Fear Has a Name: A Novel (6 page)

“White Pond? Shoot, I just assumed you’d take the highway. Is it raining where you are?”

“Not bad yet, but I need new wipers.”

“I know. That’s my bad. I’ve been meaning to do it.”

“We’ve been a little busy …”

“It’s a gusher here,” Jack said. “Sounds like you took the right route.”

“I told you, you should have followed me. Whoa!”

“What?”

“Some idiot just passed me.”

“On that road? Was it a double-yellow line?”

“No, but it’s no place to pass,” Pam said. “Everybody’s in a big hurry.”

“Hey, Cecil’s gonna run the police sketch on the front page.”

“You’re kidding me. You asked him?”

“No! He volunteered it. He actually sounded concerned.”

“Come on,” Pam said. “What are you doing? This is ridiculous—”

“What?” Jack said.

“The guy who passed me is riding his brakes all of a sudden.”

“He’s probably looking for a street.”

“There aren’t any streets out here.”

“Where are you?”

“Almost to the bridge, by the river.”

“Just be patient.”

“He’s starting and stopping, right in the middle of the road.”

“Keep your distance. Your tires aren’t that great.”

He reminded himself to do new wipers
and
tires, all at once.

“If you get home first,” Pam said, “hurry up and relieve Darlene and Tommy. They’ve been there forever. Tell them we owe them dinner.”

“Knowing them, the girls are probably up partying.”

“You have
got
to be kidding me. He’s stopped!” she yelled. “We’re right in the middle of the bridge and this guy is stopping his car.”

Jack could picture the bridge’s enormous rusty metal girders and rivets the size of baseballs. He’d done several stories on it, because the Lincolntown River tended to swell and flood near the bridge. Big local issue.

“There is no way. I think he put it in park,” Pam said. “What the …”

“Is there something in front of his car? Maybe he can’t get across.”

“The other lane’s clear, he could go around. Oh wow, it’s raining hard now. You almost home? I just wanna make sure everything’s okay with the girls.”

“I’ll be there in a few,” Jack said. “No worries. Rain’s letting up a little here. What’s going on with that guy?”

Jack could hear the rain ticking the roof of Pam’s car.

“Pam?”

Nothing.

“Pam?”

He turned up the volume.

“Pam? Answer me!”

“Oh my gosh, Jack!” she screamed.
“It’s him!”

Something jolted the inside of Jack’s chest, like a gong being struck by a sledgehammer. His insides went hollow and waves of electricity vibrated down his arms and out his empty fingertips.

“How do you know?” he barked. “What’s he doing?”

“It’s his car. Oh dear God, Jack …
he’s getting out
!”

9

“Are you sure?” Jack’s words were clipped, fierce.

One glance at the husky body as it emerged from the brown car … the black clothes … the boots …

“Yes!” Headlights glared in her rearview mirror. “I’m blocked in!”

Lock doors, lock doors …

She let the phone slip away and felt her armrest for the door-lock button.

The stranger hunched over in the driving rain and did a hop-skip-jog directly toward her.

His trot was more agile than she would have expected, with one blocky white hand above his small eyes.

She looked down for the lock button on the armrest, but the interior was black. Her fingers traced the small panel of buttons.

Jack’s tinny voice chirped from somewhere on the floor.

Every organ in her pounded.

He was almost there.

Her mind seared white and she hit a button.

The window behind her buzzed down.

No!

Cold rain blew in.

Her fingertips danced over the buttons, and she hit another.

The passenger window dropped five inches.

“Pamela.” He was there. Bulky. Immovable. Reaching for her door handle.

Saying her name?

Cold air and rain swept in as he pulled open her door. He smelled like an ashtray.

“I’ve never forgotten you, Pammy Wagner …”

Her maiden name?

She pinched her door handle with ten adrenaline-laced fingertips and slammed the door shut.

His head cocked back with a laugh.

She jammed another button.

All four locks clicked.

The smirk on his face disappeared.

Window behind you … get it up.

His mammoth body shifted like a cat.

He reached for her!

His hand was rough, cold, wet. It slimed her cheek and pinched the back of her neck. She jerked forward, but he caught her hair, and she screamed.

Jack’s voice echoed in rage from the phone on the floor.

She jammed the button for the back window with her left hand and smashed the horn with the other. And kept smashing.

His tiny eyes swelled at the continuous blare, and his small mouth curved sour. Her hair went free as his hand banged its way out. The window sealed shut.

Thank God for the horn.

People will come …

He turned toward the cars behind her.

Did they understand she was in trouble? Would they call the police?

Headlights rose up and doused him in a flood of white neon. His dirty red hair was matted and twisted against his wide forehead. Rain dripped from his hooked nose. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he yelled.

The headlights rolled off him.

No, don’t leave!

Horns honked behind her.

The freak bent over, and his enormous shoulders and ghastly face filled her window again. Inches from her. Dripping. Sweating. Every pore oozing evil.

“I want to take care of you … and Rebecca and Faye.”

How dare you!

Something deep within her blazed, and she reeled around.

She wanted to hurt him—this bizarre, disgusting
thing
that had used names he should not know, names he had no right to utter.

Rain sheered in from the still-open passenger window.

The man retreated toward his car, turning to say one last thing, pointing at her, orange eyebrow arched, his mouth moving as it would in a civilized discussion, as if she was supposed to understand.
A threat?

It didn’t matter. She’d had enough.

Methodically, she reached for the gear shift, slick from the rain, pinched the button, and clicked it to the illuminated R.

The car behind her was trying to go around, but she cut it off by backing into its path.

She could barely breathe. Her insides pumped liked pistons in a roaring engine.

The stranger was almost to the door of his car.

Pamela quickened her movements, jamming the shifter to the D, getting the car rolling.

Her headlights hit him, and he looked at her, frozen for an instant. His tiny eyes flared. He moved fast for his door handle.

She gunned it. Her car seemed to rise from the wet pavement, heated, lurching for the fiendish man.

He slipped into the brown car just in time, his door banging open, then shut again. She just missed him, then slammed the brake to the floor, sliding and bending to a stop ten feet past his car.

She sat still, blocking the left lane, fingers stapled to the steering wheel, hands vibrating. A booming echo pulsating in her ears.

He could have shot forward in the right lane, slipped past her, and taken off—but his car did not move.

His car was to the right, behind her, purring like a black cat with shiny eyes, kneading its paws, wiggling its hips, poised to pounce.

She couldn’t go forward because he’d just follow her. Why hadn’t she gotten his plates when she was behind him?

Stupid, stupid …

She had to reach the phone. Get Jack. Call the police.

The bridge was blocked. Other cars were still there. Jack would be there soon. Surely someone had called the police.

His car inched closer.

Pamela’s heart coiled like a tension-riddled steel spring. She slammed her left palm on the horn and kept it there.

If she didn’t move her car, he was going to plow it into the steel rails of the bridge. But if she was going to drive, she had to get hold of the phone …

She jabbed the button for the overhead light, spotted the phone on the floor, bent, stretched, and snatched it.

His car was so close to hers she couldn’t even see its headlights.

“Jack?” She put the phone to her ear.

The connection was gone.

The rain had slowed. Just as she was about to lift her foot from the brake and drive forward over the bridge, the man reappeared at the front of her car, lit up by headlights like a villain on stage.

Something flashed in his hand.

Knife.

He bent at her front-right fender and his elbow began flailing, as if he was beating someone …

Had someone approached to help, and he was pounding the tar out of him?

She didn’t want to move the car because she thought someone was up there, close to the front fender.

But, no …

The car rocked, then a hiss …

Just as the villain stood, winded, and stuck his mammoth chest out with a proud smirk, she realized he had punctured her tire.

He pointed the blade directly at her, with his fist above it, like a fencer preparing to spear his victim. His wet head moved back and forth in the rain. He shouted, “Pamela, you were the only one!”

Go!

Her brain sent the message to drive—
Run him down! Get away while he’s out of his car!—
but her body bogged down. She examined the phone in her hand, but everything in her was crisscrossing and misfiring, and she just sat, immobilized, like an overmedicated blob.

His eyes moved from her and settled on something to her right.

She followed them to her still-open passenger window.
“No!”

His arm was in. He patted savagely for the unlock button. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he yelled.

Pamela lifted both knees, swiveled on her rear, and bashed his arm with every muscle she could recruit. Drawing her legs back quickly, like machine parts, so he couldn’t grab her, she did it again …
bam
… and again. Like a shovel smashing a rotten log.

One after another, the kicks landed.

Don’t slow down … he’ll grab you …

Suddenly—like a shark inexplicably turning and swimming away from its prey—the arm slinked out of the window.

Everything slammed eerily still.

Blue lights danced off the bridge like the reflection of water by a pool at night and filled the interior of the car.

Police.

Pamela had kicked her way onto her back. Drenched in sweat, she forced herself to breathe, grabbed the steering wheel, and pulled herself up.

His car hurled backward, did a one-eighty, and spun to a stop facing the opposite direction.

She made out three letters on the Ohio license plate: CVJ.

But with a slight skid and a squeal, the car’s tires found road, gripped, and sent the stranger sailing into the night, past two Trenton City police cars just arriving at the bridge.

10

A day and a half had passed since Pam’s run-in with the stalker at the bridge. She’d barely eaten since, and she looked it. She and Jack had been chilled to the bone to realize the man knew Pam’s name, and the girls’, which made the crimes eerily personal.

Police were running the letters Pam had remembered from the guy’s plates, and the report about Jack’s laptop was still forthcoming. Cecil had not only kept good on his promise to run the sketch of the intruder in the
Dispatch
, he offered to let Jack work from home temporarily.

Jack went to say good-bye to Pam before heading out for his appointment with Pastor Satterfield and found her alone in the study, curled up with one of her old Bibles. Her face was gaunt, her eyes glassy; she sniffed and clutched a fistful of tissues.

“You okay?”

She turned to him with tired eyes. “Just need this time.”

“The girls are watching cartoons, you’re fine.”

He crept in and sat on the ottoman next to her. He covered her hand with his, and they talked quietly. It crossed his mind to pray with her, but he dismissed the thought. He wasn’t feeling very spiritual. Besides, Pam was being spiritual enough for both of them.

Jack hadn’t seen her without a Bible since the night at the bridge. She had been jotting down scripture on the back of his old business cards and glancing at them while busy in the kitchen or playing with the girls. And though she hadn’t said anything, he quickly figured out she was fasting. The incident had numbed her. Her movements were slow and contemplative. She listened intently and spoke less, not depressed or sedate, but reflective.

“I’ll be back here as soon as I can, okay?” he said.

“We’re fine—really.”

They agreed to say nothing about the man to Pam’s parents. If her mother knew what was going on, they would most assuredly need to get her a rubber room at the nearest asylum.

As he waited to interview Dr. Andrew Satterfield in his frigid office at Five Forks Methodist Church, Jack shivered and shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

Satterfield’s office looked and smelled as if it had just received several thick coats of Sherwin-Williams’ brightest white paint. A wide window overlooking dense green woods made it even brighter. The long, shiny reddish wood desk in front of Jack held only a small calendar, pen holder, stapler, calculator, notepad, and telephone—each placed precisely in the form of an arch. There were no folders or coffee mugs or papers or any sign of “real work.” Behind the desk was a matching credenza, dust-free, not a thing on it—no photos, no children’s artwork, no computer, no hint of Satterfield’s personal life.

Church secretary Barbara Cooley, a heavyset redhead wearing an electrifying blue dress, a necklace of large faux pearls and matching earrings, and thick red lipstick, had led Jack to Satterfield’s office and assured him the associate pastor would join Jack shortly. While they chatted, Jack confirmed that Mrs. Cooley had seen Pastor Evan McDaniel the morning of his disappearance. She agreed to speak with Jack when he was finished with Satterfield.

Jack didn’t know whether he was shivering because it was freezing in the office or because he was uptight about leaving the girls alone. So much for his simplistic theory about the intruder being a drug addict on a mindless binge; the man had proven himself much more menacing. Now Jack was the one talking about purchasing a gun. He had discussed it with Officer DeVry the morning after the bridge incident. DeVry was neutral on the topic, but this time it had been Pam who hesitated.

“Let’s wait,” she said.

“Wait … for what?” Jack said. “For him to kidnap you, or one of the girls? This guy’s certified nuts, Pam. He’s liable to do anything. If he comes on our property again, we need to be prepared.”

It was the same argument Pam had pleaded days earlier.

But something had changed in her since the night on the bridge. Her silence, her quiet determination … it spoke volumes. It whispered to him that they had all the protection they needed, if they would only believe.

But this guy was crazy … and he might come back.

Does God not know that?
Jack chastised himself. If the guy was insane, did that make God any less effective in protecting them?

The heat gets turned up, and you’re going to take matters into your own hands?

Jack pictured the Gadarene demoniac from the Bible, rushing from his home among the tombs to the shoreline where he confronted Jesus. The dude wore no clothes, and no one could subdue him. They tried, but he tore the chains and broke the irons.

Jesus sent the man’s demons fleeing into a herd of pigs.

This guy haunting us must have demons
, Jack thought.

He envisioned himself squaring off with the stalker in their front yard at night. Could he rebuke the man’s evil spirits? Would God give him the power? Or would Jack pull out a semiautomatic, the one he couldn’t stop thinking about, and blow the guy to kingdom come? Or would he beat the scum to a pulp with his bare hands?

Jack detected the odor of manufactured nylon and polyester, and determined that the spotless wall-to-wall short-pile maroon carpet beneath his feet must be brand-new. He could still smell the glue and noticed several tiny pieces of cut carpet along the gray baseboard.

A number of framed objects leaned against the walls, waiting to be hung. Two were Satterfield’s degrees from Dallas Theological Seminary; another was a Bible verse, penned exquisitely in bold calligraphy:
And let us not be weary in well doing: for in due season we shall reap, if we faint not
—
Galatians 6:9
. Next was a painting of a fly fisherman wading in a shady river. Last was a painting of a mean-looking Jesus in the sky, surrounded by ominous gray clouds, with hundreds of people cowering on the ground below.

Voices came from a distance down the hallway, getting clearer as they drew closer.

“You have lunch at twelve thirty with the elders.” It was Barbara Cooley’s voice. “At two you have the contemporary worship director. At three it’s Benevolence Committee—”

“Tell me the rest later,” a male voice said, just outside the door. “I’ve kept this gentleman waiting long enough.”

Dr. Satterfield blew into the office clutching a black laptop and an eyeglasses case. He wore dark green slacks, a white button-down shirt, and a khaki sports jacket, and he smelled like the antiseptic Pam used to clean her face.

“Hello, hello.” He whisked past Jack without shaking hands, curved around the desk, and set his glasses case down precisely in line with the other items on the desk’s surface. “You shall have my full attention in
un momento
. I am Five Forks’ associate pastor, Dr. Andrew Satterfield.”

With his back to Jack, the tall, thin man set his PC on the credenza, leaned back to examine how it sat, and with both thumbs adjusted it ever so slightly so the laptop was in perfect alignment with the front edge. He wore a sleek watch, no rings, and his hands were white and clean, nails trimmed up tight. He turned to face his guest. “And you must be Mr. Crotten—”

“Crittendon.” Jack stood and—awkwardly clutching his pad, pen, and list of questions against his thighs—leaned over the desk to shake hands. “With the
Dispatch
.”

Satterfield ignored Jack’s hand, swung his fake leather maroon chair around, plopped down, wheeled up to the desk, placed his elbows on the surface, and locked his bony fingers.

“Tell me what I can do for you and our friends at the local fish wrapper, Mr. Crittendon.”

Ignoring the dig, Jack explained concisely that his editor had learned of Pastor Evan’s disappearance via
Faith Line
and that he had interviewed Wendy McDaniel. He let him know he’d obtained a copy of the letter Evan left behind and was there to find out as much as he could about the man’s vanishing.

Jack left it open-ended, just to see what kind of a talker he had in Satterfield. He could ask some people one question and they would spill the entire can of beans; others required relentless prying just to retrieve yes and no answers.

“I don’t believe I have a great deal more to add,” said Satterfield. “The article you ran on the cover of the
Dispatch
the other day adequately summed it up. As that piece indicated, I don’t think it’s going to end pretty.”

“It did surprise me,” Jack said, “that the
Faith Line
article came right out and said that coworkers believed the pastor was ‘genuinely determined,’ I believe it said, to take his own life—”

“Ah-ah.” Satterfield held up an index finger as if correcting a child. “Actually, what it said was that coworkers believed he was genuinely determined to follow through on his ‘expressed intentions,’ referring to the letter he left.”

“So you
do
think he intends to commit suicide.”

“You said you read the letter, did you not? And you know about the medications he took with him?”

“Not exactly. What more can you tell me about them?”

“Not long after Pastor McDaniel arrived here, I was somewhat shocked to learn that he had been seeing a psychiatrist. He told me he had struggled with long seasons of depression, as well as some anxiety. He said he was trying to get a grip on it with medication. He thought I should know.”

“And that surprised you?”

“To say the least.”

“Why?”

“Mr. Crittendon.” Satterfield sighed and hunched over, as if Jack had zero common sense. “The job of pastor is that of a shepherd. It is a most sacred and sobering responsibility and one that must be held by men of
sound mind
. Is Evan a warm and generous man? Absolutely. Does he love the people of this congregation? Perhaps to a fault. But does he have the alert, sober mind of Christ? Is he prepared
at all times
to preach the Word, correct, rebuke, encourage? That is in question. And I’ve said as much both to him and our elders.”

“It sounds as if you don’t feel he’s fit to be the pastor here.”

Satterfield leaned forward, opened one of his desk drawers, snatched a sanitary wipe, and slathered his hands with it. “It’s no secret I think Evan needs time away from the pastorate to deal with his psychological issues.” After finishing with his hands, he wiped the arms of his chair, then meticulously rubbed the area in front of him on the desk and tossed the wipe in the trash can.

“When did you see him last?” Jack asked.

“Thursday. Day before he left,” Satterfield said. “I saw him toward the end of the workday. He often seemed tired to me, low energy. I noticed nothing unusual. He came in the next day, Friday, early from what I understand, then disappeared.”

Satterfield’s elbows rested on the arms of his chair, and all ten of his fingertips touched each other. He glanced at his watch. “Now I do have a lunch appointment, so if we’re about through …”

“Did he have appointments lined up for the day he went missing?” Jack asked.

“He did.”

“Hospital visits?”

“And people recuperating at home.”

“And he didn’t make it to any of those?”

“Obviously not.”

Smug fellow …

“Did he have enemies?”

Satterfield sighed. After a moment he said, “I think it’s safe to say that all pastors, at least those who are upholding sound doctrine, are persecuted to some degree.” He massaged his temples with two fingers on each side. “We’ve had our share of resentful, bitter congregants, but in my mind, none of those things are pertinent in Evan’s disappearance.”

“There was some church discipline invoked recently, involving a man named Hank …” Jack scoured his notes. “Garbenger.”

Satterfield’s eyes narrowed, and his mouth shrank to a slit. He wheeled backward in his chair. “What about it?”

“Could that have led to anything?” Jack said. “You know, a revenge-type thing against Evan?”

Satterfield closed his eyes and shook his head. “We deal with things like that all the time. That’s what we do, sir. This is a hospital, a mending place, if you will. Frankly, I think you’re looking for something that isn’t there, Mr. Crittendon. In fact, I know you are.” He examined his watch and tapped it. “I’ve really got to be moving along.” He stood and came around the desk. “I hope I’ve been of assistance.”

Still seated, Jack said, “If you don’t mind, just one or two more quick things while I have you. Do you know what medications Pastor Evan had been taking? And do you know which ones he took with him?”

“Let’s see.” Satterfield crossed his arms. “Zoloft. Remeron. Effexor … and good old Valium for the anxiety.”

“And how do you know this?”

“He told me.” Satterfield threw out his hands. “My first week on the job.”

“And how do we know he took these drugs with him?”

“He kept them in a medicine cabinet in his office restroom. They were there. Now they’re gone. Honestly, Mr. Crittendon, I’m bewildered at your line of questioning. Has something specific led you to believe Evan did
not
disappear with the intention of taking his own life?”

“Hold on just one second, sir.” Jack finished scribbling what Satterfield had said and looked up at him. “His wife is as sure this
isn’t
a suicide as you are that it is.”