Fear Has a Name: A Novel (17 page)

Wendy quieted. There was a pause.

“No,” she said. “Why do you ask? What do you know?”

“Nothing—”

“Please, Jack, don’t play games. I need to know everything you do. The police aren’t telling me anything. If you have information, I need to know, please …”

“Rhonda Lowe saw him in his office that morning,” Jack said. “He was on the phone, that’s all. I wondered if he was talking to you.”

Wendy said nothing.

Jack realized if he were Wendy, he would want to know everything. He looked at his notes from Rhonda.

“One more thing,” he said. “Rhonda saw Evan with an overnight bag that morning. She said she saw him packing a windbreaker and umbrella.”

“I’m afraid he’s going to hurt himself.” Wendy spoke in a quiet monotone.

“I pray that doesn’t happen.”

Silence.

“Well, that’s all I have.” Jack tried to relieve the awkwardness.

He heard Wendy take a deep breath.

“Wendy …”

“Thank you, Jack. Please call me the second you hear anything.”

She hung up.

Jack drew closer to his screen and opened the email to read the letter from Sherry.

Dear Evan,

Ever since Joel passed away, you have allowed me to call on you and count on you as my counselor, helper, guide, sustainer, and friend. I literally do not know how I would have survived without your presence and help.

The scripture you’ve given me, the advice, the listening ear, it has all served as balm to my aching soul. In the process of learning to cope with the loss of my beloved husband, I have made a new friend in you and that has truly been a Godsend.

I hope you will agree with me in thinking that the time we’ve shared together has been not only soothing for me, but enjoyable for both of us. Getting to know you, your hopes and passions, your wisdom, your sense of humor … it has been a complete surprise and thrill for me. You are such a sensitive man. Each week when we part ways, I never want it to end. Then I think of you often and smile as I anticipate our next session.

The reason I’m writing is to say thank you for being there for me, Evan, for being such a selfless servant. Also, I hope as we continue to meet that you will give me some sort of sign that you are feeling the same way I am about the feelings and emotions I’ve described in this note.

Warm thoughts and regards,

Sherry

24

Granger perked up and drummed the steering wheel as he rolled back into Cleveland Heights, his old hometown. Appropriately, Kiss was blasting “Rock and Roll All Nite” on the Impala stereo as Granger seemed to float over the hilly road leading to Carver High School.

Other than the large parking lot having been freshly blacktopped and the bleachers newly painted in red, white, and blue, the brick school buildings looked exactly the same. He rolled past the outdated two-story middle school, Carver Junior High, and glided through the empty parking lot, coming to a stop at the tall chain-link fence at the football stadium.

Over where a leathery brown Hispanic man in work boots was mowing at a high rate of speed on one of those stand-up riding mowers—that was where Tim Lingoli had teased him in front of the others. Knocked Granger’s books from his arms. Poked. Prodded. Called him filthy names. Spit on him. “What are you gonna do about it, Granger Ranger? Huh, Granger Ranger?”

Granger had gone off by himself without a fight.

If you were here now, Lingoli, I’d show you what I’d do about it.

Beyond the thick green grass of the playing field and the black-cinder running track was where the band used to congregate. He had loved being part of it. No, he didn’t have friends, but he had made himself so good and strong on that trombone, they had come to need him. Whether they knew it or realized it or cared, he was part of the team—the team that made the music.

The bleachers were the old wooden kind, with slats beneath the seats. People used to drop money through down to the ground all the time. He would walk beneath the bleachers, looking for money as a kid. That night came back to him, when he trudged under there to find a bill Michael Riggler had dropped through the slats.

Granger had always been desperate to make a friend. Just one true friend. Someone who would listen. Take him seriously. Not laugh. Someone he could trust.

Pamela had been the closest thing to a friend he had ever had.

Granger peered down over the hill at the portion of the chain-link fence where Blake Devonshire and his buddies had knocked his band hat off his head and tried to mess him up.

What guts Pamela had, barging down into that scene.

Granger had shown Blake who to mess with.

He’d skidded that loser’s face into the stones.

Blast him.

And that special moment with Pam minutes later—she’d held his hand and looked up into his face, those big eyes glistening in the cold. “You’re a good person.” And she had said his name.

Sitting in the Impala alone at the school, he looked down at the hand she’d held and shook his head.

But you’re not good. You’re a bad seed.

The mess he’d gotten himself into pressed in on him like a stifling, shrinking cage.

They’re coming.

He knew it wouldn’t be long.

You’re in for it now.

This was his parents’ fault. His despicable life was
their
doing. He was fully aware he had been mentally abused growing up, but knowing it was not enough to help him.

He imagined it was like being an alcoholic or shoplifter or gambling addict—fully aware of what led to the condition, the symptoms and effects, but completely unable to pull out of its grip.

The thought of his mother and father made his mind, his whole being, turn inside out.

He could go home one last time. See if they had changed. Try to make amends.

Why do you want to go there?

The police would be watching for him.

You’re doing it again.

He drifted into a daze, seeing blue duct tape being wrapped tightly around and around and around his mother’s shocked face.

Stop it.

His father’s handgun …

Leave them alone.

A smoky, surreal, chaotic confrontation in the living room.

Get away while you can.

Still staring at the hand Pamela had held, his view of it blurred, then flooded, and it dawned on Granger Meade that he was doing something he had vowed long ago never to do again.

He was crying.

Driving by a stately red brick courthouse on the square of a small town somewhere in North Carolina, Evan McDaniel knew he had to get rid of his car. He squeezed his right bicep, which was twitching again. Highway cameras along I-75 hours back had made him diverge from his planned route once again.

Those cameras would spot him for sure—if they hadn’t already.

That mustn’t happen.

He could not subject himself or his family to any more humiliation than would already be coming.

In Knoxville he’d turned the tables and headed southeast on I-40 a long way to Hickory, North Carolina. Once there, he picked up 321 down to Gastonia. Although there were no highway cameras along those routes, there were local cops and speed traps—a lot of them.

That’s when Evan decided to ditch the car.

He could not string this thing out any longer; he had to disappear. It had been days since he’d left Sherry in that cabin. He’d been on and off highways, through small towns, on country roads, and in and out of shabby, backwoods motels—trying to decide where to go and what to do.

All he could think about now was being gone.

Leave no trace of this defective, contaminated life.

His GPS had shown a Greyhound station in the nondescript town of Fort Prince, North Carolina, so he’d taken his chances and gotten back onto I-85, a main thoroughfare that would have taken him down through Atlanta if he’d remained on it. Instead, he’d exited and taken the main road into the town square of Fort Prince, where the battery in his GPS went dead. Because he knew he was close, he didn’t bother to dig the charger out of the console, thinking he could find the station on his own.

So much was wrong.

Too much.

He reached into the baggie full of orange pill containers in the passenger seat, several of which were open. He found one of the light blue Valiums with the heart shape knocked out of the middle and threw it to the back of his mouth, but it stuck there. It had been weeks since he’d last had any. He coughed it to the front of his tongue, opened the door, and spit it out. The residue left in his mouth was bitter, like poison. He would kick that junk if it was the last thing he did—which it would be.

His life was strewn with rotten baggage. He’d crossed a line. Like Judas. He’d fallen so short of what a Christian was supposed to be. And he was a pastor.
Held more accountable.
Satterfield had seared it into his head.
Judged more severely.

And what about the boys? Those handsome, robust, innocent young men. He took a moment to picture each one: Nathaniel … Zachary … Silas.

Bible names.

You worthless hypocrite.

Evan’s face, his whole body, burned with guilt and hopelessness.

He’d talked about God as they had grown up, read them the Bible, told them how a Christian should act, taught them how they needed to be boys of integrity, showed them how to minister to people—and what had he become? A feeble, pathetic, drug-dependent weakling. That was the example he’d set. That was what he had shown his sons a life with Christ would get them. And on top of all of that, now they would think he was an adulterer as well.

How will they get through this?

Likely, they would rebel.

The sins of the fathers …

You’ve not only ruined your testimony, you’ve probably ruined their walk with God—showing them there is a cheap way out of marriage, teaching them it’s okay to give up on life.

Is this just the easy way out for you? Wouldn’t it be best for them if you went back, confessed all your faults and shortcomings, spilled your guts about Satterfield, and hung on? How difficult is it going to be for your precious boys to grow up knowing their father took his own life?

It was too late. There was no going back. He was too tired. It was all too overwhelming.

Each time Wendy came to mind, he immediately forced her out. He could not even go there. His life was a lie. He’d failed her and God, the boys, his family, the church …

Once again, he questioned whether he was even a Christian, whether he would even go to heaven. If there was a heaven. How could God let him fall to such depths? Nothing was supposed to be able to separate him from Christ.

But he was clearly separated. Cut off. Prayers unheard.

There it was—the neon Greyhound logo, half lit on a marquee above several empty metal benches and a set of dirty glass doors. Driving past and turning up the block, he would find some place to hide the car.

The sooner he vanished, the better it would be for Wendy and the boys. They could put this behind them, forget, start over, and live a whole new chapter of their lives. That was the most optimistic game plan Evan could figure out. It was the only plan left.

Sherry.

What had that even been about? He’d entered it innocently, wanting to help. She had begun to fall in love with him.

You brought it on. You teased her. Yes! In your quiet, meek, devious way, you flirted. Why? To prove you are still handsome? Desirable? You’d been looking for something like this. Yes, you had. Slyly throwing the bait out there, not expecting some tiger fish to chomp on to you like Sherry had.

But no, Evan had not made advances toward Sherry! That was a lie. It was all in his mixed-up head. He’d just wanted to help. He felt compassion for her, having lost her spouse and best friend of so many years. He had put himself in her shoes and tried to imagine losing a spouse. That’s why he had agreed to counsel Sherry. He only tried to guide her closer to God, knowing there she would find comfort.

But what about that passionate email she sent?

The electricity was there in the room each time they met—like two college kids getting to know each other for the first time.

No, that is not true! You are doing this to yourself. That’s what Satterfield wants! For you to feel inadequate, rotten, unrighteous. Nothing you ever did was right in his eyes. That’s because he was railroading you out—because you found out too much!

There had been nothing wrong between Evan and Wendy. She’d given tirelessly of herself to their marriage, the boys, their home, and the ministry. And she was more attractive than ever to Evan. Although they rarely made love anymore, because the antidepressants tended to throw a cold, wet blanket over his libido, they were still best friends. But even in that respect, Evan fought terrible silent bouts of guilt because of his lack of ability to be the man he knew Wendy needed.

Yes, Evan had agreed to meet Sherry that day he left. And they
had
met—at a cabin she and Joel owned, nestled on a tree-filled ridge adjacent to a state park in Springfield, Ohio. Sherry had told Evan he needed time away, alone, to sort things out. She said she would simply let him into the cabin, show him where everything was, and the place would be his for however long he wanted it.

In his mind, Evan was thinking that was where he would finally muster the guts to kill himself. That’s why he’d left the suicide note. Finally, he would spare his family; spare his congregation all the dirty laundry he knew about Satterfield but had failed so miserably to do anything about. Why? Why hadn’t he acted or spoken up? He was so depressed, so consumed with himself—and too inattentive to focus, to rise up, to stop him!

Evan had been barely functioning as it was. He didn’t have the mind or stamina to hire auditors to prove Satterfield was embezzling money from the congregation. He’d failed to report the suspicious activities of several elders. He was the leader, the pastor, the shepherd of the flock—living in a chronic state of depression.

“Face it,
Pastor
,” Satterfield had said. “You are unfit to shepherd this flock.”

And now the world was going to think he was a womanizer too.

Lies.

Sherry had stayed on at the cabin that day, changing into shorts and a skimpy top, trying to make Evan believe that somehow God had predestined them to save each other. Evan told her to go, that it wasn’t right, that he didn’t want her there. But she stayed, and he was too miserably weak and self-consumed to do anything about it.

The days he spent at the cabin were like gravel in his mouth.

He knew.

Every fiber in Evan’s being cried out that it was wrong that they were there together, even though she was gone for long stretches and nothing physical unfolded between them. It was the “appearance of evil” that mattered in his soul. It
looked like
he had escaped with her. It was wrong because there was a God watching. Wrong because Christ had died for them and they were now killing him again.

Sherry came and went. Evan slept heavy and deep most of the time, with blankets over the curtains so it remained pitch black in his bedroom. The times he did awaken he was dizzy and nauseated. He had stomach pains and uncontrollable crying spells. On that fourth or fifth day, whatever it had been, Evan threw his things in his duffel. Sherry had returned and was out for a walk. When she came back, he sat her down by the stone fireplace and told her he was leaving, that the whole cabin idea had been dead wrong and that he had failed her as a pastor, counselor, and friend.