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

by Creston Mapes

  “What did you make of the note?”

  She shook her head, filled her cheeks with air like balloons, then squirted the air through pinched lips to generate the wet noise a child might make. “I don’t know what to tell you. They say you never really know a man—and I believe that, Mr. Crittendon. How do you know what a person’s like behind closed doors? You know what I mean? What he’s going through on the inside?”

  She clutched her Mr. Pibb close to her chest. “Evan may well have been struggling more than any of us knew.” She glanced around, then whispered, “They say he was on Prozac. But let me tell you something. No matter what anyone says, Evan’s the most loving person around here. You get what I’m saying?”

  Jack leaned in close. “Wendy McDaniel says there’s no way her husband committed suicide.”

  “Poor Wendy—and those boys.” Barbara tilted her head and pulled at her orange hair in different places. “I cannot fathom what they’re going through. Just the not knowing.”

  “Do you think this is a suicide?”

  For the first time since they had begun to talk, Barbara froze. She stared at Jack and finally said, “I have to say yes, simply because of the letter. And the drugs he took with him. I hate it, but again, we just don’t know people. Man looks at the outward appearance, but God sees the heart. I guess Evan’s heart was very troubled.”

  “Did he have enemies?”

  Her lips formed a frown.

  “Anyone really mad at him?” Jack probed.

  “Not really. Not that I can think of.”

  “What about Hank Garbenger?”

  “Oh jeepers.” Barbara rolled her eyes. “That was a fiasco. Hank was angry at the whole church—the whole world. The leaders disciplined him for cheating on Audrey, his wife.”

  “Didn’t Evan kind of spearhead that whole thing?”

  “Evan was going to handle it privately. Dr. Satterfield, on the other hand, insisted the only biblical response was to take two elders and warn Hank and, if it continued—which it did—to invoke church discipline.”

  “It is biblical, what they did.”

  “It is. And Evan handled it like a pro. He was firm but compassionate. Anyway, naturally Hank was mad—and embarrassed. Sheesh. If it had been me, I would’ve moved to Montana.”

  Jack wanted to ask if Hank was mad enough to hurt Evan, but the notion was just plain far-fetched. Jack couldn’t help it; as long as he could remember he’d had a hyper-suspicious mind. Occasionally it empowered him to break the big story, but more often it caused him to waste a great deal of time, fall into trouble and embarrassment, and perform exercises in futility.

  “Hmm.” Jack contemplated what more to ask.

  “Satterfield is always prodding Evan,” said Barbara. “Always challenging him to live up to this lofty standard he has of what a pastor should be. Evan takes it with a grain of salt.” She leaned across the table and whispered, “He has a lot more patience than I do. Pastor Evan is a humble, wise man. He has his doctorate degree too, you know. But he’s just not the type to go around hanging it on the wall and insisting everyone call him ‘doctor.’”

  Point taken.

  “Anything else out of the ordinary going on with Evan? Anything at all?”

  Barbara’s eyes fell to the table, as if she’d been inches from escaping the interview unscathed only to hit a nasty snag as they drew to a close. She glanced out the door of the conference room, then leveled her gaze on Jack.

  “You won’t print any of this?” she whispered.

  “Not if you don’t want me to.”

  “I don’t. This is something I’ve tossed and turned over. I wasn’t going to mention it, but I don’t want to regret not saying anything.”

  “Off the record it is.”

  She cleared her throat. “Pastor Evan has a heart the size of Texas, okay? He’s always giving, always going the extra mile for everyone. But sometimes, well, he’s been known to make appointments that could look, if you didn’t know him, they could look suspicious.”

  “In what way?” Jack asked.

  Barbara pushed all ten of her bright red fingernails onto the table in front of her. “I’m talking about appointments with women.” She tilted her head up to the ceiling and raised a hand. “Lord, forgive me if I’m saying anything I shouldn’t.” Then back at Jack. “He meets one-on-one with women, to counsel them, and it just doesn’t look right. Dr. Satterfield has questioned him on it. He’s warned Pastor Evan that it’s an absolute no-no in ministry. But Pastor Evan just goes along his merry way. Sometimes I think he’s incredibly naive—”

  “Where are these meetings?”

  “On occasion at coffee shops. But mostly in his office.”

  “Door open? Door closed?”

  Her eyes darted about. “A little of each.”

  “With any one woman in particular?”

  Her hands gripped her elbows and she leaned on the table and rocked back and forth. “I can’t say that. I just can’t say.” Her cheeks flushed like a paper towel absorbing cranberry juice. “It seems so … condemning.”

  Jack waited and nodded, figuring his silence would be all Barbara would need to continue with her suspicions.

  He was right.

  “There’s a widow who goes here,” she said. “Her name’s Sherry Pendergrass. Beautiful blonde. Her husband, Joel, passed away about a year ago. Very wealthy people. Anyway, Pastor Evan has been meeting with her for quite some time, following Joel’s death, of course.”

  “How often?”

  “Once a week, usually Wednesdays. Sometimes they move it to another day, if there’s a conflict. But it’s been very regular for quite some time.”

  “And these appointments are on his calendar? I mean, he didn’t try to hide them?”

  “Oh, no.” She shook her head. “It’s all right there on his calendar for anybody to see. Probably completely innocent.”

  Jack sensed she didn’t believe that.

  “Since when?” he asked.

  Barbara shook her head. “I can check his calendar, but I’d guess five months, maybe six. Look, I’m not insinuating anything. I promise. I just thought, with him missing, who knows? Maybe she can …”

  Jack gave her time to finish, waiting, wanting to know precisely what Barbara was thinking. But to his surprise the room fell silent.

  “Well, thank you.” He reached over and patted her wrist. “This has been extremely helpful. A lot of what I’ve learned is off the record and can’t go in the paper, but as you said, who knows? It might help find Pastor Evan.”

  “That’s what I’m hoping.”

  Jack compiled his things and stood. He was starving and anxious to get home to Pam and the girls. Barbara folded the note she’d written herself and stood as well, then hesitated.

  Call it a reporter’s instinct, but Jack knew something else was coming. Something Barbara Cooley could not bottle up one second longer.

  “Just a little FYI.” She lowered her head, avoiding eye contact. “I mentioned that Mrs. Pendergrass has been on Pastor Evan’s calendar each week, and I mean, it’s been like clockwork. What I didn’t mention was”—she looked at Jack—“she wasn’t on it the week he disappeared. And no more appointments with her have been booked—at all.”

  11

  The air in the large, dimly lit auditorium had grown stagnant. The crowded Sunday morning service was almost over. A thin woman wearing a light green dress two sizes too big gave announcements from the pulpit. Pamela shifted uncomfortably in her theater-style seat.

  “Antsy, aren’t you?” Jack whispered.

  “I’m hot.”

  “Reached your limit?”

  “My dress is sticking.” Pamela wiggled. “It’s been an hour and a half.”

  “Almost over.” Jack linked her arm with his and patted her hand. “Pay attention,” he jested.

  She pinched his finger.

  “Ouch.” He laughed.

  “You better watch it.” She squeezed his wrist
.

  The big joke between them had long been that Pamela was just like her father, Ben, who couldn’t sit still for more than thirty minutes. On trips she was worse than the kids about pleading in her whiniest voice, “When are we going to get there?”

  She opened her journal and turned to the lyrics she’d penned hurriedly a little earlier in the service as a young African-American woman sang. If all of these trials bring me closer to you, then I will walk through the fire if you want me to.

  Pamela soaked in each word that had maneuvered its way into her heart during the song, whispering peace into the caverns of her being.

  It was as if the sermon had been tailored for her as well. She turned another page and meditated on the verse she’d jotted down from Pastor Dan’s sermon: For Christ’s sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong.

  Never had she thrown herself upon God with such abandon as she had since the night at the bridge. Like a beggar snapping up crumbs, she gathered and clung to the words of Scripture. They had become her sustenance. For the first time she understood what Jesus meant when the disciples urged him to eat, but he only replied, “I have food to eat that you know nothing about.”

  Pamela had left everything she cared about to God’s care: her life and hopes and desires; Jack, Rebecca, and Faye; their home and possessions; their health and safety. She’d left him there too, the wicked invader who’d flipped her picture-book world into the air like the spinning house in The Wizard of Oz. All of it she had deposited with a great thud of relief into God’s capable hands, where it belonged. She’d dusted off her hands and left it there.

  Period.

  If she could just keep it there; if she could just keep that mind-set; if she could just know—really know—that she and her family were safe in God’s hands. And even if he did allow something to happen to them—even something bad, that involved suffering—she could know it was okay, simply because it was the Master’s plan and he did what he wanted.

  But once again, the stranger’s words weaved their way into her present tense like prickly little gremlins. They visited her at the oddest times, when her defenses were down, like right there in church, of all places. Without warning they swept back in, vividly, like the wind and rain and gut-twisting terror of that awful night.

  Pammy.

  It was a nickname she’d been called frequently as a child. She rehashed it all again—when it was that she’d insisted others call her Pamela, or if they must shorten it, simply Pam. When had she declared the moratorium on Pammy? Seventh grade? Eighth?

  Had this man known her from back then, when they were children growing up on Cleveland’s upper east side? He’d used her maiden name, Wagner. And he’d said, “I’ve never forgotten you.”

  “You’ve got goose bumps.” Jack rubbed her wrist gently. “I thought you were hot.”

  She just squeezed his arm hard as the choir started into the last song.

  For the umpteenth time she racked her brain, recalling her earliest love interests. Furthest back was Scotty Marmaduke from Mrs. Jones’s fourth-grade class at Hodges Elementary School—but he’d had brown hair and skin the color of an Indian. William Rose and Doug DuCharme were her other “true loves” prior to high school, but neither had the skin, features, or hair coloring of the invader.

  The guy had mentioned Rebecca and Faye. How on earth had he known their names? And why? She was sure he’d said something like “I want to take care of you.”

  Pamela tried to shake the whole thing from her mind and found herself actually moving her head side to side. It felt as if she’d fallen asleep, nodded, and woke with a start.

  “You okay?” Jack’s eyes narrowed.

  She nodded.

  “Let’s all stand for the benediction.” Pastor Dan’s curly gray hair looked almost blond in the spotlight. He lifted his leathery brown hands and closed his thoughtful eyes behind silver-rimmed glasses. “Now may you go in peace, fully knowing, enjoying, and sharing the love of God, which he shed abroad in our hearts. In your weaknesses, may you be made strong.”

  Pamela closed her eyes and made the prayer her own.

  “May he guard you, protect you, give you wisdom, and fill you with divine power as you go forth from this place, ministering to a world in need. And may he bring us safely back together again very soon. Amen.”

  The lights came up and it was back to reality as voices arose all over the sanctuary. People bent down to pick up bulletins and pens and Bibles, teenagers high-fived and hugged, old people with white hair shuffled out, leaning on walkers and each other.

  Jack clasped Pamela’s hand and led her down their row.

  A man in the adjoining aisle smiled and nodded. Something about him, the small eyes, perhaps, made her think of the stranger. Clearly, so clearly, she pictured his pasty white skin and recalled the sandpaper-like feeling of his hand nudging her neck and shoulders. She reached behind the base of her neck, rubbed the skin deeply, and dusted off her shoulder several times, as if wiping away the memory.

  His filthy, blocky fist had grappled and fumbled and yanked her hair. She patted the top of her head and smoothed her hair all the way to the back, two, three times, as if making sure nothing was in it—a tangle, a fly … a hand.

  Until the night on the bridge, Pamela had sequestered thoughts of the intruder solely to their home. That’s where he’d broken in, taken things, planted things, parked his junky brown car—at their house. Period. Therefore, she had actually felt safer venturing anywhere away from home, because the house was the only place the predator had dared to meddle.

  The night on the bridge changed all that.

  Now, she realized, he could be any place, following her—around town, at the grocery, the library, the pool, the mall … who knew?

  Jack led her into the vast flow of people. Like cattle they slowly made their way up a carpeted runway toward the many sanctuary exits.

  He could be here, lurking among all these bodies. Watching.

  “How ’bout I get Rebecca?” Jack turned to Pamela.

  “Okay,” she agreed. “I’ll get Faye.”

  The church had grown immensely during the past decade, with new buildings popping up all over its sprawling campus. Except for two or three, all of the structures attached to one another and could be accessed with a few zigzags via wide, well-lit hallways. Because most of the buildings were three stories, classrooms were everywhere—on the main floor, upstairs, and at the basement level.

  “Maybe we’ll grab a pizza on the way home,” Jack said.

  “Sounds good. Can we get black olives on our half?”

  “Sure. How about sausage?”

  “Ehh.” Pamela made a sour face. “Last time it was greasy.”

  Jack chuckled. “You are so spoiled.”

  As they walked past some offices, Pamela noticed a computer sitting on a desk beyond a glass wall. Its screen saver flashed a Renoir she recognized of people gaily socializing at an outdoor festival. It faded and a golden landscape appeared, by Claude Monet she guessed. That dimmed, and up came Starry Night, the beautiful oil by Vincent Van Gogh.

  Interesting …

  Just the day before, Pamela had Googled Van Gogh, self-portraits, because the intruder’s coarse look, his tiny eyes and hooked nose, the thatch of red hair had reminded her of the famous artist. Seeing the very brushstrokes of the Van Gogh self-portraits up close on her computer, in vibrant color—especially the ones that featured him with no beard, pipe, or hat—made Pamela believe that, if a bit of weight could be added to the artist’s face, a few of them would have proven more accurate than the police artist’s rendering of the stalker.

  If all of these trials bring me closer to you, then I’ll walk through the fire if you want me to.

  Jack and Pamela reached the old sanctuary building.

  Jack put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed the back of her neck. “We’ll meet you at the car in a few minu
tes.”

  The girls’ Sunday school rooms were in opposite directions—Rebecca’s to the left on that floor, and Faye’s to the right at the basement level.

  “Okay. Don’t forget to get the little Bible homework thingy. Rebecca loves those.”

  “Pamela!” Freckled and frizzy-haired Dawn Hoganson was rather a mess, as usual. Her arms were stuffed with various crumpled papers, books, a Walmart bag, and a Cleveland Indians cap. She was hunched over, holding hands with the two youngest of her five children. “I just saw your Bible in the lost and found. My Justin lost his favorite cap, and I saw the Bible when I was digging around in there.”

  Pamela stopped.

  Dawn’s voice turned to mush in her ears.

  Something registered with a slam deep and hard in her chest. From the waist up, everything clanged. From the waist down, everything melted.

  Jack had heard her too and was already coming back, his mouth open, his eyes burning holes into Dawn. “Are you sure it’s hers?” he said.

  “Simon!” She pulled one of her children by the wrist. “Don’t you dare get that blue piece of whatever it is all over that Sunday shirt. Who gave you candy? Why do they do that? What did Mommy tell you?”

  “What did it look like?” Jack stuck his face in Dawn’s path.

  Dawn drew back, her features scrunching as if she’d just been insulted. “Well, for one thing, it had her name in it. It’s red. Maroon, I guess you’d call it. Big old thing.”

  My Bible. The one the creep had stolen from the house.

  That means he had to have been here, at the church. When?

  The girls!

  “Jack!”

  He was already in motion. “I’ll get Rebecca. You get Faye.” There was a slight tremor in his voice.

  Pamela pressed a hand to her temple. She turned her head inquisitively but couldn’t remember where Faye’s room was. Suddenly the church felt like an enormous compound the size of eighteen airports put together, and Pamela felt like a mouse about to get trampled by a gazillion people.