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

  “Seaside,” he declared. “You told me back in school you used to vacation at a dreamy little beach town called Seaside. In the Florida panhandle, right? Between Pensacola and Panama City?”

  She nodded, shocked he remembered such things; shocked she had ever confided such things to him!

  “You described it in the most romantic way,” Granger said. “Yellow and pink and blue pastel houses, gleaming white porches overlooking the turquoise gulf. Quaint shops. A tiny post office. Soft golden sand. And the most beautiful sunsets on earth. I think those were your words.”

  She nodded again, at a total loss for what to say.

  “Does that sound like a plan?” he said.

  Pamela fumed. How dare you.

  “Then what?” she blurted.

  Granger scowled. “Look, can’t you just enjoy the picture I just painted? Does it always have to be what next? What next? What next? Back to you and Jack, you and Jack, Rebecca, and Faye? Can’t you see this is it for me? Can’t you get your eyes off yourself and Jack and your stupid family long enough to just help me see this thing through to the end? Shoot, Pamela, I didn’t think it was going to be this way.”

  “What did you expect?” she said. “You kidnapped me! You took me from my—”

  “Stop!” He cupped her mouth with his huge, greasy right hand. “I don’t want to hear it. Don’t say that again. That is not the way this is gonna be. That is not the way I’m gonna go out. No ma’am.”

  He shook the hand hard against her mouth, then removed it and jabbed a big index finger into her arm. “We are going to be a couple for the rest of this day,” he said. He looked at the clock on the dash. “It’s almost two. Until dinnertime tonight, we are officially a couple. Come here.”

  Granger’s enormous right arm engulfed her and forced her toward him. She pushed back, her bladder aching, the smell of him swirling into her brain, sickening her.

  “Don’t you make this ugly, Pamela, or I swear …” The car swerved as his arm braced her like a vise and slid her close. “If you just go along with it,” he whispered through clenched teeth, “make it good for me, you might get to live.”

  That was what she had dreaded ever since he’d forced her into the car—crazy talk of her being his, of life and death.

  Never until that very second had Pamela been convinced he might force himself on her and even kill her.

  Now she was sure he had it in him.

  He nestled her close, damp with perspiration, smelling of beef jerky.

  Her bladder hurt so badly, once again she feared she would pee right there in her pants.

  The rain coming off the semi swirled back at them like a fairy throwing magic dust.

  She fixed her eyes on that enormous gray truck, the bolts on its back doors, its bright red taillights, the way it steadily powered through the sheering rain and gusty wind—staying its course.

  She closed her eyes.

  A tear ran down her right cheek.

  She quickly wiped it away so he wouldn’t see.

  She envisioned her mother in similar circumstances, how many years ago?

  She rested her head back and recalled the song she’d heard in church: Just because you love me the way that you do, I’m gonna walk through the valley if you want me to.

  DeVry had been right about the storms. Almost the second Jack hit 77 South, his car was pummeled by violent rainstorms and heavy winds, and the lightning was like nothing he’d seen before—almost constant.

  All he could think about was Pam riding with that creep in the storm, worried sick about ever seeing Rebecca and Faye again.

  Driving in the left lane, he pushed the VW as hard as he safely could, whizzing past dozens of cars and trucks that crept along at twenty or thirty miles per hour with their flashers on. Makeshift waterfalls poured over the sides of flooding bridges and overpasses, beneath which cars and trucks were parked bumper to bumper to escape the deluge.

  Several miles before reaching the exit of the Quicky-Mart where Pam had been spotted with Granger, Jack phoned DeVry and asked if it would do him any good to stop.

  “No, it would be a waste of time,” DeVry said. “We’re doing all we can with that.”

  “I’m going to keep heading south then.”

  “Be careful, Jack. There’re tornado watches and warnings all over the place.”

  Was he backing out?

  “You’re sticking with it, aren’t you, Dennis?”

  “Of course, but we’re just not able to move at the speed we’d like.”

  “They won’t be able to get far fast either,” Jack said. “Any more visuals yet?”

  “Jack, the DOT cameras are …” DeVry hesitated. “They’re not very helpful in this storm. Between the rain and fog, we can’t get any kind of good pictures.”

  DeVry’s words plunged into Jack’s heart like a dagger.

  A spasm of rage and helplessness became words. “Where do I go, Dennis?” Jack cried. “I don’t know what to do. This is so bad.”

  “Jack, hold on—”

  “Poor Pam, she’s so innocent.”

  “Jack, hold on. Just hold on.” DeVry raised his voice. “These storms won’t last. Light will come. The sun will shine tomorrow morning. We’re not giving up, okay? You need to—”

  Jack’s head floated like the huge puddles swirling on the highway in front of him. It was all too much. He was a dot on a map, a tiny raft in the middle of a raging ocean. How would he ever find her?

  What will that animal do to her?

  Jack dropped the phone and, like a dam breaking, let go, crying out, sobbing, heaving for air, tears flooding his eyes.

  He heard DeVry calling his name but couldn’t see the phone in the dark. He pushed the button for the reading lamp near the rearview mirror and looked down. There it was. He bent down, snatched it, turned it off, and looked back at the highway.

  A puddle the size of a lake was coming at him like an oil slick.

  His speed was seventy-three.

  Too fast.

  He ripped his foot from the gas pedal but knew it was too late.

  The car seemed to leave the ground, like taking off in a jet.

  No control.

  Careening.

  Spinning.

  Jack fought to steer, to brake, but the car was unresponsive.

  It was going to do what it was going to do.

  Jack grimaced, shut his eyes, and braced for impact.

  37

  Evan was one of only a handful of tired passengers who staggered off the Greyhound at the still, low-lit bus station in Lake Serenity, South Carolina. Although he carried his duffel bag with him, he had every intention of reboarding before the bus departed in twenty minutes.

  He flat-out did not want to call Wendy. In fact, the sooner he became only a memory to her, the better off she and the boys would be.

  But Valerie’s premonition vexed him.

  He’d told the driver, Bernie, he would be right back and had gotten off the bus with the intention of stretching, using the restroom, and perhaps checking to see if the pay phone Valerie mentioned really existed. But it was an absolute mess outside, complete with a monumental thunder and lightning show.

  A tall, thin man wearing old leather work boots and an army green jumpsuit, the kind mechanics wear, buffed the speckled linoleum floor with a large, heavy-looking silver machine that seemed to float on air. Evan approached him. The man made eye contact, bent down, flicked a switch, and faced Evan as the machine whirred to a halt.

  “Thank you,” Evan said. “Can you tell me where the general store is?”

  The man looked at his watch. “It closed a long time ago.” He pointed to his right. “We got drink and snack machines around the corner.”

  “I was told there was a pay phone in front of the general store,” Evan said.

  “We got a pay phone right here.” The man walked toward where he had pointed. Evan followed him around a corner of nicked and scuffed beige walls. “It’ll save you
from going out in that rain.”

  Sure enough, there were vending machines, restrooms, a water fountain, and a pay phone. “Thank you,” Evan said.

  “My pleasure.”

  Out of curiosity, Evan picked up the scratched receiver and put it to his ear. There was no dial tone. He clicked the silver hang-up bar repeatedly but got nothing.

  Valerie knew …

  That did it.

  He went back around to the man in green, told him the phone was dead, and got directions to the general store, which was several blocks from where they stood.

  “Hope you got an umbrella,” the man called as Evan headed out the glass door.

  He set his bag down on the sidewalk beneath the breezeway, bent to one knee, and dug out the umbrella. The heavy gusts of wind and splatters of rain felt cool and refreshing after all the time confined to the stuffy bus. Rainwater gushed loudly from a nearby downspout, and several portions of the overhang overflowed with waterfalls.

  Evan stood, took in a deep breath of moist air, hoisted the duffel bag onto his shoulder, opened the umbrella, and surveyed the rain-filled streets and town. Trees and lampposts dotted the sidewalks. The storefronts were covered by different colored awnings, and the sidewalks were flanked by diagonal white lines and parking meters.

  A lone station wagon, missing a headlight, splashed by and stopped at a red light.

  Evan saw no one else around.

  Your wife needs to talk to you—one last time.

  Evan frowned. The rain was roaring down.

  Your work ain’t finished.

  He shook his head and sighed, knowing he had to go, had to do this one last thing.

  Why?

  Because he still believed. In God. In another realm. In angels and demons and fate and things happening beyond the curtains, the likes of which simple humans could not comprehend.

  Without another thought he ducked into the downpour and ran.

  The heavy bag bounced against his hip. He dodged puddles but couldn’t help hitting some. Each drain he ran past howled with runoff. He went in and out from awning to rain to awning, huffing past darkened businesses—an antique store, a fine jeweler, a coffeehouse. He crossed a dead intersection without slowing. His heart flickered and sparked as thoughts of Wendy and the boys seeped into his bones like the unavoidable dampness around him.

  He spotted the general store from fifty feet away because of its unique reddish wooden facade, which resembled a log cabin, just as Valerie had said. The pay phone was to the left of the door.

  Evan slowed to a walk beneath the large copper-looking awning that covered the length of the Lake Serenity General Store. Catching his breath, he slid his bag beneath the phone and set the umbrella down open on the sidewalk.

  He wasn’t going to beat around the bush; his bus would be leaving soon. He would call Wendy’s cell one time. She would likely be sound asleep; the phone might not even be nearby. However, based on the percentage Valerie was batting, Evan realized anything could happen.

  The phone took coins and credit. Although he had change, he didn’t want to run out in the middle of the call, so he swiped his MasterCard and punched in Wendy’s number. He did it quickly, without hesitation, not knowing or thinking about what he would say, not really planning to hear her voice at all.

  The phone rang just once.

  “Hello.” Wendy sounded completely alert, as if it were first thing in the morning.

  He couldn’t say anything. And it was then he realized—he hadn’t planned to. He was such a coward.

  “Evan, it’s you, isn’t it?” Wendy said. “I knew you’d call. I knew it. I’ve been trying to think of what to say.”

  The connection was fuzzy, as if she were browsing in a store or driving, but it was after two in the morning.

  “I’m on my way to Englewood, to our rental place on Lemon Bay; I reserved it for us,” she said. “I forgive you, Evan. Do you understand me? I love you. Sherry told me everything—that she came on to you and you wanted nothing to do with her.”

  His brain short-circuited. She was driving all the way to Florida, in that storm? Through the night? What about the boys? She’d talked to Sherry … forgiven him?

  The spark inside flared.

  But he could not speak. He was a two-faced hypocrite. He’d abandoned Wendy and the boys, disgraced them and the people in his church, let corruption spread like cancer right under his nose, and failed miserably at living up to the morals he’d espoused. He was no man at all.

  “There are things you don’t know,” she continued. “Satterfield’s got a bad past—worse than you thought. He’s played others like he played you. He’s in trouble with the law. He might even be a killer. It’s not your fault, Ev, trust me …”

  Her words rattled him on so many fronts.

  “Evan, what’s happened to you isn’t out of the ordinary for someone who stops taking antidepressants suddenly. It’s dangerous. It causes you not to think right. It would do that to anybody! Do you hear me, Ev? It’s okay! We’ll find a doctor who can fix all that.”

  Evan’s head dropped. He shivered and began to cry, then quickly covered his mouth so she would not hear.

  “Honey, the boys need you,” Wendy pleaded. “I need you. I know you’re going to hang up …” She began to weep. “I need you to live for me, Evan. There are others who need you. You can come back. You don’t have to be in ministry.” She laughed through hitched breathing. “You can work at the car wash for all I care, or McDonald’s. Just live, Ev. Promise me …”

  He wanted to cry out to her, to gush with love and sympathy and gratitude. But he was so utterly humiliated. He did not want to live—could not.

  “I don’t care if you don’t say a word.” Wendy’s voice found resolve. “I don’t care if we have to spend five years in counseling. Just promise me you’ll meet me at the beach.”

  He pictured the small white cottage they’d rented forever, the screened porch out back, the mangroves and narrow fifty-foot dock leading out to the dark blue and turquoise waters of Lemon Bay. He could see the yellow-orange sun creeping up over the drawbridge in the distance, see himself riding waves with the boys in the surf until he collapsed on the blanket with Wendy.

  It will never be that way again …

  “I farmed the boys out,” she said, “but we can put them on a plane and bring them down.”

  Listen to her.

  Somehow she’d known he was going to call. She was okay with his not saying anything.

  How can she forgive?

  He could not even forgive himself.

  She was still speaking when he mouthed the words I love you and ever so gently hung up the phone.

  Cold now, he crossed his arms and walked to where the awning stopped. The unforgiving rain came down sideways, like huge curtains of water dancing in the wind; he could see it in the lights from the lampposts across the street. There along the sidewalk was a green sign: Lake Serenity.

  He grabbed his bag and umbrella and entered the storm. As he walked across the street, even though he covered himself with the umbrella, the rain knifed in at his lower body, soaking his jeans and shoes. He walked on, right toward the sign, then followed the sidewalk beyond. Lanterns about a foot off the wet ground lit his way. He followed them, sensing the sky opening up, feeling he was getting closer to a large body of water.

  The lanterns led him winding downward to a wide dock. He stepped from concrete to dark, wet wood. Careful not to slip, he crossed to a rope at the edge of the dock and peered out. In perfect timing, lightning flickered and glowed white, illuminating a vast body of choppy black water. Thunder boomed and echoed across the lake.

  He could almost feel the gun in the bag on his back.

  His life could end right there, right then.

  Lights out.

  He could drop right into the water.

  Wendy had set her mind on driving more than twenty hours to their dream spot.

  He shook his head and blurted out a laug
h, which quickly evolved into tears.

  Thunder rumbled, and the massive walls of rain created dazzling patterns on the surface of the lake.

  He imagined a man walking on such water, in the middle of a night eerily similar.

  Come back to me.

  It was nothing more than a whisper in the wind.

  No.

  His mind and body and spirit were riddled with guilt’s poison. There was too much against him; mountains of obstacles.

  I move mountains.

  He wanted to scream at the voice, his conscience, the Presence—whatever it was. He wanted to cry out that he had tried everything, knew the Bible, understood what was expected, and had failed—irreconcilably.

  But he was too tired and distant to utter a word.

  As Wendy said, there is a reason. Trust me.

  “You don’t understand!” Evan yelled with everything in him. “Things can never be the same!”

  He waited, still, exhausted … listening for something, anything.

  Gold must be refined, Evan.

  A lightning bolt cracked deafeningly close, flashing like neon across the dock and water, leaving the disturbing taste of electricity on his tongue.

  Silver must have its dross removed, only then can the silversmith produce a vessel.

  Evan sighed and turned back toward the town.

  He was so very drained.

  Wendy’s voice came back, as if she were standing right next to him: What’s happened to you isn’t out of the ordinary for someone who stops taking antidepressants suddenly.

  Putting his head down in the wind, he began to walk, on a different sidewalk this time, not lighted, but heading back toward the main street.

  “Your work isn’t finished,” Valerie had said. “You’ll see.”

  Evan believed Satan was real. If he gave up, the demons won.

  The sidewalk took him back up the slope more gradually and bent left around a small, dark brick building. Dim light flickered from within, revealing beautiful multicolored stained-glass windows.

  He got around front and stopped at a sidewalk leading to the cozy building’s heavy-looking double wooden doors. Wind and rain bent the trees that dotted the manicured yard, and torn branches were strewn everywhere. Beyond the trees, a golden spotlight on the brick sign by the street lit up the words: Redeemer Church.