Fear Has a Name: A Novel (15 page)

Pamela assumed her mom’s car was in the garage out back, but she could be at the store or running errands. That would be fine. It would give them a chance to get their things in and get settled. She made her way up the steps to the wide front porch.

“MawMaw isn’t answering.” Pamela said.

“She must not be home.” Faye now did what her big sister had done, blocking the reflection with her hands and looking in through the glass in the front door.

Pamela walked to the far side of the porch and got the key that was hidden behind the shutter. She crossed to the front door.

“Here, sweetie.” She put her hands on Faye’s little shoulders and gently guided her out of the way. “Let Mommy get in there. I have a spare key here.”

“Yay, yay!” Rebecca bounced. “I thought we were going to have to sit out here till they got home.”

“Yay!” Faye yelled and tugged on Pamela’s shirt.

Pamela unlocked both dead bolts, pushed the old door open, and entered the dark living room. The floor creaked, and the air was still and stale. As she had noticed her past few visits, the house smelled ever so slightly like a nursing home, even more so as she drew further inside.

Old age was old age. The carpet was spotted because they weren’t as with it as they used to be. She remembered Mom telling her when they were together last that it was becoming more difficult to keep her breath fresh. Her mother had bouts with yeast infections, and she was fighting a low blood platelet count. Daddy’s hygiene had been slipping of late as well, Mom had said. He didn’t shave or get his hair cut as often as he used to, and she often had to nag him about putting on a fresh shirt or pants instead of wearing the same things repeatedly.

“Mom?” Pamela headed into the kitchen. “Anybody home?”

“MawMaw!” Rebecca yelled. “MawMaw, surprise!”

“Surprise, PawPaw!” Faye cried. “Anybody home?”

“I don’t think they’re here, girls,” Pamela said.

She noticed something shiny on the kitchen floor and stopped cold. “Don’t come in here, girls.” She knelt down over shattered pieces of one of her mother’s broken dinner dishes.

“Mom?” She stood. “Are you here?”

“What’s wrong, Mommy?” Rebecca was holding Faye by the shoulders now, just outside the kitchen.

Pamela scanned the room, thinking her mother might have passed out. She looked for blood from the shattered plate but saw nothing.

“I heard something.” Rebecca’s eyes shifted to the ceiling. “Upstairs.”

Faye looked up.

Pamela went past the girls. “Follow me, girls. Not too closely. Just stay where I can see you.” She climbed the steps quickly, her adrenaline kicking up a notch with each step.

This can’t have anything to do with Granger.

Maybe Mom had hurt herself or had a heart attack and was somewhere in the house.

The doors in the upstairs hallway were never closed, but one was now: her mom and dad’s bedroom at the end of the hall. Should she call the police?

You’re paranoid. It’s just a closed door.

“Yoo-hoo,” Pamela called as she walked gingerly toward the closed door. Her heart ticked rapidly, but she was trying to be lighthearted in front of the girls. “Mom, Dad, anybody home?” She got to the door, stopped, and knocked. “Mom? It’s Pamela. Surprise.” She knocked harder. “You in there?”

Someone was. Pamela heard movement.

“Mommy, I’m scared,” Rebecca said.

“Me too,” said Faye.

Pamela could barely catch a breath. “Don’t worry,” she managed. The top of her head buzzed. It all felt surreal. But she had to get a grip for her children’s sake. Quietly she tried the doorknob, but it was locked.

Granger came to mind again, but she pushed the thought away.

“Mom!” She called loudly this time. “Open up; it’s Pamela. I brought the girls for a surprise visit.”

After a time of silence, the lock clicked loudly, jolting Pamela. She grabbed the knob and pushed the door open. Her mother was walking away into the dark room, arms wrapped tightly around herself, toward a window where the shade was pulled down.

Pamela held up a hand toward the girls. “Stay here for a minute,” she whispered.

“Mom?” She walked slowly into the bedroom, overcome by the smell of liquor. She squinted in the dark, scanning the room for any sign of trouble, for her dad, for Granger—but there was no one else. “Mom, did we frighten you?”

Her mother nodded as she stood facing the window.

Pamela touched her shoulder from behind. Her mother was shaking.

“I’m sorry, Mom,” Pamela said. “We wanted to surprise you. Bad idea, huh?”

Her mom didn’t look back, just nodded more aggressively. Her breathing was rapid and irregular, somewhere between laughter and sobs. Pam leaned around to see her face. The fear and paranoia and bitterness of a lifetime showed in her brittle white hair and deeply creased face—which was highlighted almost grotesquely by swollen, dark purple bags beneath her sagging eyes.

“It’s okay, Mom.” Pamela gently turned her around, wondering if she was doped up on some kind of medication. “Is that what it was? We just frightened you?”

Again her mother nodded heavily then stared with sunken eyes past Pamela, toward her granddaughters. Her eyes were glazed. Her mouth hung open. If Pamela didn’t know any better, she would think her mother didn’t recognize any of them.

22

Following Barbara Cooley’s advice, Jack made his way to the enormous sanctuary of Evan McDaniel’s church in hopes of finding worship leader Patrick Ashdown. Entering the cool, dark sanctuary was like going into a sports arena before the fans arrived. It featured two decks of steep, stadium-style seating all the way around, with a round white stage on the floor at the center—all of it lit by dramatic indirect lighting.

He followed the beating of the drums to the sophisticated-looking drum kit off to one side of the stage but could not see the person making the noise due to the reflections shining off the Plexiglas surrounding the drums.

“Hello,” Jack called as he approached.

The sound stopped and a man stood from behind the drums, raising a hand to cut the glare of the lights. “Can I help you?”

“I think so, if you’re Patrick,” Jack said.

“I am.” He put his sticks down and made his way around the equipment and down the steps.

They shook hands and made introductions, and Jack explained the reason for his visit. He turned down Patrick’s offer for coffee, and they sat in two cushy theater-style seats in the front row.

Probably about forty, Patrick wore navy Dockers, a pink button-down shirt, with a shiny brown belt and shoes. Based on the man’s long, straight blond hair, which was parted in the middle and tied back in a ponytail, Jack assumed the dressy clothes must be part of a staff dress code. Patrick was about six feet, with sunburned cheeks and dark brown eyes and eyebrows.

Jack learned right off the bat that Patrick and Evan were close friends who had worked together for years and known each other even longer.

“I knew something was not exactly right that morning,” Patrick said. “Evan was down. His color wasn’t good. He looked exhausted. I thought he might be sick.” He shifted in his seat. “He seemed absentminded, which isn’t like him. When I asked what was wrong, he said he’d tell me later. But looking back on it, there was a look in his eyes … I should have picked up on it and tried to dig deeper.”

“What did you see in his eyes?” Jack asked.

“Desperation?” Patrick said. “Anxiety? I’m not sure. Hopelessness? He was obviously not himself. Evan is always all about people, church stuff, ministry, all that. He’d do anything for anybody. But his mind was a million miles away that day. He was consumed with something.”

“What? Any idea?”

Patrick shook his head. “Don’t know.” He squinted and scanned the large room. “Are you aware he struggled with depression?”

“Yes, I’ve heard that,” Jack said.

“He was under a lot of pressure.”

“Anything in particular?”

“There’s a small contingency in leadership who don’t think Evan is fit to pastor.”

“I’ve heard that also—especially Andrew Satterfield.”

Patrick looked uncomfortable. Jack explained that he had interviewed Satterfield and had discussed the situation with Wendy McDaniel.

“That guy …” Patrick pursed his lips and waited an extra moment before speaking. “As if there wasn’t already enough stress being head pastor, Evan’s had to deal with all this infighting.”

“This can be off the record,” Jack said, “but what do you think about the talk of suicide?”

Patrick chewed the inside of his top lip and again hesitated before speaking.

“It’s possible,” he said. “But I can’t fathom him leaving Wendy and the boys. I just can’t. The only way that could be possible is if he was in such a state of depression—worse than any of us knew about.”

“I guess that’s possible,” Jack said.

“From what I know, Evan was fine when he was on his medication. But Satterfield made him feel so inadequate, as if Christians can’t struggle with depression, especially those in leadership. That’s why Evan quit taking his meds from time to time. If he did take his own life, Satterfield’s going to have to live with it.”

“Okay …” Jack hesitated. “I’m going to be straight up about this next thing. It’s something that’s bugging me.”

Patrick just stared at him.

“I’ve been told Evan sometimes counsels women one-on-one,” Jack said. “There’s a lady named Sherry—”

“Pendergrass,” Patrick interrupted. “I’ll tell you right now, Evan was not having an affair with her or anyone else. That’s that. Next question.”

“Okay.” Jack nodded and retreated to his notes, pondering where to go next.

“I’m sorry,” Patrick said. “That sounded rude, but Evan is committed to God and to the vows he made to Wendy. They lead incredible marriage seminars.”

Jack didn’t have time to explain that he had been to one.

“Look.” Patrick sat on the edge of his seat and clasped his hands in front of him. “He’s either gone off because of the pressures and intolerance here at the church, or something’s happened to him.”

Jack let that register. What did he mean? Could he finally have someone here with as suspicious a mind as his own?

“Like what?” Again, open-ended was always best.

“I have no clue.”

“Do you mean foul play of some kind?”

Patrick’s mouth shrank to a slit, and his shoulders bounced. “I don’t know of anyone who would want to hurt him. Maybe it was something random.”

Jack probed, trying to see if there was the slightest chance Patrick might think Satterfield or the disgruntled Hank Garbenger might have had something to do with Evan’s disappearance. But Patrick wasn’t tracking with him.

Only your mind could conjure up something so dramatic.

The two men finally stood and shook hands. When Jack mentioned he would be looking for receptionist Rhonda Lowe, Patrick offered to walk him to her area.

As they strolled along the wide, plush maroon-carpeted corridor, Jack wanted to check in with DeVry to see if Granger had been captured, but he didn’t want to be rude. Besides, DeVry would have let him know.

Jack checked his watch. Almost noon. He pictured Pam’s parents, especially her mom, doting over Rebecca and Faye, offering them anything they wanted for lunch, from chips and cheese balls to Ding Dongs.

Rhonda Lowe, it turned out, was one of three receptionists at the church. She was situated in a cramped cubicle plastered with family photos, baby pictures, and Bible verses. Wearing a silver headset and sipping constantly at an iced coffee in a huge Starbucks cup, Rhonda was bone thin with harshly cropped black hair. Her dark purple lipstick stained the top of her straw, and she pecked rapidly at the buttons on the massive phone in front of her while handling calls.

When Patrick apologetically interrupted her to introduce Jack and let her know what he wanted, Rhonda popped up, whipped off the headset, and grabbed her drink.

“I need to take five anyway.” She ducked around the corner and told Barbara Cooley she was going on break.

Barbara looked back. “Hey, Jack.” She stood, holding a bag of chips. “Do you have a second?”

“Sure,” Jack said. “Rhonda, can you give me a minute?”

Rhonda was a step ahead of him. “I’ll meet you in the conference room when you’re done, right over here.” She pointed to the room where Jack had interviewed Barbara.

“Let’s just go over here.” Barbara led him to a well-appointed waiting area with a glass coffee table, large plant, and several leather chairs. She remained standing and faced him, munching chips as she spoke.

“I’ve only got a minute,” she said, “but I just learned something that I thought you might want to know.”

“Okay.”

“It’s about Sherry,” she whispered. “She’s always been a big giver, you know, tithes and offerings. The months she counseled with Evan, it went way up.”

“Okay.” Jack nodded, but wasn’t going to tell her he knew that.

“Well.” Barbara looked around, then back at Jack. “About a month ago, her giving went way down and then just stopped. It’s the oddest thing. I don’t know what to make of it.”

“Hmm.” Jack made a mental note of it. “That is interesting.”

“I knew you’d think so,” Barbara said.

“Thank you for telling me,” Jack said. “Anything like that is very helpful.”

“Sure thing.” Barbara turned to go. “I’ll talk to you soon.”

Jack entered the conference room.

“I wanted to be a reporter,” Rhonda said, curling a leg beneath her in one of the large swivel chairs and spinning around. “I studied journalism for a while. Then I fell in love and got married. Never did finish college. Now we need the money; that’s why I’m working here.”

They made small talk for several minutes. Rhonda was married to a guy named Jesse, a bass player on Patrick’s worship team. They had two children under the age of three. The kids were in child care there at the church, provided for all employees who wanted it.

Rhonda did not know Evan extremely well, she said, but they were familiar with each other and their family situations, and she had crossed paths with him the morning he went missing.

“Hardly anyone was here yet,” Rhonda said. “I came in early to keystroke info from visitor comment cards; I was behind, as usual.” She sipped her drink and rocked in the chair. “Jesse was home with the kids. He had hurt his back the day before helping a buddy move. I told him no more heavy lifting; it happens every time. But he’s got to keep up that macho image, if you know what I mean.”

When she finally cut to the chase, Rhonda said she had met up with Evan in the hallway early that morning, near his office. She smiled, said hello, and slowed down, expecting him to do as he always did—inquire about her children, her work, Jesse’s music.

“But he scooted right by,” Rhonda said. “He kind of nodded and gave a half smile but just kept going. It was totally out of sync with who he is. You have to understand Evan, he’s the friendliest person. Always has time for everyone. Never talks about himself; he’s always asking how
you
are.”

“Was that your only contact with him that morning?” Jack asked.

“Yeah,” Rhonda said. “I saw him again twice, but he didn’t see me. I mean, we didn’t talk or anything.”

“What was he doing the other two times?”

Rhonda sipped her drink, quickly wiping her chin where she dribbled some. “Once he was on the phone. He was sitting hunched over with his back to the door of his office. All very hush-hush.”

Jack made a note.

“It sounds like I’m an eavesdropper,” Rhonda said, “but the copy machine is down past his office, so I’m by there all the time.”

“What about the other time?”

“It was just a few minutes later,” she said. “He was kneeling over a bag. I saw a windbreaker, dark blue, and one of those miniature umbrellas. He was kind of organizing things in the bag.”

“What kind of bag?” Jack asked.

“Black. Looked nice, like leather. An overnight bag.”

“How big?”

Rhonda held up her hands two to three feet apart.

“Was that the last time you saw him?”

She nodded and sipped. “Yep.”

Jack’s phone rang, and he glanced at it. It was DeVry.

He apologized that he had to take the call and thanked Rhonda for her time. She smiled, waved, and bopped out of the conference room.

“This is Jack.” He walked toward the tinted floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the woods; same view as Satterfield’s office.

“Jack, Dennis DeVry. Wanted you to know we found Granger Meade’s car at a gas station in Trenton City.”

Jack’s wheels spun. “And?” Everything else evaporated from his mind. The full weight of his world leaned on the next words that would be spoken.

“He stole a car from an elderly man right there at the pumps,” DeVry said.

Jack’s head dropped, as did everything within him.

“We have a full description of the car, the plates. There’s an APB out. He won’t get far.”

The officer answered all Jack’s questions: it happened the night before; Granger was not armed; the elderly man was unharmed; the car was a 2000 medium blue Impala; it had not been spotted since.

All Jack’s attention swung like a wrecking ball to Pam and the girls.

Surely Granger was on the run, getting as far away from Trenton City as possible—but where?

He could be in Cleveland Heights right now!

Finding Pam’s number on his cell, he cursed himself for letting them go.

You should have
made
them stay.

Throwing pad and pen in his shoulder bag at the large conference room table, Jack listened as Pam’s phone rang three, four, five times—then went to voice mail.