Fear Has a Name: A Novel (4 page)

“It’s good to meet you guys. Wow.” Jack looked at Wendy. “They have powerful grips!”

Silas hooted and slapped his leg on his way out of the room, and the other two laughed as they followed him back to the kitchen.

“What great manners,” Jack commented.

Wendy nodded and rested her hands on her waist. “They’re good boys. Their dad has had a lot to do with that.”

Jack’s phone vibrated, but he ignored it. He’d be out of there in a second.

He whispered to Wendy, “We’re going to do all we can to help you find Evan.”

Wendy crossed her arms and rubbed her biceps, as if she was chilly. “Thank you so much.”

His phone vibrated again. Without looking at it, he hit the power button twice, sending the caller to voice mail.

“If anything else develops, or you need publicity,” Jack said, “please don’t hesitate to call me. I’ll do everything I can. You have my number, right?”

“Thank you.” She nodded. “Yes, I do. And I will be calling.”

“Excellent.” Jack made for the door.

“Will you be able to clear it up,” Wendy said softly from behind. “About the suicide?”

Jack got to the door and turned to face her. She was indeed tiny. “What I plan to do is interview some people at the church and get with the police; then I’ll write a detailed piece—”

“Is there any way I could see it before it gets printed?”

He frowned and shook his head. “No. Sorry. I can’t do that. But it’s going to have all the facts, including your side of the story. You know, much of what you’ve told me here today.”

Wendy nodded like a scared child trusting her father when he says everything will be okay.

“You know what?” Jack said. “I should have a copy of that letter. Would that be okay with you?”

“You’re not going to run it in the paper.”

“Oh no. I just mean for me to have, you know, as the investigation continues.”

“I don’t have a copy machine.”

“I could take a quick photo.” Jack reached for his phone. “Can we do that?”

While Wendy smoothed out the “suicide letter” on the kitchen table, Jack glanced at a text message that awaited him.

Call me now!

Sent from Pam’s cell phone.

He snapped a quick photo of Evan’s letter and headed for the door. Surely Pam would call him if it were an emergency.

“Mr. Crittendon … there’s one more thing I need to tell you.”

He opened the door.

“I should have told you earlier, but it just looks so bad.”

“What is it?” Jack tried not to sound too hurried.

“We own a handgun, for protection.”

“Uh-huh.”

Ironic that would come up.

“Well … it’s gone.”

Jack squinted. “Just since Evan’s disappearance?” He needed to make this short.

“I think so. But I’m not positive.”

“Was the gun loaded?”

She shook her head. “No, but he kept two of those metal bullet holder things in a separate place, and they’re gone.”

“The magazines? Okay.” He let it sink in, then shook his head, trying to keep everything clear. “I assume you told the police.”

She shook her head quickly. “I couldn’t. It looked so—incriminating.”

Jack’s cell phone vibrated again; it was ringing now.

He put a hand on it. “That’s a call I’ve got to take. It’s my wife. We had a break-in at our house, and she’s still shaken up.”

“Oh my gosh, how terrible. I remember your wife,” Wendy said. “Go ahead and take it, by all means.”

“I’ll grab it as I leave.” He stepped outside.

Jack squeezed the vibrating phone in his hand, feeling dizzy from the pressure of both worlds colliding in his head. He nodded reassuringly but lifted a commanding finger toward Wendy’s chest. “Call the lead investigator,
now
. Tell about the gun. They need to know
everything
. I’ll be in touch.”

He bounded down the steps and toward his car, sliding the answer button on his phone at the same time.

“Sorry, honey. What’s going on?”

“My Bible’s gone, Jack.” Pam’s tone was one of controlled chaos. “I couldn’t find it this morning. I thought I just misplaced it, but it’s not here!” Her voice trembled. “I searched the whole house.”

Jack opened the door and dropped into the driver’s seat, wondering if that nutcase really took Pam’s Bible, or if she was having one of those paranoid fits for which her mother was famous. “Babe, it’ll probably turn up—”

“No. It won’t. It’s gone! Do you hear me? I know. Jack, this thing is freaking me out. Why is he doing this to us? I just have the weirdest feeling, like he’s stalking
me
.”

7

“Come on, girlfriend,” Rebecca said to Faye in her best mommy voice, “we need to get our babies home before another rainstorm comes. There’s a big tornado on the way … a
hurricane
!”

“Okay, gewfriend,” Faye called. “Hurry … help our babies!”

Even in her anxious state, Pamela chuckled as the girls raced their dollies in pink strollers up and down the wet sidewalk in front of the house, their big purses knocking against the backs of their skinny legs.

A late afternoon downpour had come up suddenly, drenching the already green grass and leaving clouds of steam rolling up from the blistering streets. In the distance the sky was menacing, the color of a deep bruise, but over where Pamela stood, the sun had returned, almost white, it was so bright. The humidity was stifling.

Wearing bright yellow slip-on gardening shoes, Pamela meandered through the wet grass in the front yard, looking for any clue the intruder may have accidentally left behind the day before. She was trying to wear the girls out before bed and waste time until Jack got home from the McDaniels’ house.

She scanned the glistening street and nearby intersection for the infamous brown car, then double-checked the girls, who had ventured into the garage and were gabbing like two housewives next to their dad’s tool bench.

Her neck and shoulders ached from tension.
Stop it
, she scolded herself, realizing she’d brought on the nagging pain by stressing too much about this whole break-in thing. Half the reason she was outside now was to overcome her fear and try to convince herself that everything was okay, that the man wasn’t nearby and was not coming back.

Mustn’t let the girls know I’m frightened. Not like Mom …

Pamela’s mother, Margaret, lived in utter fear. She worried in excess, about
everything
, and had as far back as Pamela could recall. It was even worse now. All day she was double-checking the door and window locks. She kept all the blinds closed, so they had to have lights on all the time. And when Pamela’s father, Benjamin, was away, she would pace, peering out the windows and nipping at the peppermint schnapps she kept hidden away in the broom closet until he had safely returned home.

What is she so afraid of?
Pamela wondered for the thousandth time.
Physical harm? Life without Dad?
Loss of possessions? Death?

Margaret and Benjamin had brought Pamela up attending the big stone church that smelled like mothballs on Monticello Boulevard in Cleveland Heights each week. But as she grew up, became a teen, went on to college, Pamela realized that her parents didn’t bear much good fruit from the ritual. On the contrary, her dark household was often filled with strife, gossip, and bitterness. The ritual of church had not delivered the goods, and for a long time Pamela had resented church and the God who supposedly dwelled there.

Meeting Jack had changed that. He had waltzed into her life like a vision, with a jovial countenance and graceful stability unmatched by any man she’d ever known. She not only wanted him, she wanted what he had—an uncanny, unabashed faith in God that seemed to serve as some magical, hidden reservoir of everything that was happy and good. The only chink in Jack’s armor during their first months of dating had appeared one breezy summer night.

They’d attended a Cleveland Indians game and were leaving early because the contest was a blowout. As they headed to Jack’s car in the vast parking lot, not far from the Lake Erie shoreline, they heard a woman screaming. Walking quickly toward the shouts, they saw a brawny, bearded man in a cowboy hat, obviously drunk, twisting his girlfriend’s arm and shoving her toward his pickup truck, yelling obscenities. With the agility of a leopard, Jack locked Pamela in his car, zigzagged between vehicles, and zeroed in on the helpless woman, who had dropped to her knees in an attempt to keep from being forced into the truck.

As far as Pamela could tell from her vantage point several cars away, there was no talk, no arguing, not a word exchanged. Beneath the neon white parking lot lights she witnessed a barrage of swirling kicks, flying elbows, and compact punches that sent the drunk man’s hat flipping into the air and his hairy head snapping back, back, back, until he literally left the ground with one last clobber.

Jack got in the car and drove without speaking. When Pamela pressed him, all he said was, “I don’t like to see weaker people get bullied.”

Eventually he told her that he’d learned to fight growing up near Columbus, hanging with an oddball group of characters who stayed out too late in the wrong parts of town. Beyond that, he insisted he and Pamela not speak of his temper anymore; he was embarrassed by his behavior and promised that would be the last time she would ever see him do such a thing.

And he’d been as good as his word. It had been years since she had seen him so much as look at another person with any kind of malice or vengeance—until, of course, the strange man broke into their home.

I just need to focus on God, like Jack does. Do something for someone else instead of focusing on myself.

She heard a car in the distance but decided to turn her back on it and head toward the house.

Enough of this fear. I’m a child of the King.

The sound of the car rolling slowly down the street grew louder, closer, and slower. She ignored the urge to look.

I have a Protector. A High Tower …

“Hey, girls.” Pamela felt the relief from the afternoon sun the instant she set foot in the garage. “Daddy will be home soon. Let’s go in and start dinner, okay?”

“What’re we having?” asked Faye.

“I thought we’d do some chicken nuggets and green beans. And we have a great big watermelon too. How does that sound?”

While the girls began bubbling about nuggets and watermelon, Pamela recognized the distinct sound of a car bumping over the entry to their driveway. She spun around.

A black Trenton City police car rolled in.

Her legs got rubbery, and a wave of the unknown seemed to lift her head two feet above the rest of her body.

Did they catch the guy?

The police car came to a halt, still running hard, fan in overdrive, air conditioner dripping steadily onto the white concrete. Although the windows were dark and sealed shut, she could make out two officers in front.

Maybe he’s in the backseat and they want me to identify him? Would they do that?

The car shut off and the front doors opened, almost at the same time. Two officers in dark uniforms unfolded from the car. The driver was a thin older man, sunburned, wearing black sunglasses. His partner looked like a kid, medium build, light complexion, mustache, same dark sunglasses, but he took his off as he approached Pamela.

“Good afternoon,” he said. “Mrs. Crittendon?”

“Yes?” She automatically put an arm around each of the girls. “Is this about the break-in?”

The officers looked at each other momentarily, then back at her.

“Is your husband Jack Crittendon?” the older officer asked in a deep voice.

“Yes … is everything okay?” She clutched the girls tighter. “He’s not hurt, is he?”

“No, ma’am,” the younger one said.

“Oh, thank goodness.” Her head whirled.

“Is he home?” the younger one continued.

“No. He’s on his way. What’s this about?”

The young officer looked at Rebecca, then Faye, then back to Pamela. “If we could have some privacy, Mrs. Crittendon, that would probably be good.”

Privacy? What for?

None of it was making sense.

“Girls”—she knelt to their level—“why don’t you go in and set the table for Mommy, okay? And when you’re done—”

“Daddy!” Rebecca yelled and lurched toward the street.

Jack’s green Jetta jerked to a halt at the curb. He was out in an instant. “What’s wrong? You okay?” He ran up the driveway, looking at them, then trying to see into the police car. “Did he come back?”

“Daddy!” Faye ran to him, and he scooped her up. Rebecca attached herself to his leg.

“It’s okay, honey.” Pamela got to him quickly as well and rubbed his arms. “We’re fine, everything’s fine. He hasn’t been back. These officers just pulled in before you got here.”

He closed his eyes, dropped his head, and exhaled. Then he looked up at the older officer. “What’s going on? Did they catch the guy?”

Again the officers glanced at each other.

“You’re Jack Crittendon?” the older one asked.

“Yeah.” He nodded and squeezed Pamela’s arm. “You’ve met Pamela, my wife? We had the break-in yesterday.”

“We don’t know about a break-in,” said the older officer, still wearing the black sunglasses. “We’re here on other business. I’m Officer Potanski, and this is Officer Nielson.”

“Mrs. Crittendon,” said Officer Nielson, “you may want to have the girls set that table now.”

All Pamela could do for a frozen moment was stare at him, knowing her mouth was hanging open but unable to close it or move.

What else has that maniac done?

“We’ll be inside in a few minutes, ladies.” Jack ushered the girls into the house. “Set the table and play. See you in a little bit.”

Jack shut the door behind them and returned to Pamela and the officers.

“What’s going on?” he said.

“Mr. and Mrs. Crittendon, we received a tip from an anonymous caller.” Officer Potanski tucked his thumbs in his black belt. “Mr. Crittendon has been accused of dealing in child pornography. Buying. Selling. Possibly trafficking.”

The officer’s mouth was still moving but his voice went to mute.

Pamela’s eyes closed as if slamming a gate.

Crazy black scribbling and angry scratching filled the tablet of her mind.

Her head buzzed with static …
loud
static she turned
up, up, up
so as not to hear any more.