It was as if a lightning bolt had blistered the place. She knew it too.
Suddenly, the two of them sat there, stone-cold sober in their separate worlds of sin and humiliation and humanness—and they cried. Sherry’s trembling hands reached for Evan’s shoulders and he pushed them away, as they awkwardly touched hands and separated. She cried out repeated apologies for what she had done to his family and marriage and ministry.
The repulsive lie of their fictional relationship pounded in Evan’s head and rib cage as he gathered his things.
“I’m going,” he had said.
Mascara running rivers of black down her face, Sherry shook her head, reaching out for him again, but Evan bolted for the door.
“Where?” she cried.
“It doesn’t matter,” Evan said.
She nodded, almost uncontrollably. “I’ll go too. I’m so sorry. I’ll go away—somewhere far, right now. You go back to Trenton City, make things right … I’ll move away for good if I have to, to clear your name.”
Evan blew out of there, leaving the door banging open and Sherry babbling in the wind.
Now, driving about the red brick, red clay, single-story town of Fort Prince, North Carolina, Evan cruised past a deserted auto garage for the second time and turned around to go back. It was his best bet. If one of the three huge bay doors was open, he could back the car in and it would go unnoticed for quite awhile. Pulling up to the broken-down garage, he parked, hopped out, and tried each of the three bay doors, but all were locked.
So be it.
He hurried back into the car and headed for his second choice, a midsize library about three blocks off the square.
It doesn’t even matter, just go.
If he had to leave the car out in public, the library was the best spot he could find. He figured no one would notice it had been abandoned for several days. That would be all the time he needed to get where he was going, to the ocean where things had once been the way they should be. There, he would finally do what had to be done.
25
Pamela felt so refreshed to be driving around the familiar streets of Cleveland Heights. No phone. No girls. No responsibilities—just alone. Warm breeze. Memories of youth and times when life was carefree.
She couldn’t be out of contact with the girls much longer. And she knew Jack might have tried to reach her again. She figured he might have even called her folks’ house, since she wasn’t answering; he was so protective. Mom or Dad would have explained that she had forgotten her phone and was running errands.
Just a little while longer, then back to reality.
Back to her parents’ house. Back to being a full-time mommy and daughter—and wife. Back to the routine that sometimes got to feeling like a deep rut of repetition, but one she wouldn’t trade for the world.
A new Starbucks had gone into the plaza where Dominic’s Pizzeria used to be. The car wash across from the bowling alley stood vacant, weeds sprouting through the broken concrete. The tux shop was now a smoke shop, and the mall had undergone a facelift, complete with a big fountain at the main entrance.
It was time to get back.
She took Ravenna Boulevard east toward her neighborhood, past the shoe store, the dry cleaner, and a bunch of little bars and ethnic eateries. Much of the area was blue collar—the skyline not far from there comprised steel mills, smokestacks, and rubber manufacturers. But people were moving south because of plant closings. The area had changed.
Wearing shorts and tank tops, black and Hispanic children, whites and Asians skipped, rode bikes, and skated along the uneven sidewalks. Little girls danced and laughed in a front-yard sprinkler with a beagle nipping at their heels. An elderly man in dark blue denim overalls sat in a rocking chair on his front porch, staring off into nowhere.
Old age was sad. Her parents had changed so.
They would die one day.
Who first?
Would they go to heaven?
Death took everyone.
But what about the innocent?
Babies who died at birth or mothers giving birth? Cancer victims? Children starving? Why were some kids severely handicapped and others abused? Even more difficult to reconcile—why did God allow children and young adults to be kidnapped, sexually abused, and murdered by complete strangers?
It happened. Sometimes Christians were the quickest to attempt to excuse God from the equation. “I don’t believe God caused that plane to crash,” they would say, “but he allowed it.”
But in Pamela’s estimation, God was either in control or not.
Somehow, some way, he was in charge of everything—every circumstance. She recalled the words she’d found and pondered so deeply during her fast: he has made everything for its own purpose, even the wicked for the day of evil.
She slowed down and made a sudden left on Broussard Boulevard, telling herself it was the quickest route home.
What had Granger been through all those years? How did he turn out the way he did? What had gone on in that house?
Why had God allowed Granger to torment her?
What was the purpose?
Was there one?
Were his parents still alive? Still in that house?
She was curious, that was all.
Without warning or blinker, she made a quick right on Shady Meadows, precisely in the direction of Granger’s childhood residence.
Jack had been surprised when Hank Garbenger agreed to take time out of his workday to meet him for a late lunch at Jimmy John’s. The sub shop was nestled in a busy plaza near where Hank worked as a foreman in the distribution center of a large dairy manufacturer.
“I got painted the villain over there at the church, but there’s more to the story,” Hank had spouted on the phone. “I don’t know if it has anything to do with Pastor Evan’s disappearance, but something fishy’s going down over there.”
All Jack wanted to do was keep busy until he heard from Pam and, if possible, fill in his story about Evan with some fresher content. Having arrived at the bustling restaurant ten minutes early, Jack grabbed a roast beef sub and was formulating some last-minute questions as he waited for Hank in a booth.
DeVry had told him on the phone on the way over that there had been no sighting of Granger but that the APB had gone nationwide. The Cleveland Heights PD and police at several other potential destination spots had also been put on high alert for Granger and the Impala. “To tell you the truth, Jack,” DeVry had said, “my gut feeling is that he’s a long way from Ohio or any of the other obvious destinations by now.”
Maybe it was just his reporter’s instinct, but Jack didn’t take a whole lot of comfort in DeVry’s words. Or perhaps his unrest had more to do with the impassioned look he had seen emblazoned on Granger’s face when the creep laid eyes on Pam during the brawl in front of their house.
He was a man possessed.
Jack had tried to reach Pam again from the restaurant but got her voice mail. He did not leave another message; she would see that he had called. Although the last thing he wanted to do was to get her parents riled up—especially her basket-case mother—he decided if he hadn’t heard from Pam by the time he finished with Hank, he would call her parents and tell them about Granger and the stolen car. He wouldn’t give them all the gory details about the break-in and how Pam was being stalked but just enough to put them on alert.
He made the decision right then that the safety of Pam and the girls was more important than sparing her parents from a few hours of worry.
The man Jack guessed was Hank Garbenger got out of a white van and walked through the crowded parking lot with long, forceful strides, sunglasses atop his head and a bulky white plastic Walmart bag swinging from a big fist. He entered, stopped, searched the room, and made eye contact with Jack, who stood to greet him.
After spreading the vast contents of the sack in front of him on the table, Hank scrunched up the bag and put his head down for a silent prayer. It reminded Jack to do the same, s
o he took a moment, requesting that God station his guardian angels around Pam and the girls. Then he looked up at the middle-aged man across from him, who had a long, thin, rough-looking face, the kind of guy you might bump into running the merry-go-round at the county fair. He had a head full of curly brown hair and a pack of cigars in the breast pocket of his green-and-white plaid short-sleeved shirt.
Hank said he had read Jack’s stories about Evan’s disappearance in the Dispatch. He seemed genuinely concerned about Evan, the very pastor who had disciplined him in front of the whole congregation for cheating on his wife, according to Wendy McDaniel and Barbara Cooley.
“What is your hunch about where Evan is?” Jack got to the point quickly.
“Oh, shoot, I have no clue where he is,” Hank said, taking a mammoth bite of the huge turkey sandwich he’d brought from home. “I for one feel sorry for the guy. I just hope he don’t hurt himself; I’m afraid that’s where it may be headed.”
When Jack asked if Hank had heard about a possible affair between Evan and Sherry Pendergrass, Hank shrugged and got rather loud. “That guy was under a microscope,” he said with his mouth full. “Everything he did got scrutinized by the higher-ups. He’s the most upstanding person at that church. Even the way he handled my whole mess, he was civil, wise … Some of them pastors and elders had it out for me after the mistakes I made—”
“You’re talking about a relationship?”
“Yeah. I admit I made the worst mistake of my life, and I’m paying for it; and I’m trying to fix it. Me and Audrey got counseling, from Pastor Evan, in fact. He did it privately, on his own dime, because the church board wouldn’t allow him to counsel us. He met with us every other week for months, and it really helped. Those vultures made the whole situation worse; just scorned us. It figures they’d chase him out. Bunch of Pharisees.”
“Do you really think they want him out?”
“It’s a fact, okay? Trust me.”
“Who, specifically?” Jack had a hunch.
Hank did not hesitate. “Andrew Satterfield. He wants to be the pastor over there—everybody knows it. Now he’s getting his wish. He’s convinced at least a few of the elders that Pastor Evan is weak. Needless to say, we don’t go there no more. But I think Satterfield has major issues.”
“I’ve met him,” Jack said. “Issues like what?”
“He’s a control freak.” Hank dug into a bag of pork rinds. “Just ruthless. You know, Pastor Evan didn’t hire him. Pastor Evan was brought in by the board later. Satterfield has always been peeved he didn’t get the job as senior pastor.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“I think the whole reason he forced Evan to handle the church discipline on me was because he didn’t think Evan would go through with it; thought he’d quit or something. Otherwise he would have loved handling it himself, trust me.”
Evan’s depression, Hank said, was just another excuse Satterfield used to try and force Evan out the door.
Hank looked around the sub shop, as if to make sure no one was listening too closely. “I’m gonna tell you something, Jack, but you didn’t hear it from me. You can write about it, but you can’t say where you got it from.”
Getting to the good stuff.
“Okay, tell me.”
Hank looked around again and leaned over the table, closer to Jack. “I admit when I had the affair and all the bologna was hitting the fan, I was a jerk, okay? I know that now. And there are things I’d do differently.”
“Yeah …”
“I was so ticked off.” Hank smashed up all the trash from his lunch into a wad and stuffed it into the bag he’d brought it in. “I was mad at Evan for the church discipline, although in the end that turned out to be a good thing.” He laughed. “I was mad at the elders. Shoot, I was bitter at the entire congregation, really. But most of all, I had an issue with Satterfield, because I knew he’d put Evan up to it—and it was so humiliating. I knew he wanted me out, and I suspected he wanted Evan out too. So I started following him.”
This is getting interesting.
Hank leaned back and took a big breath, then exhaled. “I don’t know if I was looking for dirt on him as payback, or if I was hoping he might even notice me following him so I’d scare the tar out of him …”
“And?”
“The guy has a lake house in Lincolntown and a twenty-five-foot sport boat.” Hank said it with the force of a howitzer. “It’s on Lake Hudson. I’ve seen it.”
“Who knows about this?”
“I’m not sure,” Hank said. “But I know that cruiser has twin Volvo engines and goes for a sweet chunk of change.”
“Really …” The goal was to keep him talking.
Hank closed his eyes and nodded slowly. “Yep.”
Jack waited.
“He ain’t married.” Hank leaned on the table, close to Jack. “So there’s no other income. And he has a house right here in town, but it’s middle income at best. That’s where he wants people to think he lives, but he spends most a’ his time at the lake.”
Jack shook his head and scribbled everything down as fast as he could.
“I don’t know if he’s renting the place on the lake or what,” Hank said. “But how can he afford all that on an assistant pastor’s salary?”
“Inheritance maybe?” Jack said.
Hank shook his head. “Two elders count the tithes and offerings every Sunday afternoon; the same two. Satterfield meets those two elders every other Thursday, twelve thirty, at Aqua Terra, fine food joint on Fourth Street.”
“I know of it.”
“Expensive.”
Jack nodded.
“Satterfield picks up the tab.”
“Could be a legitimate church write-off.”
“Could be a scandal.” Hank looked at his watch. “I gotta get back.”
Jack wrapped up his trash, hoping for more information. But Hank was on his way.
“Will you tell me the names of the two elders?” Jack said.
“Ryan Seeger and Bruce Trent.” He spelled the names, and Jack wrote them down.
They made eye contact as if to wrap up, then Hank turned and headed for the door. Jack followed. They walked outside, stopped, and faced each other.
“I called Archer Pierce at TV-10 News, you know? The investigative reporter?”
“I know Archer. He’s a friend.”
“Okay, so I told him all this, anonymously of course. I’m done with it. I’ve moved on. But I think he’s putting together a story.”
“Wow.” Jack’s wheels were turning. He wondered if or how the Satterfield stuff fit into his series about Evan. If it didn’t, he might need to talk to Cecil about doing a separate piece on it but only after the whole Evan saga came to a close.
The two shook hands, and Jack gave Hank his business card. “Please, if you find out any more on any of this stuff, or if Archer sheds any more light, let me know, will you?”
Hank said he would and headed for his van.
Hank was an okay guy.
It wouldn’t be an easy thing to put the pieces of one’s marriage back together after an affair. Jack’s thoughts turned to Wendy and Evan, their boys, and his unanswered questions about Evan’s involvement with Sherry.
On his way to the car, Jack took out his phone.
No text or call from Pam.
Dang it.
He got in the car and sat there, dreading the thought of getting Pam’s parents all stirred up about Granger being on the loose.
He just wanted Pam to call him. Then he could speak with her about it alone, give her the heads-up, and her folks would never have to know.
You’re being paranoid. Just wait for her to call. She will, soon.
Like DeVry said, Granger was probably as far out of Ohio as he could possibly be by now.
Jack wanted to believe that.
But something pushed him, made him look down at the number for Pam’s parents—and call.
26
Granger took one last hit of his cigarette, dropped it out the window, and pulled the Impala ever so quietly around the back of his parents’ house where it couldn’t be seen from the road. He brought it to a stop beneath the now huge sycamore tree, about thirty feet from the dilapidated shed in the backyard where he had spent so much time as a kid.
Although Granger had his own bedroom in the house, his mother had made him spend the night in the shed for certain transgressions. He’d grown up thinking this was normal. She would sequester him out there, quoting what he’d done wrong from Scripture. In his early years he’d read the Bible himself, trying to learn right from wrong, so he would stop frustrating her. But as he grew older, he realized that some of the things she punished him for were not even in the Bible. Once he accidentally dropped and shattered one of her favorite bowls and received two nights in the shed. Other times he would earn a night out there simply because she was in a bad mood and didn’t want to see his fat face.
His stomach churned. He hadn’t eaten all day, not to mention that he hadn’t seen his parents in years. He stood there by the car half frozen, staring down at the leaning shed with its rust-streaked metal roof, remembering how the rain sounded when it slowly began to pang, pang, pang. Then the skies would open and the downpour would clang and bash and echo so loud it would make his ears ring and threaten to drive him mad. And then the leaks would start, and he would drag the mattress wherever he could find a dry spot.
He looked up at the dining-room and kitchen windows but saw no one. The old chain-link fence that boxed in the backyard was leaning, vines overtaking it in places. Having been out on his own for so long, seeing how the world operated, watching other people, being out from under the tyranny and oppression of that prison, Granger realized how miserably he had been treated when he was growing up. It wasn’t fair.
Why did you even come back?
He didn’t know for sure what he was going to do.
He could have gone anywhere in the country, and here he was at one of the most obvious and dangerous places.
Fear Has a Name: A Novel (The Crittendon Files) Page 18