Fear Has a Name: A Novel (26 page)

“’Fraid so. It’s showing severe thunderstorms and some tornado watches all the way. Don’t worry. Our drivers are the best.”

Evan pushed the door open and went out, but Ann’s words settled there at the front of his mind. He stared at the large, wet bus, idling now and being pelted by rain. He smelled the gas fumes.

Is it up to a human being to keep this thing safe?

What do you believe anymore?

Even in his toxic condition, Evan knew—as well as he knew his own name—that God was in control of that enormous hunk of metal. What happened to it or any other car on the road, in storms or sun, was God’s doing.

All things were his doing; the good and the bad.

Even the predicament he was in, who knew? Maybe good would come out of it. Wendy might remarry some guy who would turn out to be great for the boys, better than he could have ever been.

The sidewalk by the bus was covered from the rain by a metal awning, so he closed the umbrella. Coming down the steps of the bus was a well-built, middle-aged African-American man wearing a uniform similar to Ann’s—the driver.

“How are you this evening, sir?” His nametag read
Bernie
.

“Tired, to tell you the truth,” Evan said. “Do I give you my ticket?”

Bernie set his coffee cup on the sidewalk, took Evan’s ticket, examined it, tore it, and gave half back to him. “You got a long ride ahead of you,” Bernie said. “Plenty of time to catch up on your sleep.”

“I’m going to do that, if the weather doesn’t keep me up.” Evan started up the steps of the bus.

“We’ll be fine,” Bernie said. “Enjoy the trip, sir.”

Evan squinted down the long narrow aisle, and the whole setting seemed like a dream. The fluorescent-lit bus was dotted with yawning, heavy-lidded passengers of all ages and ethnicities. Some were reading and doing puzzles while others slept or listened to iPods. There were probably thirty rows with two seats on each side of the aisle.

About halfway back Evan found two empty seats on the right. He set his bag and umbrella in the aisle seat, took off his jacket, swayed from a wave of dizziness, and eased into the seat by the window. A reading light shone down from above. He found a switch for it on one of his armrests and turned it off.

He was so exhausted.

Stuffing his jacket and umbrella into his bag, he patted around for the gun. It was heavy and dangerous in his hand.

Soon the bus hissed and rocked and steamed. Its doors closed.

“Next stop, Prospect, North Carolina.” Bernie hung up the microphone, and the bus lurched forward.

Evan released the weapon, zipped up the duffel, and pushed it beneath the seat next to him.

The fluorescent lights along the overhead bin flickered and went off, darkening the whole bus except for reading lights here and there.

He leaned back, closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and exhaled silently.

Relax.

His body was rigid, cold.

He shivered and crossed his arms, wishing he’d gotten a blanket from the overhead, as some of the other passengers had.

But he wasn’t about to get up. He was too sleepy.

The bus turned, shifting him against the cold window.

He moved away from it and nestled in, recognizing the familiar half-conscious feeling he always got when he was about to drift off.

You’re in control … of all things … this bus … the good and the bad.

34

Talk about helpless. There was Jack in that one little Volkswagen Jetta on a blank highway in wide-open America, whose roads could take a person anywhere. He felt like an ant in a desert searching for one red grain of sand, and that was Pamela.

The many gruesome possible scenarios—with which he was all too familiar, working in the news business—flashed before him: Pam being taped or tied, without food, in a car trunk or filthy hideaway, unbathed, gagged, beaten, bruised, raped, worse …

He put the windows down and let the night wind blow away the images. He examined each oncoming car, thinking he could get lucky and spot the Impala—if that was what Granger was still driving.

They could be anywhere.

Anywhere!

According to DeVry, Pam’s abduction happened between two and four p.m., which meant Granger could have her as far away as Iowa by then—or Manhattan, or Nashville, or DC, or the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.

Jack was doing the only thing that made sense—heading toward the last place she’d been seen, Cleveland Heights, which he thought he could make in two and a half hours, maybe less, if he flew. He needed to be with the girls. Ben and Margaret would be totally devastated, especially Margaret. Jack just hoped they were keeping it together in front of the girls.

On the seat between his legs was wedged Tommy’s .40 caliber Taurus pistol, which his neighbor gave him on his way out of town. It looked almost snub-nosed: blue steel, black rubber grip, and loaded with a clip containing ten rounds—which he vowed to use on that sick punk once he tracked him down.

Jack’s right hand still ached from bashing the wall. And he was still seething.

Why are you allowing this?

“Do you realize this has me completely doubting what I ever believed?” He spoke aloud into the night. “You let this … this
demon
into our lives. Why? Why don’t you protect us? Are you even there?”

Nothing in the world felt important anymore, except finding Pam. Everything else—Wendy and her boys, Evan’s disappearance, Sherry, Satterfield, Archer, the
Dispatch
—it all vacuumed back and disappeared into thin air.

What would Jack do without her? How could he work and raise the girls?

They’ll have no mother. Pam can never be replaced.

But Pam was smart. She was quick. And she could be tough.

If that monster leaves one little opening, she’ll take it. She’ll escape. She’ll call me or 9-1-1.

He felt for his phone and checked it. Nothing.

What if he kills her?
This kind of sicko did it all the time: murder-suicide.

The phone rang in his hand: Cecil Barton.

Jack waited.

He was in no mood to talk to anyone, unless it had to do with Pam. Although Cecil was likely calling about the Satterfield story, there was a small chance he might have heard about Pam’s abduction and have some kind of information from any number of news sources.

“Cecil.” Jack rolled up the windows so he could hear.

“Jack, I know about Pam,” Cecil said. “I’m sorry.”

“It stinks, man.”

“Is there anything new? What’s your game plan?”

“On my way to Cleveland Heights. That’s where she was last seen,” Jack said. “Our girls are there, at her folks’ place. That’s where I’ll set up base for now.”

“We’re running a story and Granger’s mug shot tomorrow, front page,” Cecil said. “What else can I do?”

“Try to get it picked up by AP,” Jack said. “Keep your ear to the ground. Let me know if you hear anything at all—from police, DOT, whoever.”

“I’ll do it. I heard there’s a nationwide crime alert about Pam’s abduction; we’re trying to confirm it.”

“It’s gonna be impossible to find her unless we get help. Someone’s got to spot them and call it in.”

“I’ll have Derrick keep on DOT.”

“Okay,” Jack said.

There was an awkward silence.

Jack needed to change the subject. “Any word on Evan McDaniel?”

“Nada,” Cecil said. “Derrick told me Wendy decided to drive to Florida, you know, down to where she thinks he’s headed. Instead of flying, she wanted to drive the route the family always takes in hopes she might find him. It’s not looking good.”

There was a pause.

“Jack, I’ve got other news,” Cecil said. “Better brace yourself.”

“What?”

“It’s about Archer Pierce.”

“What about him?”

“He’s dead.”

Jack’s mind blinked and teetered and threatened to shut down.

The road seemed to come at him like a high-speed video game.

“He and Jerry Kopton, his video guy, were mugged and shot. Their equipment, notes, all that stuff: taken. I’ve got Derrick working on the story full time; I told him to go around the clock if he has to. Sheets is helping too.”

“I can’t believe it … I knew Satterfield was a sleazebag, but a murderer?”

“We’ll find out,” Cecil said. “We’re going to blow the lid on this thing. Derrick’s got a good in with the Trenton City PD; he thinks they might be making an arrest soon. I didn’t want you to hear it someplace else.”

Jack realized he was barely breathing. “I don’t know what to say.” He cracked the window and forced in a huge, deep breath.

“Don’t say anything, just go find your wife,” Cecil said. “And know that you got friends trying to help. Heck, I’m even praying.”

They hung up.

Cecil Barton was praying.

God made no sense.

Jack knew that. He knew, from life and the Scriptures, that God was mysterious, his ways lofty, often incomprehensible. Jack was aware that bad things sometimes happened to good people. He always prayed against such things ever befalling him, unsure how he would handle such an ordeal, how his faith would stand up.

But now, on that summer night, on that lone freeway, so helpless and undone, Jack was face-to-face with it, with him, the God unleashing havoc in the whirlwind. Pam was gone. Kidnapped. Possibly dead. Archer and Kopton murdered.

This was the work of the God he had never wanted to meet.

This was another whole plane, another whole dimension of life. He’d seen others go through such torment, but deep down, in many of those cases, he’d wondered if they were being chastised or disciplined for some secret sin.

How wrong you were to judge; how utterly wrong.

He rested his aching hand on the gun.

Why do you need this?

Who’s in charge?

“Are you in control?” he yelled. “Why is this happening? It’s too much!”

The vast distance Pam could be from him at that moment and the danger she certainly faced made him gag. He took his foot off the gas and almost pulled off the road to throw up. But he took in a deep breath of night air and vowed to keep going.

He wanted to kill Granger Meade.

His phone rang again: DeVry.

“Officer,” Jack said.

“Jack, the Impala was spotted at a convenience store in southern Ohio. A customer recognized it from the alert.”

Jack eased his foot off the gas again. “When?”

“We’re not sure yet.”

“What about Pam?” Jack bumped his car off to the side of the highway. “Was she with him?”

“We think so,” DeVry said. “A man fitting Granger’s description was seen in the store with a woman fitting Pam’s. We’re trying to get our hands on the store video.”

“Where was this, specifically?” Jack said.

“Quicky-Mart in Selby, Ohio. Just off Interstate 77 near the West Virginia state line. We think they’re heading south. If so, they’re heading into big storms. The whole southeast is a barrage of lightning and tornadoes.”

Jack craned his neck and, seeing no headlights behind him, eased the car back onto the highway. He took it into the left lane, slow, searching for a place to turn around. “Do we know how Pam was? How she looked? Whether he had a gun on her? Anything like that?”

“I think we would have heard if anything looked bad or really out of place,” DeVry said. “Again, we gotta get our hands on the video to know for sure.”

“Is that it?”

“For now.”

“Okay, I gotta go. Thank you, Dennis. Let me know the second you know more.”

Jack mowed down high grass and weeds making a speedy U-turn and bumped onto the southbound lane of the freeway, figuring he would backtrack and take I-70 over to 77 South. He wasn’t that far behind them; anywhere from two to four hours, depending on what kind of time they were making.

Jack punched in Pam’s parents’ phone number and let it ring, hoping it wouldn’t wake Rebecca or Faye. Benjamin answered quickly, and Jack explained the latest.

Benjamin let out a whimper of relief when he heard Pam was alive. Although Rebecca and Faye were not aware their mom had been abducted, Benjamin said they knew something was wrong, because Margaret had secluded herself in her room again.

It wasn’t a healthy environment for them, but Jack had no options.

“Ben,” Jack said, “I was thinking maybe you should bring the girls to our house in Trenton City. They’d be so much more comfortable there. You and Margaret could pack some bags and make yourselves at home.”

Ben sighed.

“Is that a problem?”

“It’s just Margaret.” Ben hesitated. “She’s not going to want to leave here. I could bring them myself, but—”

“Okay, listen. Just talk to her,” Jack said. “It’s not a must. I’d just feel better if they were in their own home, familiar surroundings. You get me, don’t you?”

“I understand,” Benjamin said. “And your place is closer to where Pam was last seen anyway.”

“Can’t you just get her to the car and—”

“She’s paralyzed with fear, Jack. You wouldn’t understand till you saw it. But I’ll work on it. I’ll do my best. Tell me what you’re doing. And the police—are they on this? Tell me they’re on it.”

“Officer DeVry is driving down there as we speak, and I’m on my way.” Jack almost mentioned the gun in his lap and his intent to blow Granger’s head off. But he stopped short, realizing that was not the man he was.

Or was it? …

35

Hours had passed since Granger and Pamela last stopped. Granger had drawn eerily within himself. It was as if a switch had been flipped. The car was silent for long stretches of highway.

Granger had ignored her repeated requests to stop so she could phone Jack and use a restroom. Instead he’d driven them barreling smack-dab into a wall of rain that drummed so hard on the roof and hood it was almost deafening. With the wipers slapping on high, he followed about fifty feet behind the glowing red taillights of a semi truck that forged unflinchingly through the storm. Pamela found herself gripping the seat and armrest as they coasted through the slippery night.

Before hitting the downpour, they’d rocketed down I-77 beneath an ominous sky, made their way around Charlotte onto I-85 southwest across the South Carolina border, directly into a gray-black night filled with flashes of lightning and thunderclaps so loud they made Pamela jump. Granger seemed to know where he wanted to take her.

She had to go to the bathroom so badly she was starting to have visions of wetting her pants—and the sound of the rain was not helping. But Granger just kept driving, leaving her to wonder what was going on in that troubled mind of his.

Had he murdered his mother? Pamela didn’t know what to believe. It was quite possible that he was such a good liar he’d convinced himself he hadn’t done it.

In the dark, she squinted once again at his waist—the spot where he had patted earlier, indicating he had a gun. She saw nothing protruding beneath his black T-shirt. All she could make out was his hard, massive stomach hanging over the waist of his black jeans. He’d said his fingerprints were on a gun back at the house where his mother was killed. Was there a gun with him? Pamela just wasn’t certain.

The only thing she knew for sure was that she had to get away.

He’d had no sleep. The confines of the car smelled strongly of cigarettes and body odor. Granger was getting quieter and creepier with each tick of the clock.

“I need to ask you something.” He looked straight ahead, leaned toward her, and spoke loudly over the splattering rain. “Will you be mine?”

Everything within Pamela twisted and shriveled.

Calm … be calm.

“Let’s just say there is no Jack,” Granger said. “I know it’s difficult, but just imagine he doesn’t exist. It’s a game.”

This was exactly what Pamela had been trying to keep him from doing—floating off into some twilight zone.

“Rebecca and Faye can or can’t exist, I’ll leave that up to you,” he said. Just hearing their names coming from his mouth made her ill. “But the question is, if there is no Jack, would you be mine? Would I be … is there any way we could be a couple? Seriously.”

This was sick. Did he intend to kill Jack? She felt numb and freezing and outside of her own body. Somehow she had to play his game, not give him any false hope yet keep him diffused.

“Granger,” she managed, “I’m your friend. And I’m going to do all I can to help you get back on your feet—”

“Don’t treat me like some mental case, Pamela! Just answer the question, yes or no.”

“No. I am your friend,” Pamela went on, half expecting him to explode. “But it’s not too late for you. You can find someone like me. But I’m happily married. God’s given me—”

“You know, we were just playing a game,” he said. “But you can’t even do that. You’ve changed. You’re not like you used to be. Forget it.”

“Granger, I’ll be honest with you. I’m not in the mood for games.”

What was she thinking? She felt her insides burning now, everything in her, rising up, rebelling.

“I have a husband and two girls who need me. I have a
life
. You’ve taken that from me. You say you care about me, but do you? If you do, you’ll stop this and turn yourself in, let me go. I will plead with Jack not to press charges, I promise—”

“So the answer’s no.” He shot her a glance. “You won’t be mine, willingly, ever—even if you have no husband.”

Was that a question?

What was he going to do, swerve the car into the side of a mountain? Off a cliff?

“Say it!” he screamed.

She flinched, crossed her arms, tried not to tremble.

He extended his right hand in front of him and lowered his voice. “I just need to hear it. The truth. Straight from you.”

The next words out of her mouth could kill her, or allow her to live.

She pleaded silently for the Spirit within her to speak.

“I will be your friend.” She shivered, and her breathing quickened to little hitches.

“You will be my friend, after all I’ve done to you.”

She nodded repeatedly, looking at him. “Yes.” She swallowed. “I will try to help you however I can.”

“Why? After all this—
why
?”

“You’ve had it rough,” she said. “That’s what friends do.”

Her words seemed to seep into him.

Before she could stop herself, more flowed from some hidden wellspring. “I’m no better than you,” she said. “We’re both full of sin. Different sin? Yeah. But sinners all the same. That’s who Christ came to help, sick people like us who realize we need mercy.”

Granger was silent. As if on cue, the rain came even harder, louder. He followed the truck, clinging to it like a beacon in the blackness of a port.

“If we’d ever have gotten together,” Granger said, “you probably could’ve convinced me to be a Christian.”

What?

Pamela heard it, but didn’t. She let the words repeat themselves in her mind.

She was stunned, as if one of the lightning bolts had zapped her. And she knew, indelibly, at that precise moment, that God loved her and that she was his blessed child, even amid her storm.

And she suddenly knew why all of it had happened.

Her life was a testimony.

For him.

For the despicable Granger Meade.

Evan awoke but did not open his eyes at first. The foam seat, dull hum, and slight vibration reminded him he was on the bus, heading south. Heavy rain pelted the window next to him. He could hear the wind, gusting at times, and could feel the bus sway like a large tipsy man trying to walk a straight line.

The interior of the bus seemed even darker than before. Everything was still. Most people slept. It was the middle of the night. All he could see out his window were splatters of rain against the glass, a few reflections from inside the bus, and a light here and there in the distance, each resembling a different-sized snowflake through the wet glass.

He had slept several hours and probably through several stops. His stomach growled, and he looked around to see if anyone had heard it. He wondered if they were in Georgia yet. All the stops were going to make it a long journey to south Florida.

Lightning flashed to the right, and a faint collision of thunder rumbled just above the noise of the bus engine and air-conditioning.

Evan pictured Wendy sleeping alone in their big bed, and the boys in theirs. But he pushed the images away, got to his feet in the dark aisle, stretched, and yawned. Only three reading lights remained on throughout the bus. He headed toward the back in search of the restroom, noticing the sleeping passengers, many of whom had found the navy blankets he’d wished for earlier. He would get one down when he returned.

“Why didn’t you pick me up?” came a high-pitched female voice from a seat in the dark. “We wasn’t through.”

A reading light clicked on, and way below it, by the window, sat little Valerie Belinda McShane, the bag lady from the library parking lot.

Evan stopped. All around Valerie, dotting the seat next to her and the floor, were the plastic bags that had been on the bench at the bus stop. She wore the same dark purple overcoat and sagging black hat whose curled brim was pulled way down by her eyes.

“Yes, I’m talkin’ to you,” she said. “Sit down here.” She moved three bags from the seat to the floor in front of her.

Evan dropped into the seat, staring at her, dumbfounded.

“You must be starved.” She dug into the bag in her lap. “You want a banana? I got a good ripe one here.” She produced a beautiful, fresh-looking piece of fruit like a magician pulling a bouquet from a hat, and handed it to him.

Without a word, thinking he must be hallucinating, Evan simply began peeling the banana as he waited for the show to continue.

“That was rude of you back there,” she said, “after I woke you up and saved you from the po-lice.”

He snapped out of it and whispered, “I’m sorry. I just needed to be alone. It was nothing against you.”

“Yeah, bein’ alone is doin’ you wonders, I see.”

He took a bite of the banana. Nothing had ever tasted better.

“I know where yer goin’, you know,” Valerie said.

Evan ignored her comment. “How far are you heading?”

“Just far enough,” Valerie said. “Your wife needs to talk to you—one last time.”

She’s one of those senile bag ladies who just wanders and babbles.

“Your work ain’t finished.” Valerie struggled to open a small bag of almonds. “Can you get this?”

Evan opened the bag and handed it back to her, wondering what she meant by “one last time.”

Valerie shook several almonds from the foil bag into her hand and popped them into her mouth. “You need to make this one phone call at the next stop. Find the pay phone; it’ll be outside a log cabin–looking country store, just down the street from the bus station, on the left. Call Wendy’s mobile phone. When you—”

The banana dropped into Evan’s lap, and his head tilted to examine the apparition two feet from him. “How do you know my wife’s name?”

She tossed several more almonds into her mouth, crunched them, then raised her hands. “Don’t make no diff how I know, what matters is, I know. And she needs to hear from you one last time.”

Evan scowled at her, then looked around the bus, thinking he must be dreaming; or perhaps his quick withdrawal from the meds was toying with his mind. “Who are you?”

He thought someone must have put her up to this, but no, this was definitely the bag lady from the town back there, Fort Prince. That was her town. She lived there. She’d gotten on his bus … It was all coincidence.

The microphone clicked several times over the loudspeaker. “Next stop, Lake Serenity, South Carolina,” Bernie announced. “ETA five minutes. There are some flash-flood warnings, so if you are getting off in Lake Serenity, be careful.”

“That’s your stop.” Valerie stuck the bag of almonds in his chest. “Here, take these. You need some protein, Lord knows.”

“Look.” Evan sat frozen, holding the bag of almonds and the banana peel. “I’m not sure who you are, but—”

“Yes, you are, Evan. I’m Valerie Belinda McShane, and I’m as real as that .40 caliber in your bag up there.” She nodded toward his seat. “So don’t get any big ideas about dodging this like you did me back in that parkin’ lot. Pull up yer britches, be a man, and do what you need to do. One last call; you owe it to her.”

That was it—she’d gotten into his bag when he was sleeping! That would explain how she knew about the gun—but not about Wendy’s name or any of the other truths she so uncannily announced.

“How do you know about Wendy and where I’m going?” He stuffed the banana peel into a small trash bag hanging between the seats.

The reading light shining down on her went out, and for a moment Evan couldn’t see her.

“Shhh,” Valerie quieted him in the dark. “Would you stop fighting this?”

Evan could just make out the whites of her eyes.

“I’m the voice no one usually hears.” Valerie was completely still now and spoke ever so softly. “I’m the message, the whisper in your spirit, telling you to press on. I know it’s been difficult.”

“But just tell me how you know—”

“Forget all that. Is the Almighty on his throne, or not?”

What the …?

Evan was silent, questioning why he should even bother reasoning with a hallucination.

“I hate to say this, Evan, at a time when you’re so down, but you are thinking only of yourself. Does the enemy desire to sift you like wheat?” she whispered vehemently now. “Of course he does! The destroyer wants to take out every good soldier. One of the ways he does it is by playin’ yer mind like a puppet on strings. Don’t let him do it, Evan. No more. Your work isn’t finished. You’ll see. You’ll see very soon.”

With both hands, Valerie gently shooed Evan out of his seat. “Go on now.”

Evan stood, still trying to see her in the dark.

A booming, rippling display of lightning and thunder engulfed the bus. Evan grabbed the closest headrest to steady himself and reached over to make sure Valerie was okay. But as the lightning illuminated the seats, he could only stare in disbelief.

There were no bags scattered about.

There was no Valerie Belinda McShane.

He stood frozen, then looked around the sedate bus.

You’re losing it.

He wished he had a Valium.

Feeling as if he’d been sucker-punched, Evan scanned the dark bus again. Had anyone seen him? They’d think he was nuts. He shook his head and walked the last few rows to the restroom.

Vacant.