Fear Has a Name: A Novel (29 page)

“Let me go! Help!” She screamed and tried to shake loose, but he was completely overpowering.

“Don’t, or I’ll drop you dead right here myself. That’s what it would have come to anyway.”

The cops must have insisted everyone clear out. The people outside, most with umbrellas and ponchos, stood deep in the parking lot.

Amazingly, the man who’d helped her looked on from the open passenger door of his semi—the one that had guided them.

Granger didn’t hesitate. He busted Pam through the door and stopped at the sidewalk beneath the overhang.

“Let her go, sir,” the male cop ordered. “Nice and easy.”

“No!” Granger yelled. “I’ll tell you how it’s gonna be, copper. If you don’t go along, I blow her back out right where we stand. I promise. I got nothin’ to live for.”

“Drop your weapon!” the female officer yelled.

Granger’s whole body was smothered up against Pamela’s back. He dropped his keys onto the wet pavement, shuffled Pamela away, and barked orders at the cops.

“Start that car.” He nodded toward the Impala.

“Not a chance,” the first officer yelled. “Let her go,
now
!”

“I’m gonna let her go,” Granger screamed, “but only if you let
me
go. Start my car and back it up, facing out. I’ll get in the driver’s side, holding her till I get in. Then I’ll drive out of here. No one gets hurt. Hurry up!”

Granger ratcheted his grip on Pamela’s neck and shoved the hard object deeper into her back.

“Move now!” Granger yelled. “Or I swear, I’ll shoot her.”

The officers spoke to each other, but Pamela couldn’t hear what they said.

With her gun pointing directly at Pamela and Granger, the female officer moved slowly toward the keys, made her way to the Impala, and got in. All the while, her partner kept his gun drawn on them.

The Impala revved to life. She backed it up, curled it behind the squad car, pulled it forward a few feet so it faced out of the lot, and put it in park. She started to reach for the ignition.

“Leave it running,” Granger yelled, hurting Pamela’s ear. “Get out, leave the door open!”

She turned to her partner, who nodded. She got out, left the door open, and returned to her position.

This was it.

Would Granger pull something? Still try to take her?

Or was she almost free?

Tears swelled in Pamela’s eyes, and she swallowed back a barrage of emotions, from sickening fright to utter elation.

Without a word Granger nudged Pamela into the rain, shoving her with small, forceful steps toward the Impala. The officers stood slowly, following them with weapons fixed but remaining protected by the squad car. As Granger moved toward the vehicle he shifted Pamela’s body so it was constantly between him and the officers; they would never have a shot.

He backed Pamela closer and closer to the driver’s seat as the rain and wind kicked up. The officers repeatedly yelled for him to let her go.

“Stay with me,” Granger said. “When I say
now
, I’m going to sit. You sit with me. Don’t try anything.”

She could only pray he would keep his word.

“Now.” Granger led and, simultaneously, they bent and sat. Pamela was on his lap. They faced the officers’ guns.

“I’m turning,” Granger said. “You stay right here.”

He swung his legs into the car and forced her bottom onto the edge of the wet driver’s seat.

“Toss your guns away from you,” Granger yelled.

Both officers shook their heads. “No way,” the man said. “Let her go, now!”

The object that had been drilling into her back released.

The arm Granger had been locking tight around her neck eased but remained there.

“I am sorry, Pam.” His warm cigarette breath spoke against the back of her neck. The big arm squeezed gently once, twice. “You’re free.” He rocked her gently. “Good-bye.”

Granger shoved her hard from behind, and the car roared into motion. She rolled to her freedom on the hard, wet ground, laughing and crying at the same time.

The car rocketed forward, its driver’s door slamming shut from the force of the takeoff.

“Stay down!” the officer yelled. “Take him!”

Their guns exploded and recoiled, exploded and recoiled.

Pamela covered her ears and strained to watch.

Granger’s car goosed and swerved through the parking lot as if it were floating on air. One after another, it was peppered with bullet holes, as if a small army was taking target practice on a junk car.
Poof.
Glass exploded in the rear window.
Pop.
The passenger window exploded.

She saw Granger looking back.

Pamela told herself to breathe.

The car bounced out of the parking lot, onto the open road.

You’re free.

You’re going to be a mommy again—and a wife.

40

Rain swept through the shattered windows of the Impala. Glass was everywhere. The car was maxed out as it flew and banged over the hilly two-lane South Carolina road. Granger had said from the outset he would not go to prison, and he would not.

You should have let them hit you back there.

But he might not have died, then he would’ve gone to jail.

The wind made his eyes blurry.

He patted the seat, found the Newports, and hit the lighter.

He had to ditch the car and hide.

Get another car … get a gun.

Welcome to Lake Serenity. The sign blew past.

Another sign was coming: Reduced Speed 25.

The lighter popped; he snatched it and lit the cigarette with a shaky hand.

Slowing way down at a City Limits sign, the car was still traveling at a good speed as it whizzed past nicely lit, well-manicured homes on each side of the street. As the estates got larger and more elegant, with circular drives leading up to sweeping curved stairs, he knew he must be getting close to the town.

He thought he heard a siren far off but wasn’t sure.

Where would they
not
look for him?

He saw a sprawling white plantation-style funeral home with a big fountain out front, then Marty’s Hardware, The Book Nook, Other Place Pub, and on and on.

Granger took a right to go around the town square, then he saw it: Redeemer Church. Somehow he knew this was the best place for him. They would never look there—if he could ditch the car.

He swung into the narrow driveway and pulled around back of the small brick church, where the blacktop parking lot expanded. A lone floodlight lit up the clean lot. There were no cars, only a huge maroon dumpster. Beyond it, an expanse of woods.

He zoomed the car over to the Dumpster and pulled up alongside it, his headlights showing about three feet of space between the bin and the branches of the encroaching trees. He could squeeze it in there. The Dumpster was long and tall enough to hide the Impala.

He took a look around. Seeing no one, he drove forward slowly. Metal from the right side of the car scraped against the trash bin. Branches and leaves poked and scratched the entire left side. He gave it more gas and finally wedged the car in there like a hand in a glove.

With a big left shoulder he bashed, bashed, bashed his door, forcing it open against the thick branches. Once out, the door shut from the force of the trees. He could hear a siren in the distance. Belly against the car, he shimmied and pushed his way along the wet vehicle all the way to the rear and out into the open air of the parking lot. He was scratched up from the brush.

It had almost stopped raining.

It was deathly quiet except for the siren. Of course, it was the middle of the night. But he thought he heard something else, like water lapping against a shore. Lake Serenity?

Hustling across the puddle-filled lot, beneath the floodlight, and up two steps, he tried unsuccessfully to open the back door.

Churches were supposed to be open.

He got his bearings, decided which way around the building would be fastest, and took off. Halfway around, he stopped. The sirens were getting louder. Closer. A soft light from inside lit up red and blue and green and yellow and orange stained-glass windows. It looked warm inside.

How he wished none of this would have ever happened.

Loser.

His mother was dead.

You’re going to take the rap—if they catch you alive.

He dashed around to the front of the building, stopped on the walkway leading to the front doors, and squinted up at the bell tower and cross atop the church. The building was only two stories. Maybe he could hide up there someplace, perhaps in the attic. Who knew, maybe he would find some rope. Wouldn’t that be a sight for parishioners: Granger Meade hanging like a rag doll from the sanctuary rafters.

He hurried to the double doors and pulled.

Yes.

It was dark in the close vestibule, where his whole body immediately warmed to the core. A small white candle burned on a tall stand by some kind of guest book. The little room was like a fortress, with walls made of thick, almost black wood beams. The uneven wood floor creaked as he entered.

A tier of candles greeted him to the right as he came to the sanctuary, whose vaulted ceiling was layered in caramel-colored wood. Beams crossed overhead with track lighting, set dim. He could sleep so easily on one of those wood pews with the dark red cushions, but there was obviously no time for that.

As he hurried up the carpeted center aisle, he noticed the stained glass along the sides didn’t shine as it had from outside, but fell dark. A gas flame danced in a bowl hanging from chains high to the right behind the pulpit, casting a golden glow over the entire room.

He noticed a tall doorway to the left of the altar, beyond the organ, and headed for it. Up the three steps, past the pulpit—

What the …

He halted.

There was a man on the floor, curled up, sleeping. He was nestled down by the organ pedals, like a baby in a womb. A jacket was bunched under his head for a pillow, and a black duffel bag sat on the floor next to him.

Granger looked around the peaceful room, dropped to one knee, stared at the man for a moment, and ever so quietly unzipped the bag. Unable to see its contents, he gently dragged it several feet and shifted his own big frame so the light from above could shine down on the contents of the bag.

The sirens were getting closer.

Opening the bag wide, he dug in and fingered his way through T-shirts, jeans, a cap, umbrella, shaving kit, boxers. What was that in the bottom? Shoes. Okay, so much for that. He stuck his head down close for one last look before moving on. Something caught the light for a split second. It looked like a flashlight, which could come in handy if he were to make it to the attic.

He reached in and grabbed it, but the heaviness surprised him. This was no flashlight. He knew before seeing it that it was a gun. He took a quick glance at the man, then examined the heavy black semiautomatic in his palm.

“Hah.”

Talk about cruel irony.

So God gives you a gun in a church to end it all.

Oh, how his mother and father would have howled at that.

It was fitting, wasn’t it, for a life that had been such a complete joke?

He pressed a button on the side, and a magazine clicked into his hand. It was stacked with shiny gold bullets, probably .40 caliber.

That’ll do the job.

He replaced the magazine quietly with a click, zipped the bag closed, and dragged it back over where he’d found it.

The sirens wailed.

Still on one knee near the man, he froze. His head swiveled to the sound of cars near the building.

Had they found the Impala?

He dived and crawled to the altar, slamming his back to it.

Above him hung a cross.

You created me, now you can have me back.

Granger racked the slide on the gun, resolving to fire a shot to his head if the doors of the church opened.

The lone shot would wake the stranger lying there. If he was in as bad straits as Granger, maybe he would follow suit.

One last sick joke.

He was not going to think about this. It was going to be quick and easy.

Things will just end.

The torment of living would finally be over …

More sirens arrived—
whiz, whiz, whiz
—darting up against the building.

Granger inhaled deeply and raised the shaking gun to his temple.

“Don’t do that.”

The words startled him.

The sleeping man’s head was raised. He spoke softly. “Please … don’t.”

Granger scowled and cursed and realized he was trembling. His hands were damp; he wiped them on the carpet. It was almost like he’d been awakened from a dream. He pointed the gun at the man. “This is none of your business.”

“That’s my gun,” the man said. “That makes it my business.”

“I’m gonna borrow it, okay?” Granger said sarcastically. “You can have it back in a minute. I’ll leave you some change for the bullet.”

“My name’s Evan.” The weary man spoke evenly, calmly.

“Well, Evan, I wish you would’ve just kept snoozing. This whole thing might be over by now.”

“I was going to do that too.” Evan nodded at the gun.

“Chickened out, I see.”

Granger heard loud static and clicking and the sound of voices on police radios.

The man named Evan sat up slowly and crossed his legs as if he were relaxing in his living room. “My wife forgave me tonight. I put her through sheer agony, and she forgave me.”

“Huh. You’re lucky you have a wife.”

“Yes.” Evan nodded. “A very good wife. And I have three boys, whom I’ve let down terribly.”

“You should be thankful you have a family.” Granger lowered the gun and dropped his head. He was beyond tired.

“I’m going to give it another try,” Evan said.

Granger just shook his lowered head. There was no way to explain it.

“I’d like to help you,” Evan said. “I’d like to be your friend.”

Granger laughed, jerked his head up, and stared at the stranger, thinking he himself had never been that calm or at peace his entire life. He yearned for acceptance, longed for a friend, but he was afraid—so afraid of being hurt, deceived, mocked!

Death was within his reach … seconds away.

He’s just talking, saying words to stop you …

“Where do you live?” Evan said. “Are you from here? I’m not.”

The blaring sirens chirped oddly, wound down, and died one at a time.

It wouldn’t be long.

Granger had no dang home. He was a no-good drifter. The idea of this man becoming his friend was unrealistic and far-fetched. But oh, how he wished it could be true.

He shook his head. “I’m in bad trouble.” He fought not to cry. “Real bad.”

Evan looked deeply into his eyes. “I’m supposed to help you,” he said. “We’re in this crucible for a reason.”

Granger shook the gun. “Yeah, the reason is … I’m gonna use your crummy gun to end this miserable existence.”

Evan shook his head. “Listen, I know you need a friend,” he said. “I’m not gonna try to tell you everything will be okay. But I am here for a reason. To help you right now. I know I am. I know I’m supposed to live; I didn’t know it till right now. Please, will you do something for me? One thing?”

Granger just stared at the weirdo.

The running footsteps of a growing army could be heard all around them.

He was going to be arrested, sitting there listening to this nutcase.

“Make a pact with me.” Evan crawled over to him and put forth his hand.

Granger looked at it, then into the man’s piercing eyes.

“We will live.” Evan nodded. “Just say it with me: we will live another day.”

Voices, yelling outside.

Footsteps thudding on concrete, all around them.

Then through a megaphone: “Granger Meade.”

His name pierced the night and stung his heart with reality.

“You are surrounded. You have sixty seconds to come out of the church with your hands up high where we can see them.”

Evan examined Granger and nodded encouragingly. “We will live another day,” Evan repeated. “I will try to help you.”

Slowly, gently, Evan removed the gun from Granger’s right hand. He set it down. He put his hand in Granger’s and squeezed. It was warm. It was true.

They looked at each other.

They shook hands.

Granger watched Evan’s lips and began to speak softly, in unison with him: “We will live … another day.”

The doors busted open.

Granger turned to see a team of officers swarm in, weapons held high, jogging in unison in two lines down the center aisle.