Fear Has a Name: A Novel (12 page)

17

Jack cut loose punches to Granger’s stomach and face before he was lashed with a surprise left backhand that felt like a two-by-four. The blow laid Jack on the street, and before he had a chance to rebound, Granger’s damp body smothered him. His large fists twisted Jack’s collar until he was locked down.

Jack maneuvered one of his arms around the creep’s enormous elbows and skimmed his forehead with a punch, but it didn’t faze him.

“I don’t want to hurt you.” Granger was out of breath, pushing painfully harder on Jack’s chest and arms. Blood trickled down Granger’s puffy face from a gash beneath his eye. “I returned your stuff. I’m leaving—for good.”

No, that wouldn’t do. He couldn’t let Granger haunt them anymore. Jack was the gatekeeper of the home sixty feet away, and his girls were in there. He arched and kicked and butted. They were both breathing like worn-out dogs. Suddenly Granger seemed to hoist an extra forty pounds he had been hiding onto Jack’s stomach and shoulders.

“Just let me go,” Granger grunted from clenched teeth. “You’ll never see me again. I promise you.”

“You’re gonna pay.” With all of the fury churning inside him, Jack loosened an elbow and jacked it toward Granger’s face. It cracked his nose, and his assailant’s eyes closed. He shook his head, conveying the oddest look of, what, humiliation? Blood dripped from his hooked nose, over his lip, onto Jack’s chest.

“Don’t make me tie you up.” Granger twisted his knobby fists tighter, and Jack’s collar cut into his neck, making it difficult to breathe.

“Leave him alone!” Pamela’s scream came from the front of the house. “Get out of here. The police are coming!”

Granger’s posture straightened, his neck seemed to telescope three inches, and his wide head turned toward Pam’s voice. His mouth opened. His eyes enlarged. He drank her in.

“We know who you are,” Pam called. “You won’t get away. Leave him alone.”

“Those are your things.” Granger panted, nodding past Pam toward a box at the front door. “Everything’s there, Pamela.”

Jack’s stomach soured when he heard his wife’s name come from the freak’s mouth.

“Get out of here, now!” Pam said.

“I’m trying.” Granger squeezed Jack’s collar. “He won’t give up.”

“Let him leave, Jack.” Her voice was close now, within ten feet. “He won’t get far.”

“Stay away, Pam!” Jack yelled. “Get inside!”

“Granger, please, leave!” Pam barked.

It made Jack boil even more that Pam addressed him by name and that she had to be the one to coax him off their property.

“I’m sorry, Pamela.” Granger stared at her while riding Jack. “I never meant it to be like this. I … I wanted to talk to you, like we used to.”

Pam finally came within Jack’s sight, arms crossed, clutching the cordless house phone in one hand.

“It got out of control.” Granger’s voice broke, his face twisted, rows of lines deepened above his eyes. “Sometimes I …” His head dropped. “I would never hurt you.”

“Good, now just go.” Pam pointed toward his car. “Jack, let him go!”

Lying there beneath the strange, heavy body, Jack felt weak and incompetent, as if he was the outsider looking in on the love of his life and this … this stronger man who had once attracted Pam’s sympathy.

“Okay, get outta here.” Jack allowed his body to go limp, but meanwhile alarms of rebellion screamed in his head and sent tremors throughout every fiber of his being.

Let the pig think I’m giving up.

Jack huffed, “We better never see you again.” He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, feeling Granger’s grip release.

Wait, just wait for the right moment. Be ready to explode …

Granger grunted as he hoisted himself up and turned to face Pam. “I’m sorry for what I’ve put you through.” He wiped his sweaty, bloody face with the back of his thick wrist. “I won’t bother you anymore. Please, I hope you can forgive me.”

With that, he repositioned one of his legs and looked as if he was going to walk toward his car. In that instant of shifting, Granger’s tree-trunk legs formed a perfect upside-down V almost directly over Jack’s right leg.

From complete stillness to a blur, Jack thrust his right foot upward with all the adrenaline-laced venom he had been storing up since his home was invaded.

With a dense thud, the kick landed squarely in Granger’s crotch. The air left him with a grunt and he bent over, his surprised face within three feet of Jack’s.

Rolling onto his right shoulder to gain momentum, Jack exploded with a right fist to Granger’s face and nose, following through all the way to his left side. The blistering pain in the back of Jack’s hand told him the punch must have scored some damage, although Granger did not fall.

Pam screamed and ran full out for the house.

“You shouldn’t have done that.” Granger’s muffled voice came from behind one of his mitt-size hands that covered his bleeding nose and lip.

Like a missile leaving earth, Jack propelled himself from the ground toward Granger, head lowered, with the intent of sticking him in the gut and driving him like a tackling sled into the side of the brown car.

Jack made it to his target, but Granger only staggered backward a step or two. With surprising power, he bear-hugged Jack and slammed him into the parked car, bashing his lower back against the side mirror. Jack’s legs lost all strength, and he collapsed to the street, realizing that the wind had been knocked out of him. His head whirled.

A glance at the house revealed that Pam had made it inside.

Good.

Rolling to his elbows and knees, Jack stopped and focused on breathing. Everything flipped to slow motion, and he saw Granger’s black boots approaching from the side.

“Pamela.” Granger took a step toward the house. “I did not mean any harm.”

The pain in Jack’s back was searing. He was dizzy. But he was catching his breath, trying to gather enough steam for one last burst.

“You planned it all,” Pam yelled from the door. “How could you be so hurtful?”

Jack realized she was trying to stall him till the cops arrived.

“I’m messed up. I know that.” Granger’s boots moved another three steps toward her. “Sometimes I’m okay and other times … I do things I don’t want to.”

“You need help, Granger,” Pam said. “Sit down where you are and wait for the police.”

He laughed. “The police are going to help me?” He moved toward her again, wiping the blood from his mouth.

“Don’t come any closer!” she screamed.

Jack had to muster one more attack. It didn’t matter what happened to him.

“You were the only person who ever cared about me.” Granger continued slowly toward the front door. “And now it’s too late.”

“There are people who can help you.” Pam’s upper body leaned out the front door, her fingers poised to slam it shut if he got too close. “God can help you.”

“Would that be the same god my mother and father claimed to follow?”

“Your parents had problems,” she called. “They weren’t right. You’ve got scars from that, but God can make you new.”

“It’s no good, Pam.” Granger was within ten feet of her. “I’ve read the Bible. I know all about it. My parents lived and breathed religion, but they poisoned me with their evil.”

Clutching his back, Jack forced himself to his knees. His tailbone felt cracked. DeVry wasn’t going to make it in time. Jack had to take Granger until the cops arrived.

Granger glanced back and spotted Jack on his knees. In a flash he dashed over, booted him sprawling to the pavement, and ran for his car.

Through the pain, Jack worked his way to his feet, but only in time to see the brown car bend around the corner and speed out of sight.

18

Now I’m in for it.

Although he didn’t see any squad cars or uniformed officers, Granger felt as if the police were closing in on him as he drove, windows down, under the speed limit, into the city limits of Trenton City. Creeping past the Nicoma Café, past Butch’s Barber Shop, past Sun Appliances, Granger realized life as he knew it was about to change dramatically.

He’d said what he’d had to say to Pamela, and that was that. There was no more he could do to clear the slate with her. Part of him wanted to pull over along the city sidewalk and simply wait for the cops to converge on him.

Could penitentiary life be that bad, compared to the life he’d lived? Shoot, he knew it would; it’d be as bad as the day was long. But his whole life had been bad; it had been a prison with walls not made of bars or razor-wire fences but of condemnation and disapproval, criticism and gloom.

He was so alone.

Always had been.

His world was dark and sad and seeping with the heaviness of insecurity and loneliness. Except for those times with Pamela, those fleeting moments from his youth—the only times when he ever really felt free or alive or worth anything.

He’d seen fear in her eyes at her house, to be sure, but there was something more. Behind all the tension, he saw that Pamela still cared; she was still concerned about him.

Stopped at a light on the corner where the Home Spun restaurant filled up with a lunch crowd of fried chicken lovers, Granger admitted that he did not have the skill, knowledge, or prowess to dodge the law for long. Fugitives never remained on the lam very long. They were always tracked down, bagged, and booked.

The toot of a horn from behind made Granger aware of the green light, and he hurried along in the sweltering car, whose air-conditioning had failed long ago.

Everything he owned was in the black bag in the seat behind him.

Sheesh.

Do you realize what people would think of that? Of you? To think that you have resided on this planet more than thirty years and what you have to show for it fits into a two-by-three-foot satchel?

A disgrace.

Waste of breath.

Detriment to society.

Who would care if he was gone?

If he did not exist tomorrow, what difference would it make?

Would it impact one single thing?

Would any great task or project or mission that impacted lives fail to be completed?

Would anyone cry out in mourning or miss his presence so much that they actually hurt inside?

Not even close.

What would they do with his body? Cremate it? Bury it? Who would pay for the casket? Would there be a funeral? No one would come.

Would Pamela come, if she knew about it?

The romantic part of him cried,
Yes, she would be there!
She would insist on getting dressed up and going alone. She would kneel at his graveside and drop flowers on the casket after it was lowered into the ground.

Some guy was right on his tail in a humongous pickup truck. All he could see in the rearview mirror was the guy’s dang grill. Probably some little five-foot dude with a Napoleon complex.

Granger flipped his blinker and pulled into one of the angled parking spaces in front of the Second Chance Thrift Shop. The pickup roared past with the rigged-up muffler you would expect from such an idiot. Granger put the car in park and turned it off. He had saved up a good bit of money from the job at the bowling alley, but not enough to buy a decent car. If he was going to avoid the police for any time at all, he needed a different vehicle.

He didn’t want to steal one, didn’t know how to jump-start one. The fact was, he didn’t want to take someone else’s car. But the clock was ticking and so was his heart. This was it.

Subconsciously he knew why he had parked in that spot. There was a gun shop several stores down.

Why do you need a gun?

Granger didn’t want to go to prison. If he had a gun, that gave him more options.

Like what?
Shooting anyone who closes in on you? Are you really going to do that?

He knew he probably didn’t have it in him. Perhaps he would draw his weapon and let the police fill him with lead.

Or maybe you’ll kill yourself.

That was just words, a blip on the screen, a flash in the back of his mind.

You probably don’t have the guts to do that either.

Or maybe he needed the gun to take Pamela. Maybe that’s what this was all about.

All of it was just a rush of thoughts.

His nose felt broken. He checked it in the rearview mirror and wiped away the dried blood.

Had the police put out some sort of bulletin about him? If so, he would be dead meat if he tried to buy a gun, because he’d have to show his driver’s license. If not, they were sure to do so within minutes, since Pamela and Jack were probably explaining everything to the police right now, while he sat sweating like a pig in that roasting car.

He made up his mind, got out, and headed for the gun shop. Bells tinkled above his head when he entered, and the cold air-conditioning sobered him.

“Hey there,” came a voice somewhere in the crowded store.

Granger finally spotted the small guy at the far end of the long glass counter. He had long, shiny brown hair and was wearing a black Who T-shirt. Granger nodded and quickly found the used guns within another long glass counter on the opposite side of the store.

“Is there anything I can show you?” The little guy with the Who shirt was headed toward where Granger stood, scanning guns and price tags.

“Yeah, can I see that little Jennings? That one for a hundred and twenty?”

“Sure.”

There were a couple other customers in the shop, a tall guy in a cowboy hat and a middle-aged lady with a tattoo of a cat on her wrist.

“That’s a handy little gun,” the kid said as he worked hard to push the slide back, checked to make sure it had no ammo, and gently handed it to Granger. The kid’s front teeth were badly out of whack, and he was extremely thin. Granger felt comfortable with him.

“This is probably a dumb question, but what is this, a .22?” Granger felt the weight of the little piece.

“This is actually a .380, so the ammo is slightly larger than a .22, but it’s still nice and compact. Great for the glove compartment. Fits in your pocket. We just got that in a day or two ago on a trade.”

“I’ll take it.”

The kid laughed. “Well, that was easy. Where’s my easy button?” He laughed some more, locked the back of the counter, and headed around to where he had originally been standing. “Can I get you a couple boxes of ammo for that?”

The bells on the front door jingled, and two cops walked in. Granger lost his breath for a second. He looked away, took in a deep breath, and told himself to keep cool. He had been going to ask the kid how many bullets were in a box, but now, the sooner and more quietly he got out of there, the better.

“That’ll be fine,” he said to the kid.

“Two boxes?” the kid called.

Granger nodded and glanced at the cops. One was off looking at heavy artillery across the store. The other was giving him the eyeball. Granger knew he must look ratty after the fight with Jack and wondered if he was bleeding somewhere.

He quickly turned back to the counter where the kid had stacked the gun and ammo boxes.

“Do you have a carry permit?”

“No,” he whispered and shook his head.

“That’s fine,” the kid said. “Just fill this out and we’ll get you going.” He pushed a paper on a clipboard to Granger and handed him a pen.

Now you’ve done it, you idiot.

He could feel sweat forming at the top of his forehead.

If he filled out the form and the kid got some kind of red flag when he did the background check, the cops were right there.

How could he get out of there?

He’d tell the kid he forgot his wallet, that it was in his car. Then he could make a break for it.

You never do anything right. Even this …

“Whatchya gettin’ there?”

Granger flinched and turned, quicker than he should have.

It was the cop who’d been watching him. “That a little nine?”

“Ah, no, actually it’s a .380.” Granger swallowed hard and wiped his forehead with the palm of his hand.

“I like them two-tone jobs.” The cop pointed to a copper-and-black-colored gun in the glass case. “They’re makin’ ’em sharper and sharper these days.”

“Yeah, they are,” Granger said.

With pen in hand, he bent over the paper on the clipboard. He had to start writing something, but his mind was a jumble. He thought he might drip sweat right onto the paper. Should he fill out a false name, say he forgot his ID, and get out of there? Or fill out his real info and take his chances?

Head buzzing, Granger scanned the form. Beyond name, address, and social security number, it asked:

___ Are you a fugitive from justice?

___ Are you under indictment?

___ Have you ever been convicted?

By that very moment, he was probably considered a fugitive. There must have been twenty yes-no questions on the forms. There was no way he was going to stand there, fill that thing out, and take the risk of being grabbed.

“Man, I don’t know what I was thinking,” Granger said softly, taking several steps toward the kid, who had wandered ten feet down the counter. “I left my wallet in my car. Lemme go grab it. Be right back.”

“No worries,” the kid said, as he walked toward the gun and ammo Granger had been about to purchase. “I’ll put this behind the counter till you get back.”

“Great.”

Granger turned and headed for the door, his heart thundering.

He sensed the cop, still way too close. Saw his dark uniform out the corner of his eye.

Just keep going.

Within three feet of putting his hand on the door to push his way out of that hornet’s nest, Granger took one last glance back.

The cop stood frozen, brazenly staring at the bulge in Granger’s back pocket, precisely where his wallet was situated.

Like a flash, the cop’s brown eyes flicked up to meet Granger’s. He squinted, as if taking a mental photograph.

Granger practically fell out of the store, losing his balance on the two steps leading down to the sidewalk. He found his feet and fought his way through the wall of sweltering heat that engulfed him. He was tempted to peer back through the store windows, but instead made a beeline for his car, moving as fast as a man could move without running.