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victim’s relative issue such an outrageous declaration. And he wasn’t done.
    Click-click-click-click-click. The cameras of the print media whirred non-stop as Jackson shook with rage, then took a deep breath. He looked down at his hands. When they no longer trembled, Jackson clinched them and continued. He stared at the cameras, his outward calm making his words more chilling.
    “Whoever did this to my wife, he better hope the police find him before I do. I will spend the rest of my life hunting down this scumbag if that’s what it takes.”
    Jackson then aimed his right index finger at the cameras as he spoke with an air of assuredness, glaring from camera to camera for maximum effect. Cameras zoomed in for close-ups of the unshaven, haggard face. Rumpled as he looked, his mind remained clear and his eyes blazed. This guy meant business.
    I stole a quick glance at others seated up front. Commander Reynolds and Jackson’s attorney, Allenby, appeared stunned. Allenby, in particular, looked ready to jump out of his chair and wrestle the mike out of Jackson’s hands. But with every wrenching second of this “meltdown” being recorded, neither man moved. I didn’t dare tu rn to the back of the room to gauge Patrick’s reaction.
    “And when I find you, you won’t d ie quick. That’s no threat, that’s a promise,” Jackson continued, speaking slow and sure with occasional pauses for emphasis. “I promise you I will start by breaking both of your legs. While they’re healing, I promise I will torture you for the rest of your miserable life in ways I’ve just begun to imagine. When I think you’ve finally suffered enough—and that’s going to be awhile, I promise—I’ll gut you like a deer and take my time doing it. Then I’ll feed your carcass to the dogs. You’re real good at hurting helpless women. Let’s see how you cry, how you bleed.
    “Look over your shoulder every day, because I’m coming. It may not be tomorrow or next week or next year, but I’ll find you. And if the cops find you first, I’ll still find a way to get to you.” He paused. “I will end you.”
    Then it was over. Just like that. Jackson turned to his left and darted to the exit door, gave it a shove, and stepped outside. He jumped in Patrick’s white Ford station wagon and sped away.
     
     

6
    What had pushed Jackson to this point?
    Not the first question racing through my mind at his shocking press conference, but it required answering first.
    I would eventually discover that it was not a snap decision, but one Jackson had reached over several hours through a series of recollections followed by a connect-the-dot chain of events.
    The plan came out of his most memorable hunting trip with his father in 1975.
     
    “That’s what makes this a sport, Jacky,” Larry Stone explained that crisp, late October day as they walked the woods of northwest Davidson County near the Cumberland River. “It’s just you and me, relying on our senses and our tracking skills to find that big boy. Then you watch and wait for the shot—count on getting just one—and when that moment comes, you’re going to use all your well-honed abilities to make that shot count. You don’t want the animal to suffer. You want a clean kill.”
    The ten-year-old nodded. Deer hunting differed from other sports he played, but pitting newfound skills in a test of man versus beast challenged Jacky. A glance down a path off to his right quickened his pulse.
    “Da d, look over here. Fresh tracks.”
    “We’re close, kiddo, keep your eyes and ears open.”
    Crack! The morning’s silence shattered at what first sounded like a firecracker exploding, then another.
     
     

 
     
    Cr-a-a-a-a-a-ack! A furious whistling followed that echo, and the youngster looked up. A flock of small birds flew overhead.
    “Stay alert, Jacky.” They double-timed it over the outcropping toward the shots and stepped into the clearing where two twenty-something hunters stood over