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

by Creston Mapes

  Jack had to muster one more attack. It didn’t matter what happened to him.

  “You were the only person who ever cared about me.” Granger continued slowly toward the front door. “And now it’s too late.”

  “There are people who can help you.” Pam’s upper body leaned out the front door, her fingers poised to slam it shut if he got too close. “God can help you.”

  “Would that be the same god my mother and father claimed to follow?”

  “Your parents had problems,” she called. “They weren’t right. You’ve got scars from that, but God can make you new.”

  “It’s no good, Pam.” Granger was within ten feet of her. “I’ve read the Bible. I know all about it. My parents lived and breathed religion, but they poisoned me with their evil.”

  Clutching his back, Jack forced himself to his knees. His tailbone felt cracked. DeVry wasn’t going to make it in time. Jack had to take Granger until the cops arrived.

  Granger glanced back and spotted Jack on his knees. In a flash he dashed over, booted him sprawling to the pavement, and ran for his car.

  Through the pain, Jack worked his way to his feet, but only in time to see the brown car bend around the corner and speed out of sight.

  18

  Now I’m in for it.

  Although he didn’t see any squad cars or uniformed officers, Granger felt as if the police were closing in on him as he drove, windows down, under the speed limit, into the city limits of Trenton City. Creeping past the Nicoma Café, past Butch’s Barber Shop, past Sun Appliances, Granger realized life as he knew it was about to change dramatically.

  He’d said what he’d had to say to Pamela, and that was that. There was no more he could do to clear the slate with her. Part of him wanted to pull over along the city sidewalk and simply wait for the cops to converge on him.

  Could penitentiary life be that bad, compared to the life he’d lived? Shoot, he knew it would; it’d be as bad as the day was long. But his whole life had been bad; it had been a prison with walls not made of bars or razor-wire fences but of condemnation and disapproval, criticism and gloom.

  He was so alone.

  Always had been.

  His world was dark and sad and seeping with the heaviness of insecurity and loneliness. Except for those times with Pamela, those fleeting moments from his youth—the only times when he ever really felt free or alive or worth anything.

  He’d seen fear in her eyes at her house, to be sure, but there was something more. Behind all the tension, he saw that Pamela still cared; she was still concerned about him.

  Stopped at a light on the corner where the Home Spun restaurant filled up with a lunch crowd of fried chicken lovers, Granger admitted that he did not have the skill, knowledge, or prowess to dodge the law for long. Fugitives never remained on the lam very long. They were always tracked down, bagged, and booked.

  The toot of a horn from behind made Granger aware of the green light, and he hurried along in the sweltering car, whose air-conditioning had failed long ago.

  Everything he owned was in the black bag in the seat behind him.

  Sheesh.

  Do you realize what people would think of that? Of you? To think that you have resided on this planet more than thirty years and what you have to show for it fits into a two-by-three-foot satchel?

  A disgrace.

  Waste of breath.

  Detriment to society.

  Who would care if he was gone?

  If he did not exist tomorrow, what difference would it make?

  Would it impact one single thing?

  Would any great task or project or mission that impacted lives fail to be completed?

  Would anyone cry out in mourning or miss his presence so much that they actually hurt inside?

  Not even close.

  What would they do with his body? Cremate it? Bury it? Who would pay for the casket? Would there be a funeral? No one would come.

  Would Pamela come, if she knew about it?

  The romantic part of him cried, Yes, she would be there! She would insist on getting dressed up and going alone. She would kneel at his graveside and drop flowers on the casket after it was lowered into the ground.

  Some guy was right on his tail in a humongous pickup truck. All he could see in the rearview mirror was the guy’s dang grill. Probably some little five-foot dude with a Napoleon complex.

  Granger flipped his blinker and pulled into one of the angled parking spaces in front of the Second Chance Thrift Shop. The pickup roared past with the rigged-up muffler you would expect from such an idiot. Granger put the car in park and turned it off. He had saved up a good bit of money from the job at the bowling alley, but not enough to buy a decent car. If he was going to avoid the police for any time at all, he needed a different vehicle.

  He didn’t want to steal one, didn’t know how to jump-start one. The fact was, he didn’t want to take someone else’s car. But the clock was ticking and so was his heart. This was it.

  Subconsciously he knew why he had parked in that spot. There was a gun shop several stores down.

  Why do you need a gun?

  Granger didn’t want to go to prison. If he had a gun, that gave him more options.

  Like what? Shooting anyone who closes in on you? Are you really going to do that?

  He knew he probably didn’t have it in him. Perhaps he would draw his weapon and let the police fill him with lead.

  Or maybe you’ll kill yourself.

  That was just words, a blip on the screen, a flash in the back of his mind.

  You probably don’t have the guts to do that either.

  Or maybe he needed the gun to take Pamela. Maybe that’s what this was all about.

  All of it was just a rush of thoughts.

  His nose felt broken. He checked it in the rearview mirror and wiped away the dried blood.

  Had the police put out some sort of bulletin about him? If so, he would be dead meat if he tried to buy a gun, because he’d have to show his driver’s license. If not, they were sure to do so within minutes, since Pamela and Jack were probably explaining everything to the police right now, while he sat sweating like a pig in that roasting car.

  He made up his mind, got out, and headed for the gun shop. Bells tinkled above his head when he entered, and the cold air-conditioning sobered him.

  “Hey there,” came a voice somewhere in the crowded store.

  Granger finally spotted the small guy at the far end of the long glass counter. He had long, shiny brown hair and was wearing a black Who T-shirt. Granger nodded and quickly found the used guns within another long glass counter on the opposite side of the store.

  “Is there anything I can show you?” The little guy with the Who shirt was headed toward where Granger stood, scanning guns and price tags.

  “Yeah, can I see that little Jennings? That one for a hundred and twenty?”

  “Sure.”

  There were a couple other customers in the shop, a tall guy in a cowboy hat and a middle-aged lady with a tattoo of a cat on her wrist.

  “That’s a handy little gun,” the kid said as he worked hard to push the slide back, checked to make sure it had no ammo, and gently handed it to Granger. The kid’s front teeth were badly out of whack, and he was extremely thin. Granger felt comfortable with him.

  “This is probably a dumb question, but what is this, a .22?” Granger felt the weight of the little piece.

  “This is actually a .380, so the ammo is slightly larger than a .22, but it’s still nice and compact. Great for the glove compartment. Fits in your pocket. We just got that in a day or two ago on a trade.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  The kid laughed. “Well, that was easy. Where’s my easy button?” He laughed some more, locked the back of the counter, and headed around to where he had originally been standing. “Can I get you a couple boxes of ammo for that?”

  The bells on the front door jingled, and two cops walked in. Granger lost his breat
h for a second. He looked away, took in a deep breath, and told himself to keep cool. He had been going to ask the kid how many bullets were in a box, but now, the sooner and more quietly he got out of there, the better.

  “That’ll be fine,” he said to the kid.

  “Two boxes?” the kid called.

  Granger nodded and glanced at the cops. One was off looking at heavy artillery across the store. The other was giving him the eyeball. Granger knew he must look ratty after the fight with Jack and wondered if he was bleeding somewhere.

  He quickly turned back to the counter where the kid had stacked the gun and ammo boxes.

  “Do you have a carry permit?”

  “No,” he whispered and shook his head.

  “That’s fine,” the kid said. “Just fill this out and we’ll get you going.” He pushed a paper on a clipboard to Granger and handed him a pen.

  Now you’ve done it, you idiot.

  He could feel sweat forming at the top of his forehead.

  If he filled out the form and the kid got some kind of red flag when he did the background check, the cops were right there.

  How could he get out of there?

  He’d tell the kid he forgot his wallet, that it was in his car. Then he could make a break for it.

  You never do anything right. Even this …

  “Whatchya gettin’ there?”

  Granger flinched and turned, quicker than he should have.

  It was the cop who’d been watching him. “That a little nine?”

  “Ah, no, actually it’s a .380.” Granger swallowed hard and wiped his forehead with the palm of his hand.

  “I like them two-tone jobs.” The cop pointed to a copper-and-black-colored gun in the glass case. “They’re makin’ ’em sharper and sharper these days.”

  “Yeah, they are,” Granger said.

  With pen in hand, he bent over the paper on the clipboard. He had to start writing something, but his mind was a jumble. He thought he might drip sweat right onto the paper. Should he fill out a false name, say he forgot his ID, and get out of there? Or fill out his real info and take his chances?

  Head buzzing, Granger scanned the form. Beyond name, address, and social security number, it asked:

  ___ Are you a fugitive from justice?

  ___ Are you under indictment?

  ___ Have you ever been convicted?

  By that very moment, he was probably considered a fugitive. There must have been twenty yes-no questions on the forms. There was no way he was going to stand there, fill that thing out, and take the risk of being grabbed.

  “Man, I don’t know what I was thinking,” Granger said softly, taking several steps toward the kid, who had wandered ten feet down the counter. “I left my wallet in my car. Lemme go grab it. Be right back.”

  “No worries,” the kid said, as he walked toward the gun and ammo Granger had been about to purchase. “I’ll put this behind the counter till you get back.”

  “Great.”

  Granger turned and headed for the door, his heart thundering.

  He sensed the cop, still way too close. Saw his dark uniform out the corner of his eye.

  Just keep going.

  Within three feet of putting his hand on the door to push his way out of that hornet’s nest, Granger took one last glance back.

  The cop stood frozen, brazenly staring at the bulge in Granger’s back pocket, precisely where his wallet was situated.

  Like a flash, the cop’s brown eyes flicked up to meet Granger’s. He squinted, as if taking a mental photograph.

  Granger practically fell out of the store, losing his balance on the two steps leading down to the sidewalk. He found his feet and fought his way through the wall of sweltering heat that engulfed him. He was tempted to peer back through the store windows, but instead made a beeline for his car, moving as fast as a man could move without running.

  19

  Pamela turned on the lamp next to her in the den as the evening shadows filled the room. The police had finally gone, except for the one watching the house from her patrol car out front, and Jack was upstairs giving the girls their baths and getting them ready for bed.

  She looked at the old driving directions she had just dug out, the ones she always used to get to her parents’ home on Cleveland’s east side. There were a few stretches of Ohio freeway where she always got confused.

  She had not told Jack she was planning to take the girls to her parents in the morning. She knew it might not go over well, but this was a battle she was prepared to fight, because she was convinced it would be the safest place for them until Granger was captured.

  Pamela tried to imagine Granger’s basement apartment and the photographs of herself that Officer DeVry said they had found plastered all over the walls. Photos from old yearbooks, pictures he’d taken on her wedding day …

  How could she mean so much to him? She had simply been nice to him. She’d noticed someone shy and odd and wanted him to feel like he fit in, like he had some friends.

  Jack was not the least bit sympathetic, but that was between him and God. She didn’t have the time or energy to be his spiritual voice.

  In the box Granger left at the front door they found Rebecca’s locket and Pamela’s jewelry. The police took it all with them as evidence, including the letter Granger had enclosed in the box.

  In that cryptic, slanted handwriting of his, he’d written a lot of the same things he’d said in the confrontation out front. He was sorry, realized he had gone too far, and felt as if he was losing touch with reality.

  The letter was depressing and pitiful. He was a man showing obvious signs that he had been mentally abused his entire childhood. He had no one in the world and viewed himself as a worthless loner who never should have been born.

  Those were his words.

  How could his parents have been so cruel? It was their fault he’d turned out this way. What had gone on in that house around the corner from hers when they were in high school? The house wasn’t visible from the street but was grown over with trees, thick brush, and weeds. Did his parents still live there?

  DeVry and the other officers involved in the case insisted Granger wouldn’t get far. They thought he was driving the same brown car. One Trenton City officer thought he spotted Granger in Amiel’s gun shop on the square, trying to purchase a gun. Pamela wondered why he wanted it. To kill himself? He seemed desperate enough, and he had to know the police would track him down soon. To hold someone up for a car or money?

  To come back and torment them?

  She heard Jack’s footsteps on the stairs.

  “Cop still out there?” he asked.

  “Last I looked she was,” Pamela said. She heard him open the slats.

  “Yep.”

  “From what I can tell, she looks tougher than any of the guys who were here today,” Pamela said, trying to soften him a bit before broaching her trip to Cleveland.

  He plopped down next to her on the couch and groaned. “I wonder where he is right now.”

  “How’s your cut?” She reached toward the bandage a paramedic had put on the gash at the back of his head.

  “Can’t even feel it.”

  “How do the girls seem?”

  “If only I had that kind of faith,” he said.

  “Why? What happened?”

  “Just the way Faye prayed. So much confidence God will protect us ‘from that Granger man.’”

  They both laughed.

  “She prayed for my boo-boos to heal and for God to help the police ‘catch the man.’”

  “Aw. What about Rebecca?”

  “She’s quieter about the whole thing. She’s either scared or feels sorry for the guy.”

  Pamela watched as Jack found the directions lying next to her on the couch.

  “What’s this for?” he said.

  “I want to go to my folks’ in the morning. Take the girls. Just for a few days, till they catch him.”

  “What for? We have police
protection here.”

  “You heard the police, though. They said he’s not going to get far in that car—”

  “He can change cars, Pam.”

  “But I feel like he’s still around here.”

  “He’s going to be on the run!” He shifted uncomfortably. “He knows exactly where your parents live.”

  “I just have a feeling we need to get away from here, out of town.”

  “What about my folks’ place in Florida?”

  “I thought of that, but it’s so far.”

  “I know.”

  “This is what I want, Jack.”

  “I could work from the house, you know? We could all be together that way. It’s going to be over soon.”

  She wanted to remind him that they had all been together that day, and look what had happened, but she didn’t want to make it worse than it already was.

  “If it is over soon, then we will have had a great couple days letting the girls be with my folks. Something in my spirit is telling me to go.”

  “What are you going to tell your folks?” Jack said. “Your mom will have an absolute conniption.”

  “I thought I’d just say we came to visit,” Pamela said. “That you’re putting in a lot of time at the paper, working on Evan’s case.”

  Jack leaned forward and stuck his elbows on his knees. “I want to protect you. That’s my job,” he said. “Do you understand that?”

  “I do.” She rubbed his back gently. “Of course I do. But I’m not comfortable here right now. Between the break-in and him showing up today, I just need to get out of here. I need to get the girls away. Maybe you could come too?”

  “I can’t do that. I’ve got work to do. I’m way behind.”

  “Well, this way you’ll have time alone to concentrate and get caught up.”

  He sighed. “You’re probably right.”

  “DeVry said they’ll have police on the lookout up around Cleveland Heights too,” Pamela said.

  Jack stood, crossed to the window, and stared into the dark.

  “Honey,” she said, “it’s not you I don’t want to be with—it’s here. This house. Trenton City. I just need to get away.”

  He turned to face her. “I understand.”