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

by Creston Mapes

  He pictured Pamela’s childhood home, not far from his own. Last he knew, her parents still lived there. He would slide by it one last time. Who knew how long it would be before he would see it again.

  Pamela had aged so beautifully. After seeing her the day before, he swore she was prettier now than ever.

  Jack Crittendon was a lucky man—in more ways than one.

  Lucky he’s not dead.

  He flicked the butt of the cigarette out the window and watched in the rearview mirror as it sparked orange and danced in the road behind him.

  Where did those hideous thoughts come from?

  You’re sick, you know that?

  He would never have hurt Jack—would he?

  His mother had told him repeatedly that he had a demon.

  “You were designed for the Devil’s use, Granger Lawrence Meade,” she would say. “Just a puppet of the prince of the power of the air.”

  Perhaps he would not stop to see them.

  Perhaps he would just keep driving, right on up to Carvers Cove on Lake Erie.

  There was a place he knew where he could sit on the enormous rocks right where the waves broke, mighty and unforgiving. And with the weight of the world—and all the badness and meanness of it on his shoulders—he could slip right into the water, and just keep going.

  Cleveland’s Monday morning rush hour had dwindled by the time Pamela, Rebecca, and Faye blazed the trail up I-90’s Innerbelt Freeway and into the gritty old city.

  Buckled up in the backseat—which was now scattered with muffin crumbs, crayons, books, and papers—the girls lifted themselves as high as they could, peering wide-eyed like panting puppies at men and women in suits bustling to work, a homeless person holding a cardboard sign, a messenger on a bicycle, a newspaper blowing across the street. Passing the familiar intersections of Carnegie, Euclid, and Prospect in the cool shade of the tall, ancient brown and gray buildings, Pamela let out a sigh, relieved to be “home.” She could finally relax.

  They passed the concrete campus of Cleveland State and zipped on out past Superior and St. Clair to the lakefront. There was a shorter way to the Heights, but she wanted the girls to see the lake—and she wanted to see it too.

  “Look, an airplane!” Rebecca pointed north at one of the small planes taking off from Burke Lakefront Airport. Heading out I-90 east gave the girls a beautiful view of Lake Erie, whose water was dark, choppy, and vast. They passed runners and walkers, bikers and skaters, and people walking dogs on leashes.

  She viewed the people of her hometown as warriors of sorts for braving those frigid, snowy, gray winters when the sun rarely shined. Between the lake-effect winds and the freezing temperatures, it was brutal, both physically and mentally. When spring finally bloomed and summer blossomed—after what seemed like nine months of winter—so did peoples’ hearts and souls. They came out of hibernation to relish the thick green grass, to absorb the penetrating heat of the long-missed sun, and to stand between hedges in front yards and talk to their neighbors again.

  She’d phoned Jack ten minutes earlier to let him know they were safe and almost to her folks’ house. They’d stopped once at a Starbucks along I-71 for a potty break and tea for Pamela. She felt rather proud they’d made the trip so efficiently. Jack had no news from the police on Granger’s capture. Surely it could only be a little longer.

  Heading out Cleveland Memorial Shoreway, Pamela realized she was actually feeling sympathy for Granger. Who knew what it was like to be bullied as he had and to grow up in that home, with those parents? How difficult it would have been for anyone to overcome all of that mental baggage.

  And now what? He would be going to prison.

  For how long?

  Would he dare invade her life again when he got out?

  “Will PawPaw take us on that boat again?” Rebecca asked, referring to a boat tour of Lake Erie that Pamela’s dad had taken them on the last time they visited. That was when her mother had pitched such a fit about making sure they all wore life jackets; her dad had almost strangled her.

  “I’m not sure how long we’re going to be here, honey,” Pamela said. “We’ll see.”

  Of course, Pamela’s mother had not gone on the excursion. She’d said she felt sick that morning and, indeed, had probably made herself ill with anxiety. Of what had she been afraid? The water? Other boats? Drowning? It never failed—she always found something to fear.

  Don’t even go there. Just keep it positive. Be a light.

  They passed the picturesque green setting at Lakefront Park. It was spectacular. The sky was a piercing cobalt blue. The sunlight danced on the water.

  “How long till we get there, Mommy?” Faye asked.

  “Not long, sweetie,” Pamela said. “You girls have been so good on this trip. I am so proud of you. What good travelers you are.”

  “I’ve got to go potty,” Faye said.

  They would come back out to one of the parks along the lake sometime during the trip, after they got settled in at the folks’ house.

  “Okay, sweetie,” Pamela said. “Just hold it a few more minutes. We’ll be there soon.”

  In a few blocks Pamela took a right and headed inland toward her neighborhood in the Heights. The old streets, sidewalks, trees, buildings, and residences never changed much. It was the same where they lived in Trenton City. Not so in Atlanta. When they had lived there, the landscape changed constantly—roads being widened, new plazas going up, new schools being built, orange barrels everywhere. She didn’t miss it a bit and in fact loved Trenton City as a place for raising the girls.

  They curved around Providence Parkway down into the valley. Granger’s street was just off to the left. She was tempted to drive by his house, which, last she remembered, was covered up by trees and had a deep, damp, slanting backyard enclosed by a chain-link fence.

  The next street was Pamela’s.

  “Almost there,” she said.

  She took the familiar turn and felt a tug of apprehension as they glided along the shady, tree-lined street with spots of sunlight dotting the way.

  “This is my street,” Pamela said, “where I grew up.”

  The middle-class, two-story homes sat one upon the other, separated by abutting driveways and manicured shrubs.

  “I remember this!” Rebecca said. “Oh, I love this place.”

  Pamela had decided not to tell her parents that she and the girls were coming. It was a bit out of character for her, but she knew from talking to them recently that they were going to be home for the week, and with all of the emotion of the past days, she didn’t want to get on the phone and accidentally spill her guts. Plus, she thought they would be blessed by the surprise.

  “I remember too!” Faye called.

  Pamela swung the red Accord into the driveway and stopped next to the sidewalk leading to the front door. Both of the girls’ doors bounced open, and they were flying for the front porch before Pamela could even get out of the car.

  Pamela’s dad’s little gold Ford wasn’t in the driveway. He was probably walking at the mall or having his fifth cup of coffee with his cronies at the food court. The mall was his refuge. It was only two miles from the house, and four or five of his boyhood buddies congregated there almost daily.

  She got out, gathered some trash from the car, and headed up the sidewalk. Meanwhile, Rebecca had already dashed to the front porch and, with her hands cupped against her face, peered in the front window, while Faye rang the doorbell and knocked at the front door.

  Pamela assumed her mom’s car was in the garage out back, but she could be at the store or running errands. That would be fine. It would give them a chance to get their things in and get settled. She made her way up the steps to the wide front porch.

  “MawMaw isn’t answering.” Pamela said.

  “She must not be home.” Faye now did what her big sister had done, blocking the reflection with her hands and looking in through the glass in the front door.

  Pamela walked to the
far side of the porch and got the key that was hidden behind the shutter. She crossed to the front door.

  “Here, sweetie.” She put her hands on Faye’s little shoulders and gently guided her out of the way. “Let Mommy get in there. I have a spare key here.”

  “Yay, yay!” Rebecca bounced. “I thought we were going to have to sit out here till they got home.”

  “Yay!” Faye yelled and tugged on Pamela’s shirt.

  Pamela unlocked both dead bolts, pushed the old door open, and entered the dark living room. The floor creaked, and the air was still and stale. As she had noticed her past few visits, the house smelled ever so slightly like a nursing home, even more so as she drew further inside.

  Old age was old age. The carpet was spotted because they weren’t as with it as they used to be. She remembered Mom telling her when they were together last that it was becoming more difficult to keep her breath fresh. Her mother had bouts with yeast infections, and she was fighting a low blood platelet count. Daddy’s hygiene had been slipping of late as well, Mom had said. He didn’t shave or get his hair cut as often as he used to, and she often had to nag him about putting on a fresh shirt or pants instead of wearing the same things repeatedly.

  “Mom?” Pamela headed into the kitchen. “Anybody home?”

  “MawMaw!” Rebecca yelled. “MawMaw, surprise!”

  “Surprise, PawPaw!” Faye cried. “Anybody home?”

  “I don’t think they’re here, girls,” Pamela said.

  She noticed something shiny on the kitchen floor and stopped cold. “Don’t come in here, girls.” She knelt down over shattered pieces of one of her mother’s broken dinner dishes.

  “Mom?” She stood. “Are you here?”

  “What’s wrong, Mommy?” Rebecca was holding Faye by the shoulders now, just outside the kitchen.

  Pamela scanned the room, thinking her mother might have passed out. She looked for blood from the shattered plate but saw nothing.

  “I heard something.” Rebecca’s eyes shifted to the ceiling. “Upstairs.”

  Faye looked up.

  Pamela went past the girls. “Follow me, girls. Not too closely. Just stay where I can see you.” She climbed the steps quickly, her adrenaline kicking up a notch with each step.

  This can’t have anything to do with Granger.

  Maybe Mom had hurt herself or had a heart attack and was somewhere in the house.

  The doors in the upstairs hallway were never closed, but one was now: her mom and dad’s bedroom at the end of the hall. Should she call the police?

  You’re paranoid. It’s just a closed door.

  “Yoo-hoo,” Pamela called as she walked gingerly toward the closed door. Her heart ticked rapidly, but she was trying to be lighthearted in front of the girls. “Mom, Dad, anybody home?” She got to the door, stopped, and knocked. “Mom? It’s Pamela. Surprise.” She knocked harder. “You in there?”

  Someone was. Pamela heard movement.

  “Mommy, I’m scared,” Rebecca said.

  “Me too,” said Faye.

  Pamela could barely catch a breath. “Don’t worry,” she managed. The top of her head buzzed. It all felt surreal. But she had to get a grip for her children’s sake. Quietly she tried the doorknob, but it was locked.

  Granger came to mind again, but she pushed the thought away.

  “Mom!” She called loudly this time. “Open up; it’s Pamela. I brought the girls for a surprise visit.”

  After a time of silence, the lock clicked loudly, jolting Pamela. She grabbed the knob and pushed the door open. Her mother was walking away into the dark room, arms wrapped tightly around herself, toward a window where the shade was pulled down.

  Pamela held up a hand toward the girls. “Stay here for a minute,” she whispered.

  “Mom?” She walked slowly into the bedroom, overcome by the smell of liquor. She squinted in the dark, scanning the room for any sign of trouble, for her dad, for Granger—but there was no one else. “Mom, did we frighten you?”

  Her mother nodded as she stood facing the window.

  Pamela touched her shoulder from behind. Her mother was shaking.

  “I’m sorry, Mom,” Pamela said. “We wanted to surprise you. Bad idea, huh?”

  Her mom didn’t look back, just nodded more aggressively. Her breathing was rapid and irregular, somewhere between laughter and sobs. Pam leaned around to see her face. The fear and paranoia and bitterness of a lifetime showed in her brittle white hair and deeply creased face—which was highlighted almost grotesquely by swollen, dark purple bags beneath her sagging eyes.

  “It’s okay, Mom.” Pamela gently turned her around, wondering if she was doped up on some kind of medication. “Is that what it was? We just frightened you?”

  Again her mother nodded heavily then stared with sunken eyes past Pamela, toward her granddaughters. Her eyes were glazed. Her mouth hung open. If Pamela didn’t know any better, she would think her mother didn’t recognize any of them.

  22

  Following Barbara Cooley’s advice, Jack made his way to the enormous sanctuary of Evan McDaniel’s church in hopes of finding worship leader Patrick Ashdown. Entering the cool, dark sanctuary was like going into a sports arena before the fans arrived. It featured two decks of steep, stadium-style seating all the way around, with a round white stage on the floor at the center—all of it lit by dramatic indirect lighting.

  He followed the beating of the drums to the sophisticated-looking drum kit off to one side of the stage but could not see the person making the noise due to the reflections shining off the Plexiglas surrounding the drums.

  “Hello,” Jack called as he approached.

  The sound stopped and a man stood from behind the drums, raising a hand to cut the glare of the lights. “Can I help you?”

  “I think so, if you’re Patrick,” Jack said.

  “I am.” He put his sticks down and made his way around the equipment and down the steps.

  They shook hands and made introductions, and Jack explained the reason for his visit. He turned down Patrick’s offer for coffee, and they sat in two cushy theater-style seats in the front row.

  Probably about forty, Patrick wore navy Dockers, a pink button-down shirt, with a shiny brown belt and shoes. Based on the man’s long, straight blond hair, which was parted in the middle and tied back in a ponytail, Jack assumed the dressy clothes must be part of a staff dress code. Patrick was about six feet, with sunburned cheeks and dark brown eyes and eyebrows.

  Jack learned right off the bat that Patrick and Evan were close friends who had worked together for years and known each other even longer.

  “I knew something was not exactly right that morning,” Patrick said. “Evan was down. His color wasn’t good. He looked exhausted. I thought he might be sick.” He shifted in his seat. “He seemed absentminded, which isn’t like him. When I asked what was wrong, he said he’d tell me later. But looking back on it, there was a look in his eyes … I should have picked up on it and tried to dig deeper.”

  “What did you see in his eyes?” Jack asked.

  “Desperation?” Patrick said. “Anxiety? I’m not sure. Hopelessness? He was obviously not himself. Evan is always all about people, church stuff, ministry, all that. He’d do anything for anybody. But his mind was a million miles away that day. He was consumed with something.”

  “What? Any idea?”

  Patrick shook his head. “Don’t know.” He squinted and scanned the large room. “Are you aware he struggled with depression?”

  “Yes, I’ve heard that,” Jack said.

  “He was under a lot of pressure.”

  “Anything in particular?”

  “There’s a small contingency in leadership who don’t think Evan is fit to pastor.”

  “I’ve heard that also—especially Andrew Satterfield.”

  Patrick looked uncomfortable. Jack explained that he had interviewed Satterfield and had discussed the situation with Wendy McDaniel.

  �
�That guy …” Patrick pursed his lips and waited an extra moment before speaking. “As if there wasn’t already enough stress being head pastor, Evan’s had to deal with all this infighting.”

  “This can be off the record,” Jack said, “but what do you think about the talk of suicide?”

  Patrick chewed the inside of his top lip and again hesitated before speaking.

  “It’s possible,” he said. “But I can’t fathom him leaving Wendy and the boys. I just can’t. The only way that could be possible is if he was in such a state of depression—worse than any of us knew about.”

  “I guess that’s possible,” Jack said.

  “From what I know, Evan was fine when he was on his medication. But Satterfield made him feel so inadequate, as if Christians can’t struggle with depression, especially those in leadership. That’s why Evan quit taking his meds from time to time. If he did take his own life, Satterfield’s going to have to live with it.”

  “Okay …” Jack hesitated. “I’m going to be straight up about this next thing. It’s something that’s bugging me.”

  Patrick just stared at him.

  “I’ve been told Evan sometimes counsels women one-on-one,” Jack said. “There’s a lady named Sherry—”

  “Pendergrass,” Patrick interrupted. “I’ll tell you right now, Evan was not having an affair with her or anyone else. That’s that. Next question.”

  “Okay.” Jack nodded and retreated to his notes, pondering where to go next.

  “I’m sorry,” Patrick said. “That sounded rude, but Evan is committed to God and to the vows he made to Wendy. They lead incredible marriage seminars.”

  Jack didn’t have time to explain that he had been to one.

  “Look.” Patrick sat on the edge of his seat and clasped his hands in front of him. “He’s either gone off because of the pressures and intolerance here at the church, or something’s happened to him.”

  Jack let that register. What did he mean? Could he finally have someone here with as suspicious a mind as his own?

  “Like what?” Again, open-ended was always best.