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

by Creston Mapes

  It wasn’t a healthy environment for them, but Jack had no options.

  “Ben,” Jack said, “I was thinking maybe you should bring the girls to our house in Trenton City. They’d be so much more comfortable there. You and Margaret could pack some bags and make yourselves at home.”

  Ben sighed.

  “Is that a problem?”

  “It’s just Margaret.” Ben hesitated. “She’s not going to want to leave here. I could bring them myself, but—”

  “Okay, listen. Just talk to her,” Jack said. “It’s not a must. I’d just feel better if they were in their own home, familiar surroundings. You get me, don’t you?”

  “I understand,” Benjamin said. “And your place is closer to where Pam was last seen anyway.”

  “Can’t you just get her to the car and—”

  “She’s paralyzed with fear, Jack. You wouldn’t understand till you saw it. But I’ll work on it. I’ll do my best. Tell me what you’re doing. And the police—are they on this? Tell me they’re on it.”

  “Officer DeVry is driving down there as we speak, and I’m on my way.” Jack almost mentioned the gun in his lap and his intent to blow Granger’s head off. But he stopped short, realizing that was not the man he was.

  Or was it? …

  35

  Hours had passed since Granger and Pamela last stopped. Granger had drawn eerily within himself. It was as if a switch had been flipped. The car was silent for long stretches of highway.

  Granger had ignored her repeated requests to stop so she could phone Jack and use a restroom. Instead he’d driven them barreling smack-dab into a wall of rain that drummed so hard on the roof and hood it was almost deafening. With the wipers slapping on high, he followed about fifty feet behind the glowing red taillights of a semi truck that forged unflinchingly through the storm. Pamela found herself gripping the seat and armrest as they coasted through the slippery night.

  Before hitting the downpour, they’d rocketed down I-77 beneath an ominous sky, made their way around Charlotte onto I-85 southwest across the South Carolina border, directly into a gray-black night filled with flashes of lightning and thunderclaps so loud they made Pamela jump. Granger seemed to know where he wanted to take her.

  She had to go to the bathroom so badly she was starting to have visions of wetting her pants—and the sound of the rain was not helping. But Granger just kept driving, leaving her to wonder what was going on in that troubled mind of his.

  Had he murdered his mother? Pamela didn’t know what to believe. It was quite possible that he was such a good liar he’d convinced himself he hadn’t done it.

  In the dark, she squinted once again at his waist—the spot where he had patted earlier, indicating he had a gun. She saw nothing protruding beneath his black T-shirt. All she could make out was his hard, massive stomach hanging over the waist of his black jeans. He’d said his fingerprints were on a gun back at the house where his mother was killed. Was there a gun with him? Pamela just wasn’t certain.

  The only thing she knew for sure was that she had to get away.

  He’d had no sleep. The confines of the car smelled strongly of cigarettes and body odor. Granger was getting quieter and creepier with each tick of the clock.

  “I need to ask you something.” He looked straight ahead, leaned toward her, and spoke loudly over the splattering rain. “Will you be mine?”

  Everything within Pamela twisted and shriveled.

  Calm … be calm.

  “Let’s just say there is no Jack,” Granger said. “I know it’s difficult, but just imagine he doesn’t exist. It’s a game.”

  This was exactly what Pamela had been trying to keep him from doing—floating off into some twilight zone.

  “Rebecca and Faye can or can’t exist, I’ll leave that up to you,” he said. Just hearing their names coming from his mouth made her ill. “But the question is, if there is no Jack, would you be mine? Would I be … is there any way we could be a couple? Seriously.”

  This was sick. Did he intend to kill Jack? She felt numb and freezing and outside of her own body. Somehow she had to play his game, not give him any false hope yet keep him diffused.

  “Granger,” she managed, “I’m your friend. And I’m going to do all I can to help you get back on your feet—”

  “Don’t treat me like some mental case, Pamela! Just answer the question, yes or no.”

  “No. I am your friend,” Pamela went on, half expecting him to explode. “But it’s not too late for you. You can find someone like me. But I’m happily married. God’s given me—”

  “You know, we were just playing a game,” he said. “But you can’t even do that. You’ve changed. You’re not like you used to be. Forget it.”

  “Granger, I’ll be honest with you. I’m not in the mood for games.”

  What was she thinking? She felt her insides burning now, everything in her, rising up, rebelling.

  “I have a husband and two girls who need me. I have a life. You’ve taken that from me. You say you care about me, but do you? If you do, you’ll stop this and turn yourself in, let me go. I will plead with Jack not to press charges, I promise—”

  “So the answer’s no.” He shot her a glance. “You won’t be mine, willingly, ever—even if you have no husband.”

  Was that a question?

  What was he going to do, swerve the car into the side of a mountain? Off a cliff?

  “Say it!” he screamed.

  She flinched, crossed her arms, tried not to tremble.

  He extended his right hand in front of him and lowered his voice. “I just need to hear it. The truth. Straight from you.”

  The next words out of her mouth could kill her, or allow her to live.

  She pleaded silently for the Spirit within her to speak.

  “I will be your friend.” She shivered, and her breathing quickened to little hitches.

  “You will be my friend, after all I’ve done to you.”

  She nodded repeatedly, looking at him. “Yes.” She swallowed. “I will try to help you however I can.”

  “Why? After all this—why?”

  “You’ve had it rough,” she said. “That’s what friends do.”

  Her words seemed to seep into him.

  Before she could stop herself, more flowed from some hidden wellspring. “I’m no better than you,” she said. “We’re both full of sin. Different sin? Yeah. But sinners all the same. That’s who Christ came to help, sick people like us who realize we need mercy.”

  Granger was silent. As if on cue, the rain came even harder, louder. He followed the truck, clinging to it like a beacon in the blackness of a port.

  “If we’d ever have gotten together,” Granger said, “you probably could’ve convinced me to be a Christian.”

  What?

  Pamela heard it, but didn’t. She let the words repeat themselves in her mind.

  She was stunned, as if one of the lightning bolts had zapped her. And she knew, indelibly, at that precise moment, that God loved her and that she was his blessed child, even amid her storm.

  And she suddenly knew why all of it had happened.

  Her life was a testimony.

  For him.

  For the despicable Granger Meade.

  Evan awoke but did not open his eyes at first. The foam seat, dull hum, and slight vibration reminded him he was on the bus, heading south. Heavy rain pelted the window next to him. He could hear the wind, gusting at times, and could feel the bus sway like a large tipsy man trying to walk a straight line.

  The interior of the bus seemed even darker than before. Everything was still. Most people slept. It was the middle of the night. All he could see out his window were splatters of rain against the glass, a few reflections from inside the bus, and a light here and there in the distance, each resembling a different-sized snowflake through the wet glass.

  He had slept several hours and probably through several stops. His stomach growled, and he looked around to see
if anyone had heard it. He wondered if they were in Georgia yet. All the stops were going to make it a long journey to south Florida.

  Lightning flashed to the right, and a faint collision of thunder rumbled just above the noise of the bus engine and air-conditioning.

  Evan pictured Wendy sleeping alone in their big bed, and the boys in theirs. But he pushed the images away, got to his feet in the dark aisle, stretched, and yawned. Only three reading lights remained on throughout the bus. He headed toward the back in search of the restroom, noticing the sleeping passengers, many of whom had found the navy blankets he’d wished for earlier. He would get one down when he returned.

  “Why didn’t you pick me up?” came a high-pitched female voice from a seat in the dark. “We wasn’t through.”

  A reading light clicked on, and way below it, by the window, sat little Valerie Belinda McShane, the bag lady from the library parking lot.

  Evan stopped. All around Valerie, dotting the seat next to her and the floor, were the plastic bags that had been on the bench at the bus stop. She wore the same dark purple overcoat and sagging black hat whose curled brim was pulled way down by her eyes.

  “Yes, I’m talkin’ to you,” she said. “Sit down here.” She moved three bags from the seat to the floor in front of her.

  Evan dropped into the seat, staring at her, dumbfounded.

  “You must be starved.” She dug into the bag in her lap. “You want a banana? I got a good ripe one here.” She produced a beautiful, fresh-looking piece of fruit like a magician pulling a bouquet from a hat, and handed it to him.

  Without a word, thinking he must be hallucinating, Evan simply began peeling the banana as he waited for the show to continue.

  “That was rude of you back there,” she said, “after I woke you up and saved you from the po-lice.”

  He snapped out of it and whispered, “I’m sorry. I just needed to be alone. It was nothing against you.”

  “Yeah, bein’ alone is doin’ you wonders, I see.”

  He took a bite of the banana. Nothing had ever tasted better.

  “I know where yer goin’, you know,” Valerie said.

  Evan ignored her comment. “How far are you heading?”

  “Just far enough,” Valerie said. “Your wife needs to talk to you—one last time.”

  She’s one of those senile bag ladies who just wanders and babbles.

  “Your work ain’t finished.” Valerie struggled to open a small bag of almonds. “Can you get this?”

  Evan opened the bag and handed it back to her, wondering what she meant by “one last time.”

  Valerie shook several almonds from the foil bag into her hand and popped them into her mouth. “You need to make this one phone call at the next stop. Find the pay phone; it’ll be outside a log cabin–looking country store, just down the street from the bus station, on the left. Call Wendy’s mobile phone. When you—”

  The banana dropped into Evan’s lap, and his head tilted to examine the apparition two feet from him. “How do you know my wife’s name?”

  She tossed several more almonds into her mouth, crunched them, then raised her hands. “Don’t make no diff how I know, what matters is, I know. And she needs to hear from you one last time.”

  Evan scowled at her, then looked around the bus, thinking he must be dreaming; or perhaps his quick withdrawal from the meds was toying with his mind. “Who are you?”

  He thought someone must have put her up to this, but no, this was definitely the bag lady from the town back there, Fort Prince. That was her town. She lived there. She’d gotten on his bus … It was all coincidence.

  The microphone clicked several times over the loudspeaker. “Next stop, Lake Serenity, South Carolina,” Bernie announced. “ETA five minutes. There are some flash-flood warnings, so if you are getting off in Lake Serenity, be careful.”

  “That’s your stop.” Valerie stuck the bag of almonds in his chest. “Here, take these. You need some protein, Lord knows.”

  “Look.” Evan sat frozen, holding the bag of almonds and the banana peel. “I’m not sure who you are, but—”

  “Yes, you are, Evan. I’m Valerie Belinda McShane, and I’m as real as that .40 caliber in your bag up there.” She nodded toward his seat. “So don’t get any big ideas about dodging this like you did me back in that parkin’ lot. Pull up yer britches, be a man, and do what you need to do. One last call; you owe it to her.”

  That was it—she’d gotten into his bag when he was sleeping! That would explain how she knew about the gun—but not about Wendy’s name or any of the other truths she so uncannily announced.

  “How do you know about Wendy and where I’m going?” He stuffed the banana peel into a small trash bag hanging between the seats.

  The reading light shining down on her went out, and for a moment Evan couldn’t see her.

  “Shhh,” Valerie quieted him in the dark. “Would you stop fighting this?”

  Evan could just make out the whites of her eyes.

  “I’m the voice no one usually hears.” Valerie was completely still now and spoke ever so softly. “I’m the message, the whisper in your spirit, telling you to press on. I know it’s been difficult.”

  “But just tell me how you know—”

  “Forget all that. Is the Almighty on his throne, or not?”

  What the …?

  Evan was silent, questioning why he should even bother reasoning with a hallucination.

  “I hate to say this, Evan, at a time when you’re so down, but you are thinking only of yourself. Does the enemy desire to sift you like wheat?” she whispered vehemently now. “Of course he does! The destroyer wants to take out every good soldier. One of the ways he does it is by playin’ yer mind like a puppet on strings. Don’t let him do it, Evan. No more. Your work isn’t finished. You’ll see. You’ll see very soon.”

  With both hands, Valerie gently shooed Evan out of his seat. “Go on now.”

  Evan stood, still trying to see her in the dark.

  A booming, rippling display of lightning and thunder engulfed the bus. Evan grabbed the closest headrest to steady himself and reached over to make sure Valerie was okay. But as the lightning illuminated the seats, he could only stare in disbelief.

  There were no bags scattered about.

  There was no Valerie Belinda McShane.

  He stood frozen, then looked around the sedate bus.

  You’re losing it.

  He wished he had a Valium.

  Feeling as if he’d been sucker-punched, Evan scanned the dark bus again. Had anyone seen him? They’d think he was nuts. He shook his head and walked the last few rows to the restroom.

  Vacant.

  Need to throw some water on my face …

  He unlatched the door and squeezed into the tiny lav.

  As the light flickered on, he realized there was something in his hand.

  But he didn’t look down at it. He knew what it was.

  A foil bag of almonds.

  36

  Granger drove and smoked and chewed at his cuticles, which Pamela hadn’t seen him do before. Was he formulating a plan? The lightning had become almost constant, revealing even more foreboding clouds. They seemed to be driving even deeper into the heart of the storm. The semi remained in front of them. Pamela had begun to view it as a sign from God, as if he were whispering, “I’m right here. A fortress. Guiding you. Don’t worry. I’ll get you through.”

  My rock.

  She had to pee so badly she didn’t even want to speak or move. She kept forcing herself to relax from head to toe, trying not to think about it. Although she had to convince Granger to stop and find a restroom, she didn’t want to lose sight of the truck; it was not only serving as a lead car through the torrential downpour, but it was also forcing Granger to keep his speed down.

  She wondered if the police had found her car down the embankment at Granger’s house, and whether they’d indeed found the body of Granger’s murdered mother. Was there
a manhunt? She hoped to heaven there was, but it would be difficult to find anyone in this rain.

  Jack and her father would be out of their minds. And her mother, well, Pamela couldn’t even go there. She just prayed Rebecca and Faye were sound asleep and that somehow Jack had managed to keep it from them. She was afraid, however, that Margaret’s uncontrollable fear would alarm the girls and force Jack to tell them she had been taken. Pamela found herself longing to be with her mom, to make up for lost time, loving her in a more understanding way.

  Ever so gently, she leaned over and peered at the gas gauge.

  “We’re getting low on gas,” she said quietly, her bladder about to burst. “I really have to go, bad.”

  Granger shot her a glance, as if coming back from a dream.

  “We’ll stop,” he said. “I didn’t want to lose this truck.”

  “I know,” she said.

  He took one last drag on his cigarette and flicked it out the window. He opened the tin of potato sticks and threw a handful into his mouth, several dropping onto his shirt and into his lap.

  “You know what I think we’re gonna do?” he said through a mouthful.

  Pamela stared at him, her heart lifting in her chest.

  “I think we’re gonna get through this storm, and we’re gonna drive till we find a beautiful little beach community on the gulf of Florida, where there are pastel-colored houses and a huge, long pier jutting right out into the ocean.”

  He swept his greasy hand in front of him, left to right. “Maybe there’ll even be a rainbow. And we can go to dinner at an expensive restaurant; I still have plenty of money. A seafood place, right on the water. We’ll have a candlelight dinner and walk out to the end of the pier and watch the sunset. Does that sound like someplace you know of?”

  He examined her, anticipating, as if she’d better say yes.

  She felt sick deep in her stomach—sick because he somehow knew—

  “Does it sound familiar?” he repeated in a gruff tone.

  “It sounds like a place my family used to vacation,” she said.