He continued to pretend he was asleep, frozen, hoping the knocking would stop, waiting, panning through all his options.
The knocking came louder now, and a voice with it. “Git yer bones up or they gonna take you in.” It was the shrill voice of a woman. “I ain’t gonna stand here all day.”
Evan propped himself up on his elbows and found himself squinting into the large brown eyes of a very small, elderly black woman. She wore a saggy woven hat with a curled brim all the way around and a dark purple wool overcoat.
“What you thinkin’? You tryin’ to land yerself in the big house?” She motioned across the parking lot. “Po-lice was just here. If you ain’t got no manners, I’ll be on my way.”
Her use of the word po-lice made Evan scramble upright and open the door. When he swung his feet around to the ground to face her, he realized he had kicked his shoes off while sleeping and was now sock-footed.
“Well, ain’t you a sight.”
Evan looked her up and down and wondered why on earth she had winter clothes on in the heat of summer. Beneath the oversized coat she wore gray sweatpants, white socks, and black vinyl shoes that looked too big.
“Ain’t you got nothin’ to say?” she said. “What’s yer name?”
What could it hurt? “Evan,” he said. “You?”
“Valerie,” she declared. “Valerie Belinda McShane.”
“Good to meet you.” Evan shook her hand, which was small and rough. “Did you say something about police?”
Her head craned around. “They cruised through here real slow-like. Not sure if they noticed those out-a-state tags a’ yours. One thing’s fer sure, if they’d known you was sleepin’ in there they’d have rousted you for certain. The Fort Prince po-lice do not stand for no loiterin’, nope, not ’round these parts.”
Evan figured if they had run his plates, it would have been finished; they never would have left. But he didn’t feel safe staying there much longer.
“How did you know I was in here?” he said.
“My belongings is right over yonder.” She pointed to a black metal bench beneath some large trees. A mixture of white plastic bags and brown shopping bags with big handles dotted the bench. “I don’t miss much. You slept a good bit. What brings a Yankee from Ahia south a’ the Mason-Dixon?”
“Just a little summer trip,” Evan said, leaning back into the car to get his shoes. “What town is this?”
“Fort Prince,” she said. “That’s not what I was told.”
Evan pulled his socks up, slipped on a shoe, and tried to figure out what she was talking about.
“You ain’t on no summer trip,” Valerie said. “You’s in trouble.”
Evan stopped. “Someone told you that, you say?”
She crossed her arms. Her mouth sealed into a smirk and she nodded big and slow.
“Who?” Evan said.
“Never you mind who,” she said. “You think you kin outrun yer problems?”
Evan stared at her with one shoe in his lap. She was either slightly off in the head, a prophetic bag lady, an angel, someone who liked to hear herself talk, or a combination of the above. When he had been closer to God, Evan would never have ignored a “chance” encounter such as this; he’d try to figure out what God might be trying to tell him. But now he just wanted to get out of there.
“Look.” He put on the other shoe and tied it. “Thanks for letting me know about the police. I’m going to be on my way. But I really appreciate you watching my back.”
“You took a vow, did you not?”
Evan’s whole body ached as he stood and examined Valerie.
Her eyes were fixed on his left hand—his wedding ring.
“For better or worse?” she said. “In sickness and in health?”
“What’s your point?” Evan didn’t know what else to say, but he knew he wanted her to stop. The whole thing was confounding.
“Just that you made a vow.”
For a second it was like he’d been dazed by a verbal stun gun.
A promise … to Wendy … before God.
And the boys …
Evan shook it off. He didn’t have time for this. Who was this Valerie, anyway? If she were so holy, so close to God, she certainly wouldn’t be homeless; God would have blessed her more than that.
Listen to you.
You are so messed up.
Deep within, Evan knew—or at least he had been taught—God didn’t operate that way. Rich or poor, God played no favorites. Valerie could be an angel. Evan knew God did not look at outward appearances; he bypassed all the obvious stuff the world judges and fixed his eyes on the hearts of men.
Evan’s head was so screwed up. It was as if he’d had a lobotomy. There was no feeling … He just seemed to go thirty miles per hour, never slower, never faster. His stomach ached and his fingertips tingled.
“You can either keep yer vow or try to play God yerself,” Valerie said. “That’s what yer doin’, you know. It’s selfish. So what if ya made mistakes? Sometimes ya gotta pull up yer britches, be a man—face the music.”
Okay, Evan was out of there. He felt for his wallet, then keys. He shut the back door and opened the driver’s door. He found a ten-dollar bill and handed it to her.
“We kin put my belongings right in the trunk.” She ignored the money, pointed to her things, and began walking toward them. “Just pull right ’round over yonder.”
Evan stood there. His hand with the bill dropped to his side.
No way was she going to manipulate him.
He put the ten back in his wallet, got in the car, started it, and sat there.
Valerie arrived at her things, plopped down on the bench, and did not look back at him.
Of all the nerve … she’s going to try to put me on a guilt trip.
Evan didn’t have time for her.
Then again, what was he going to do until the bus came later that night?
He should just leave. That would be the safest thing. She’d be forgotten in five minutes.
Valerie sat on the bench with her back to Evan, kicking her dangling feet like a little kid and looking all around at the sky and shady streets of the town. Evan thought he could hear her singing.
Good for her.
There sat a lady who had virtually nothing in the world yet had cared enough to reach out to help him. She seemed so content, sure of herself, carefree.
A homeless bag lady was in better shape than he was.
That about summed it up.
Evan put the car in drive and swung out the back entrance, as far away from Valerie Belinda McShane as possible.
Granger stood thick and immovable just outside Pamela’s car door. She could hear the hum of the fuel and feel it splashing into the gas tank.
Taking her predicament one second at a time, which was the way she’d determined she must play it, there was no getting away from her captor at the moment. She would have to dive over the driver’s seat, hit the unlock button, fling the door open, and run. She could scream, she could try to blurt out to the people at the next pump what was going on, she could sprint for the inside of the store. But what would stop Granger from drawing his weapon and marching right after her?
There were a few people getting gas, meandering in the store, but no police, no one with the authority to stop a madman. For now, for that moment, she would need to sit there and be obedient.
But that didn’t mean things wouldn’t change. When she got out of the car, into the store, into the restroom, on the phone, who knew? A chance to escape or send up a warning signal could present itself at any second. She had to be ready, right there on the edge, alert, prepared to run or scream or whisper something to someone, or do whatever it took to get away.
She had to be smart. Be smart.
No one was on the pay phone. That was good. Pamela wondered who even used them anymore, with cell phones so prevalent.
She heard the pump click off and turned to watch Granger remove it from the gas tan
k, hang it up, and rattle the gas cap into place.
The beat of her heart quickened.
He opened her door.
“Come on,” he said.
“I thought we were pulling up.”
“I changed my mind. Come on.”
She got out. He pushed the door shut and linked her arm with his at the elbow. A homesick feeling overwhelmed her.
“Remember.” Granger nodded at a heavy middle-aged man with a ruddy face waddling from the store to his car with a huge drink. “Not a word.”
Pamela nodded. Each step felt odd and unbalanced, as if the ground was farther away than it was. If he had the audacity to touch her like that now, what would come later?
Granger held the door for her. “Pump three,” he said to the olive-skinned cashier, who wore a white turban with a fake diamond at the front. The register area was packed with cheap gadgets and doodads, from Confederate flag lighters to anti-drowsy pills to miniature flashlights and girlie magazines.
“That vill be thirty-seven dow-lare,” the man said as he eyed the scratches on Granger’s arms.
Granger retrieved his wallet and let Pamela’s arm drop.
That feeling, right then, was indescribable.
She could run. She could be free. But she knew it would only be temporary. And then he would be angry.
Granger handed the man two twenties, got his change, and before Pamela could blink, they were in the men’s restroom with the door locked.
Granger walked her to the lone blue stall, let go of her, and went in. “Just a second,” he said.
She heard a bunch of toilet paper roll off the spool. Then a pause.
The loud flush made her jump.
“Okay, all clean.” He left the stall. “Ladies first. I’ll be right outside the door.”
He left her locked in the restroom alone, which surprised her; she thought he was going to stay. Although Pamela had desperately needed to go, it took forever. She examined the yellowing Styrofoam ceiling tiles and thought about trying to get up there. Maybe she could climb the sink, then the wall of the stall. If she could somehow hoist herself up into the rafters of the ceiling, Granger wouldn’t be able to get up there. She could scream until help came.
It wasn’t realistic. She could never get up there. He’d open the door and be on her like a goon in seconds.
She finished. The hot water and foamy soap felt good. She splashed her face, dried with paper towels, shook her head, and fixed her hair with her fingers. Looking at herself in the mirror, she wondered if her mom and dad remembered what she was wearing so they could put it on the news.
When she opened the heavy blue door of the restroom, Granger slipped in and locked it.
“You get in the stall and lock the door,” he said. “I’m going to go right here.” He nodded toward the urinal on the wall. “Don’t try anything.”
She remained silent in the stall, plugged her ears, and prayed for safekeeping.
He knocked. “Come on.”
She left the stall and watched him as he washed and dried his hands but never once looked in the mirror.
Out in the store he said softly, “Get whatever you want. Get enough to last awhile.”
How long? she wondered. What does he have planned?
She really believed he didn’t know, that all he knew was that he wanted to be with her. She must become the world’s best actress. In her mind she must revert back to the Pamela Wagner he knew in high school, who reached out, showed compassion, wanted him to be one of the gang.
Her stomach ached. She wasn’t hungry, but she knew she must eat to stay strong and alert. She walked down the aisle nearest them. Although Granger wasn’t holding her arm, he was right there in her shadow, looking himself for food.
She picked up a good-sized bag of cashews and several crunchy peanut butter bars while he grabbed a package of teriyaki beef jerky and a can of potato sticks. At the refrigerated section, Pamela got several yogurts, a package of string cheese, and a bottled water. Granger got a tall can of Red Bull.
“Ready?” He eyed her.
She nodded.
He took several items out of her full arms, and they walked back up to the man in the turban. They set all the things on the sliver of available counter space.
“And two packs of Newports—soft,” Granger said. “Not the box.” He turned his head to the side and muttered, “If you can understand English.”
A young couple entered the store. He was black, tall, and built, wearing navy nylon warm-ups and a flat-brimmed Reds cap. She was white and chubby, possibly pregnant, a bleach-blonde with a tiny diamond stud in her nose. Everything in Pamela wanted to make eye contact, signal somehow. She thought of making a horizontal slashing sign at her throat and pointing at Granger. If she only had a small sign she could hold up, with 9-1-1 written on it. She could put a finger to her lips as if to say I need help but keep it quiet.
But again the opportunities flew past. Before she knew it, Granger had paid, clasped her arm, and they were exiting through the sticker-filled glass doors. Her thoughts flipped to Jack and the pay phone. Granger hadn’t forgotten. He turned right out of the store, toward the phone.
But a man was standing there, bending over slightly, dialing or putting money in.
Granger stopped.
Pamela kept going, like a homing pigeon that would not be denied, but Granger’s arm locked down, hurting her.
“At the next stop.” He turned and headed for the Impala.
“Please, no.” She craned back toward the man on the phone but kept moving with Granger away from it. “I have to call now. I’ve been good. Please, wait.”
Granger continued walking, forcefully pulling her. “Get in my side.” He opened the driver’s door.
Pamela stopped and looked back. The man was still at the pay phone. She faced Granger, short of breath. “If you care for me at all, you’ll wait. Please.”
Granger’s tiny eyes shifted from her to the pay phone, then back to her. “He’s off.”
“Thank you!” She hurried toward it.
“Stop,” Granger grabbed her bicep.
“Ouch!”
His big head swiveled eighty degrees right, then left. “Keep your voice down!”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “That hurt. And it scared me.”
“I’m sorry.” He was flustered and blinking. “I’m going with you.”
They walked quickly through the parking lot.
“Here.” Granger pulled his hand out of his pocket and opened it. There must’ve been twelve quarters there.
She looked at him and froze for a second. She hadn’t even thought of needing change. But he had. She put out both hands, tiny compared to his. “Thank you.”
He nodded.
She tried to recall exactly what he had told her she could say … that she was okay, and the more people who tried to find her—
Pamela stopped cold and almost got sick as her eyes fixed on the words scribbled on a small white piece of paper taped crookedly over the coin slot.
OUT OF ORDER.
32
Jack was home, and the house had never been quieter. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been there alone. Amid the late sun and shadows that fell long in the family room, he sat on the ottoman where Pam liked to spread out books or newspapers or knitting. He could hear the faint hum of a mower somewhere in the neighborhood—someone getting the grass cut before dark. How he wished his life were still that simple.
He had gotten home that afternoon from his meeting with Wendy and Archer and pounded out an updated story on Evan McDaniel, with volatile and incriminating references to Andrew Satterfield and his shady past at the church in Denver. He emailed copies of the story to Cecil and Derrick, suggesting that Derrick try to confirm the new information with several of Archer’s contacts in Denver.
Although Jack could not mention the photos of Evan and Sherry in the story or the pending blackmail, because he’d assured Sherry the information w
as off the record, he did subtly imply that Satterfield might be after Pastor Evan’s job. Jack realized there was much in the story that his editor might reject, but he’d written it as truthfully and powerfully as he could, sent it in, and left it at that. They could water it down if necessary.
Jack tried to reach Archer to let him know he was handing the story off to Derrick, but his call went to voice mail. He would try again later; right now he had more weighty issues to deal with—like finding his wife. Something was terribly wrong, so wrong it was sickening. Pam had not returned to her parents’ house in Cleveland Heights. Granger had not been apprehended. Those were the surreal facts. The room seemed to rotate like a spooky merry-go-round from the power of all the horrifying what-ifs.
He stood with force and crossed to the front door where that creep had broken in.
Calm down.
You don’t know anything’s wrong.
But if Pam were okay—if she were well, healthy, free—she would have been in touch with him long before now.
That was a fact.
Prayer crossed his mind, but he needed to move. He headed upstairs to the master bedroom, dug a small suitcase out of the closet, and opened it on the bed. He would let Tommy and Darlene know he was leaving, gas up, and head for Cleveland Heights. He could make contact with DeVry, Pam’s parents, and his folks on the way.
Hopefully, amid all that, he would hear from Pam and everything would be okay again. This would have all been just the beginning of a wicked dream, and things like cutting the grass before dark would once again top his list of priorities.
He gathered T-shirts, boxers, socks; set out his toilet kit and packed it with a razor, shaving cream, toothpaste—
His cell rang. It was Archer Pierce.
“Hey, Archer,” Jack answered.
“This Satterfield thing is turning into a powder keg, Jack.”
“What’s up now?” Jack went on packing with the phone to his ear.
“An anonymous source in Denver just told me the amounts of money Satterfield ripped off from the church there; we’re talking major funds, major scam artist.”
“Does anyone know this besides you?”
Jack just couldn’t pack with one hand. He stopped over the bathroom sink to focus.
Fear Has a Name: A Novel (The Crittendon Files) Page 23