Fear Has a Name: A Novel (The Crittendon Files)

by Creston Mapes

  “I’m going to call Darlene,” Pam whispered to Jack as she stood. “Check on the girls.”

  “Okay.” He leaned his head back so he could see her standing above him. “Tell them I love ’em.”

  She squeezed his shoulders then quietly moved toward the door.

  “Oops.” Officer Potanski barged in just then, handed the cell phone to Nielson, and made his way back to his chair. “Okay, Officer DeVry filled me in on all the details, the items stolen from your home, all that.”

  Pam scooted back to her seat. Jack sat to attention. She clasped one of his hands.

  “Did he tell you about our daughter’s missing locket,” Jack said, “and how he cut me out of one of our wedding pictures?”

  “All that.” Potanski waved, put a fist to his mouth, stiffened, and belched silently. “This is when our police sense really needs to kick in.” He looked at Nielson, then Jack. “I’m confident these charges merit further investigation, so I’m not going to make an arrest at this time—that is, if you agree to be completely cooperative with us.”

  Jack let out a lungful of air and nodded heartily. Pam leaned into him, wrapping her arms around his waist and squeezing.

  “Keep in mind, we have the goods on you,” Potanski continued. “We can pick you up anytime—tomorrow, next week, next month. Our case will still be good because of the evidence we have, so we have no worries there. What I’m saying is, I’m willing to listen to you, be sensitive to your circumstances, and give you the benefit of the doubt—but when I call, you better pick up the phone. In fact, every time I call you’d better kill yourself to get to the phone. And if you ever lie to me, I will hammer you.”

  It was past ten o’clock by the time Jack walked Pam to her red Accord on the third floor of the dimly lit city parking garage and saw her off. He waited forever for the ancient elevator, took it down to the main floor, and found the Jetta by beeping its alarm from the remote.

  He and Pam had agreed not to try to follow each other, because it was only about a fifteen-minute drive home and Jack needed to concentrate on a call he had to make to his editor. As he zipped down Washington Street toward the interstate, he saw a fissure of lightning off to the left, followed by a loud rumble of thunder. The humidity must’ve been close to a hundred percent. Raindrops began tapping his windshield.

  “Where have you been?” Cecil Barton’s jarring voice forced Jack’s hand to his left ear.

  He turned the volume down on the Bluetooth speaker attached to the visor above his head.

  “Derrick had to finish the water-rate-hike piece, and I’m going crazy here wondering what’s going on with the missing pastor story. Is your voice mail working? I’ve left messages. What the heck is happening with you, Crittendon?”

  Jack explained about the evening’s long meeting with the police, the accusations, and the break-in.

  “For the love of peace, why didn’t you tell me about all this?” Cecil said.

  “I thought you knew about the break-in.”

  “No one told me! Derrick said you had some kind of minor emergency. I thought one of the girls skinned a knee for Pete’s sake—a home invasion? With Pam and the children there? You should have come to me.”

  “You had your game face on.”

  “We could have had the sketch of that low-life in today’s edition. You get it to me, pronto. We’ll get it in ASAP.”

  “I thought we only did that for murder cases.”

  “And low-life slugs who invade the homes of my reporters!”

  For once Jack didn’t have a comeback for Cecil. Goose bumps rose on his arms and gave his entire frame a chill. It was one of the few times his editor had shown any sort of personal interest or commitment, and it felt good.

  Jack filled Cecil in on his interview with Wendy McDaniel and informed him of his plans to go to Five Forks Methodist Church the following day to talk to as many people as possible. He planned to have an in-depth story for Cecil by that evening’s deadline.

  The rain came harder. Jack signed off with Cecil and flipped the wipers to high, slowing well below the speed limit on Highway 16. He chastised himself for not having replaced Pam’s wipers; the last time he rode with her in the rain they streaked like crazy. He contemplated calling her to tell her about Cecil volunteering to run the police sketch of their intruder but didn’t want to take her concentration off the road.

  They would nail this guy, he was confident, and then it would all be nothing more than a weird memory. He just prayed it would happen sooner rather than later. At least he and Pam had each other. They’d be together tonight, with the girls, all under one roof. Not so for Wendy McDaniel and her boys. They didn’t have a daddy at home tonight. In spite of Wendy’s reservations about suicide, the evidence was difficult to deny—missing meds, gun and ammo, farewell note.

  Wendy might be a widow right now and not even know it.

  And those boys—no father …

  His cell rang, and Pam’s photo came up. While creeping along in the pelting rain, dodging lake-size puddles, Jack hit answer on the phone, and Pam’s voice came over the Bluetooth speaker above his head.

  “I’m going to beat you,” she said.

  “Where are you?” He gripped the wheel tight. “I just passed Sergeant Road.”

  “Sergeant?” She paused. “I didn’t take 16. I’m going White Pond.”

  “White Pond? Shoot, I just assumed you’d take the highway. Is it raining where you are?”

  “Not bad yet, but I need new wipers.”

  “I know. That’s my bad. I’ve been meaning to do it.”

  “We’ve been a little busy …”

  “It’s a gusher here,” Jack said. “Sounds like you took the right route.”

  “I told you, you should have followed me. Whoa!”

  “What?”

  “Some idiot just passed me.”

  “On that road? Was it a double-yellow line?”

  “No, but it’s no place to pass,” Pam said. “Everybody’s in a big hurry.”

  “Hey, Cecil’s gonna run the police sketch on the front page.”

  “You’re kidding me. You asked him?”

  “No! He volunteered it. He actually sounded concerned.”

  “Come on,” Pam said. “What are you doing? This is ridiculous—”

  “What?” Jack said.

  “The guy who passed me is riding his brakes all of a sudden.”

  “He’s probably looking for a street.”

  “There aren’t any streets out here.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Almost to the bridge, by the river.”

  “Just be patient.”

  “He’s starting and stopping, right in the middle of the road.”

  “Keep your distance. Your tires aren’t that great.”

  He reminded himself to do new wipers and tires, all at once.

  “If you get home first,” Pam said, “hurry up and relieve Darlene and Tommy. They’ve been there forever. Tell them we owe them dinner.”

  “Knowing them, the girls are probably up partying.”

  “You have got to be kidding me. He’s stopped!” she yelled. “We’re right in the middle of the bridge and this guy is stopping his car.”

  Jack could picture the bridge’s enormous rusty metal girders and rivets the size of baseballs. He’d done several stories on it, because the Lincolntown River tended to swell and flood near the bridge. Big local issue.

  “There is no way. I think he put it in park,” Pam said. “What the …”

  “Is there something in front of his car? Maybe he can’t get across.”

  “The other lane’s clear, he could go around. Oh wow, it’s raining hard now. You almost home? I just wanna make sure everything’s okay with the girls.”

  “I’ll be there in a few,” Jack said. “No worries. Rain’s letting up a little here. What’s going on with that guy?”

  Jack could hear the rain ticking the roof of Pam’s car.

 
“Pam?”

  Nothing.

  “Pam?”

  He turned up the volume.

  “Pam? Answer me!”

  “Oh my gosh, Jack!” she screamed. “It’s him!”

  Something jolted the inside of Jack’s chest, like a gong being struck by a sledgehammer. His insides went hollow and waves of electricity vibrated down his arms and out his empty fingertips.

  “How do you know?” he barked. “What’s he doing?”

  “It’s his car. Oh dear God, Jack … he’s getting out!”

  9

  “Are you sure?” Jack’s words were clipped, fierce.

  One glance at the husky body as it emerged from the brown car … the black clothes … the boots …

  “Yes!” Headlights glared in her rearview mirror. “I’m blocked in!”

  Lock doors, lock doors …

  She let the phone slip away and felt her armrest for the door-lock button.

  The stranger hunched over in the driving rain and did a hop-skip-jog directly toward her.

  His trot was more agile than she would have expected, with one blocky white hand above his small eyes.

  She looked down for the lock button on the armrest, but the interior was black. Her fingers traced the small panel of buttons.

  Jack’s tinny voice chirped from somewhere on the floor.

  Every organ in her pounded.

  He was almost there.

  Her mind seared white and she hit a button.

  The window behind her buzzed down.

  No!

  Cold rain blew in.

  Her fingertips danced over the buttons, and she hit another.

  The passenger window dropped five inches.

  “Pamela.” He was there. Bulky. Immovable. Reaching for her door handle.

  Saying her name?

  Cold air and rain swept in as he pulled open her door. He smelled like an ashtray.

  “I’ve never forgotten you, Pammy Wagner …”

  Her maiden name?

  She pinched her door handle with ten adrenaline-laced fingertips and slammed the door shut.

  His head cocked back with a laugh.

  She jammed another button.

  All four locks clicked.

  The smirk on his face disappeared.

  Window behind you … get it up.

  His mammoth body shifted like a cat.

  He reached for her!

  His hand was rough, cold, wet. It slimed her cheek and pinched the back of her neck. She jerked forward, but he caught her hair, and she screamed.

  Jack’s voice echoed in rage from the phone on the floor.

  She jammed the button for the back window with her left hand and smashed the horn with the other. And kept smashing.

  His tiny eyes swelled at the continuous blare, and his small mouth curved sour. Her hair went free as his hand banged its way out. The window sealed shut.

  Thank God for the horn.

  People will come …

  He turned toward the cars behind her.

  Did they understand she was in trouble? Would they call the police?

  Headlights rose up and doused him in a flood of white neon. His dirty red hair was matted and twisted against his wide forehead. Rain dripped from his hooked nose. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he yelled.

  The headlights rolled off him.

  No, don’t leave!

  Horns honked behind her.

  The freak bent over, and his enormous shoulders and ghastly face filled her window again. Inches from her. Dripping. Sweating. Every pore oozing evil.

  “I want to take care of you … and Rebecca and Faye.”

  How dare you!

  Something deep within her blazed, and she reeled around.

  She wanted to hurt him—this bizarre, disgusting thing that had used names he should not know, names he had no right to utter.

  Rain sheered in from the still-open passenger window.

  The man retreated toward his car, turning to say one last thing, pointing at her, orange eyebrow arched, his mouth moving as it would in a civilized discussion, as if she was supposed to understand. A threat?

  It didn’t matter. She’d had enough.

  Methodically, she reached for the gear shift, slick from the rain, pinched the button, and clicked it to the illuminated R.

  The car behind her was trying to go around, but she cut it off by backing into its path.

  She could barely breathe. Her insides pumped liked pistons in a roaring engine.

  The stranger was almost to the door of his car.

  Pamela quickened her movements, jamming the shifter to the D, getting the car rolling.

  Her headlights hit him, and he looked at her, frozen for an instant. His tiny eyes flared. He moved fast for his door handle.

  She gunned it. Her car seemed to rise from the wet pavement, heated, lurching for the fiendish man.

  He slipped into the brown car just in time, his door banging open, then shut again. She just missed him, then slammed the brake to the floor, sliding and bending to a stop ten feet past his car.

  She sat still, blocking the left lane, fingers stapled to the steering wheel, hands vibrating. A booming echo pulsating in her ears.

  He could have shot forward in the right lane, slipped past her, and taken off—but his car did not move.

  His car was to the right, behind her, purring like a black cat with shiny eyes, kneading its paws, wiggling its hips, poised to pounce.

  She couldn’t go forward because he’d just follow her. Why hadn’t she gotten his plates when she was behind him?

  Stupid, stupid …

  She had to reach the phone. Get Jack. Call the police.

  The bridge was blocked. Other cars were still there. Jack would be there soon. Surely someone had called the police.

  His car inched closer.

  Pamela’s heart coiled like a tension-riddled steel spring. She slammed her left palm on the horn and kept it there.

  If she didn’t move her car, he was going to plow it into the steel rails of the bridge. But if she was going to drive, she had to get hold of the phone …

  She jabbed the button for the overhead light, spotted the phone on the floor, bent, stretched, and snatched it.

  His car was so close to hers she couldn’t even see its headlights.

  “Jack?” She put the phone to her ear.

  The connection was gone.

  The rain had slowed. Just as she was about to lift her foot from the brake and drive forward over the bridge, the man reappeared at the front of her car, lit up by headlights like a villain on stage.

  Something flashed in his hand.

  Knife.

  He bent at her front-right fender and his elbow began flailing, as if he was beating someone …

  Had someone approached to help, and he was pounding the tar out of him?

  She didn’t want to move the car because she thought someone was up there, close to the front fender.

  But, no …

  The car rocked, then a hiss …

  Just as the villain stood, winded, and stuck his mammoth chest out with a proud smirk, she realized he had punctured her tire.

  He pointed the blade directly at her, with his fist above it, like a fencer preparing to spear his victim. His wet head moved back and forth in the rain. He shouted, “Pamela, you were the only one!”

  Go!

  Her brain sent the message to drive—Run him down! Get away while he’s out of his car!—but her body bogged down. She examined the phone in her hand, but everything in her was crisscrossing and misfiring, and she just sat, immobilized, like an overmedicated blob.

  His eyes moved from her and settled on something to her right.

  She followed them to her still-open passenger window. “No!”

  His arm was in. He patted savagely for the unlock button. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he yelled.

  Pamela lifted both knees, swiveled on her rear, and bashed his arm with every muscle she could
recruit. Drawing her legs back quickly, like machine parts, so he couldn’t grab her, she did it again … bam … and again. Like a shovel smashing a rotten log.

  One after another, the kicks landed.

  Don’t slow down … he’ll grab you …

  Suddenly—like a shark inexplicably turning and swimming away from its prey—the arm slinked out of the window.

  Everything slammed eerily still.

  Blue lights danced off the bridge like the reflection of water by a pool at night and filled the interior of the car.

  Police.

  Pamela had kicked her way onto her back. Drenched in sweat, she forced herself to breathe, grabbed the steering wheel, and pulled herself up.

  His car hurled backward, did a one-eighty, and spun to a stop facing the opposite direction.

  She made out three letters on the Ohio license plate: CVJ.

  But with a slight skid and a squeal, the car’s tires found road, gripped, and sent the stranger sailing into the night, past two Trenton City police cars just arriving at the bridge.

  10

  A day and a half had passed since Pam’s run-in with the stalker at the bridge. She’d barely eaten since, and she looked it. She and Jack had been chilled to the bone to realize the man knew Pam’s name, and the girls’, which made the crimes eerily personal.

  Police were running the letters Pam had remembered from the guy’s plates, and the report about Jack’s laptop was still forthcoming. Cecil had not only kept good on his promise to run the sketch of the intruder in the Dispatch, he offered to let Jack work from home temporarily.

  Jack went to say good-bye to Pam before heading out for his appointment with Pastor Satterfield and found her alone in the study, curled up with one of her old Bibles. Her face was gaunt, her eyes glassy; she sniffed and clutched a fistful of tissues.

  “You okay?”

  She turned to him with tired eyes. “Just need this time.”

  “The girls are watching cartoons, you’re fine.”

  He crept in and sat on the ottoman next to her. He covered her hand with his, and they talked quietly. It crossed his mind to pray with her, but he dismissed the thought. He wasn’t feeling very spiritual. Besides, Pam was being spiritual enough for both of them.