Vendetta Stone by Tom Wood

breakfast nook. My plate—two poached eggs, two slices of Benton’s bacon, and a cinnamon bagel—rested on the warmer, and the coffee was still hot.
    “This is great,” I told Jill through a mouthful of eggs as I scanned my front page centerpiece story.
    “Are you talking about breakfast or your story?” she said.
    “ Both,” I answered, ever the diplomat. “One’s filling, and the other’s fulfilling. What a great photo by Casey.”
    “Yeah, I stared a t it for ten minutes. You can’t help but feel sad for Jackson. Then I got annoyed with him for planning to go after God knows who. What do you make of him?”
    “I’ve been trying to figure him out since last night. I think Jackson is a driven, haunted man, trying to do something right, even if it’s wrong.”
    Jill’s eyes lit up, knowing a great line when she heard one. “ That sounds like either a heckuva lede for tomorrow morning or the start of a great country song.”
    “Yeah, I’m undecided on which to write first,” I said with a grin. “I’d love to sit down and talk with Jackson. But right now I’m gonna swing by the office and then go to the funeral. Maybe he’ll say something after the service.”
     
     

3
    Sheila ushered Chief King into the Stones’ den and took a seat on the sofa to his left. The brothers sat across from him and waited.
    “ Mister Stone, I wanted to stop by before the services and pay my respects on behalf of myself, the police department, and the entire city of Nashville,” King said. He paused and pointed at the paper.
    “And if I may be blunt on such a terrible day for you and your family, I also want to try and dissuade you from setting out o n this . . . quest for vengeance. I understand the sorrow and anger you must feel right now, and we’ll put you in touch with some very good grief counselors, if you so desire.”
    Jackson listened patiently, trying to maintain control. But some of the past week’s raw emotions bubbled to the surface like hydrogen peroxide poured on a festering wound.
    “Sir, thank you for coming out this morning, but with all due respect, there is nothing you can say that will cause me to change my mind or my mission. Yes, mission. I am going to find the psychopath that murdered Angela and I . . . am . . . going to make him pay. An eye for an eye, Chief.”
    King locked eyes with Stone, who held his own in a test of stern wills before lowering his gaze and his defenses. It shocked Patrick because he’d never won a stare-down with his older brother. King focused all of his considerable willpower in an attempt to get through to Jackson.
    “Mister Stone, do you have a gun?”
     
     

 
                 
    The question surprised Jackson, though it shouldn’t have. That’s what cops do.
    “No, I don’t own a pistol.”
    “That wasn’t what I asked.”
    “Yes. A shotgun and a couple of hunting rifles. They’re registered.”
    “ And?”
    “A hunting knife. An axe. A baseball bat. A kitchen knife. My own two hands around that animal’s throat. Whatever it takes,” Jackson said, rising to his feet. “How dare you come here and question me like this, on this day of all days. What’re you guys doing to catch Angela’s killer?”
    The chief remained calm a nd shifted his position as Jackson sat back down.
    “We’re doing everything in our power, Mister Stone. I need you to listen carefully and understand what I’m about to tell you for your own good, even though it may not be what you want to hear right now. You need to stand down and let us handle this investigation. We will find your wife’s murderer. We’re very good at what we do and you would be in the way. Your cooperation is desired, but your interference isn’t. If you break the law, you will be treated as a criminal. Every minute we spend dealing with you is a minute less spent trying to find your wife’s killer.”
    King st ood at ease, towering over Jackson.
    “ I’m sorry for having to speak so