conversation repeated over and over and over. Once in a while, he recognized somebody. The whole morning sped past. Maybe he’d process it all someday.

Jackson
glanced over his shoulder at the casket, looking lost when two large hands clasped his shoulders. “How are you, bud? Hanging in there?”

Jackson
turned at the familiar voice of his boss, Matthew “Marty” Martin. Standing behind Marty and his wife were several of his fellow ad execs and their wives, and

a
ll as somber as Marty. Tears welled in Jackson’s eyes as Marty pulled him close.

“Oh God, I don’t know. I’m trying to smile and stay strong. I just don’t know how I’m going to go on without Angela.”

“Yeah, I can’t imagine what you’re going through, bud. She was a sweetheart, and we’re all going to miss her.”

M
arty’s demeanor changed somewhat as he looked around the packed room.

“Listen, bud, I know this
isn’t the best time to bring this up, but I was a little surprised by what I’ve been seeing and reading. We need to talk, okay?”

Louie the bartender gave
Jackson a hug and asked him to stop by later for a toast to Angela while Pastor Robert Armstrong, who would soon be conducting the services, came by and spoke to each family member. Friends and strangers passed by to give sympathy and support for the Stone family, and a few bold ones spoke of his quest for revenge, offering unsolicited advice, either pro or con. A complete stranger said he “oughtta act more like a forgive-and-forget Christian.”

Jack
son finally hit an emotional wall, but in the end, all that mattered was Angela, whom he would never again hold in his arms.

Herb Fletcher arrived at ten a.m., surprised to see all the people lined up waiting to get inside and pay their respects to Angela’s family. He walked toward the front door to look for Jackson inside, but retreated to the end of the line after several people gave him dirty looks. He was absorbed in his own thoughts—about Angela and Jack, about himself and Sarah—when a guttural voice snapped him out of his fog.

“Excuse me, didn’t I see you on TV last night?”

Herb, quite pleased at the recognition from the TV interview, began telling his inquisitive acquaintance all about the Stones and himself. They chatted in the slow-moving line for about twenty to twenty-five minutes as the line grew ever longer.

“And I just couldn’t believe it when I saw
Jack coming out of his house the other day, not thirty seconds after the newscast,” Herb said. “Almost like he teleported from the television to his driveway, know what I mean?”

“That’s pretty funny,” said the unsmiling man who reeked of cigarette smoke. “I notice your wife isn’t with you. Is she sick or something? You said she and Missus Stone were best friends. It seems like she’d want to pay her respects.”

“Sarah has been so moody the last couple of months, but since Angela died, she’s been acting mighty strange. She doesn’t talk, doesn’t eat, doesn’t even leave the house.   She’s always crying and looking out windows. It’s like she keeps expecting to see Angela out there. I tried everything to

get
her to come this morning, and she just stayed in bed, all curled up and crying. I don’t know what to do.”

“Well, you might try to—”

“Excuse me, aren’t you the Stones’ neighbor, Mister Fletcher?”

Herb jumped at the unexpected intrusion as
I came up behind him. Casey, off to one side snapping photos of the twisting visitation line, turned our way after Herb whirled around. The startled look disappeared from his face, replaced by a grin that gave way to a more somber look reflective of the sad occasion that brought them together.

“Yes
, I am. Herb Fletcher. And to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”

“
Gerry Hilliard from
TenneScene Today
. I saw you on Channel 11 last night and hoped we could talk about Jackson since you were the one person to speak with him. I also talked to Jackson last night. Well, I talked. He hung up.”

“He’s in a lot of pain, you know what I mean?
” Herb said. “I wanted to get a few minutes here with him today, but this is a pretty wild scene. We’re here for Angela, but we’re here for him, too. Look at all these people! I don’t see anybody I know.”

Casey
snapped a few shots of Fletcher, and then moved off to get some other scene-setting photos before our thirty-minute window ended. I got out my recorder after Fletcher agreed to an interview and held it below my notepad, scribbling his comments as we spoke.

“So were you
close to the Stones?”

“We sure were,” Fletcher said, beaming. “
Jack and I did some hunting and fishing together, and they invited us to go out with them pretty regularly on their boat. My wife and Angela were best friends. They went everywhere together and were closer than me and Jack.”

“Is your wife here? I’d like to get her insights as well.”

Herb’s face darkened, embarrassed at her absence. “No, this has shaken her pretty bad, and she didn’t feel like she could handle it, so she stayed home.”

I tried another approach, not wanting the interview to end.

“So what does Jackson do from here? Does he leave the investigating to the police or will he still attempt to find his wife’s killer and avenge her?”

“Mister, you don’t know
Jack Stone and neither do the cops. Whoever did that to his wife should take him at face value. He’s told me some war stories and I’ve—”

The funeral director walked up and tapped me
on the shoulder. “You need to wrap it up now, sir,” Greaves said before heading for Clarkston, who interviewed two young camo-dressed men holding “Stone ’Em To Death, Jack” and “A Stoning Is What Angela’s Killer Deserves” signs.

“That was
so cool,” Herb said as he turned to talk to his new acquaintance. But a middle-aged couple now stood behind him.

The strange young man
had vanished.

Three blocks away from the funeral home, a wild-eyed Delmore Wolfe careened down the street as he sped from the scene in a state of near-panic.

He cursed himself.
“Damn me to hell! What were you thinking, going there this morning?”

Wolfe
had focused on Fletcher, sizing him up and trying to get as much out of him as possible, then I showed up. As soon as he saw our photographer, Wolfe brought his visitation hour to a close. No current pictures of him existed, and he hoped he’d gotten away in time. What if it was in the paper tomorrow? The panic rose to new levels and he almost ran up on the curb as he rounded the corner, just avoiding a couple of kids on their bikes. Wolfe started to feel nauseous, the bile rising in his throat.

He
pulled his Firebird to the side of the road to consider his next course of action. The hypnotic knocking of the idling engine caused him to close his eyes as he figured his next move. His head slumped, chin resting on his chest, breathing heavy. His mind raced, but he forced himself to calm the rising panic. He flexed his hands, spreading the fingers out and then closing them into tight balls again and again. Just as he regained control, a rap on the window sent endorphins spiking again. One of the kids he almost side-swiped. He rolled the window down.

“Hey mister, you okay? Want me to go get my dad?”

The freckle-faced boy backpedaled from the angry snarl.