Free Fear Has a Name: A Novel by Creston Mapes Page B

demons fleeing into a herd of pigs.
    This guy haunting us must have demons , Jack thought.
    He envisioned himself squaring off with the stalker in their front yard at night. Could he rebuke the man’s evil spirits? Would God give him the power? Or would Jack pull out a semiautomatic, the one he couldn’t stop thinking about, and blow the guy to kingdom come? Or would he beat the scum to a pulp with his bare hands?
    Jack detected the odor of manufactured nylon and polyester, and determined that the spotless wall-to-wall short-pile maroon carpet beneath his feet must be brand-new. He could still smell the glue and noticed several tiny pieces of cut carpet along the gray baseboard.
    A number of framed objects leaned against the walls, waiting to be hung. Two were Satterfield’s degrees from Dallas Theological Seminary; another was a Bible verse, penned exquisitely in bold calligraphy: And let us not be weary in well doing: for in due season we shall reap, if we faint not — Galatians 6:9 . Next was a painting of a fly fisherman wading in a shady river. Last was a painting of a mean-looking Jesus in the sky, surrounded by ominous gray clouds, with hundreds of people cowering on the ground below.
    Voices came from a distance down the hallway, getting clearer as they drew closer.
    “You have lunch at twelve thirty with the elders.” It was Barbara Cooley’s voice. “At two you have the contemporary worship director. At three it’s Benevolence Committee—”
    “Tell me the rest later,” a male voice said, just outside the door. “I’ve kept this gentleman waiting long enough.”
    Dr. Satterfield blew into the office clutching a black laptop and an eyeglasses case. He wore dark green slacks, a white button-down shirt, and a khaki sports jacket, and he smelled like the antiseptic Pam used to clean her face.
    “Hello, hello.” He whisked past Jack without shaking hands, curved around the desk, and set his glasses case down precisely in line with the other items on the desk’s surface. “You shall have my full attention in un momento . I am Five Forks’ associate pastor, Dr. Andrew Satterfield.”
    With his back to Jack, the tall, thin man set his PC on the credenza, leaned back to examine how it sat, and with both thumbs adjusted it ever so slightly so the laptop was in perfect alignment with the front edge. He wore a sleek watch, no rings, and his hands were white and clean, nails trimmed up tight. He turned to face his guest. “And you must be Mr. Crotten—”
    “Crittendon.” Jack stood and—awkwardly clutching his pad, pen, and list of questions against his thighs—leaned over the desk to shake hands. “With the Dispatch .”
    Satterfield ignored Jack’s hand, swung his fake leather maroon chair around, plopped down, wheeled up to the desk, placed his elbows on the surface, and locked his bony fingers.
    “Tell me what I can do for you and our friends at the local fish wrapper, Mr. Crittendon.”
    Ignoring the dig, Jack explained concisely that his editor had learned of Pastor Evan’s disappearance via Faith Line and that he had interviewed Wendy McDaniel. He let him know he’d obtained a copy of the letter Evan left behind and was there to find out as much as he could about the man’s vanishing.
    Jack left it open-ended, just to see what kind of a talker he had in Satterfield. He could ask some people one question and they would spill the entire can of beans; others required relentless prying just to retrieve yes and no answers.
    “I don’t believe I have a great deal more to add,” said Satterfield. “The article you ran on the cover of the Dispatch the other day adequately summed it up. As that piece indicated, I don’t think it’s going to end pretty.”
    “It did surprise me,” Jack said, “that the Faith Line article came right out and said that coworkers believed the pastor was ‘genuinely determined,’ I believe it said, to take his own life—”
    “Ah-ah.” Satterfield held up an