Fear Has a Name: A Novel (23 page)

“I just came from there,” Jack said, nodding. “Hank Garbenger told me about it.”

“Evan thought only Seeger and Trent knew about it,” Sherry said.

“Apparently not,” Wendy said. “How do
you
know about it?”

Sherry looked down at her hands and twisted her rings. “Evan found out a few days before he left. In his mind, that was just one more thing that blew up under his nose.”

“He blames himself again,” Jack said.

Wendy nodded. “That’s Evan.”

“I think Satterfield knows Evan is onto him about the money laundering, the lake house, the boat—everything,” Sherry said. “I think he had Evan followed to the cabin and realized the photos of us would give him all the evidence he needed to oust Evan as pastor.”

It made sense. Satterfield knew Evan was in no condition to put up a fight or press charges against him. In fact, for all Satterfield knew, Evan was indeed going to see his plan through to take his own life.

And wouldn’t that play right into Satterfield’s scheme …

Just then Jack received a call from his friend Archer Pierce, the investigative reporter for TV-10 News, and excused himself to talk to him.

Hank Garbenger had phoned Archer to let him know Jack was working the missing pastor story. Archer was about to broadcast an in-depth piece of his own on Evan’s disappearance and wondered if they could compare notes.

When Jack told Archer where he was, Archer asked if he could join them, for he had yet to manage an interview with the missing pastor’s wife. He also had some information he thought Jack and Wendy would find of interest and hoped to confirm some things he had discovered. Wendy agreed to the meeting—with the TV coverage, perhaps someone would spot Evan and notify the authorities.

When Sherry stood to leave, they all meandered out to the driveway. It was then Jack realized he’d forgotten to show the women the photos he’d taken of Satterfield and the other man on the boat.

When he turned on his camera, shielded the screen from the sun, and directed it toward the ladies, Sherry said, “That’s Ryan Seeger.”

Wendy nodded slowly. “He’s an elder.”

“Hank told me he’s one of the ones who counts the offering; is that right?” Jack said.

Once again Wendy nodded as she crossed her arms and inhaled deeply.

As Jack moved his car out of Wendy’s driveway so Sherry could back out, Archer pulled up to the curb in front of the house. He was driving the white TV-10 News van, complete with the recognizable yellow-and-blue News 10 logo on the sides and the mast and microwave dish on top.

With Sherry gone, Jack made introductions between Wendy and Archer, and the three of them sat in white wicker furniture on Wendy’s front porch. Archer was a slight man with brown hair that resembled Bobby Kennedy’s—cropped close on the sides, longer on top. Although Archer could be fiercely intense when questioning people for his stories, Jack knew him to have a wonderful sense of humor and to be thoughtful and strongly committed to his family.

Wendy offered lemonade, but everyone seemed to want to get down to business.

Jack started by leafing through his notes, touching on some key main points, and conferring with Archer to see if he had similar information.

When Archer inquired about the note Evan left behind before he disappeared, Wendy admitted he had done so but gave no further details, and Archer was enough of a class act not to pry. Wendy made it clear that her story now—to Archer, Jack, and all of the media—was going to be a plea for help for her beloved husband who struggled with depression and had run off.

“We know he was heading south several days ago,” Wendy said, “and we beg the public to be vigilant in helping us find him and get him safely home.”

“I would like to have you say that on the air,” Archer said. “After we’re finished here, we can tape a brief interview and you can say what you want, make an appeal. I can assure you, a lot of people will be watching.”

Wendy agreed.

Jack gave an inward sigh of relief that Archer seemed to have found nothing about Sherry Pendergrass.

Then the newsman spoke again. “So … do you think it possible anyone else was involved in your husband’s disappearance?”

Wendy’s eyes immediately shifted to Jack.

“Why do you ask?” Jack said.

Jack and Wendy looked at each other and waited.

Archer combed his thick hair with his fingers repeatedly, then looked at Wendy. “I keep stumbling over this Andrew Satterfield.”

Wendy cleared her throat. “Go on.”

“Well, in addition to the accusations I’ve heard about his suspicious activities at the church,” Archer said, “I just found it so screwy that he went public about Evan taking meds with him and leaving behind what he blatantly called a suicide note. I would have thought they would have kept that under wraps as long as possible.”

“Tell me about it,” Wendy murmured.

“So I did some research on this guy,” Archer said. “Did you know Satterfield was let go from his last job at a church in Denver?”

Jack looked at Wendy, who sat frozen, eyes locked on Archer.

Archer continued. “What I came up with via email and a few phone calls was that they let him go for reasons”—Archer made quote marks with his fingers—“in the best interest of the church.”

“I hadn’t heard that one yet,” Jack said.

“Sounds like he was on a power trip–greed trip type thing,” Archer said. “They actually caught him embezzling funds. I have reason to believe the same thing might be going on at Evan’s church. I’m not sure if Satterfield is after Evan’s job, or if he wants to skim as much money as he can and skip town.”

“Did they file charges against him in Denver?” Jack said.

“Nope.” Archer leaned back and clasped his hands behind his head. “Didn’t want the negative publicity. Ran him out of town on a rail instead.”

31

Something startled Evan.
What?
Rapping at the window just above his head. He remained still, blinking, stirring himself, getting his bearings. He’d slept, but had no idea how long. He was in the backseat of his car somewhere in North Carolina, waiting for a bus to take him to Florida. The knock came again, and he was wide awake but stayed still. He felt someone looking down in at him.

Police?

His gun was in the duffel on the floor.

The sun had shifted. It was close to evening.

He was sickened at the prospect of being taken in, of facing Wendy, the boys, the people back home. If he remained still and it
wasn’t
the police, maybe whoever it was would move on.

Not if it was a library employee—they might call the police.

He continued to pretend he was asleep, frozen, hoping the knocking would stop, waiting, panning through all his options.

The knocking came louder now, and a voice with it. “Git yer bones up or they gonna take you in.” It was the shrill voice of a woman. “I ain’t gonna stand here all day.”

Evan propped himself up on his elbows and found himself squinting into the large brown eyes of a very small, elderly black woman. She wore a saggy woven hat with a curled brim all the way around and a dark purple wool overcoat.

“What you thinkin’? You tryin’ to land yerself in the big house?” She motioned across the parking lot. “Po-lice was just here. If you ain’t got no manners, I’ll be on my way.”

Her use of the word
po-lice
made Evan scramble upright and open the door. When he swung his feet around to the ground to face her, he realized he had kicked his shoes off while sleeping and was now sock-footed.

“Well, ain’t you a sight.”

Evan looked her up and down and wondered why on earth she had winter clothes on in the heat of summer. Beneath the oversized coat she wore gray sweatpants, white socks, and black vinyl shoes that looked too big.

“Ain’t you got nothin’ to say?” she said. “What’s yer name?”

What could it hurt? “Evan,” he said. “You?”

“Valerie,” she declared. “Valerie Belinda McShane.”

“Good to meet you.” Evan shook her hand, which was small and rough. “Did you say something about police?”

Her head craned around. “They cruised through here real slow-like. Not sure if they noticed those out-a-state tags a’ yours. One thing’s fer sure, if they’d known you was sleepin’ in there they’d have rousted you for certain. The Fort Prince po-lice do not stand for no loiterin’, nope, not ’round these parts.”

Evan figured if they had run his plates, it would have been finished; they never would have left. But he didn’t feel safe staying there much longer.

“How did you know I was in here?” he said.

“My belongings is right over yonder.” She pointed to a black metal bench beneath some large trees. A mixture of white plastic bags and brown shopping bags with big handles dotted the bench. “I don’t miss much. You slept a good bit. What brings a Yankee from Ahia south a’ the Mason-Dixon?”

“Just a little summer trip,” Evan said, leaning back into the car to get his shoes. “What town is this?”

“Fort Prince,” she said. “That’s not what I was told.”

Evan pulled his socks up, slipped on a shoe, and tried to figure out what she was talking about.

“You ain’t on no summer trip,” Valerie said. “You’s in trouble.”

Evan stopped. “Someone told you that, you say?”

She crossed her arms. Her mouth sealed into a smirk and she nodded big and slow.

“Who?” Evan said.

“Never you mind who,” she said. “You think you kin outrun yer problems?”

Evan stared at her with one shoe in his lap. She was either slightly off in the head, a prophetic bag lady, an angel, someone who liked to hear herself talk, or a combination of the above. When he had been closer to God, Evan would never have ignored a “chance” encounter such as this; he’d try to figure out what God might be trying to tell him. But now he just wanted to get out of there.

“Look.” He put on the other shoe and tied it. “Thanks for letting me know about the police. I’m going to be on my way. But I really appreciate you watching my back.”

“You took a vow, did you not?”

Evan’s whole body ached as he stood and examined Valerie.

Her eyes were fixed on his left hand—his wedding ring.

“For better or worse?” she said. “In sickness and in health?”

“What’s your point?” Evan didn’t know what else to say, but he knew he wanted her to stop. The whole thing was confounding.

“Just that you made a vow.”

For a second it was like he’d been dazed by a verbal stun gun.

A promise … to Wendy … before God.

And the boys …

Evan shook it off. He didn’t have time for this. Who was this Valerie, anyway? If she were so holy, so close to God, she certainly wouldn’t be homeless; God would have blessed her more than that.

Listen to you.

You are so messed up.

Deep within, Evan knew—or at least he had been taught—God didn’t operate that way. Rich or poor, God played no favorites. Valerie could be an angel. Evan knew God did not look at outward appearances; he bypassed all the obvious stuff the world judges and fixed his eyes on the hearts of men.

Evan’s head was so screwed up. It was as if he’d had a lobotomy. There was no feeling … He just seemed to go thirty miles per hour, never slower, never faster. His stomach ached and his fingertips tingled.

“You can either keep yer vow or try to play God yerself,” Valerie said. “That’s what yer doin’, you know. It’s selfish. So what if ya made mistakes? Sometimes ya gotta pull up yer britches, be a man—face the music.”

Okay, Evan was out of there. He felt for his wallet, then keys. He shut the back door and opened the driver’s door. He found a ten-dollar bill and handed it to her.

“We kin put my belongings right in the trunk.” She ignored the money, pointed to her things, and began walking toward them. “Just pull right ’round over yonder.”

Evan stood there. His hand with the bill dropped to his side.

No way was she going to manipulate him.

He put the ten back in his wallet, got in the car, started it, and sat there.

Valerie arrived at her things, plopped down on the bench, and did not look back at him.

Of all the nerve … she’s going to try to put me on a guilt trip.

Evan didn’t have time for her.

Then again, what was he going to do until the bus came later that night?

He should just leave. That would be the safest thing. She’d be forgotten in five minutes.

Valerie sat on the bench with her back to Evan, kicking her dangling feet like a little kid and looking all around at the sky and shady streets of the town. Evan thought he could hear her singing.

Good for her.

There sat a lady who had virtually nothing in the world yet had cared enough to reach out to help him. She seemed so content, sure of herself, carefree.

A homeless bag lady was in better shape than he was.

That about summed it up.

Evan put the car in drive and swung out the back entrance, as far away from Valerie Belinda McShane as possible.

Granger stood thick and immovable just outside Pamela’s car door. She could hear the hum of the fuel and feel it splashing into the gas tank.

Taking her predicament one second at a time, which was the way she’d determined she must play it, there was no getting away from her captor at the moment. She would have to dive over the driver’s seat, hit the unlock button, fling the door open, and run. She could scream, she could try to blurt out to the people at the next pump what was going on, she could sprint for the inside of the store. But what would stop Granger from drawing his weapon and marching right after her?

There were a few people getting gas, meandering in the store, but no police, no one with the authority to stop a madman. For now, for that moment, she would need to sit there and be obedient.

But that didn’t mean things wouldn’t change. When she got out of the car, into the store, into the restroom, on the phone, who knew? A chance to escape or send up a warning signal could present itself at any second. She had to be ready, right there on the edge, alert, prepared to run or scream or whisper something to someone, or do whatever it took to get away.

She had to be smart.
Be smart.

No one was on the pay phone. That was good. Pamela wondered who even used them anymore, with cell phones so prevalent.

She heard the pump click off and turned to watch Granger remove it from the gas tank, hang it up, and rattle the gas cap into place.

The beat of her heart quickened.

He opened her door.

“Come on,” he said.

“I thought we were pulling up.”

“I changed my mind. Come on.”

She got out. He pushed the door shut and linked her arm with his at the elbow. A homesick feeling overwhelmed her.

“Remember.” Granger nodded at a heavy middle-aged man with a ruddy face waddling from the store to his car with a huge drink. “Not a word.”

Pamela nodded. Each step felt odd and unbalanced, as if the ground was farther away than it was. If he had the audacity to touch her like that now, what would come later?

Granger held the door for her. “Pump three,” he said to the olive-skinned cashier, who wore a white turban with a fake diamond at the front. The register area was packed with cheap gadgets and doodads, from Confederate flag lighters to anti-drowsy pills to miniature flashlights and girlie magazines.

“That vill be thirty-seven dow-lare,” the man said as he eyed the scratches on Granger’s arms.

Granger retrieved his wallet and let Pamela’s arm drop.

That feeling, right then, was indescribable.

She could run. She could be free. But she knew it would only be temporary. And then he would be angry.

Granger handed the man two twenties, got his change, and before Pamela could blink, they were in the men’s restroom with the door locked.

Granger walked her to the lone blue stall, let go of her, and went in. “Just a second,” he said.

She heard a bunch of toilet paper roll off the spool. Then a pause.

The loud flush made her jump.

“Okay, all clean.” He left the stall. “Ladies first. I’ll be right outside the door.”

He left her locked in the restroom alone, which surprised her; she thought he was going to stay. Although Pamela had desperately needed to go, it took forever. She examined the yellowing Styrofoam ceiling tiles and thought about trying to get up there. Maybe she could climb the sink, then the wall of the stall. If she could somehow hoist herself up into the rafters of the ceiling, Granger wouldn’t be able to get up there. She could scream until help came.

It wasn’t realistic. She could never get up there. He’d open the door and be on her like a goon in seconds.

She finished. The hot water and foamy soap felt good. She splashed her face, dried with paper towels, shook her head, and fixed her hair with her fingers. Looking at herself in the mirror, she wondered if her mom and dad remembered what she was wearing so they could put it on the news.

When she opened the heavy blue door of the restroom, Granger slipped in and locked it.

“You get in the stall and lock the door,” he said. “I’m going to go right here.” He nodded toward the urinal on the wall. “Don’t try anything.”

She remained silent in the stall, plugged her ears, and prayed for safekeeping.

He knocked. “Come on.”

She left the stall and watched him as he washed and dried his hands but never once looked in the mirror.

Out in the store he said softly, “Get whatever you want. Get enough to last awhile.”

How long?
she wondered.
What does he have planned?

She really believed he didn’t know, that all he knew was that he wanted to be with her. She must become the world’s best actress. In her mind she must revert back to the Pamela Wagner he knew in high school, who reached out, showed compassion, wanted him to be one of the gang.

Her stomach ached. She wasn’t hungry, but she knew she must eat to stay strong and alert. She walked down the aisle nearest them. Although Granger wasn’t holding her arm, he was right there in her shadow, looking himself for food.

She picked up a good-sized bag of cashews and several crunchy peanut butter bars while he grabbed a package of teriyaki beef jerky and a can of potato sticks. At the refrigerated section, Pamela got several yogurts, a package of string cheese, and a bottled water. Granger got a tall can of Red Bull.

“Ready?” He eyed her.

She nodded.

He took several items out of her full arms, and they walked back up to the man in the turban. They set all the things on the sliver of available counter space.

“And two packs of Newports—soft,” Granger said. “Not the box.” He turned his head to the side and muttered, “If you can understand English.”

A young couple entered the store. He was black, tall, and built, wearing navy nylon warm-ups and a flat-brimmed Reds cap. She was white and chubby, possibly pregnant, a bleach-blonde with a tiny diamond stud in her nose. Everything in Pamela wanted to make eye contact, signal somehow. She thought of making a horizontal slashing sign at her throat and pointing at Granger. If she only had a small sign she could hold up, with 9-1-1 written on it. She could put a finger to her lips as if to say
I need help but keep it quiet
.