Free Vendetta Stone by Tom Wood

intended to be that outlet. I also remember thinking for the very first time there might be a book deal out of it.
    I copied the online story and started a new file i n case I needed to resend the original version for any number of reasons. I pressed the [F2] button, which automatically inserted my byline, then hit the “enter” key three or four times and pasted the old story before writing a new lead:
    “ In the two weeks since the tragic East Nashville murder of his wife, Jackson Stone’s life has spiraled out of control. On Friday afternoon, three days after her body was found by searchers on the other side of town, Stone reclaimed the direction in which his fate will now take him, though the path he has chosen is fraught with peril and uncertainty.
    “ At an emotion-charged press conference, the 45-year-old Nashville advertising executive launched a personal campaign of vengeance for the gruesome death of Angela Stone, 35, by vowing to spend the rest of his days hunting for his wife’s killer. His extraordinary promise of retribution, described in vivid detail, seemed to shock friends and family members who rallied at the East Precinct to offer their support.”
    I reread the paragraphs, changed “fate” to “life,” then went back to “fate.” I then deleted copy in the earlier version until I picked up the first quote:
    “I don’t want justice. I want revenge,” Stone said.
     
     

14
    Jackson Stone’s car sped down Interstate 24 East headed toward Murfreesboro. His family farm in the Lascassas community had served as a retreat to which he and his brother escaped after their parents’ tragic deaths in the 1998 Nashville tornado. Some neighbors rented out the farmland now, but the brothers still hunted on the property. They fixed up the small cabin and got a well dug. Sentiment kept them from considering offers, including two for a very nice price.
    After hanging up on me, Jackson speed-dialed his brother.
    “Why did you give my number to that reporter?”
    “You didn’t say not to. Hell, y ou didn’t say anything after that stupid press conference. Have you lost your mind?”
    The concern in Patrick’s voice made Jackson ease off the gas.
    “I don’t know. Maybe.” The words choked in his throat. “I just had to do something.”
    “Where are you, Jack y? Just come home. The funeral’s tomorrow. You need to be with your family.”
    “I’ll be at your place by eight in the morning. Don’t worry, I’m okay. I just need some time to myself tonight. I guess you found your car.”
    “You should know something , Jack. That stunt you pulled is all over the news.”
    “Good,” Jackson said, the harsh tone returning.
     
     

 
                 
    “ Oh yeah? Not so good for us. The police came looking for you, and so did at least two TV stations. We turned off the phones, and Sheila sent the kids to her sister’s house. I want to talk to you tonight.”
    “I ’ll explain tomorrow.”
    Jackson closed his cell phone and settled back as he continued down the interstate, pleased with his brother’s report. It sounded like he stirred up the public reaction he wanted, but he failed to realize just how big a media bonfire he started or how fast it would burn out of his control. As the sun began its descent toward the western horizon, Jackson looked forward to getting to the cabin and settling in to see reaction on the ten o’clock news.
     
    As Jackson’s day wound down, with the toughest part of the scheme behind him, it hit high gear for me and other media outlets.
    Over a t Channel 11, officials mapped out the ten o’clock news to air in two hours, and producer Ellie Bligh directed traffic, expecting Clarkston and Pittard any minute.
    “ Nice effort at six, people, but we’ve got to stay on top of this story. So let’s do a little brainstorming,” she said, as Pittard and Clarkston walked in the door. The reporter sat between newscast co-anchors Karen O’Day and Cameron