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

by Creston Mapes

  She was ready to take her life back.

  As she pushed the heavy metal door open, Granger’s back was to her.

  Another man stood hesitantly outside the door. “Am I in the wrong place?” He smiled and peered up at the men’s sign above the door.

  “No, no.” Granger chuckled nervously. “My wife was just using it. Excuse us.” He pinched Pamela’s arm hard above the elbow and began to lead her out.

  The man looked down at Pamela, then at Granger’s scratched arms. Did he notice the tight grip Granger had on her arm or that Granger wasn’t wearing a wedding band?

  Something inside her shouted This is it!

  With Granger leading to Pamela’s right, she came within a foot of the man, looked up at him, scrunched her face in the most exaggerated, worried expression she could muster, and mouthed one word: Help!

  The man stopped. His head pulled back, and he squinted at Pamela. His mouth formed an O, as if he was going to ask, “What?”

  Granger’s head turned, and his eyes bore into Pamela.

  She relaxed her facial muscles, praying the frantic expression had vanished from her face.

  “What?” She squared off with Granger.

  He turned and fixed his eyes on the man, who was stopped at the door.

  The man scowled suspiciously at Granger, took one last glimpse at Pamela, and entered the restroom.

  Granger squeezed her arm till it must have bruised. “If you did anything,” he whispered through clenched teeth, “I’ll kill you.” He led her into an aisle crammed with assorted candies. “The second he comes out, we’re going back in,” Granger said. “I’ve got to go. Stand here and do not move.”

  He released her arm and pretended to look at the candy. “You like Milky Ways, don’t you, dear?” he said.

  Fire raged within her. She wanted to scratch his eyes out.

  She scanned the people in the store and quickly dismissed each one as tired and ineffective. The man in the men’s room was by far her best bet. The door to the restroom opened, and he looked around as he walked out. When he found Pamela, he locked eyes with hers.

  Granger stepped in their path, his face inches from Pamela’s. “I’m not taking my eyes off you,” he seethed beneath his breath. “He is going to walk right out of here and your eyes are going to be on me, smiling now. Smile! You hear me, Pam. Lovey-dovey eyes on me, and smiling.”

  Pamela had no choice but to keep focused on Granger and pray the man in the blue T-shirt recognized trouble.

  “For one quick second, check. Is he gone?” Granger’s face was sickeningly close to hers.

  She glanced. The man was standing outside the store beneath an overhang, looking in at them. “He’s standing outside.”

  Granger turned to look.

  In a flash Pamela looked too, found the man, and mouthed the word Help! again, with the same frantic expression.

  Granger’s head jerked back to Pamela, and he leaned close to her ear. “He knows,” he whispered. “Whatever you did, it was very stupid, Pamela. It’s going to mean your life.”

  He locked her arm in his and walked them toward the door.

  Just then a black-and-white police car rolled into the parking lot. The man from the restroom, carrying a cell phone in one hand, waved to get the attention of the driver.

  He called 9-1-1!

  “I’ll be a …” Granger grabbed Pamela by the collar with two huge fists and shook, all teeth and eyes of madness. “You just killed Granger Meade—and yourself.”

  Like an acrobat, Granger spun her around and locked a bulky, immovable arm around her neck from behind. He pressed against her, and something hard and small drilled into her lower back. Pamela almost vomited. Cries and shouts rang out. People scurried for cover, some scooted out the exit.

  He faced her toward the door leading to the parking lot. There were two officers in black raincoats, a male and a female, each with a gun drawn and crouching behind their respective car doors.

  “Now see what you’ve done?” Granger spoke in a high-pitched voice, inching Pamela toward the door with those powerful legs, the object still hurting her back. “This isn’t how it was supposed to be.”

  He has a gun after all?

  “Let me go! Help!” She screamed and tried to shake loose, but he was completely overpowering.

  “Don’t, or I’ll drop you dead right here myself. That’s what it would have come to anyway.”

  The cops must have insisted everyone clear out. The people outside, most with umbrellas and ponchos, stood deep in the parking lot.

  Amazingly, the man who’d helped her looked on from the open passenger door of his semi—the one that had guided them.

  Granger didn’t hesitate. He busted Pam through the door and stopped at the sidewalk beneath the overhang.

  “Let her go, sir,” the male cop ordered. “Nice and easy.”

  “No!” Granger yelled. “I’ll tell you how it’s gonna be, copper. If you don’t go along, I blow her back out right where we stand. I promise. I got nothin’ to live for.”

  “Drop your weapon!” the female officer yelled.

  Granger’s whole body was smothered up against Pamela’s back. He dropped his keys onto the wet pavement, shuffled Pamela away, and barked orders at the cops.

  “Start that car.” He nodded toward the Impala.

  “Not a chance,” the first officer yelled. “Let her go, now!”

  “I’m gonna let her go,” Granger screamed, “but only if you let me go. Start my car and back it up, facing out. I’ll get in the driver’s side, holding her till I get in. Then I’ll drive out of here. No one gets hurt. Hurry up!”

  Granger ratcheted his grip on Pamela’s neck and shoved the hard object deeper into her back.

  “Move now!” Granger yelled. “Or I swear, I’ll shoot her.”

  The officers spoke to each other, but Pamela couldn’t hear what they said.

  With her gun pointing directly at Pamela and Granger, the female officer moved slowly toward the keys, made her way to the Impala, and got in. All the while, her partner kept his gun drawn on them.

  The Impala revved to life. She backed it up, curled it behind the squad car, pulled it forward a few feet so it faced out of the lot, and put it in park. She started to reach for the ignition.

  “Leave it running,” Granger yelled, hurting Pamela’s ear. “Get out, leave the door open!”

  She turned to her partner, who nodded. She got out, left the door open, and returned to her position.

  This was it.

  Would Granger pull something? Still try to take her?

  Or was she almost free?

  Tears swelled in Pamela’s eyes, and she swallowed back a barrage of emotions, from sickening fright to utter elation.

  Without a word Granger nudged Pamela into the rain, shoving her with small, forceful steps toward the Impala. The officers stood slowly, following them with weapons fixed but remaining protected by the squad car. As Granger moved toward the vehicle he shifted Pamela’s body so it was constantly between him and the officers; they would never have a shot.

  He backed Pamela closer and closer to the driver’s seat as the rain and wind kicked up. The officers repeatedly yelled for him to let her go.

  “Stay with me,” Granger said. “When I say now, I’m going to sit. You sit with me. Don’t try anything.”

  She could only pray he would keep his word.

  “Now.” Granger led and, simultaneously, they bent and sat. Pamela was on his lap. They faced the officers’ guns.

  “I’m turning,” Granger said. “You stay right here.”

  He swung his legs into the car and forced her bottom onto the edge of the wet driver’s seat.

  “Toss your guns away from you,” Granger yelled.

  Both officers shook their heads. “No way,” the man said. “Let her go, now!”

  The object that had been drilling into her back released.

  The arm Granger had been locking tight around her
neck eased but remained there.

  “I am sorry, Pam.” His warm cigarette breath spoke against the back of her neck. The big arm squeezed gently once, twice. “You’re free.” He rocked her gently. “Good-bye.”

  Granger shoved her hard from behind, and the car roared into motion. She rolled to her freedom on the hard, wet ground, laughing and crying at the same time.

  The car rocketed forward, its driver’s door slamming shut from the force of the takeoff.

  “Stay down!” the officer yelled. “Take him!”

  Their guns exploded and recoiled, exploded and recoiled.

  Pamela covered her ears and strained to watch.

  Granger’s car goosed and swerved through the parking lot as if it were floating on air. One after another, it was peppered with bullet holes, as if a small army was taking target practice on a junk car. Poof. Glass exploded in the rear window. Pop. The passenger window exploded.

  She saw Granger looking back.

  Pamela told herself to breathe.

  The car bounced out of the parking lot, onto the open road.

  You’re free.

  You’re going to be a mommy again—and a wife.

  40

  Rain swept through the shattered windows of the Impala. Glass was everywhere. The car was maxed out as it flew and banged over the hilly two-lane South Carolina road. Granger had said from the outset he would not go to prison, and he would not.

  You should have let them hit you back there.

  But he might not have died, then he would’ve gone to jail.

  The wind made his eyes blurry.

  He patted the seat, found the Newports, and hit the lighter.

  He had to ditch the car and hide.

  Get another car … get a gun.

  Welcome to Lake Serenity. The sign blew past.

  Another sign was coming: Reduced Speed 25.

  The lighter popped; he snatched it and lit the cigarette with a shaky hand.

  Slowing way down at a City Limits sign, the car was still traveling at a good speed as it whizzed past nicely lit, well-manicured homes on each side of the street. As the estates got larger and more elegant, with circular drives leading up to sweeping curved stairs, he knew he must be getting close to the town.

  He thought he heard a siren far off but wasn’t sure.

  Where would they not look for him?

  He saw a sprawling white plantation-style funeral home with a big fountain out front, then Marty’s Hardware, The Book Nook, Other Place Pub, and on and on.

  Granger took a right to go around the town square, then he saw it: Redeemer Church. Somehow he knew this was the best place for him. They would never look there—if he could ditch the car.

  He swung into the narrow driveway and pulled around back of the small brick church, where the blacktop parking lot expanded. A lone floodlight lit up the clean lot. There were no cars, only a huge maroon dumpster. Beyond it, an expanse of woods.

  He zoomed the car over to the Dumpster and pulled up alongside it, his headlights showing about three feet of space between the bin and the branches of the encroaching trees. He could squeeze it in there. The Dumpster was long and tall enough to hide the Impala.

  He took a look around. Seeing no one, he drove forward slowly. Metal from the right side of the car scraped against the trash bin. Branches and leaves poked and scratched the entire left side. He gave it more gas and finally wedged the car in there like a hand in a glove.

  With a big left shoulder he bashed, bashed, bashed his door, forcing it open against the thick branches. Once out, the door shut from the force of the trees. He could hear a siren in the distance. Belly against the car, he shimmied and pushed his way along the wet vehicle all the way to the rear and out into the open air of the parking lot. He was scratched up from the brush.

  It had almost stopped raining.

  It was deathly quiet except for the siren. Of course, it was the middle of the night. But he thought he heard something else, like water lapping against a shore. Lake Serenity?

  Hustling across the puddle-filled lot, beneath the floodlight, and up two steps, he tried unsuccessfully to open the back door.

  Churches were supposed to be open.

  He got his bearings, decided which way around the building would be fastest, and took off. Halfway around, he stopped. The sirens were getting louder. Closer. A soft light from inside lit up red and blue and green and yellow and orange stained-glass windows. It looked warm inside.

  How he wished none of this would have ever happened.

  Loser.

  His mother was dead.

  You’re going to take the rap—if they catch you alive.

  He dashed around to the front of the building, stopped on the walkway leading to the front doors, and squinted up at the bell tower and cross atop the church. The building was only two stories. Maybe he could hide up there someplace, perhaps in the attic. Who knew, maybe he would find some rope. Wouldn’t that be a sight for parishioners: Granger Meade hanging like a rag doll from the sanctuary rafters.

  He hurried to the double doors and pulled.

  Yes.

  It was dark in the close vestibule, where his whole body immediately warmed to the core. A small white candle burned on a tall stand by some kind of guest book. The little room was like a fortress, with walls made of thick, almost black wood beams. The uneven wood floor creaked as he entered.

  A tier of candles greeted him to the right as he came to the sanctuary, whose vaulted ceiling was layered in caramel-colored wood. Beams crossed overhead with track lighting, set dim. He could sleep so easily on one of those wood pews with the dark red cushions, but there was obviously no time for that.

  As he hurried up the carpeted center aisle, he noticed the stained glass along the sides didn’t shine as it had from outside, but fell dark. A gas flame danced in a bowl hanging from chains high to the right behind the pulpit, casting a golden glow over the entire room.

  He noticed a tall doorway to the left of the altar, beyond the organ, and headed for it. Up the three steps, past the pulpit—

  What the …

  He halted.

  There was a man on the floor, curled up, sleeping. He was nestled down by the organ pedals, like a baby in a womb. A jacket was bunched under his head for a pillow, and a black duffel bag sat on the floor next to him.

  Granger looked around the peaceful room, dropped to one knee, stared at the man for a moment, and ever so quietly unzipped the bag. Unable to see its contents, he gently dragged it several feet and shifted his own big frame so the light from above could shine down on the contents of the bag.

  The sirens were getting closer.

  Opening the bag wide, he dug in and fingered his way through T-shirts, jeans, a cap, umbrella, shaving kit, boxers. What was that in the bottom? Shoes. Okay, so much for that. He stuck his head down close for one last look before moving on. Something caught the light for a split second. It looked like a flashlight, which could come in handy if he were to make it to the attic.

  He reached in and grabbed it, but the heaviness surprised him. This was no flashlight. He knew before seeing it that it was a gun. He took a quick glance at the man, then examined the heavy black semiautomatic in his palm.

  “Hah.”

  Talk about cruel irony.

  So God gives you a gun in a church to end it all.

  Oh, how his mother and father would have howled at that.

  It was fitting, wasn’t it, for a life that had been such a complete joke?

  He pressed a button on the side, and a magazine clicked into his hand. It was stacked with shiny gold bullets, probably .40 caliber.

  That’ll do the job.

  He replaced the magazine quietly with a click, zipped the bag closed, and dragged it back over where he’d found it.

  The sirens wailed.

  Still on one knee near the man, he froze. His head swiveled to the sound of cars near the building.

  Had they found the Impala?

&n
bsp; He dived and crawled to the altar, slamming his back to it.

  Above him hung a cross.

  You created me, now you can have me back.

  Granger racked the slide on the gun, resolving to fire a shot to his head if the doors of the church opened.

  The lone shot would wake the stranger lying there. If he was in as bad straits as Granger, maybe he would follow suit.

  One last sick joke.

  He was not going to think about this. It was going to be quick and easy.

  Things will just end.

  The torment of living would finally be over …

  More sirens arrived—whiz, whiz, whiz—darting up against the building.

  Granger inhaled deeply and raised the shaking gun to his temple.

  “Don’t do that.”

  The words startled him.

  The sleeping man’s head was raised. He spoke softly. “Please … don’t.”

  Granger scowled and cursed and realized he was trembling. His hands were damp; he wiped them on the carpet. It was almost like he’d been awakened from a dream. He pointed the gun at the man. “This is none of your business.”

  “That’s my gun,” the man said. “That makes it my business.”

  “I’m gonna borrow it, okay?” Granger said sarcastically. “You can have it back in a minute. I’ll leave you some change for the bullet.”

  “My name’s Evan.” The weary man spoke evenly, calmly.

  “Well, Evan, I wish you would’ve just kept snoozing. This whole thing might be over by now.”

  “I was going to do that too.” Evan nodded at the gun.

  “Chickened out, I see.”

  Granger heard loud static and clicking and the sound of voices on police radios.

  The man named Evan sat up slowly and crossed his legs as if he were relaxing in his living room. “My wife forgave me tonight. I put her through sheer agony, and she forgave me.”

  “Huh. You’re lucky you have a wife.”

  “Yes.” Evan nodded. “A very good wife. And I have three boys, whom I’ve let down terribly.”

  “You should be thankful you have a family.” Granger lowered the gun and dropped his head. He was beyond tired.

  “I’m going to give it another try,” Evan said.