Fear Has a Name: A Novel (The Crittendon Files) Page 21

  Lake Hudson was a few miles past Lincolntown University, which was at the center of the preppy, upscale college town that shared its name. There was big money in Lincolntown, a brick square with tree-lined streets, cobblestone crosswalks, awning-covered shops and eateries, gas-torch street lamps, a park, amphitheater, and bell tower. Lincolntown was where Trenton City’s money was—attorneys, physicians, investors … and associate pastors.

  Jack had been to Lake Hudson several years back for a picnic with reporters from the paper. He could tell he was getting close, as the ground became sandy and he spotted docks and bait shops, marinas, boat slips, and patches of water.

  He drove over a rickety bridge and wound around the lake, along a shady road carved out of a thick pine forest. He hit a clearing and came to Satterfield’s street, Edgewater Cove, which took him directly toward the vast lake.

  When Jack came to the address Hank had given, he drove past it, turned around, and pulled slowly to the edge of the street about a hundred yards shy of the house.

  Although it was far from enormous, the house was bright, immaculate, and situated like a dream in a valley of thick, rich green grass, almost level with the water and surrounded by huge, ancient trees. Just feet from the house was a spacious wood deck complete with high-end furniture, an enormous silver gas grill, and a cozy, extra-wide white hammock swaying in the breeze.

  “Holy Toledo,” Jack whispered.

  The gleaming one-story white house looked like something out of an architecture magazine. The heart of the house was simple, small, and square. But it featured three stone steps leading up to double-glass doors, flanked by two dark windows. Around the sides were floor-to-ceiling windows, also tinted. A wide shady porch wrapped around the entire house and featured white wood columns and rockers, hanging plants, and a bench swing. The lustrous green metal roof gave the house a clean, contemporary appeal.

  A black Saturn with tinted windows was parked in the circular drive; behind it sat a silver Chevy pickup with its windows down. The landscaping was simple and beautiful, designed to highlight the picturesque lake house.

  Jack popped his trunk from inside the car, scooted around back, grabbed his Nikon, and returned to the driver’s seat. His longest lens was already on the camera. He didn’t know what he was expecting but figured he would be better off having the camera in hand than not.

  His thoughts wandered from Pam and the girls at her parents’ place, to Wendy and her boys and her upcoming journey to find Evan, to Granger Meade somewhere in the stolen blue Impala.

  His phone vibrated at the same time he noticed movement on the lake. In the distance he saw a white boat with red trim rounding the wooded bend and heading straight for Satterfield’s comfy cove. Jack glanced at the phone. It was Wendy. He made it go to voice mail, turned the camera on, and quickly set it to motor drive.

  The boat seemed to tower over the greenish-blue water as it leaned, straightened, and left a curved trail of white water behind it. He peered through the camera and zoomed in on two men perched near the wheel.

  Jack recognized Satterfield immediately—squeaky clean in a white short-sleeved polo and aviator sunglasses; he was driving the boat. With him was a much shorter, stocky man with black hair that looked like a toupee. This man could be one of the elders Hank had mentioned—or not.

  Jack zoomed in on the men as the boat’s engine wound down and Satterfield guided the vessel gently up against the dock. Jack held the shutter button down, and it clicked off multiple frames, but he chastised himself for having forgotten to turn off the volume. He sounded like the paparazzi.

  The men climbed out of the boat, laughing. The shorter man hoisted a brown leather bag over his shoulder as they left the dock and walked toward the house. It was quiet with the boat off, but Jack continued snapping away. Instead of entering the house, the men circled around the side nearest him, through the green grass and shade of the towering trees. They got to the circular drive, closer than Jack had anticipated. He dropped down in his seat and stopped shooting, afraid Satterfield would recognize him. The short man put his hand out to shake, but germ-freak Satterfield simply waved and hopped up the steps to the double-glass doors; the other man headed for his truck.

  With Satterfield entering the house, Jack zipped off a few more noisy frames, and the short man stopped and swiveled around. Gingerly Jack set the camera in the passenger seat. Having spotted Jack’s car, the short man stood glaring at him and called out something to Satterfield, who was just inside the door. Jack slipped his car into drive, spit some gravel, and rolled out of there.

  As he drove back to Trenton City, he listened to Wendy’s voice mail. Sherry Pendergrass had contacted her, saying she had insight on Evan’s disappearance and was requesting a meeting. When Jack returned her call, Wendy said that Sherry would be at her house in a few minutes, and she’d convinced her to allow Jack to be present at the meeting. She’d assured Sherry that Jack was a friend and advocate for her in Evan’s absence and that as much of the conversation as they wanted would be off the record.

  Jack checked his watch, then his phone. Nothing on Granger. And Pam should have called him! It was totally unlike her to leave him hanging like this. She had to be back by now. Maybe in all the excitement she had just forgotten to call him. She was probably showing the girls all the things she’d found for them while she was out shopping.

  Jack dialed her parents’ house again.

  He didn’t care if he was a nuisance.

  He just needed to know his baby was safe.

  29

  Granger’s mind was blown. Blown.

  Here he was, flying down the interstate with Pamela by his side—Pamela Wagner. He’d basically kidnapped her. But think about it, she had actually driven by his house. Granger Meade’s house! Why would she do that if she hadn’t been thinking about him? There was something there. She might not be acting like it now. Of course she was distraught. But there was something there.

  He hoped she was almost done crying. It was tapering off, as the enormous sobs and gasps from earlier now turned to sniffles and quick, jerky breaths. She’d fought with everything she had back there, just like the night on the bridge—kicking, clawing, screaming, hitting; like a tornado. And Granger had a heck of a time dragging her up that hill and had the scratches to prove it. When he first got her in the car, he was sweating like a pig. He didn’t see how Pamela could possibly be cold, but her teeth were chattering.

  His mother was dead, at the hand of his father, and Granger would be blamed for it. His prints were on the gun. Sure, his father’s were too. But Granger was the fugitive. He was the black sheep. His psycho father had planned to blame it on him, and the sentence would come down on him—if they caught him. But he didn’t plan on letting that happen. No way was he going to prison.

  Never.

  He only wished he’d gotten one of Father’s guns.

  He couldn’t believe his mother didn’t exist anymore. He would never interact with her again, never again cower before her and suffer the wounds from her nasty, belittling words. It was like a heavy net had been lifted from his life. But it was also weird. She was his mother. She’d carried him in her womb. They were connected genetically. Now those ties were severed.

  He was glad he hadn’t seen the shot. How gross it must’ve been—everything splattered all over the place. Once it had clicked in his mind what Father was about to do, Granger had bolted. He’d been on the steps leading down to the garage when the sound of the gunshot seemed to erupt in his own chest. He couldn’t remember if he screamed or if he just imagined that part. How could his father have done it? They were sick people.

  As far as Granger knew, Father had simply waited for the police to arrive, amid all that gore, and blamed it on Granger.

  Imagine the manhunt now.

  Granger was driving south with an ultimate destination in the back of his mind—someplace of which Pamela would assuredly approve. But it was far, far off; he would have time later to zero
in on specific directions. For now he knew he couldn’t spend a lot of time on the freeways, so his plan was to get on and off, use back roads, distance himself as much as possible from that house.

  “This isn’t your car.” Pamela was shivering and slouched and did not make eye contact.

  “Had to make a change.” Granger looked over at her.

  Goose bumps covered Pamela’s tightly crossed arms. She wore a plain black short-sleeved shirt and jeans, the low-cut kind, with a thick black belt and flimsy black shoes that looked like slippers; they were dirty from trudging up that hill. Her blonde hair was fluffy, soft, and short, and she had on dark lipstick. That lovely mouth …

  Granger had found her one of those mini tissue packets in the glove compartment, and she’d gone through almost the whole thing. The used tissues were strewn on the seat and floor, and several new crumpled ones were wadded in her fist.

  “Where are you going?” she said.

  “We, where are we going.” Granger laughed. “Driving for a while. We’re going to get caught up. Just you and me. Like old times.”

  Keeping her shaking arms crossed, Pamela wiped her eyes and nose with the tissues as she carefully watched every sign and landmark. “I need to call my husband,” she whimpered. “Do you have a phone?”

  “Don’t you have one?” Not that he planned on letting her use it.

  Her face and mouth and eyes scrunched as if she’d just eaten a lemon. “No.”

  “You want a blast of heat?” Granger turned the heater to low. “This’ll make you feel better.”

  “I need to call him.” She looked sideways at Granger with those gorgeous watery eyes. “Please. Then we can get caught up all you want. They need to know I’m okay.”

  Granger didn’t like it that she was so focused on them, on easing their minds and returning to that life. It made him feel temporary. Like he was just some stupid obstacle whom she would falsely pacify, toss aside, then get back to what really mattered.

  “I am safe,” she said, “right?”

  Jack pulled into Wendy’s driveway and parked behind a sleek white Mercedes, which he figured must belong to Sherry Pendergrass. He had just hung up the phone after talking with Faye and Rebecca, who were having the time of their lives listening to PawPaw read stories and playing games with him.

  “What about MawMaw?” Jack had asked.

  “She’s in her room,” Rebecca said. “We haven’t heard a peep out of her.”

  “Yes, and the door is bolted locked and she won’t come out,” Faye chimed in.

  Jack blocked Margaret out of his mind, grabbed his camera and notes, knocked at Wendy’s front door, and waited. After quite a pause, he heard Wendy call for him to come in.

  He saw himself into the room where he had met her several days earlier. It was dark and quiet now, and he could immediately sense that the two women had been deep in a conversation that was probably both awkward and highly emotional. There weren’t tears, but the tension was palpable.

  The two ladies stood. Wendy introduced Sherry, who was almost as tall as Jack. She was tan and striking in white shorts and sandals, a shiny silver top, and a light sweater—with lots of silver jewelry. Jack guessed she was in her late forties, but she looked more like thirty. Her skin and the firmness of her body radiated good health, and she had the broad shoulders of a swimmer. She seemed meek as she shook Jack’s hand and quietly said his name.

  When they all sat down, Wendy and Sherry were positioned in chairs that angled toward one another. Wendy took the lead in a businesslike way, explaining to Sherry that Jack had become a fast friend and partner in her search for Evan. Then, just above her emotions, Wendy explained to Jack that Sherry had offered to let Evan use a cabin in Springfield that she and her former husband owned.

  “I knew Evan was under a lot of stress,” Sherry chimed in. “That’s why I offered him the cabin—a private place where he could go to sort things out.”

  Wendy’s body stiffened. She crossed her arms and peered outside.

  “I’ve been frank with Wendy,” Sherry said to Jack. “My motives were wrong; they were impure. After all of the weeks we spent in counseling, I began to have feelings for Evan. The day he went missing, I drove up to meet him at the cabin—to let him in, show him where everything was and, well …” She reached over and touched Wendy’s arm. “Let me make it clear again—Evan wanted nothing to do with me. He was in despair, but he made it clear—you will always be the only one for him, Wendy.”

  Wendy turned slowly and stared into Sherry’s eyes, her mouth a slit.

  Sherry continued, admitting she stayed on at the cabin that day but that her presence added even more guilt to Evan’s already frazzled state of mind.

  “He became terribly distraught,” Sherry said. “And he was very upset with me, that I had … tried to be more than friends.”

  “How long did you stay?” Jack said.

  “I was in and out the first several days he was there,” Sherry said. “Really, I was just checking in to make sure he was okay, trying to get him to eat something. He didn’t feel well. His stomach was terribly upset. I thought it might be an ulcer or something. He was sleeping a lot—day and night.”

  Jack wondered if Sherry knew about Evan’s antidepressants, the suicide note, or the gun, but he wasn’t about to bring those things up if Wendy wasn’t.

  “He kept saying it was too late to turn back,” Sherry said. “He was tortured inside. But it was his … goodness …” Sherry dropped her head, took a deep breath, and looked up again. “It was his desire to be right before God that shocked me back to reality.” She snatched a tissue from her purse and patted her eyes. “I’m so sorry, Wendy; so, so sorry. And I don’t expect your forgiveness, that’s not why I’m here. I just want to help you, and help Evan.”

  Wendy frowned and fought back tears, her head shaking ever so slightly.

  “I found these tucked inside my front door.” Sherry pulled an envelope from her purse, opened it, and produced a handful of photographs. “Someone followed Evan and me to the cabin. They took these pictures.”

  The photos showed Evan and Sherry walking side by side on a dirt path in the woods, sitting close to each other on a porch, sharing a meal …

  “I can assure you we were not intimate,” Sherry said. “We were both just trying to figure out how we got into this mess and where we were going to go from there.”

  Amazingly, it sounded to Jack as if Sherry were telling the truth—that Evan had not wanted her there. In fact, if Evan had already been suffering from life-threatening depression, Sherry’s presence and the guilt that came with it might have indeed been the nail in his coffin.

  Wendy’s eyes were tired, and Jack noticed creases in her pretty face he hadn’t seen before. She quietly examined each photo, tucking one behind, moving another into view. Jack waited for Sherry to continue.

  “I got a call late this morning,” Sherry said. “It’s blackmail.”

  “What do they want?” Jack said, feeling like some kind of legal representation for Wendy.

  “Three hundred thousand dollars,” Sherry said, “wired to a foreign account.”

  “And if you do it?” Jack said.

  “I know it’s not true, but he said the original digital photos will be destroyed.”

  “Right,” Jack said sarcastically. “And you’ll never hear from them again.”

  “By paying the money he said my name would be protected, and Evan’s too.”

  “Evan’s name is already ruined!” Wendy said.

  “Who could have known you were going to meet Evan in Springfield that day?” Jack said. “The exact time and place?”

  Sherry’s eyes closed and she inhaled deeply, shoulders back, holding in a chest full of air—then she opened her eyes and let it out. “This is Andrew Satterfield’s doing,” she blurted. “I think he was having Evan followed. To what end? I’m not sure.” She looked directly into Jack’s eyes. “I’ve come to believe Satterfield is capable of an
ything—I mean anything.”

  30

  Pamela was still struggling desperately to calm herself. They were on a wide-open two-lane back road, driving at a good clip. The sun was arching toward her right, west, so she figured they were heading south.

  Be still. Know he is God.

  Granger smoked with his window down four inches. His whole body had smelled like a mixture of old cigarettes and body odor when he had manhandled her, wrenching her in those viselike arms and forcing her up the hill into the car.

  He was a huge man, a husky, immovable mass in that driver’s seat. His head and neck were enormous, as were his arms, which, thanks to her, looked like a cat’s scratching post. As Pamela recalled from high school, his nose was hooked and his eyes were small and shifty. He wore the same black clothes. Several spots of what looked like tomato sauce dotted the front of his black T-shirt.

  At least he was a good driver.

  Funny, the things you thought of when you were kidnapped.

  “There goes a Smoky.” Granger watched the gray-blue-orange cruiser go north in his rearview mirror. “Right past us. How do you like that?”

  He was constantly eyeing the rearview and side mirrors.

  He must’ve stolen the car. She wondered if he had hurt or killed someone to get it.

  Did he have a gun?

  She didn’t see one.

  What happened back at his house?

  Dare she ask? Would it send him into a rage?

  Would he hurt her? Rape her? Leave her dead somewhere, not to be found for months?

  She’d heard of cases where the psycho male didn’t want anyone else to have the woman, so he would kill her, then take his own life. That would leave Jack alone to raise the girls. Thank God they had life insurance; her policy was smaller than Jack’s, but they’d made it just substantial enough to allow Jack to get a full-time nanny and give the girls a good education.

  They had hoped to have at least one more child—probably more.

  Would Jack remarry?