Everyone Was Left Behind

by Steve Armstrong

  “Well, I got up to go to the bathroom and when I did, I heard a few really loud bangs that sounded like gunshots coming from the church. I looked out the window but didn’t see or hear anything else. I figured it was nothing and tried to go back to sleep. But I just didn’t feel right about it, so I called 911.” If Hayes was repeating information he had already provided Glass, he didn’t seem to mind.

  “What time did you hear the shots?”

  “It was just after 1:10 am. I know because I looked at the clock when I got up.”

  “How long did you wait to call?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe ten, fifteen minutes. Could have been longer.”

  Seitzer knew the 911 dispatcher could give him the exact time Hayes had called, so he didn’t press Hayes further on that matter. “Did you hear or see anything after the gun shots? Maybe someone leaving? A light go on or off at the church?”

  “No, nothing. There was a light on, but it never turned off. Everything was quiet.”

  “How about earlier? Was there anything happening at the church?”

  “Yes. There seemed to be a big gathering there—lots of cars. Before I went to bed, I heard some singing.”

  “Did the church usually have activities on Friday nights?”

  “Not usually. I figured it had something to do with that damn prediction the pastor made, seeing as how yesterday was supposed to be the end of the world, or the rapture, or whatever they were calling it.”

  “You knew about the prediction?”

  “Oh yeah, most people did. Ever since that preacher made it, our street’s been packed with cars every time the church was doing something. It got so bad I complained to the town about it.”

  “Any idea when things cleared out at the church?”

  Hayes shook his head. “Sorry. I went to bed at nine and put my earplugs in. When I woke up, everyone seemed to be gone.”

  “Is there anyone else at home I can ask?”

  The man’s expression grew sorrowful. “No. My wife passed away last year.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, sir.”

  Before Seitzer could ask his next question, Hayes asked one of his own. “What happened down there, anyway? Did someone get shot?”

  “Someone killed Pastor Graham Wilcox,” Seitzer replied in his typical matter-of-fact tone.

  “Killed him?” Hayes looked down at the church below, illuminated by the red and blue lights of the police cars. “Why would someone do a thing like that?”

  “I don’t know—that’s what we’re trying to find out. Do you know where Wilcox lived?”

  “Right down there, in the church’s parsonage.” Hayes pointed to a small white house flanking the church.

  Seitzer stared at the darkened windows of the Wilcox residence. “Have you seen the wife or anyone else come out of the house since everything went down?”

  “No, I haven’t. It’s such a damn shame for those kids, having to grow up without a father.”

  Seitzer nodded absently and wondered about the woman and her two children with the matching green eyes. He pulled out his radio. “Harrison. Meet me at the white house on the other side of the church.” After Harrison acknowledged his call, the detective slipped his radio back in his jacket pocket. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Hayes. We’ll be in touch if we need more information. Come on, Tom, let’s go.” Seitzer descended the steps and moved toward the street. Harrison and Kelly emerged from the church and intersected the other two officers at the sidewalk in front of the parsonage.

  “What’s going on, Dan?” Mike asked.

  “Turns out the address on Wilcox’s license was wrong. He lived right next door. No one has heard a peep from his family tonight, which makes me a little nervous.” Seitzer took the lead as the foursome neared the front door. “Mike and Tom, take a walk around back and see if anything looks out of the ordinary.” The two officers complied and split off to survey the perimeter of the house.

  “Do you think she might be involved?” Harrison asked as he and Seitzer climbed the front steps of the Wilcox house.

  “Well, no one quite resents you like your spouse, right?” Seitzer asked as he reached the door. “Yeah, it’s possible. But right now I’m more concerned that whoever killed Wilcox wanted to hurt his family too. We might have some more victims on our hands.”

  Chapter Two

  Charity sat up in bed. The numbers on the clock—1:37 am—wrested her from a fitful slumber. Her sheets and clothes were soaked and beneath her damp, matted hair, her forehead still felt abnormally warm. She grabbed the glass of water on the nightstand next to her bed and drained it.

  The time suddenly registered—1:37. Friday was over and Saturday had come. Jesus hadn’t returned, had he? Charity struggled to extricate herself from the tangle of blankets, fearing her faith hadn’t been strong enough and Jesus knew how much she wanted to delay His coming.

  She stumbled into the darkened hallway of the second floor of her family’s house. All was quiet, as it usually was past midnight. The bedroom across from hers was empty, but only because her sister Hope had gone away to college. The bedroom adjacent to hers lay unoccupied, but it had served only as a shrine since her oldest sister Faith had died, seven years earlier. She switched on the hall light. Normally, Charity would have feared waking her parents, but she had to be sure. She peeked past the half open door into their bedroom. The light fell across her parents’ bed, but the sheets lay flat against the mattress. No one was there.

  Charity’s heart began to thump, her mind racing to propose alternative theories for their absence. Her mother routinely awoke at 4 am for bible reading and prayer and always turned in by 8 pm. Granted, the night before had been different, as they had awaited the rapture in the church. Still, her mother should have retired by now.

  Before Charity’s fears could overwhelm her, the sound of running water from downstairs caught her attention. She labored down the steps to find her father’s large frame standing in front of the kitchen sink, his back turned to her, washing his hands.

  “Dad?” she asked softly.

  Her father jumped and whirled around, splashing water across his waist and stomach.

  “Charity, you scared me. What are you doing up? Are you feeling better?”

  “Where’s Mom?” she asked. There was zero chance Jesus would have left her mother behind.

  “She’s in her prayer room,” he replied. “Would you like me to call her for you?”

  Charity exhaled in relief. “So Jesus didn’t come back?”

  Her father shook his head. “Not today. But soon, I’m sure.”

  Charity struggled to process how all the fevered anticipation of her family and church over the last year could have dissipated so uneventfully. As April 24 approached, she, like everyone else, believed that something had to happen. But they were wrong—like every other church or cult who had predicted Jesus’ second coming over the two millennia since He last walked the earth.

  “How’s Mom?” Charity asked. Her mother had been walking on air for the last few weeks in expectation of meeting her Savior.

  Her dad smiled wanly. “She’s disappointed, of course. But you know your mom—her faith is strong. She’ll get through this too. I’m sure she’s having quite the conversation with God right now.”

  Charity’s mom was renowned for her robust prayer life that consumed most of her mornings and evenings. Even now, when Charity strained her ears, she could hear a murmur from the room on the other side of the kitchen—her mother’s prayer closet.

  “How is everyone else?” Charity asked, referring to the people from their church, who must have been crestfallen and possibly embarrassed by their error. Since Charity had gone home sick, she hadn’t been with the congregation when midnight struck. Even though Charity struggled to live up to her church’s lofty expectations for her, she knew these people well and didn’t want them to be disappointed.

  Her father’s expression became grave, though he kept his words positive.
“Everyone’s disappointed. But we’ll all get through this, Charity.”

  “Were people angry?” The young girl remembered the things some had sacrificed since Pastor Wilcox made his prediction.

  Her dad took three steps toward her and felt her forehead. “I think you need to lie down now,” he encouraged. “Don’t worry about our church—we’re a family. We love and forgive each other. It’s what families do.”

  By the time her father uttered those words, Charity had depleted whatever energy reserves she had left. Her dad placed his arm behind her as she ambled up the stairs. She lay down on her bed, too tired to worry about how sweaty and disgusting her sheets were. As she positioned herself on her bed, Charity felt relieved that Jesus hadn’t come back and she would wake up to another day on earth. But that relief transitioned into dissonance as she considered the things that her church family would have to deal with now. Maybe nothing would be the same. Ultimately, Charity was too tired to ride that train of thought far and she succumbed to the gravity of sleep.

  Chapter Three

  “Police! Please open up!” Seitzer shouted a third time as he pounded on the front door of the pastor’s house. Harrison stood about four steps behind his partner so he could detect any movement upstairs. On any other night, the lack of light and sound from the little white house would have been a symptom of another restful midnight hour, but tonight, it was a troubling sign of potential distress.

  “Someone’s up there.” Harrison pointed to a window on the second floor. Seitzer backed away from the door so he could see. A small figure had peeled back the curtain so only its face was revealed.

  “It’s a kid,” Seitzer said. He pulled out his radio. “Mike, Tom, we’re going in. No one’s answering the door, we got a kid upstairs and I don’t like this.”

  “Roger that. We’re coming around,” Kelly’s voice crackled back.

  Seitzer bounded back up the front steps with Harrison trailing close behind. “We’re coming in! Stand back!” He inspected the door for a moment, took a few steps back and gave the door a fierce kick just beneath the knob. The door shuddered but remained closed. Seitzer struck it again. This time, it swung open completely. Above them, they could hear footsteps.

  The detectives headed directly to the staircase on their left. “I’m Detective Daniel Seitzer and I’m with Detective John Harrison. We were concerned for your safety and are here to help,” he called as they bounded up the steps, hands on their service weapons, just in case.

  A hallway at the top of the stairs led to four different rooms. Before Seitzer could enter the first room on the right, frantic voices emanated from the room at the end of the hallway; they sprinted toward the sounds.

  “Wake up, Mommy, wake up!” a child’s voice screamed, nearly drowned out by another child’s cries.

  Harrison entered first. In the faint moonlight seeping in through the window, they saw an adult woman lying motionless on the bed, while two children—a small girl and slightly older boy—tugged on her dangling arm. When the kids saw Harrison and Seitzer, they recoiled in fear.

  “It’s okay, guys, we’re the police,” Harrison said, removing his hand from his holster while Seitzer displayed his badge in case the kids cared about such marks of identification. “Is your mom hurt?”

  The boy, who seemed slightly less petrified than his sister, said, “She won’t wake up.”

  Seitzer turned on the light. Though a woman lay motionless in the bed, the scene bore no resemblance to the violent one in the church. No blood marked the sheets or blankets. Kelly and Glass appeared in the doorway. Their uniforms seemed to calm the kids down a bit. Harrison gathered the children together.

  “We’re going to try to wake up your mommy,” he told them.

  Seitzer placed two fingers on the woman’s neck. “I’ve got a pulse. She’s definitely breathing.” He glanced down at the nightstand next to the bed and spotted a bottle of pills.

  “Temazepam,” he declared after reading the label and shaking the bottle. “It’s a sleeping aid, I think. Still a bunch of them left.”

  Harrison nodded and knelt down in front of the kids. “Why don’t you go with Officer Mike and Officer Tom so we can help your mom, okay?”

  Kelly smiled at the children. “Come on, guys. Your mommy is going to be okay.” Though they still appeared scared, the children allowed the officers to gently lead them from the room.

  “Ma’am, ma’am.” Seitzer put his hand on her shoulder and shook it firmly. After a moment or two of this, the woman began to stir. She opened her eyes and looked at Seitzer.

  “What’s going on?” she mumbled. “Who are you? Where am I?”

  “My name is Detective Daniel Seitzer. We were concerned for your safety and entered your house.”

  “Where are my children?” She sat up, trying to push herself off the bed. Seitzer placed his hands on her shoulder to restrain her.

  “They’re safe, ma’am. But I do have some unfortunate news. Your husband passed away tonight.”

  She stopped struggling against Seitzer’s restraint and met his gaze for the first time. “What?”

  “You husband, Graham Wilcox, died tonight.”

  The woman cocked her head. After a moment of studying his face, she simply said, “Oh.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?” Seitzer took a chance she was lucid enough to reliably answer some questions. The residual effects of the sleeping pill might have clouded her memory, but they could also diminish her ability to misdirect the detective if she was connected to her husband’s death.

  “I saw him last night, at the church,” she answered slowly as if each new word she said surprised her.

  “Was he with anyone?”

  “He was with lots of people.”

  “Which people?”

  “The people from our church. They were waiting for Jesus to come back.”

  “You weren’t with them?”

  She shook her head. “No. It was late. I took the kids back to bed.”

  “Do you know what time it was?”

  “I don’t remember. Ask Gary. He was there. He’ll know. Gary knows everything.”

  She lay back down in her bed.

  “Gary who?” Seitzer asked.

  “Gary Price. From our church.”

  She pulled the blankets back over her. “I’m tired.”

  “Ma’am, your children need you now,” Harrison said.

  “I can’t—too tired.” She closed her eyes.

  “Ma’am? Ma’am?” Harrison attempted to wake her again, but to no avail.

  “You’re wasting your time. The medication is too strong. Just let her sleep,” Seitzer said, giving up and moving toward the door.

  “What about the kids? We can’t just leave them here like this.”

  “Let’s see if we can track down the grandparents or something. Maybe they live nearby and can stay with the kids.”

  “And if they can’t?”

  “I don’t know. We’ll figure something else out. Let’s check her phone—maybe she called her parents recently.” Seitzer picked up a handset from the other nightstand. He flipped through the numbers in the contact book, then dialed one of them.

  “You found the number?” Harrison asked.

  “Yeah. Why don’t you take this call?”

  Seitzer tossed the handset to Harrison, who cupped the phone before it landed on the floor, just as someone answered.

  “Hello, this is Detective John Harrison—ma’am, ma’am, don’t worry—your daughter is fine. So are your grandkids. But your son-in-law has passed away.”

  Seitzer walked around the room while Harrison handled the anxious grandmother. He surveyed more family photos of the green-eyed woman with her two brown-haired children. Glancing over at the sleeping woman, Seitzer compared the photo to the person.

  “Okay, they’re coming. But it will take them a few hours to get here,” Harrison announced.

  “That’s good,” Seitzer said, still analyzing the
picture. “Graham Wilcox definitely outkicked his coverage, as they say.”

  Harrison looked down at the sleeping woman. “She didn’t react to his death the way I thought she would.”

  “Well, she was under the influence. Besides, people don’t always react to tragedy like you think they should.”

  Harrison picked up the bottle of pills. “How long does it take for a sedative to take effect?”

  “That’s a good question. I’m not sure. Probably depends on the person.”

  “Because she could’ve shot him and then taken the sleeping pill.”

  “I suppose it’s possible. But I doubt it.”

  The younger detective placed the bottle back on the table. “I thought you said that no one resents you like your spouse.”

  “I did—and I meant it.”

  “So then why don’t you consider her a stronger suspect? Because she’s pretty?”

  “No. Her being pretty makes me more suspicious of her. Whether she resented her husband or not, she lacks the other major qualification for being the prime suspect: she wasn’t the last one to see her husband alive.”

  “Unless she’s lying.”

  “Right. Unless she’s lying.”

  “So who do we question next?”

  “Tomorrow we’ll have Glass and Kelly canvas the neighborhood, see if anyone else saw something suspicious. And we’ll go pay Gary Price a visit because, apparently, he knows everything.”

  Seitzer flicked off the lights so Mrs. Wilcox could sleep without further interruption.

  “What are we going to do about the kids?” Harrison asked as the two left the room. “They can’t stay here alone like this until their grandparents get here. They’re scared.”

  Voices from below drew them into the living room, where Mike and Tom had the kids seated on the floor. The girl wasn’t crying anymore. She must have been three or four so the officers had successfully distracted her by discussing her stuffed animals. The boy, however, clenched his hands at his side.