Fear Has a Name: A Novel (19 page)

No text or call from Pam.

Dang it.

He got in the car and sat there, dreading the thought of getting Pam’s parents all stirred up about Granger being on the loose.

He just wanted Pam to call him. Then he could speak with her about it alone, give her the heads-up, and her folks would never have to know.

You’re being paranoid. Just wait for her to call. She will, soon.

Like DeVry said, Granger was probably as far out of Ohio as he could possibly be by now.

Jack wanted to believe that.

But something pushed him, made him look down at the number for Pam’s parents—and call.

26

Granger took one last hit of his cigarette, dropped it out the window, and pulled the Impala ever so quietly around the back of his parents’ house where it couldn’t be seen from the road. He brought it to a stop beneath the now huge sycamore tree, about thirty feet from the dilapidated shed in the backyard where he had spent so much time as a kid.

Although Granger had his own bedroom in the house, his mother had made him spend the night in the shed for certain transgressions. He’d grown up thinking this was normal. She would sequester him out there, quoting what he’d done wrong from Scripture. In his early years he’d read the Bible himself, trying to learn right from wrong, so he would stop frustrating her. But as he grew older, he realized that some of the things she punished him for were not even in the Bible. Once he accidentally dropped and shattered one of her favorite bowls and received two nights in the shed. Other times he would earn a night out there simply because she was in a bad mood and didn’t want to see his fat face.

His stomach churned. He hadn’t eaten all day, not to mention that he hadn’t seen his parents in years. He stood there by the car half frozen, staring down at the leaning shed with its rust-streaked metal roof, remembering how the rain sounded when it slowly began to pang, pang, pang. Then the skies would open and the downpour would clang and bash and echo so loud it would make his ears ring and threaten to drive him mad. And then the leaks would start, and he would drag the mattress wherever he could find a dry spot.

He looked up at the dining-room and kitchen windows but saw no one. The old chain-link fence that boxed in the backyard was leaning, vines overtaking it in places. Having been out on his own for so long, seeing how the world operated, watching other people, being out from under the tyranny and oppression of that prison, Granger realized how miserably he had been treated when he was growing up. It wasn’t fair.

Why did you even come back?

He didn’t know for sure what he was going to do.

He could have gone anywhere in the country, and here he was at one of the most obvious and dangerous places.

All he knew was that he planned to sneak into the house. From there, he wasn’t sure. Perhaps he would give his mother and father a little dose of their own mental-abuse medicine; put the shoe on the other foot for a change.

Or maybe he had come to say good-bye—for good.

The windowless garage door was closed. He tried the side door next to it. With a good shoulder nudge it came unstuck, like always. He stepped into the darkness. The smell of dampness and grass clippings from the mower were immediately familiar.

What’s this?

Instead of the old Buick sedan his dad had driven forever, there sat one of those boxy conversion vans, an older model. Granger made his way along his dad’s long workbench, past the big vise and the large silver toolbox, and to the steps. Up he went, taking each gently, like a cat, avoiding those that he remembered creaked.

Silently he turned the knob to the door at the top of the steps and opened it several inches. He saw no one in the kitchen but smelled soup or chili cooking, which reminded him that they usually ate dinner extremely early, like three thirty or four. The audio from the TV projected loudly from the den. If it was anything like old times, he would bet his life his mother was watching soaps and his dad was either napping or doing the crossword from the day’s newspaper.

Quickly Granger swung the door open, crept into the kitchen, and peeked around the corner into the den. The room looked odd, rearranged, cluttered. From what he could see, his mother sat hunched, staring at the TV with her mouth open, her hair more gray than black now. His father was lying on his side, asleep. Sure enough, a Botox blonde was pitching a fit on the bulky old TV that still sat awkwardly on the fireplace hearth.

Granger turned and headed for the bedrooms in back, passing what turned out to be chili simmering on the stove. He would get some of that before he left. He tiptoed across the wood floor in the dining room, down the dim hallway to his bedroom.

Or was it?

He did a double take in the hallway, then stepped into what used to be his room. There was a new bed, much bigger, made neatly with a thick, dark brown comforter and beige pillows. A sleek nightstand was situated by the head of the bed, with a nice clock and a lamp he’d never seen. He walked farther in. The carpet was thick and also new. An impressive desk and lamp were against the wall to the left.

They’d completely redecorated his bedroom.

A new guest room for the guests they never have.

Clearly, Granger hadn’t been worth the time, thought, or expense for such nice things when he had lived there.

He crossed to the closet, spread open the accordion doors, and scanned its contents. He jerked the old jackets and women’s sweaters and dresses that were now on his hangers. Not one thing of his remained.

Quickly, his glance shifted to the shelves above—for his comics, car models, music books, snare drum, the old box of baseball cards. But the only things he found were an old sewing machine and several empty picture frames, which he recognized as those that had once displayed his band photographs.

Granger realized his teeth were locked so tightly together they were aching.

My trombone.

He dropped to his knees and swept back the clothes on the right—it wasn’t there. He shifted and ripped back the clothes hanging on the left—nothing.

If they got rid of my trombone … I paid for that thing with my own money!

He stood, taking one last look for any of his things.

Leaving the closet open, Granger exited the bedroom and stopped in the hallway; but hearing the TV and seeing no sign of movement toward the front of the house, he slipped into his mother and father’s bedroom.

Where his mother’s bed used to be, there was a new one, like a hospital bed, the top half tilted up, with silver rails on each side.

One of them was sick.

He could smell it. Seven or eight orange bottles of pills dotted the bedside. Everything else in the room looked the same, just messier than they normally kept things.

Granger ducked into the small bathroom, closed the door, and urinated. As he stood there, he took deep breaths and tried to relax. His whole body ached.

You need to get the guns.

The police were sure to drive by there sooner or later. They might even come to the door.

Whatever you’re gonna do, you need to move!

Every trace of Granger had been swept from the house. Truly, they had never wanted him.

Couldn’t they have faked it? At least pretended to care?

They were weird, cruel people—people with serious issues. That was what the shrink had implied. And that was what he had always reminded himself to try to make himself feel better, to try to explain the temptations and fears and evils that lurked within.

They deserve to suffer.

He rinsed his hands, watching the dirt swirl down the drain, figuring it had been a day or two since his last hot shower at the apartment. Splashing water on his face, he snapped out of it, grabbed a towel, and leaned close to the mirror as he dried. His orange hair was a mess and his ridiculously small, bloodshot eyes were underlined with dark half-circles. His face was puffy—just plain fat is what it was.

He’d always been ugly. It wasn’t just his weight. He was just plain unattractive. He knew it by the reaction of virtually every person he’d ever met. No one gave him the time of day. People would look at him and their eyes would roll off as if they’d never seen him at all.

Pamela had been the only one who made him feel worth anything.

You’ve poisoned that now.

He left the bathroom and ducked quickly to the floor of his parents’ closet. One of his father’s two guns—the smaller caliber of the two—was hidden in the Rockport shoe box, where his father had always kept them. Perhaps he’d sold the other or hidden it elsewhere; its clips weren’t there either. Granger pushed a button on the side of the handle, and one full black metal clip dropped into his palm. He clicked it back into the gun and grabbed the extra full clip lying in the box.

Stepping quietly to the window, he moved the curtain slightly with the back of his hand, peered out, and saw no cars. The gun was heavy. The gun gave him authority. Control.

Respect.

He inhaled deeply through his nose, held it for a long time, and exhaled slowly. Then he made his move down the hallway. It was time to greet his beloved parents.

Jack had to concentrate, so instead of getting back on the road, he remained seated in his car at Jimmy John’s as the phone rang at Pam’s parents’ house.

Margaret picked up. “Hello.”

She was who he
didn’t
want.

“Hey, Margaret, it’s Jack.”

“Oh, hi again, Jack.” She was her giddy self.

“Is Pam back yet?”

“You must really miss her!” Margaret giggled. “Not yet, but she should be here soon. You know her, she goes from one place to the next—loves being home.”

“Listen, Margaret,” Jack interrupted, “would you mind getting Ben on the other line with you? I need to tell you guys something real quick.”

“What is it?” Her voice immediately sobered, and she yelled for Benjamin to get on. “What’s going on, Jack? Is it your parents?”

“No.” It always amazed him how Margaret could go from normal to freak-out mode in under two seconds.

The line clicked. “Hello?”

“Hey, Benjamin, it’s Jack. I need to tell you and Margaret something. Now listen, this is most likely no big deal. In fact, it’s nothing, I’m sure. But I need to give you a heads-up, just in case.”

“Good Lord, Jack, what is going on?” Margaret was almost out of breath already.

“It turns out there is a man on the run right now—he’s probably going to be caught any minute by police—”

Margaret shrieked.

“Go ahead, Jack,” Benjamin insisted. “Margaret,
calm
yourself.”

“He’s kind of had his eye on Pamela—”

“Pamela!” Margaret moaned, then sounded as if she was hyperventilating.

“Margaret!” Benjamin said. “I can’t hear him.
Please
!
”

“He stole a car here in Trenton City last night,” Jack said. “He’s running from the police. He could be anywhere. He’s probably halfway across the country by now. But since—”

“Is Pam is danger right this second?” Margaret blurted. “Is she okay? Do you know she’s okay right now?”

“The only reason I’m even telling you this is because she doesn’t have her phone with her. I wanted to call and tell her and leave it at that. There’s a very small chance—”

“Is he here?” Margaret blurted. “In Cleveland Heights?”

“Please, Margaret, let me finish,” Jack spoke over her. “Let’s not make this worse than it is. Since you have Rebecca and Faye, I wanted you to be aware that this guy is at large—”

“The girls!” she screamed. “Ben, are they with you?”

“Would you stop?” Ben barked. “They are right here.”

“It’s most likely he’s long gone out of Ohio,” Jack said, “and there’s nothing whatsoever to worry about. I just wanted you to know that, for now, you should probably keep the girls inside and keep the doors locked.”

“Doing it now, Jack,” Benjamin said.

“Do you know he’s here and you’re not telling us?” Margaret’s voice quivered. Her breathing was heavy, as if she was pacing. “Tell the truth, Jack!”

He wasn’t about to tell them who it was or that Granger had gone to school with Pam and lived within blocks of them.

“Jack.” Benjamin ignored his wife. “Should I try to find Pam?”

“You are not leaving me!” Margaret yelled. “There is no way you’re leaving this house!”

Jack seethed. That’s why the woman lived in such a pathetic state of fear, because all she thought about was
herself
.

“Just stay put for now, Ben,” Jack said. “I want you there with the girls. I’m sure Pam will be back any minute. Have her call me the second she gets there.”

Jack heard someone slurping at a bottle, and he knew it wasn’t Benjamin. “Margaret, can I talk to Ben alone for a minute?”

“What are you not telling me?” Margaret said. “Let’s have it all, Jack.”

“Get off the phone
now
, Margaret,” Benjamin said evenly.

The line clicked.

“Please, Ben,” Jack said, “just keep a close eye on the girls.”

“Don’t worry. We’re all locked up, and they are right here with me.”

“I know you have a gun in the house,” Jack said. “You may want to keep it with you, but please, make sure it’s out of reach of the girls.”

“Who is this guy, Jack?”

Jack paused.

Maybe it would be best for Benjamin to know. That way there wouldn’t be any confusion if Granger did show or if somehow the police got involved.

“Please don’t tell Margaret; it will just freak her out,” Jack said. “It’s a friend of Pam’s from high school. Name’s Granger Meade—”

A gasp came from the other end of the line.