Fear Has a Name: A Novel (The Crittendon Files) Page 25

  “Yeah, they did.” He slammed the steering wheel. “I was never good enough.”

  “Everyone needs to be loved and feel they’re important and wanted and listened to. You never got that. It’s no wonder you’re—”

  “A freak?” he said, looking straight out at the road.

  “That you have big challenges you need to work to overcome,” she said.

  Granger stared ahead as far as the headlights reached.

  “That’s what the shrink said. ‘Every individual needs to be nourished with human contact.’” He turned to Pam. “I can’t remember touching my parents. I’m not talking about hugging or kissing them; I’m talking about never touching them.”

  His own statement pierced him. Sorrow or relief or regret, something foreign, rolled up in his throat and behind his nose.

  He drove, wishing so badly that his life had been different. Wondering why, if there was a God, he had allowed Granger to grow up in that wicked, rotten home and with such torment at school.

  “One time I dared to raise my voice to my mother. I told her she and my father were abusing me with all their mental voodoo. She got so ticked she turned purple.” He laughed out of sheer frustration.

  Pamela even chuckled, and her eyes glistened.

  “She said, ‘We’ve never once hit you. You have no idea what it’s like to be abused. You keep it up and you’ll find out.’”

  Pamela opened the Bible. “It’s not too late to start over,” she said quietly.

  “Oh yes, it is.” Granger nodded. “My mother’s dead back there. My prints are on a gun. And here I am on the run with you—add kidnapping to the murder rap.”

  “The evidence will prove your father did it,” Pamela said. “You’ll get an attorney. A jury will hear the case—”

  “And who do you think they’re gonna believe? An upstanding, long-time member of the Cleveland Heights community and a deacon in his church—or a wacked-out thug like me who’s tormented an innocent housewife and mother?”

  “We could drop all the charges,” she said, realizing that was probably a lie. “Then it would just be a matter of getting you off the murder rap.”

  “No how, no way would your husband ever go for that.”

  “Look, I’m not making any promises,” Pamela said, “but if you stop running, let me go—I’ll talk to him. I’ll plead with Jack to drop all charges in order to give you a clean slate. I promise you that.”

  That was the Pamela Wagner he once knew.

  He wanted to reach over and softly touch her hand, take it in his.

  He wanted to nestle her close to him and ride through the night with her head resting against his arm.

  But he knew.

  Yes, he knew none of that was to be.

  This would be the last time he would ever travel that road. Everything behind him was gone and forgotten.

  Blank.

  He would remember or revisit none of it ever again.

  All that was left was a little more time with Pamela, his only love, on the gray highway whose white lines stretched out before him like a ribbon unfurling in the night.

  And then what?

  He felt like opening that Impala up to a hundred miles per hour and driving it off a cliff into the ocean wherever the map ended.

  They would go out together.

  The sky far off to the right burst open with lightning, revealing thick, mean clouds.

  Appropriate, he thought. Bring it on.

  “What do you say?” Pamela’s soft voice brought him back. “Will you stop this? Will you let me go home to my little girls? They need me, just like what we talked about. I promise I’ll do whatever I can to help you.”

  He didn’t look at her. “You can’t help me.”

  “But you can help me,” she whispered. “You can give me my life back.”

  He pushed down on the accelerator, not wanting that, not wanting to give her up.

  The car roared, pinning his shoulders to the seat, jarring Pamela.

  And he wanted it to roar, louder, more deafening—to drown out the knowledge of right and wrong; the confusion and chaos firing like sparks, chugging like pistons in his messed-up head.

  Evan sat shivering alone on a bench in the dimly lit station, waiting to board the bus that sat just beyond the window in the rain, its orange and white lights glistening and passengers stretching beyond its dark windows. Halfway to the station he remembered he’d packed an umbrella. It sat on the floor still soaked and open next to him. His clothes and body were wet and cold to the touch; inside he was numb and nauseated.

  “Sir, did you want me to check that bag for you?”

  Evan slowly looked up at the short female attendant in the navy pants and white short-sleeved shirt. Her nametag read Ann.

  “I’ll keep it with me,” Evan said.

  “That’s fine,” she said. “You can go ahead and board now.” She hesitated, then removed her blue cap and scratched her head of frizzy brown hair. “I wasn’t sure if you heard the announcement.”

  “No.” He stared at her and gave a dazed chuckle. “I must’ve been daydreaming.” He stood with ticket in hand and bent down to get his duffel bag and umbrella.

  “Just give the driver your ticket when you board,” she said.

  He nodded, made sure he’d left nothing behind, and headed for the door.

  “Safe travels.” She waved as she went through a swinging door leading behind the counter. “Might be a little slow going. There are weather issues.”

  Evan stopped at the door. “Really?”

  “Yeah.” She straightened a stack of bus schedules along the front of the counter. “Radar’s showing a big line of storms in Alabama and Georgia, moving our way. This is just the beginning of it.”

  He nodded toward the bus. “So we’ll be heading right into it?”

  “’Fraid so. It’s showing severe thunderstorms and some tornado watches all the way. Don’t worry. Our drivers are the best.”

  Evan pushed the door open and went out, but Ann’s words settled there at the front of his mind. He stared at the large, wet bus, idling now and being pelted by rain. He smelled the gas fumes.

  Is it up to a human being to keep this thing safe?

  What do you believe anymore?

  Even in his toxic condition, Evan knew—as well as he knew his own name—that God was in control of that enormous hunk of metal. What happened to it or any other car on the road, in storms or sun, was God’s doing.

  All things were his doing; the good and the bad.

  Even the predicament he was in, who knew? Maybe good would come out of it. Wendy might remarry some guy who would turn out to be great for the boys, better than he could have ever been.

  The sidewalk by the bus was covered from the rain by a metal awning, so he closed the umbrella. Coming down the steps of the bus was a well-built, middle-aged African-American man wearing a uniform similar to Ann’s—the driver.

  “How are you this evening, sir?” His nametag read Bernie.

  “Tired, to tell you the truth,” Evan said. “Do I give you my ticket?”

  Bernie set his coffee cup on the sidewalk, took Evan’s ticket, examined it, tore it, and gave half back to him. “You got a long ride ahead of you,” Bernie said. “Plenty of time to catch up on your sleep.”

  “I’m going to do that, if the weather doesn’t keep me up.” Evan started up the steps of the bus.

  “We’ll be fine,” Bernie said. “Enjoy the trip, sir.”

  Evan squinted down the long narrow aisle, and the whole setting seemed like a dream. The fluorescent-lit bus was dotted with yawning, heavy-lidded passengers of all ages and ethnicities. Some were reading and doing puzzles while others slept or listened to iPods. There were probably thirty rows with two seats on each side of the aisle.

  About halfway back Evan found two empty seats on the right. He set his bag and umbrella in the aisle seat, took off his jacket, swayed from a wave of dizziness, and eased into the seat by the w
indow. A reading light shone down from above. He found a switch for it on one of his armrests and turned it off.

  He was so exhausted.

  Stuffing his jacket and umbrella into his bag, he patted around for the gun. It was heavy and dangerous in his hand.

  Soon the bus hissed and rocked and steamed. Its doors closed.

  “Next stop, Prospect, North Carolina.” Bernie hung up the microphone, and the bus lurched forward.

  Evan released the weapon, zipped up the duffel, and pushed it beneath the seat next to him.

  The fluorescent lights along the overhead bin flickered and went off, darkening the whole bus except for reading lights here and there.

  He leaned back, closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and exhaled silently.

  Relax.

  His body was rigid, cold.

  He shivered and crossed his arms, wishing he’d gotten a blanket from the overhead, as some of the other passengers had.

  But he wasn’t about to get up. He was too sleepy.

  The bus turned, shifting him against the cold window.

  He moved away from it and nestled in, recognizing the familiar half-conscious feeling he always got when he was about to drift off.

  You’re in control … of all things … this bus … the good and the bad.

  34

  Talk about helpless. There was Jack in that one little Volkswagen Jetta on a blank highway in wide-open America, whose roads could take a person anywhere. He felt like an ant in a desert searching for one red grain of sand, and that was Pamela.

  The many gruesome possible scenarios—with which he was all too familiar, working in the news business—flashed before him: Pam being taped or tied, without food, in a car trunk or filthy hideaway, unbathed, gagged, beaten, bruised, raped, worse …

  He put the windows down and let the night wind blow away the images. He examined each oncoming car, thinking he could get lucky and spot the Impala—if that was what Granger was still driving.

  They could be anywhere.

  Anywhere!

  According to DeVry, Pam’s abduction happened between two and four p.m., which meant Granger could have her as far away as Iowa by then—or Manhattan, or Nashville, or DC, or the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.

  Jack was doing the only thing that made sense—heading toward the last place she’d been seen, Cleveland Heights, which he thought he could make in two and a half hours, maybe less, if he flew. He needed to be with the girls. Ben and Margaret would be totally devastated, especially Margaret. Jack just hoped they were keeping it together in front of the girls.

  On the seat between his legs was wedged Tommy’s .40 caliber Taurus pistol, which his neighbor gave him on his way out of town. It looked almost snub-nosed: blue steel, black rubber grip, and loaded with a clip containing ten rounds—which he vowed to use on that sick punk once he tracked him down.

  Jack’s right hand still ached from bashing the wall. And he was still seething.

  Why are you allowing this?

  “Do you realize this has me completely doubting what I ever believed?” He spoke aloud into the night. “You let this … this demon into our lives. Why? Why don’t you protect us? Are you even there?”

  Nothing in the world felt important anymore, except finding Pam. Everything else—Wendy and her boys, Evan’s disappearance, Sherry, Satterfield, Archer, the Dispatch—it all vacuumed back and disappeared into thin air.

  What would Jack do without her? How could he work and raise the girls?

  They’ll have no mother. Pam can never be replaced.

  But Pam was smart. She was quick. And she could be tough.

  If that monster leaves one little opening, she’ll take it. She’ll escape. She’ll call me or 9-1-1.

  He felt for his phone and checked it. Nothing.

  What if he kills her? This kind of sicko did it all the time: murder-suicide.

  The phone rang in his hand: Cecil Barton.

  Jack waited.

  He was in no mood to talk to anyone, unless it had to do with Pam. Although Cecil was likely calling about the Satterfield story, there was a small chance he might have heard about Pam’s abduction and have some kind of information from any number of news sources.

  “Cecil.” Jack rolled up the windows so he could hear.

  “Jack, I know about Pam,” Cecil said. “I’m sorry.”

  “It stinks, man.”

  “Is there anything new? What’s your game plan?”

  “On my way to Cleveland Heights. That’s where she was last seen,” Jack said. “Our girls are there, at her folks’ place. That’s where I’ll set up base for now.”

  “We’re running a story and Granger’s mug shot tomorrow, front page,” Cecil said. “What else can I do?”

  “Try to get it picked up by AP,” Jack said. “Keep your ear to the ground. Let me know if you hear anything at all—from police, DOT, whoever.”

  “I’ll do it. I heard there’s a nationwide crime alert about Pam’s abduction; we’re trying to confirm it.”

  “It’s gonna be impossible to find her unless we get help. Someone’s got to spot them and call it in.”

  “I’ll have Derrick keep on DOT.”

  “Okay,” Jack said.

  There was an awkward silence.

  Jack needed to change the subject. “Any word on Evan McDaniel?”

  “Nada,” Cecil said. “Derrick told me Wendy decided to drive to Florida, you know, down to where she thinks he’s headed. Instead of flying, she wanted to drive the route the family always takes in hopes she might find him. It’s not looking good.”

  There was a pause.

  “Jack, I’ve got other news,” Cecil said. “Better brace yourself.”

  “What?”

  “It’s about Archer Pierce.”

  “What about him?”

  “He’s dead.”

  Jack’s mind blinked and teetered and threatened to shut down.

  The road seemed to come at him like a high-speed video game.

  “He and Jerry Kopton, his video guy, were mugged and shot. Their equipment, notes, all that stuff: taken. I’ve got Derrick working on the story full time; I told him to go around the clock if he has to. Sheets is helping too.”

  “I can’t believe it … I knew Satterfield was a sleazebag, but a murderer?”

  “We’ll find out,” Cecil said. “We’re going to blow the lid on this thing. Derrick’s got a good in with the Trenton City PD; he thinks they might be making an arrest soon. I didn’t want you to hear it someplace else.”

  Jack realized he was barely breathing. “I don’t know what to say.” He cracked the window and forced in a huge, deep breath.

  “Don’t say anything, just go find your wife,” Cecil said. “And know that you got friends trying to help. Heck, I’m even praying.”

  They hung up.

  Cecil Barton was praying.

  God made no sense.

  Jack knew that. He knew, from life and the Scriptures, that God was mysterious, his ways lofty, often incomprehensible. Jack was aware that bad things sometimes happened to good people. He always prayed against such things ever befalling him, unsure how he would handle such an ordeal, how his faith would stand up.

  But now, on that summer night, on that lone freeway, so helpless and undone, Jack was face-to-face with it, with him, the God unleashing havoc in the whirlwind. Pam was gone. Kidnapped. Possibly dead. Archer and Kopton murdered.

  This was the work of the God he had never wanted to meet.

  This was another whole plane, another whole dimension of life. He’d seen others go through such torment, but deep down, in many of those cases, he’d wondered if they were being chastised or disciplined for some secret sin.

  How wrong you were to judge; how utterly wrong.

  He rested his aching hand on the gun.

  Why do you need this?

  Who’s in charge?

  “Are you in control?” he yelled. “Why is this happening? It’s too much!�
��

  The vast distance Pam could be from him at that moment and the danger she certainly faced made him gag. He took his foot off the gas and almost pulled off the road to throw up. But he took in a deep breath of night air and vowed to keep going.

  He wanted to kill Granger Meade.

  His phone rang again: DeVry.

  “Officer,” Jack said.

  “Jack, the Impala was spotted at a convenience store in southern Ohio. A customer recognized it from the alert.”

  Jack eased his foot off the gas again. “When?”

  “We’re not sure yet.”

  “What about Pam?” Jack bumped his car off to the side of the highway. “Was she with him?”

  “We think so,” DeVry said. “A man fitting Granger’s description was seen in the store with a woman fitting Pam’s. We’re trying to get our hands on the store video.”

  “Where was this, specifically?” Jack said.

  “Quicky-Mart in Selby, Ohio. Just off Interstate 77 near the West Virginia state line. We think they’re heading south. If so, they’re heading into big storms. The whole southeast is a barrage of lightning and tornadoes.”

  Jack craned his neck and, seeing no headlights behind him, eased the car back onto the highway. He took it into the left lane, slow, searching for a place to turn around. “Do we know how Pam was? How she looked? Whether he had a gun on her? Anything like that?”

  “I think we would have heard if anything looked bad or really out of place,” DeVry said. “Again, we gotta get our hands on the video to know for sure.”

  “Is that it?”

  “For now.”

  “Okay, I gotta go. Thank you, Dennis. Let me know the second you know more.”

  Jack mowed down high grass and weeds making a speedy U-turn and bumped onto the southbound lane of the freeway, figuring he would backtrack and take I-70 over to 77 South. He wasn’t that far behind them; anywhere from two to four hours, depending on what kind of time they were making.

  Jack punched in Pam’s parents’ phone number and let it ring, hoping it wouldn’t wake Rebecca or Faye. Benjamin answered quickly, and Jack explained the latest.

  Benjamin let out a whimper of relief when he heard Pam was alive. Although Rebecca and Faye were not aware their mom had been abducted, Benjamin said they knew something was wrong, because Margaret had secluded herself in her room again.