Vendetta Stone (21 page)

Jackson wheeled his car into the company parking lot as the memories faded, and Marty pulled in at the same time, glancing at Stone before entering the building. Jackson listened a few minutes longer. Dunkirk thanked Big Red for coming on the show. Red assured him he’d be proud to take orders from his old Marine platoon commander.

“I would do anything for Jack,” he said. “
Anything!
You listening, Jack?”

Jackson was.

And so was Dan Clarkston, almost to the station when he made a sharp U-turn and headed up Franklin Road back toward the SoBro downtown district. Fascinated by Dunkirk’s interview, Clarkston kicked himself for not having tracked Boyle down beforehand. On the seat beside him, a story dated 2001 that mentioned both Boyle and Stone attending a ten-year reunion of Gulf War veterans at the ornate, five-star Hermitage Hotel.

The radio interview ran five minutes, and Boyle expounded on how Jackson had saved his life during the Gulf War and staged their escape. Maybe Jackson would fill in some gaps in the story if he ever returned a call or answered email from Dan.

“We’re going to a break, folks,” Dunkirk’s voice came over the radio, “but
don’t cut away because we’ve got a very special guest on the next segment—Jackson Stone!”

Dunkirk’s interview with Red decided Jackson’s course of action. He went to his office and locked the door. He clicked on the station’s website and found the number for the call-in line. Busy, so he hit redial.

“Good morning! This is the B-I-G network! How may I direct your call?” the pleasant secretary said.

“This is Jackson Stone. Patch me through to Dunkirk.”

“Uh, one moment please.” She put him on hold.

Dunkirk’s show went to a commercial break, when the studio line buzzed.

“Leslie,” Dunkirk growled, “you know not to use this line during the show unless it’s an emergency.”

“There’s a man on line three who says he’s Jackson Stone.”

Dunkirk slopped steaming coffee on his hand as he punched the line to his producer.

“Pick up line three and make sure this is the real Jackson Stone, not just some crank call.”

The call-screener asked how and Dunkirk screamed.

“Just
do
it. We’ll go to him after the next break if it’s really Stone.”

The producer asked several questions and gave the thumbs-up as Dunkirk espoused on what was wrong with America in general and Nashville in particular. They cut to commercial, and Dunkirk picked up line three.

“Mister Stone, thanks for calling our humble show. Did you hear my interview with Big Red?”

“That’s why I called. I wanted to set the record straight on a few things.”

“The floor is all yours,” Dunkirk said. “Hang on, we’re about to go back on the air in three . . . two . . . one.

“We’re back,” Dunkirk said to his audience, “and with us now is Jackson Stone. I would assume, sir, the reason
you called this morning is because you heard our conversation with your old war buddy Big Red Boyle. He’s quite a character.”

“Yes, he is, but Red’s got a tendency to exaggerate stories sometimes. That’s why I’m calling. I didn’t do anything special, just what was necessary.”

“We’ll get back to that in a moment, but first my vast listening audience and I would like to know how you’re doing since Angela’s funeral. Have you made any progress in tracking down your wife’s killer? How goes the hunt?”

“I started back to work yesterday. I’m at the office now. I’m meeting with some folks later today to get the website going. I would ask that anyone with information on Angela’s murder, please hold off on trying to reach me at work and wait till our eight hundred number is up and running.”

Dunkirk steered the conversation back to the Gulf War. Jackson revisited the incidents Big Red discussed, giving a toned-down version.

“Don’t be so modest, Mister Stone,” Dunkirk said. “The commendations you received are well-documented. I would venture to say that
your exploits over there answer any questions of whether you have the
cojones
to find your wife’s killer.”

“I’m doing what’s necessary,” Jackson said, then spoke to the as-yet-unknown killer. “If you’re listening, I’m coming for you.”

Delmore Wolfe wasn’t listening. On his back, he snored in a deep, drug-induced sleep.

Clarkston wheeled into the advertising firm’s parking lot as Dunkirk quizzed Stone about reactions from the police chief and his pastor. He shut off the engine and went inside. He strode to the receptionist’s desk and tried to impress the secretary who at nine o’clock was already tired of the unwelcome media intrusions.

“Good morning. Dan Clarkston, Channel Eleven. I’d like to see Mister Stone.”

She pointed without looking up. “Get in line.”

Clarkston turned, crestfallen. I sat in the corner of the lobby, flipping through a late-July issue of
Sports Illustrated
.

Marty Martin didn’t know Jackson called the radio station for the follow-up interview with George Dunkirk. Until his secretary buzzed, Marty didn’t know a couple of reporters waited in the lobby. But first thing, as soon as he pulled into the parking lot and saw Jackson, Marty made up his mind. He spent the next hour putting together a generous severance package, certain the firm would take big public relations hits for canning a man who just lost his wife. But the possible long-term repercussions of lost business outweighed the short-term recriminations if he left. Marty knocked and entered. Sitting in front of his computer, Jackson hit the print button and faced his somber boss.

“Hey
, I was just coming to see you. This isn’t working out, and I shouldn’t have tried to come back so soon. I’d like to take a leave of absence.”

While they hammered
things out upstairs, Clarkston and I engaged in a cat-and-mouse conversation about Jackson, picking each other’s brains without revealing how much we knew ourselves. The secretary’s telephone beeped.

“Yes
sir,” she said, then looked our way, glad to be rid of us. “You can go up now. The conference room is the second door on the left.”

Dan
, the runner, hit the steps two at a time. I followed, a tad slower. Marty and Jackson sat at the far end of the long cherry table. Clarkston called his cameraman, who was five minutes away. Jackson didn’t want to wait, but agreed to a standup interview later if he failed to show in the next ten. I got out my notepad, recorder, and cell phone, and snapped a

couple of pictures of
Jackson and Marty sitting together while they waited. After I emailed those images back to the paper, I used the delay to text my editor, Carrie Sullivan. I  let her know to expect a story, but said I wasn’t sure of the angle.

Channel 11 cameraman Greg Pittard blasted through the door and took another minute to set up his equipment and lighting.
Jackson straightened his tie and handed out a press release. Marty had approved it after a brief review, a call to his co-partner Mark Robbins, and a few amendments Mark suggested, and Jackson accepted.

“
Thanks for attending this impromptu press conference. Since you guys were already here, I assume you heard my interview on the George Dunkirk show this morning,” Jackson said. “Effective immediately, I am taking an extended leave of absence from Martin and Robbins. I don’t know how long I will be away, but everyone knows that I am committed to finding my wife’s killer. I want to honor her memory by setting up the Angela’s Angels website, where people can leave tips and information and make contributions to help other crime victims’ families and track down criminals.”

Jackson
paused as the finality hit full force. First he lost Angela and now his job. He never thought of it as a job so much as a labor of love, and it pained him to walk away even if on his terms, not Marty’s. But Jackson resolved to move forward with his plans and not look back with regrets.

“Achieving those goals will require my full attention for the time being. I thought I could do both and do my job also, but I was wrong. It would be a disservice to my boss and l
ong-time friend Marty Martin, the firm Martin and Robbins, and my colleagues to remain here for the immediate future. I brought undue attention and scrutiny to the firm, which was never my intention, and I want to thank Marty and all the rest for their generous support and encouragement throughout this ordeal.”

Marty took over. “This has been a terrible time for
Jackson and all of us here at Martin and Robbins. We support Jackson one hundred percent in this decision.”

Clarkston hung around a few minutes after the impromptu news con
ference to tell Jackson of his involvement with the
Ed and Tara
show in New York and how much they wanted him on as a guest in the next few days. Jackson declined, saying he wasn’t quite ready to hit the national talk show circuit yet, but he’d keep it in mind. Clarkston’s panicked reaction amused Jackson when he mentioned that representatives from major network news magazines left messages.

“All I can say is I hope you’ll give me the first chance,” Clarkston said, regaining control of his emotions. “We’ve been telling your story since day one.”

After we left, so did Jackson. Marty Martin sighed, relieved at how well it went. Fearful at being portrayed as the guy who made Jackson a victim twice, now he looked magnanimous for being so supportive and sympathetic.

Marty promised Clarkston and me
that he would hold off on the press release with Jackson’s statement until noon, which gave us time to post breaking news stories. TenneSceneToday.com posted its story with my cellpix of Stone one minute after Channel 11 got its video “exclusive” online. Clarkston won that round.

Jackson’s spirits felt bouyant as he drove to his meeting with whiz kid Chris Webber at imMEDIAte Assistance to discuss getting the Angela’s Angels website up and running ASAP.

“I think I’ve got a pretty good idea of what you’re looking for, Mis
ter Stone. No problem,” the pimple-faced twenty-something said. “Give me a couple of days and I’ll show you some ideas.”

They shook hands, and Jackson
drove out I-40 West, getting off at Charlotte Pike. A red F-150 truck far behind him also exited. But Jackson didn’t notice as he headed to pick up Sheila for her appointment at Vanderbilt. Jackson called her from the car.

“I’m gonna grab some lunch
and thought I’d double-check to see if you could get away and join me,” Jackson asked as he waited at the red light.

“Thanks, but I haven’t finished
my chores yet. The appointment’s at two-thirty, but I’d like to get there early.”

“We’ll be fine.”

Sheila hung up, went back to the kitchen counter, and lifted the Panini-maker lid. The sandwiches were almost ready.

“So w
hat was that about? I thought I was taking you to the doctor,” Patrick Stone said as he sat at the table awaiting his lunch. Sheila chewed on her lower lip.

Jackson swung his car into the parking lot at Maude’s Neighborhood Grille and went inside. After several minutes,

the red pickup pulled into the gas station across the street where the
dark-haired driver could keep an eye on things.

Taking a seat
in the no-smoking section of the restaurant, away from the bar side, Jackson got out his smartphone and checked the newspaper website.

My
story, up for an hour, had already drawn sixteen comments. Titled “
BREAKING NEWS: Jackson Stone granted leave of absence
,” it ran four paragraphs long with the picture I’d taken of him next to Marty Martin. Below the “Return to TenneSceneToday.com for the latest news” tagline, Jackson read some of the posted comments.

At 11:14 a.m.
GEMINI
wrote: “Good move on Stony Soprano’s part to take a leave of absence if he’s serious about finding his wife’s killer. It’s hard to be in two places at once, unless you’ve got a twin. I don’t see how he’s gonna be able to do the website thing AND be a bounty hunter at the same time. Good luck Stony!”

At 11:38 a.
m.,
SCORPION
wrote: “His firm should have just fired Stone. He was an embarrassment to them and he’s an embarrassment to Nashville. The national media is having a field day with this. SHUT UP ALREADY and GET A LIFE. You’re not the first man to lose a wife or child to some senseless tragedy!”

At 12:07
p.m.
SHANGHAI SUE
wrote: “My husband and I planned a trip to Nashville this fall to visit the capital of country music, which has a growing following here in China. But now I don’t know. Are all Nashvillians running around with guns? Will we be safe? This Jackson Stone sounds dangerous. I sympathize with his loss but more violence is not the solution.”

At 12:26 p.m.,
MARGE
wrote: “The man should really listen to his preacher. Thou shalt not—”

“Here’s your sandwich,” the waitress said, setting the fiery salsalito chicken hero with a side of roasted red pepper potato salad before him. “Want another beer?”

Jackson looked up at the harried waitress working too many tables at the popular watering hole. Her nametag identified her as Marge.

“No
, I’m driving. I just read a post from a woman named Marge. Not you, I’m guessing.”

“You k
idding? Yeah I’m back there textin’ and emailin’ and
all
that stuff,” Marge said as she picked up her tip at the table across from Stone, cleared dishes, and went to the kitchen.

Jackson
watched the baseball game on TV as he ate. About ten minutes later, Marge asked if he needed anything. Told no thanks, Marge started to leave, but lingered and stared. Finally, she realized who he was. His picture appeared on the front of the paper at the table she just cleaned.

“Scuse me, but aren’t you that fella they’re callin’ Stony on the radio?”

“Call me Jack,” he said, grinning. “Good sandwich Marge. I’ll remember this place.”

“First visit
, huh? Sure, come on back, Jack. Tell all your friends. We don’t get many celebrities here. It’s pretty tame, although we did have a bad incident out in the parking lot a coupla nights ago.”

Before leaving the restaurant,
Jackson dialed the cell phone number he’d gotten from George Dunkirk. He smiled at Big Red’s familiar drawl. They’d talked only twice since that ten-year Gulf War reunion in 2001, but picked up the conversation like they skyped on the computer every other day.

“Jack? I just
talked about you on the radio.”

“
That’s why I’m calling. I’m taking my sister-in-law to the doctor, but I wonder if we could get together for dinner tonight. I’m heading to Murfreesboro after I run her home.”