Jack hadn’t seen her without a Bible since the night at the bridge. She had been jotting down scripture on the back of his old business cards and glancing at them while busy in the kitchen or playing with the girls. And though she hadn’t said anything, he quickly figured out she was fasting. The incident had numbed her. Her movements were slow and contemplative. She listened intently and spoke less, not depressed or sedate, but reflective.
“I’ll be back here as soon as I can, okay?” he said.
“We’re fine—really.”
They agreed to say nothing about the man to Pam’s parents. If her mother knew what was going on, they would most assuredly need to get her a rubber room at the nearest asylum.
As he waited to interview Dr. Andrew Satterfield in his frigid office at Five Forks Methodist Church, Jack shivered and shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
Satterfield’s office looked and smelled as if it had just received several thick coats of Sherwin-Williams’ brightest white paint. A wide window overlooking dense green woods made it even brighter. The long, shiny reddish wood desk in front of Jack held only a small calendar, pen holder, stapler, calculator, notepad, and telephone—each placed precisely in the form of an arch. There were no folders or coffee mugs or papers or any sign of “real work.” Behind the desk was a matching credenza, dust-free, not a thing on it—no photos, no children’s artwork, no computer, no hint of Satterfield’s personal life.
Church secretary Barbara Cooley, a heavyset redhead wearing an electrifying blue dress, a necklace of large faux pearls and matching earrings, and thick red lipstick, had led Jack to Satterfield’s office and assured him the associate pastor would join Jack shortly. While they chatted, Jack confirmed that Mrs. Cooley had seen Pastor Evan McDaniel the morning of his disappearance. She agreed to speak with Jack when he was finished with Satterfield.
Jack didn’t know whether he was shivering because it was freezing in the office or because he was uptight about leaving the girls alone. So much for his simplistic theory about the intruder being a drug addict on a mindless binge; the man had proven himself much more menacing. Now Jack was the one talking about purchasing a gun. He had discussed it with Officer DeVry the morning after the bridge incident. DeVry was neutral on the topic, but this time it had been Pam who hesitated.
“Let’s wait,” she said.
“Wait … for what?” Jack said. “For him to kidnap you, or one of the girls? This guy’s certified nuts, Pam. He’s liable to do anything. If he comes on our property again, we need to be prepared.”
It was the same argument Pam had pleaded days earlier.
But something had changed in her since the night on the bridge. Her silence, her quiet determination … it spoke volumes. It whispered to him that they had all the protection they needed, if they would only believe.
But this guy was crazy … and he might come back.
Does God not know that? Jack chastised himself. If the guy was insane, did that make God any less effective in protecting them?
The heat gets turned up, and you’re going to take matters into your own hands?
Jack pictured the Gadarene demoniac from the Bible, rushing from his home among the tombs to the shoreline where he confronted Jesus. The dude wore no clothes, and no one could subdue him. They tried, but he tore the chains and broke the irons.
Jesus sent the man’s demons fleeing into a herd of pigs.
This guy haunting us must have demons, Jack thought.
He envisioned himself squaring off with the stalker in their front yard at night. Could he rebuke the man’s evil spirits? Would God give him the power? Or would Jack pull out a semiautomatic, the one he couldn’t stop thinking about, and blow the guy to kingdom come? Or would he beat the scum to a pulp with his bare hands?
Jack detected the odor of manufactured nylon and polyester, and determined that the spotless wall-to-wall short-pile maroon carpet beneath his feet must be brand-new. He could still smell the glue and noticed several tiny pieces of cut carpet along the gray baseboard.
A number of framed objects leaned against the walls, waiting to be hung. Two were Satterfield’s degrees from Dallas Theological Seminary; another was a Bible verse, penned exquisitely in bold calligraphy: And let us not be weary in well doing: for in due season we shall reap, if we faint not —Galatians 6:9. Next was a painting of a fly fisherman wading in a shady river. Last was a painting of a mean-looking Jesus in the sky, surrounded by ominous gray clouds, with hundreds of people cowering on the ground below.
Voices came from a distance down the hallway, getting clearer as they drew closer.
“You have lunch at twelve thirty with the elders.” It was Barbara Cooley’s voice. “At two you have the contemporary worship director. At three it’s Benevolence Committee—”
“Tell me the rest later,” a male voice said, just outside the door. “I’ve kept this gentleman waiting long enough.”
Dr. Satterfield blew into the office clutching a black laptop and an eyeglasses case. He wore dark green slacks, a white button-down shirt, and a khaki sports jacket, and he smelled like the antiseptic Pam used to clean her face.
“Hello, hello.” He whisked past Jack without shaking hands, curved around the desk, and set his glasses case down precisely in line with the other items on the desk’s surface. “You shall have my full attention in un momento. I am Five Forks’ associate pastor, Dr. Andrew Satterfield.”
With his back to Jack, the tall, thin man set his PC on the credenza, leaned back to examine how it sat, and with both thumbs adjusted it ever so slightly so the laptop was in perfect alignment with the front edge. He wore a sleek watch, no rings, and his hands were white and clean, nails trimmed up tight. He turned to face his guest. “And you must be Mr. Crotten—”
“Crittendon.” Jack stood and—awkwardly clutching his pad, pen, and list of questions against his thighs—leaned over the desk to shake hands. “With the Dispatch.”
Satterfield ignored Jack’s hand, swung his fake leather maroon chair around, plopped down, wheeled up to the desk, placed his elbows on the surface, and locked his bony fingers.
“Tell me what I can do for you and our friends at the local fish wrapper, Mr. Crittendon.”
Ignoring the dig, Jack explained concisely that his editor had learned of Pastor Evan’s disappearance via Faith Line and that he had interviewed Wendy McDaniel. He let him know he’d obtained a copy of the letter Evan left behind and was there to find out as much as he could about the man’s vanishing.
Jack left it open-ended, just to see what kind of a talker he had in Satterfield. He could ask some people one question and they would spill the entire can of beans; others required relentless prying just to retrieve yes and no answers.
“I don’t believe I have a great deal more to add,” said Satterfield. “The article you ran on the cover of the Dispatch the other day adequately summed it up. As that piece indicated, I don’t think it’s going to end pretty.”
“It did surprise me,” Jack said, “that the Faith Line article came right out and said that coworkers believed the pastor was ‘genuinely determined,’ I believe it said, to take his own life—”
“Ah-ah.” Satterfield held up an index finger as if correcting a child. “Actually, what it said was that coworkers believed he was genuinely determined to follow through on his ‘expressed intentions,’ referring to the letter he left.”
“So you do think he intends to commit suicide.”
“You said you read the letter, did you not? And you know about the medications he took with him?”
“Not exactly. What more can you tell me about them?”
“Not long after Pastor McDaniel arrived here, I was somewhat shocked to learn that he had been seeing a psychiatrist. He told me he had struggled with long seasons of depression, as well as some anxiety. He said he was trying to get a grip on it with medication. He thought I should know.”
“And that surprised you?”
“To say the least.�
��
“Why?”
“Mr. Crittendon.” Satterfield sighed and hunched over, as if Jack had zero common sense. “The job of pastor is that of a shepherd. It is a most sacred and sobering responsibility and one that must be held by men of sound mind. Is Evan a warm and generous man? Absolutely. Does he love the people of this congregation? Perhaps to a fault. But does he have the alert, sober mind of Christ? Is he prepared at all times to preach the Word, correct, rebuke, encourage? That is in question. And I’ve said as much both to him and our elders.”
“It sounds as if you don’t feel he’s fit to be the pastor here.”
Satterfield leaned forward, opened one of his desk drawers, snatched a sanitary wipe, and slathered his hands with it. “It’s no secret I think Evan needs time away from the pastorate to deal with his psychological issues.” After finishing with his hands, he wiped the arms of his chair, then meticulously rubbed the area in front of him on the desk and tossed the wipe in the trash can.
“When did you see him last?” Jack asked.
“Thursday. Day before he left,” Satterfield said. “I saw him toward the end of the workday. He often seemed tired to me, low energy. I noticed nothing unusual. He came in the next day, Friday, early from what I understand, then disappeared.”
Satterfield’s elbows rested on the arms of his chair, and all ten of his fingertips touched each other. He glanced at his watch. “Now I do have a lunch appointment, so if we’re about through …”
“Did he have appointments lined up for the day he went missing?” Jack asked.
“He did.”
“Hospital visits?”
“And people recuperating at home.”
“And he didn’t make it to any of those?”
“Obviously not.”
Smug fellow …
“Did he have enemies?”
Satterfield sighed. After a moment he said, “I think it’s safe to say that all pastors, at least those who are upholding sound doctrine, are persecuted to some degree.” He massaged his temples with two fingers on each side. “We’ve had our share of resentful, bitter congregants, but in my mind, none of those things are pertinent in Evan’s disappearance.”
“There was some church discipline invoked recently, involving a man named Hank …” Jack scoured his notes. “Garbenger.”
Satterfield’s eyes narrowed, and his mouth shrank to a slit. He wheeled backward in his chair. “What about it?”
“Could that have led to anything?” Jack said. “You know, a revenge-type thing against Evan?”
Satterfield closed his eyes and shook his head. “We deal with things like that all the time. That’s what we do, sir. This is a hospital, a mending place, if you will. Frankly, I think you’re looking for something that isn’t there, Mr. Crittendon. In fact, I know you are.” He examined his watch and tapped it. “I’ve really got to be moving along.” He stood and came around the desk. “I hope I’ve been of assistance.”
Still seated, Jack said, “If you don’t mind, just one or two more quick things while I have you. Do you know what medications Pastor Evan had been taking? And do you know which ones he took with him?”
“Let’s see.” Satterfield crossed his arms. “Zoloft. Remeron. Effexor … and good old Valium for the anxiety.”
“And how do you know this?”
“He told me.” Satterfield threw out his hands. “My first week on the job.”
“And how do we know he took these drugs with him?”
“He kept them in a medicine cabinet in his office restroom. They were there. Now they’re gone. Honestly, Mr. Crittendon, I’m bewildered at your line of questioning. Has something specific led you to believe Evan did not disappear with the intention of taking his own life?”
“Hold on just one second, sir.” Jack finished scribbling what Satterfield had said and looked up at him. “His wife is as sure this isn’t a suicide as you are that it is.”
“I see.” Satterfield’s eyes went side to side, and he sucked in his cheeks. “That sounds like Wendy—blindly devoted to her man. It is indeed a sad case.”
“So,” Jack said, “is this a private bathroom we’re talking about, in the pastor’s office—where the medicine was kept?”
Satterfield looked at his watch again and seemed to deflate from exhaustion as he spoke. “It’s a small lav right off his office, yes. Now I really must be shoving off.”
Jack held up a finger, looked at his pad, and scrambled for a way to phrase his next question with kid gloves. But there was no gentle way. “So you look in his medicine cabinet? I mean, you must, in order to know—”
“Let me say something to you, sir.” Satterfield bent over, his sour face within inches of Jack’s; he smelled like rubbing alcohol. “I have a sacred responsibility to God and to this body of believers. It is a high calling and one which I hold with unflinching devotion. You can try all you want, for whatever reason, to make this look like something it is not, but I have been set apart to assist in protecting this flock, making certain no ravenous wolves sneak in to destroy the sheep. I will do whatever is necessary to fulfill my responsibilities before God. For that reason, I answer to no man, Mr. Crittendon, but only to God. But I don’t suppose you would know anything about that.”
Jack quickly finished writing, gathered his things in one fell swoop, and stood, feeling dizzy and disheveled from the scolding.
“I apologize.” Satterfield wrung his hands. “I did not mean to bite your head off. I just don’t think people understand sometimes the responsibility laid upon pastors; the Bible says we will be judged more severely. That’s probably why Evan was in the state he was in. Dealing with other people’s sins and baggage can be absolutely suffocating at times. I did not mean to insult you. Again, I hope you will accept my apology.”
“I understand,” Jack said. “This is a difficult time for the whole church.” He did not attempt to shake with Satterfield, whose hands were conveniently stuffed in the pockets of his jacket.
Barbara Cooley was nibbling greasy potato chips and a bulky sandwich from her brown bag when Jack found his way back to her desk. “I’m sorry,” she said with a mouthful of what smelled like tuna, “I wasn’t sure when you’d be done.”
“No, forgive me for interrupting your lunch,” Jack said, still recovering from the weird session with Satterfield. “If you want, I can go find a place to work until you’re finished.” He was a bit anxious to call the house and make sure Pam was fine.
“Oh my, no.” She giggled and with a napkin and two plump hands wiped her mouth and dabbed at her pink face. “I’m anxious to get this over with. We can go in this conference room right over here.” She worked her way out of a little black chair on wheels, her thick legs and ample hips slowing her tremendously. She sneaked one more chip, twisted her brown bag closed, grabbed her can of Mr. Pibb, knocked the crumbs off her chest, and punched several buttons on the massive phone. “I’ll set this to pick up for me, and we’re good to go. You just follow me. I’ve been nervous as a cat about this.”
Once they were settled in the conference room at a large glass table that accommodated twelve black executive chairs, Jack explained the story he was working on. As usual, he led with an open-ended question—this one about the last time she’d seen Pastor McDaniel.
“Evan and I are almost always the first to arrive.” She spoke in an animated, somewhat secretive tone. “The morning he went missing I got here right around eight, and he came in at about a quarter after or so. That’s pretty much the norm on Fridays.”
“Did you talk to him when he came in?” Jack almost lost his train of thought due to the sucking noises Barbara was making as she polished her teeth with her tongue. “How did he seem to you?”
“That’s just the thing.” Her bright eyes darted about as if she was searching out eavesdroppers. “He seemed somewhat morose to me. Now don’t get me wrong, Evan is never one to get overly excited about anything. He’s always very, how do I say it, even-keeled, low-ke
y. But that morning”—her cheeks scrunched up and she shook her head—“something seemed to have him in a funk.”
“Did he say what was bothering him?”
“We talked just a little while the coffee was brewing in the break room,” she said. “I asked if he was all ready for his visitations that day and he said he was. I remember, he asked me what I did on my day off, and I told him my husband, Virgil, took me to the dollar theater to see Sandra Bullock’s new movie. I just love her. And they have a bottomless bucket of popcorn, all-you-can-eat for $4.99. Anyway, that’s all I really recall discussing.”
Barbara was turning out to be a talker, and that was fine with Jack.
“And he left, supposedly to make those visits, at what time?”
“I’ve been racking my brain about that, knowing you’d ask. I didn’t actually see him leave the building. I must have been away from my desk, either at the restroom, running copies, or talking to someone. But I’m guessing it was right around nine fifteen, give or take a few minutes.”
“So there were other people in the office by then?”
“Oh yeah, quite a few. We have a big staff. A lot of people get here around nine. Patrick Ashdown was here. He’s our director of contemporary worship. He did say hi to Evan. Rhonda Lowe was here—another receptionist. She saw him briefly as well.”
“Can you do me a favor?”
“I can sure try.”
“Can you send an email blast to the staff and let them know I’m interested in communicating with anyone who interacted with Evan that morning or who may be able to give any insight about his disappearance?”
Barbara borrowed a sheet of paper from Jack’s pad and wrote herself a note. “That I can do.”
“Just give them my email address and cell number.” Jack scribbled those on her paper. “Tell me,” he continued, “who found the note in Evan’s office?”
“I did!” Her eyes grew. “I saw it on his keyboard that morning but didn’t think a thing about it—can you imagine? Anyway, later, when we started getting calls from his missed appointments, I kind of scoured his desk to see if I could find any hint about where he might be. That’s when I opened it.”
Fear Has a Name: A Novel (The Crittendon Files) Page 7