Vendetta Stone (1)

by Tom Wood

  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—and 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.

  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 t
o 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.

  3

  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 long-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 conference 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 pres
s 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.

  4

  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, Mister 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 what 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.