Free Vendetta Stone by Tom Wood Page B

chief at about two or two-thirty. There’s no way I can be at both if I’m writing for online after the funeral. Can somebody handle that? Then I’ll wrap up both events for print with a sidebar reaction from folks after the funeral.”
    “Shelley Finklestein is on duty for the weekend. I’ll call and get her out there. David Hill’s your weekend editor. He’ll be in about four.”
    The newspaper put to bed the state edition and then got to work on the final wrap-up. I wound up making a couple of changes in my story after all and re-filed, then drove by a couple of East Nashville bars to see if anyone had talked to Jackson. The gruff, old bartender at Eddie Paul’s feigned ignorance, so I headed home, fixed a drink to go with a light dinner that Jill had put in the refrigerator for me, jotted down some story ideas, and waited for the ten o’clock news.
     
    Jackson Stone got off at the busy Murfreesboro exit, pulled into the Golden Gallon mini-mart, and filled his gas tank. He went inside and bought eggs, bacon, milk, and coffee for breakfast, one of those heat-and-eat Hungry Man chicken dinners, plus a six-pack of light beer. He then drove past Middle Tennessee State University and out Lascassas Highway to the farm. About fifteen minutes later, he turned onto the gravel driveway and aimed the car lights toward the small cabin’s front door so he could see to unlock. Crickets chirped their night song as the moon shone bright above. An owl screeched somewhere in the woods, and a bullfrog croaked. Jackson went inside and turned on lights everywhere. He put the food in the fridge and popped open the first beer of the night. The Hungry Man dinner went in the microwave.
    While the mashed potatoes bubbled, Jackson took care of the main reason why he made the trek to Murfreesboro instead of returning to his brother’s West Nashville residence. He needed a good hiding place for his small metallic case, and his safe house provided such. He shoved the heavy, honey-stained oak farm table across the kitchen floor, pulled up a loose board, stuck the case below, slid a weave rug over it and moved the table back to sit atop it. The microwave beeped, and Jackson got a towel to remove the steaming hot tray. He scraped the food onto a plate and took it into his bedroom. He set the alarm for six a.m., then sat up on the comfortable double bed, nibbling while he waited for the ten o’clock news.
     
     
     

15
    Corey Adams bent over the worn green felt of the pool table and stared over the ivory cueball as he lined up his shot. “Eight ball in the side pocket.”
    T he silent man who watched from the shadows raised his beer with one hand, grinding the pool stick into the linoleum with the other. Maude’s Neighborhood Grille, a West Nashville joint off Charlotte Pike in a neon-lit strip mall, drew a rough, working-class crowd. But none of them looked as unrefined as the dark-faced stranger.
    Corey thrust his stick one, two, three times and then hit the ball dead-center, sending it spinning across the table. He straightened up, already counting his money when his shot kissed the eight ball and angled it into the middle of the side pocket. He smiled. “You owe me a hundred dollars, pal.”
    Delmore Remus Wolfe took another slurp from his ice-cold bottle of beer, savoring the taste, then used his sleeve to wipe the trickling stream that dripped on his unkempt beard. He put down his beer before setting the cue stick back on the wall stand, then turned to the old juke box. Wolfe had grown up on the “outlaw” sound and disliked most new country music listed. He needed Merle or Cash or Hank Jr. to get his juices flowing, but Corey’s smug tone penetrated Wolfe’s thoughts as he fed coins into the machine.
    “C’mon, dude, pay up,” Corey said belligerently, holding out his hand. He stood an inch taller than Wolfe and maybe fifteen pounds heavier, and his muscular frame indicated a penchant for a good number of hours spent in the