Fear Has a Name: A Novel (21 page)

Figuring this might be the last time he would see his parents, Granger pulled a chair up next to his mother, sat down, and began to eat.

“You say your prayers?” Father quipped.

Granger stopped with the spoon at his mouth and stared at the old man. “No, I didn’t. I never do.”

Mother’s head turned to face him, her eyes burning into him like lasers.

“‘Raise up a child in the way he should go,’” Father said, “‘and in the end he will not depart from it.’ You ever hear that?”

Mother seethed.

“Didn’t work in my case, did it?” Granger said.

“Who knows, maybe in prison you’ll come to realize your need. Although your mother has always said you were destined for hell from the day you were conceived.”

“You know what I think?” Granger talked with his mouth full, looking back and forth at them. “I think you didn’t raise me in the way I should go. I think you
poisoned
me. You two call yourselves Christians, but you’re nothing but hypocrites. I don’t see how you sleep at night, knowing what the Bible says about love, yet knowing how you treated me all those years. It’s a sick lie. You’re deceived, Mr. Meade.” He pointed at his mother. “And you too, Mrs. Meade.”

Her mouth closed and shrank to a slit. Her eyes ballooned to twice their normal size, and her face lit up like a burner on a stove.

With mouth clamped shut and jaw jutting out, Father pushed himself to his feet, pointed both guns at Granger, and gritted his teeth. He hesitated, then jammed the guns into his front pockets. They stuck out clumsily as he walked to Mother and set his hands softly onto her shoulders. Bending just above her head, he spoke loudly. “It’s okay, dear.” He patted her. “Calm down. Granger’s leaving now.” He eyed Granger. “Aren’t you.”

Granger got to the bottom of the bowl and purposefully made a loud, repeated clacking noise with the spoon, pretending to scrape up every last drop, which he knew grated on his father’s nerves.

Still bending over the back of Mother’s wheelchair, Father stared at Granger as he took the bowl to the kitchen, set it in the sink, and let the faucet run till the bowl overflowed.

It was looking doubtful Granger could get one of the guns. He’d wanted one desperately—for what, he still wasn’t certain. He could take their van, but it would be easier to spot than the car he had. Plus, they needed it.

He dried his hands on a kitchen towel, walked back into the den, and looked at his mother and father.

He’d come there for what? Revenge? Revenge for the piece of garbage he had become?

But look at them. They’re pitiful, just wasting away in their bitterness.

You just need to go.

“We’ve got something for you.” His father left the room.

Mother stared at Granger. He knelt in front of her again, wanting to touch her. But the fury in her glare—those eyes—she wouldn’t take them off him. They almost spoke, as if to say,
Even in my state, you are still lower than me, boy.

Father entered the room holding a maroon Bible. “This is for you.”

Granger recognized the Bible he’d saved up for and bought for his mother for Christmas all those years ago. It was still like new. He opened it and found the note he’d written to her.

Although she was stiff as a board, Mother watched everything, alert as an owl. There may have even been a hint of a cruel smile at the corner of her mouth.

“Take it.” Father stepped back behind Mother. “Read it.”

“I got this for her.”

She flinched.

Father interpreted. “It was the wrong version. You’re gonna need it where you’re going. Now get out of here. Hurry up. The police are coming back.”

“What?” Granger started. “Since when?”

Father took the big gun from his pocket and nodded toward the room from where he’d just come. “I just called ’em.”

“Why? Why would you do that?” Granger took several anxious steps toward the door. “Why couldn’t you have just let me go?”

“I would have.” Father racked the slide, sending one of the .45s into the firing chamber. “But the problem is—there’s been a murder at this address.” He pointed the gun at the center of Mother’s head and smirked. “And
you
did it.”

28

Pamela drove down Granger’s creepy, overgrown street and slowed way down along the stretch where he used to live. Trees and shrubs and weeds and vines had so encroached the place, all she could see was one corner of the white house, some of the roof, and a small brick chimney.

Out of curiosity she eased the car past the leaning rusty green mailbox and turned into the driveway, figuring she would pull in ten or fifteen feet just to see if anyone still lived there. She rolled in slowly, coming to a spot a quarter way down the driveway where she could see the whole house. She stopped. There were no cars in sight. The siding on the old place was warped and buckling, and shingles were missing in various patches on the roof. One of the gutters had broken and was swaying in the breeze.

She wondered if they still lived there, if anyone did.

No name on the mailbox.

It looked like no one was home.

Jack would be furious if he knew where she was at that moment.

You need to go.

She shifted the car into reverse and took one last look at the house.

A flash lit up a wall inside, then it went dark.

POP.

Pamela’s heart clicked and everything inside revved. The car seemed to wobble.

Get out.

She started to back the car up but couldn’t take her eyes off the room where she’d seen the flash.

What had she just seen? Her insides felt sickeningly hollow.

Gunshot?

Heart spinning, head buzzing, Pamela turned back, arm stretched across the passenger seat, and started to navigate her way back out the driveway when she heard something.

Screaming.

She hit the brake, strained to hear.

She zeroed in on the house, the grounds, looking for any movement—anything.

Although the landscape was frozen, Pamela
sensed
motion, tension.

Thud.

What was that?

It had come from the house, maybe out back?

Then it registered somewhere at her very core.

Car door.

“Oh dear Jesus!”

She looked back, found the driveway, and punched the gas. The car lurched, faster than she’d intended—too fast! Her stomach shrank to a knot as the car banged over a hump at the side of the driveway.

No!

She slammed the brake through the floor, and the car did a half spin, skidding, sliding, bumping down an embankment. It banged to a stop at an awkward angle, the front up high on the slope, the rear down at its base.

The house and driveway were no longer visible from the dip she was in. Instead, when she looked forward, she was pointing up at a green canopy of trees.

Pamela took a deep breath in the stillness.

It was okay. She was only fifteen or twenty feet from the level surface of the driveway, and she was pointing right at it.

She shifted into drive and started up the slope.

Thank God, she was moving. Moving …

A few feet from leveling off on the driveway surface, she felt the anxiety of the moment and pressed harder on the gas, but then … she wasn’t moving.

Go!

The car was getting louder, louder, but it was no longer climbing. It was listing, barely moving side to side. The engine roared, the needles on the dashboard vibrated upward. Pamela’s body and mind felt like the car—overheating to the bursting point.

Crazed with fear, she smashed pedal to metal.

The car jumped uphill slightly.

Yes.

The noise was deafening …

But no. The car dropped back and, although roaring, was barely moving. Smoke rolled up from behind and filled her nostrils, as did the smell of burning rubber.

She was scared and losing it.

Back down, back down and gun it.

She put it in reverse, took her foot off the gas, and let the car roll back down the slope until it pushed into thick weeds and underbrush and stopped on level ground.

Please get me out of here.

She gripped the wheel tight in the ten-two, took a deep breath, exhaled, and hit the gas hard to get that sucker moving fast up, up the embankment.

It was going, going.

This time she wanted to keep the speed steady so the tires didn’t spin.

She was still climbing, almost there.

Don’t gun it.

She blocked out every thought except keeping the gas pedal pressed exactly as she had it.
Steady.

In a second she would be out of there, free, Granger’s house in the dust, headed home to the girls.

Up, up … the level surface was right there.

The front of the car made it over the edge and began to level.

Thank God!

Movement to the right, out the corner of her eye.

Crunch.

Everything spun.

Eyes closed, she heard herself scream.

Down, down, sliding, turning, tipping?

The car stopped its free fall at the base of the embankment. She barely moved, opening her eyes, examining her body. Seeing no cuts or blood, she looked up, straight ahead, into thick green woods and a rolling cloud of dust.

The engine had shut off.

She turned the key off anyway and sat as still as she could, trying to get her bearings.

The right front hood was mangled.

She wondered if the car was drivable.

Wait … someone had hit her.

Shaking feverishly, she unbuckled her seat belt, fumbled for the door latch, and opened it. Her body ached as she swiveled and grunted to get out of the car. But she couldn’t stand yet. She thought she might pass out. She sat there with her feet in the weeds, trying to shake the fuzziness.

“Pamela?” a man’s voice called from above her.

Who?

Granger’s dad?

But he wouldn’t know her.

She looked up, almost directly into the afternoon sun, toward where the driveway leveled. All she could make out were silhouettes—one of the car that had hit her, parked level up on the driveway; the other of a large man, sidestepping, slipping, kicking up dirt as he made his way down the embankment, directly toward her.

Jack’s head felt lighter, freer, to be driving out in the country, toward nearby Lincolntown and Andrew Satterfield’s supposed house and boat on Lake Hudson. Jack figured he needed to keep as busy as possible until DeVry finally let him know Granger was apprehended.

The car radio was off. The windows were down. Jack was relieved to have told Pam’s parents about Granger. Now he just wished Pam would hurry up and call so he could be certain she was safe. Although he wanted to let her have it for not carrying her phone, especially with Granger on the loose, he reminded himself to keep his cool when they talked; the important thing was that she was okay.

His phone vibrated, and his heart spiked. But it was just Wendy. Between intermittent static and dead spots in the call, he deciphered that she was trying to farm the boys out to some friends. She was planning to fly to Englewood, Florida—certain that’s where Evan was heading.

Having reflected on the letter Sherry had written to Evan, Jack had a feeling no matter how the Evan-and-Wendy situation played out, it wasn’t going to be good.

He asked if she knew anything about Satterfield’s lake house or the two elders with whom Hank implied he might be in cahoots. Wendy was so classy. She said no, and that was that. No bitter or malicious words about Satterfield, even though she strongly suspected he was spearheading the charge at the church to oust Evan. All Wendy cared about was finding her husband—alive.

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.