All he knew was that he planned to sneak into the house. From there, he wasn’t sure. Perhaps he would give his mother and father a little dose of their own mental-abuse medicine; put the shoe on the other foot for a change.
Or maybe he had come to say good-bye—for good.
The windowless garage door was closed. He tried the side door next to it. With a good shoulder nudge it came unstuck, like always. He stepped into the darkness. The smell of dampness and grass clippings from the mower were immediately familiar.
What’s this?
Instead of the old Buick sedan his dad had driven forever, there sat one of those boxy conversion vans, an older model. Granger made his way along his dad’s long workbench, past the big vise and the large silver toolbox, and to the steps. Up he went, taking each gently, like a cat, avoiding those that he remembered creaked.
Silently he turned the knob to the door at the top of the steps and opened it several inches. He saw no one in the kitchen but smelled soup or chili cooking, which reminded him that they usually ate dinner extremely early, like three thirty or four. The audio from the TV projected loudly from the den. If it was anything like old times, he would bet his life his mother was watching soaps and his dad was either napping or doing the crossword from the day’s newspaper.
Quickly Granger swung the door open, crept into the kitchen, and peeked around the corner into the den. The room looked odd, rearranged, cluttered. From what he could see, his mother sat hunched, staring at the TV with her mouth open, her hair more gray than black now. His father was lying on his side, asleep. Sure enough, a Botox blonde was pitching a fit on the bulky old TV that still sat awkwardly on the fireplace hearth.
Granger turned and headed for the bedrooms in back, passing what turned out to be chili simmering on the stove. He would get some of that before he left. He tiptoed across the wood floor in the dining room, down the dim hallway to his bedroom.
Or was it?
He did a double take in the hallway, then stepped into what used to be his room. There was a new bed, much bigger, made neatly with a thick, dark brown comforter and beige pillows. A sleek nightstand was situated by the head of the bed, with a nice clock and a lamp he’d never seen. He walked farther in. The carpet was thick and also new. An impressive desk and lamp were against the wall to the left.
They’d completely redecorated his bedroom.
A new guest room for the guests they never have.
Clearly, Granger hadn’t been worth the time, thought, or expense for such nice things when he had lived there.
He crossed to the closet, spread open the accordion doors, and scanned its contents. He jerked the old jackets and women’s sweaters and dresses that were now on his hangers. Not one thing of his remained.
Quickly, his glance shifted to the shelves above—for his comics, car models, music books, snare drum, the old box of baseball cards. But the only things he found were an old sewing machine and several empty picture frames, which he recognized as those that had once displayed his band photographs.
Granger realized his teeth were locked so tightly together they were aching.
My trombone.
He dropped to his knees and swept back the clothes on the right—it wasn’t there. He shifted and ripped back the clothes hanging on the left—nothing.
If they got rid of my trombone … I paid for that thing with my own money!
He stood, taking one last look for any of his things.
Leaving the closet open, Granger exited the bedroom and stopped in the hallway; but hearing the TV and seeing no sign of movement toward the front of the house, he slipped into his mother and father’s bedroom.
Where his mother’s bed used to be, there was a new one, like a hospital bed, the top half tilted up, with silver rails on each side.
One of them was sick.
He could smell it. Seven or eight orange bottles of pills dotted the bedside. Everything else in the room looked the same, just messier than they normally kept things.
Granger ducked into the small bathroom, closed the door, and urinated. As he stood there, he took deep breaths and tried to relax. His whole body ached.
You need to get the guns.
The police were sure to drive by there sooner or later. They might even come to the door.
Whatever you’re gonna do, you need to move!
Every trace of Granger had been swept from the house. Truly, they had never wanted him.
Couldn’t they have faked it? At least pretended to care?
They were weird, cruel people—people with serious issues. That was what the shrink had implied. And that was what he had always reminded himself to try to make himself feel better, to try to explain the temptations and fears and evils that lurked within.
They deserve to suffer.
He rinsed his hands, watching the dirt swirl down the drain, figuring it had been a day or two since his last hot shower at the apartment. Splashing water on his face, he snapped out of it, grabbed a towel, and leaned close to the mirror as he dried. His orange hair was a mess and his ridiculously small, bloodshot eyes were underlined with dark half-circles. His face was puffy—just plain fat is what it was.
He’d always been ugly. It wasn’t just his weight. He was just plain unattractive. He knew it by the reaction of virtually every person he’d ever met. No one gave him the time of day. People would look at him and their eyes would roll off as if they’d never seen him at all.
Pamela had been the only one who made him feel worth anything.
You’ve poisoned that now.
He left the bathroom and ducked quickly to the floor of his parents’ closet. One of his father’s two guns—the smaller caliber of the two—was hidden in the Rockport shoe box, where his father had always kept them. Perhaps he’d sold the other or hidden it elsewhere; its clips weren’t there either. Granger pushed a button on the side of the handle, and one full black metal clip dropped into his palm. He clicked it back into the gun and grabbed the extra full clip lying in the box.
Stepping quietly to the window, he moved the curtain slightly with the back of his hand, peered out, and saw no cars. The gun was heavy. The gun gave him authority. Control.
Respect.
He inhaled deeply through his nose, held it for a long time, and exhaled slowly. Then he made his move down the hallway. It was time to greet his beloved parents.
Jack had to concentrate, so instead of getting back on the road, he remained seated in his car at Jimmy John’s as the phone rang at Pam’s parents’ house.
Margaret picked up. “Hello.”
She was who he didn’t want.
“Hey, Margaret, it’s Jack.”
“Oh, hi again, Jack.” She was her giddy self.
“Is Pam back yet?”
“You must really miss her!” Margaret giggled. “Not yet, but she should be here soon. You know her, she goes from one place to the next—loves being home.”
“Listen, Margaret,” Jack interrupted, “would you mind getting Ben on the other line with you? I need to tell you guys something real quick.”
“What is it?” Her voice immediately sobered, and she yelled for Benjamin to get on. “What’s going on, Jack? Is it your parents?”
“No.” It always amazed him how Margaret could go from normal to freak-out mode in under two seconds.
The line clicked. “Hello?”
“Hey, Benjamin, it’s Jack. I need to tell you and Margaret something. Now listen, this is most likely no big deal. In fact, it’s nothing, I’m sure. But I need to give you a heads-up, just in case.”
“Good Lord, Jack, what is going on?” Margaret was almost out of breath already.
“It turns out there is a man on the run right now—he’s probably going to be caught any minute by police—”
Margaret shrieked.
“Go ahead, Jack,” Benjamin insisted. “Margaret, calm yourself.”
“He’s kind of had his eye on Pamela—”
“Pamela!”
Margaret moaned, then sounded as if she was hyperventilating.
“Margaret!” Benjamin said. “I can’t hear him. Please!”
“He stole a car here in Trenton City last night,” Jack said. “He’s running from the police. He could be anywhere. He’s probably halfway across the country by now. But since—”
“Is Pam is danger right this second?” Margaret blurted. “Is she okay? Do you know she’s okay right now?”
“The only reason I’m even telling you this is because she doesn’t have her phone with her. I wanted to call and tell her and leave it at that. There’s a very small chance—”
“Is he here?” Margaret blurted. “In Cleveland Heights?”
“Please, Margaret, let me finish,” Jack spoke over her. “Let’s not make this worse than it is. Since you have Rebecca and Faye, I wanted you to be aware that this guy is at large—”
“The girls!” she screamed. “Ben, are they with you?”
“Would you stop?” Ben barked. “They are right here.”
“It’s most likely he’s long gone out of Ohio,” Jack said, “and there’s nothing whatsoever to worry about. I just wanted you to know that, for now, you should probably keep the girls inside and keep the doors locked.”
“Doing it now, Jack,” Benjamin said.
“Do you know he’s here and you’re not telling us?” Margaret’s voice quivered. Her breathing was heavy, as if she was pacing. “Tell the truth, Jack!”
He wasn’t about to tell them who it was or that Granger had gone to school with Pam and lived within blocks of them.
“Jack.” Benjamin ignored his wife. “Should I try to find Pam?”
“You are not leaving me!” Margaret yelled. “There is no way you’re leaving this house!”
Jack seethed. That’s why the woman lived in such a pathetic state of fear, because all she thought about was herself.
“Just stay put for now, Ben,” Jack said. “I want you there with the girls. I’m sure Pam will be back any minute. Have her call me the second she gets there.”
Jack heard someone slurping at a bottle, and he knew it wasn’t Benjamin. “Margaret, can I talk to Ben alone for a minute?”
“What are you not telling me?” Margaret said. “Let’s have it all, Jack.”
“Get off the phone now, Margaret,” Benjamin said evenly.
The line clicked.
“Please, Ben,” Jack said, “just keep a close eye on the girls.”
“Don’t worry. We’re all locked up, and they are right here with me.”
“I know you have a gun in the house,” Jack said. “You may want to keep it with you, but please, make sure it’s out of reach of the girls.”
“Who is this guy, Jack?”
Jack paused.
Maybe it would be best for Benjamin to know. That way there wouldn’t be any confusion if Granger did show or if somehow the police got involved.
“Please don’t tell Margaret; it will just freak her out,” Jack said. “It’s a friend of Pam’s from high school. Name’s Granger Meade—”
A gasp came from the other end of the line.
Margaret had never hung up the phone.
27
Standing in a dusty corner within the old Greyhound station with its yellowing tile floors and tired cream-colored walls, Evan was deflated to learn from the reader board that the next bus heading for south Florida didn’t leave until late that night.
He peered up at the board again—the old-fashioned kind with the black felt background and white plastic letters and numbers—then picked up his bag and approached the ticket window. The old gentleman with white beard stubble and a checked conductor’s cap sitting low behind the glass assured Evan that the bus he was interested in would depart at 10:40 p.m. and arrive in Venice, Florida, the closest stop to Englewood, the next afternoon, with many stops along the way—too many.
Evan purchased a ticket and quietly thanked the man. He walked to a nearby wooden bench where he set down his bag and gazed through the dirty, crooked blinds into the motionless street.
He looked at his watch and figured he had something like seven hours to wait.
He was so tired. His stomach burned with hunger, but he wanted no food. In fact, Evan actually wanted to suffer. He wanted that unanswered hunger to burn off all the fat and dross and sinfulness, to quicken him, to bring him close to the bone.
He slid onto the bench, elbows on knees, head in hands. He could change his mind, walk back to the car, fill it with gas, and take back roads all the way to south Florida; the GPS would get him there.
But he just didn’t have it in him. Besides, his car would be spotted. Then he would be apprehended, brought in, possibly charged, and there would be press coverage. Wendy and the boys would go through endless humiliation—as if they weren’t going to face enough already.
The tips of his fingers tingled. He opened and closed his hands numerous times to make it go away, but it wouldn’t. He felt like a guinea pig that was being poked, prodded, and drugged in some miserable testing lab. He contemplated the weirdness of all the different side effects popping up since he quit the antidepressants. If they were capable of causing all those visible effects, what had they been doing to his brain?
Why hadn’t he killed himself already? He’d had plenty of time alone at the cabin. Could he do it? Would he go to hell for it? He eyed the black duffel. The gun was right inside. He’d gone from one cheap motel to another, the gun in the room with him each time. One time he had even taken it out and, with hands sweating, pushed the slide back and inserted a bullet into the chamber.
You don’t have the guts.
Yes he did.
He stood, caught his balance, snatched the bag, and headed for the doors and the sidewalk beyond. He would go to the car and decide what to do from there.
All this time he had been determined to visit the cottage in Englewood one last time. Something was calling him back to that particular slice of life and sand and ocean where everything had been so right.
As he walked along the sidewalk toward the library where he had parked, a breeze kicked up and with it came memories of the cottage where he and Wendy had slow-danced countless times on the screen porch and even out on the dock, beneath moonlit skies and shimmering seas. They’d gone to that same cottage since before any of the boys had been born. They’d made passionate, fun, breathless love in most of its rooms. Later they even determined that Nathaniel, their oldest, had been conceived at the cottage during one of their vacations.
Evan took a turn on Bell Street. The gun made the bag heavy. The library was down just a ways.
He and the boys had always bonded in Englewood. They would fish and fly kites and ride bikes, while Wendy read book after book. She even had a membership at the local library. Most of all, Evan and the boys would laugh and love and ride the pounding Gulf waves until their bodies collapsed beneath the gold umbrella stuck in the sand, where Wendy waited for them with towels and sandwiches and ice-cold sodas.
He’d thrown it all away—his precious marriage, his life as father to those three wonderful sons, his reputation, his ministry.
Because of the depression, there was no going back or making things right. His life was controlled by it. He’d battled it for years and lost. Yes, lost. Period.
Many days were so heavy and bleak he didn’t want to get out of bed. But he had to. So he would end up fighting, fighting, fighting—just to keep his sanity, to somehow find some light—just to live the kind of day a “normal” person lived without even thinking about it.
Why?
Why was he like this?
So weak and hopeless.
He dug out his remote, unlocked the car, and headed toward one of the back doors.
Why had God made him so frail?
Oh, it wasn’t as if he was actually asking God those questions, because he and God weren’t on speaking terms. Whenever Evan thought about communicating with God, he sensed some sort of invisible ceiling above h
im. It wasn’t that God didn’t hear him; God was just silent. An observer. Evan’s prayers were hindered, a thought he was sure old Andrew Satterfield would have appreciated.
But he was good at helping people.
Were. You were good at helping people. Your reputation is ruined.
Right there! Who planted that thought? Satan? God? He didn’t know the difference anymore. Everything had blurred. He’d lost the moorings on which he had once built a life.
Evan pulled open the back door on the passenger side of the car, stood there, and looked around the shady parking lot to make sure no one was watching. A mother and three boys entered the library. Pushing back thoughts of Wendy and his sons, Evan tossed the duffel to the floor of the backseat, got in, shut the door, and lay down.
After looking at his watch and trying to get comfortable—finally nestling his head in the crook of his crossed arms—he closed his eyes.
He would sleep.
Sleep till the bus came.
Or until someone found him.
It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered …
The harsh taste of the pill he had spit out came back up his throat, into his mouth.
The lyrics of an old James Taylor song whispered into his drifting mind. Set me free, sleep come free me, please, please, please …
Granger noted the heft of the gun in his right hand as he crept down the hallway back toward his parents’ den. Man, were they in for a surprise. For once, he would be in control. For once—perhaps one last time—they would have to listen to him.
What exactly he was going to do, he still didn’t fully know. Whatever it was, he needed to move swiftly. The cops could be nearby.
It was his deranged mother he wanted a piece of. She was the one—
“The prodigal returns.”
Granger froze at the entrance to the dining room. Slowly he turned to his right. There stood his father. Calm. Older. Smaller. One arm comfortably at his side; the other, bent at the elbow, pointing at Granger’s heart with the bulky, dark gray .45 caliber that had been missing from the Rockport box.
“The police were here,” Father said quietly. “Said you might pay us a visit.” From behind smudged glasses, Father’s cataract-glazed brown eyes flicked to the weapon at Granger’s side. “Give it here.”
Fear Has a Name: A Novel (The Crittendon Files) Page 19