The Devil in Pew Number Seven

by Rebecca Nichols Alonzo; Rebecca Nichols Alonzo

  “Are you in pain, Daddy?”

  “No. I’m fine, sweetheart.”

  I wasn’t sure if he was just saying that to make me feel better or if he was numbed by the shock. Neither of us spoke for what seemed like an eternity as he drifted in and out of consciousness. The house remained silent. We were on one side of the house while Momma, Sue, and her baby were on the other end with Harris. When Daddy finally regained a moment of clarity, he asked me to do the impossible.

  “Bec?”

  “I’m here, Daddy.”

  “I need you to check on Momma.”

  “Me?”

  “I can’t move, honey. You’ve got to be brave. You’ve got to go down the hall and see if she’s okay.”

  “But—”

  “Can you do that for me?”

  I didn’t have the capacity to comprehend this jarring shift in responsibilities any more than I could explain why anyone would barge into our house with deadly intent that afternoon. Such knowledge was uncharted territory for my young mind, as foreign and unfamiliar as the dark side of the moon. What choice did I have? I didn’t want to cause my daddy more pain with my hesitation. On the other hand, I wasn’t keen on the idea of being anywhere near the gunman. Surely he could appreciate that fact. And yet I was the only option he had.

  As I turned to leave, Daddy’s husky, six-foot-three frame remained crumpled on the kitchen floor. I had never seen him so vulnerable. Make no mistake, Daddy was not a wimp. He was a man’s man. From the time he was a boy, he’d excelled at fishing and hunting. I had tasted the venison he’d brought home. When it came to construction, be it painting, building, or remodeling, his hands could manipulate just about any tool with the artistry of an Old World craftsman. Having excelled in football in high school and, later in life, having served in the Navy, Daddy knew how to handle himself in any situation.

  Except for this one.

  Reluctant to leave my covering, I made slow, deliberate movements away from the kitchen. I willed myself to place one foot in front of the other. My shoeless feet, treading on the thin, brown tweed carpet in the hallway, made no sound, for which I was thankful. The narrow hall, about thirty feet in length, seemed like a dark cavern waiting to swallow me whole. The overhead light remained off, and I had no plans of turning it on for fear that it would betray my presence.

  I paused for a long second to listen.

  At the far end of the darkened hallway, on the right, my parents’ bedroom door stood ajar. A glow from the setting sun tumbled through the curtains flanking the bedroom window. Like a lighthouse with a dirty lens, the meager illumination led me as I started toward Momma. Directly across the hall from my parents’ room, I could see that my bedroom door remained shut, presumably with Harris and the hostages locked inside. It was also entirely possible he was lurking in the hall bathroom, Daniel’s room, or the living room—all of which had doors leading off the hall.

  Although I heard no sound, I assumed the gunman was in my bedroom. A thin shaft of light escaping beneath the door suggested such was the case. If so, would Harris yank open that door as he had done in the kitchen minutes before, see me standing there, and then finish what he had started? If the grown-ups in my life didn’t stand a fighting chance against him, I was under no illusion that somehow things would be different for me.

  Everything inside of me beckoned me to turn back.

  And yet I had to press on. I had to get to Momma.

  I passed Daniel’s room and, with a turn of my head, didn’t see anything out of place. Pushing onward, I drew up parallel to the hall bathroom on my right. The space was empty—although the shower curtain was drawn and might have concealed someone hiding. I took several tentative steps forward, stopped, leaned my head around the corner of the opening to the living room on the left. Nothing.

  Ten steps farther and I reached the end of the hall. My face flushed with renewed anxiety. I’d have to turn my back to my bedroom to enter my parents’ room. That would give Harris a clear advantage. He could take me out before I knew what was happening.

  The look on Daddy’s face, which had pleaded for answers, pushed me beyond my fears long enough to do what had to be done. At my parents’ bedroom doorway, I paused once again. This was the room where I had sought shelter whenever Mr. Watts bombed our home, a place of refuge where I had spent many frightful nights in the safety and comforting arms of my parents. Now it was the last place I wanted to be.

  The room blinked into focus.

  The scene didn’t make sense at first.

  My mother’s body was prone on the floor, halfway under the bed, legs protruding. I stepped closer. That’s when I heard a busy signal from the phone. Momma, after grabbing the receiver, had crawled under the bed to call for help. As I got down on my knees beside her, I saw Momma’s blood staining the floral bedspread. I extended my hand and, holding my breath, touched her leg. Was she still breathing? Would she be all right? I had no idea how severely she had been wounded.

  “Mommy? . . .”

  No response. Had she heard me? I dared not raise my voice above a whisper. I leaned closer for another try.

  “Momma?”

  When she didn’t answer and didn’t move, I wasn’t sure what that meant. Was she unconscious? Was she in shock? Was she . . . dead? Whatever the case, there was really nothing more I could do. I didn’t have the physical strength to pull her out from under the bed. And I couldn’t call the law since Momma had the receiver with her somewhere under the bed.

  I tiptoed back down the hall and resumed my position under the table in the kitchen. Daniel was still asleep. A weak, expectant look eased across Daddy’s face.

  “How’s Momma?”

  “I called her name, Daddy . . .”

  I choked out the rest of the message, “. . . but she wouldn’t answer me.”

  Daddy’s eyes closed.

  His chest heaved as his head fell back against the cabinet with a thud. Tears rolled down his face and mixed with the blood on his pants. The anguish in his reddened eyes sprang from an inner wound so deep, so profound, Daddy looked as if his heart might burst. The news about Momma was too much to bear—the musical girl with the giant pink curlers piled on top of her head, the woman who had captivated his soul from the moment they met, now lay unresponsive.

  He had been powerless to protect her.

  He was powerless to save her.

  He must have felt as if he had failed her. Like a spike through his heart, that reality hurt more than the pain inflicted by his two bleeding gunshot wounds.

  I remained quiet while he composed himself. He finally spoke.

  “Becky—”

  “Daddy?”

  “I need you to get help.”

  “Me?”

  I’m sure Daddy could see the fear in my eyes. I was just a kid in the second grade. I was no match for the madman barricaded within our house. “But how?”

  “You’ve got to be a big girl . . . you’ve got to run as fast as you can to Aunt Pat’s house . . . tell her to call the law.”

  “But—”

  “I’m counting on you, sweetheart. . . . I know you can do it. Please—hurry.” He offered me a faint, reassuring smile and then drifted out of consciousness.

  That’s when I slipped out the side door.

  That’s when I ran.

  Chapter 11

  Unanswered Prayers

  I had to run until I could run no more.

  Although I wanted to charge down Sellerstown Road to Aunt Pat’s house, the harder I ran, the slower I seemed to travel. The thought that my little sanctuary of dolls, toys, and keepsakes was now the temporary living quarters of a man bent on death overwhelmed me. With a turn of my head, I studied my bedroom window, looking for any signs of movement.

  Could the armed man see me running for help?

  If so, he had a clear shot at me from that window. I knew the damage this monster was capable of inflicting. I had witnessed his destructive handiwork minutes before. If he h
ad watched me escape, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt he both could and would take me down in an instant. My steps slowed at the thought. My legs felt as if they were slogging their way through an invisible muck, hindering my forward progress.

  Trapped in a sluggish nightmare, longing to reach the safety of Aunt Pat’s, I risked detection and pressed on as best I could. Our homes were separated by a freshly planted cornfield. The rows of tilled soil stretched about the length of a football field. Running that distance with the burden I was carrying felt as if I were traveling to the other side of the world with more baggage than I could handle.

  The instant my toes set foot on the edge of her property, I cried out.

  “Aunt Pat! Aunt Paaaat!”

  I continued to yell her name as I charged down the driveway toward her home, feeling a mixture of relief and panic; I was glad to be out of harm’s way yet alarmed at the thought that my family was still under siege.

  The conflicting emotions tore at my heart until I thought it would tear in half. I wanted to be safe, but I wanted the same thing for Daddy, Mommy, and my little brother. I stopped short of the door, hands on my knees, gasping for breath like a runner at the end of a race—except there wasn’t a prize or people cheering, just a struggle to form the words I needed to say.

  Aunt Pat scrambled out the side door.

  “What’s wrong, Becky?”

  Winded, gulping air by the bucket, I managed to get out the words, “Aunt Pat! Call the law! My daddy has been shot. . . . Momma has too!”

  “Lord have mercy!” Her eyes jumped wide open, as large as saucers, as the words registered.

  “Becky, are you sure?”

  “Yes, ma’am, he’s been shot twice . . . in the shoulder and leg . . . by Harris Williams. You’ve got to call the law!”

  Aunt Pat turned and scampered inside. Snatching up the phone with trembling fingers, she called our house as quickly as she could spin the lazy dial on her rotary phone.

  Busy.

  She tried again.

  Still busy.

  Swallowing air as if I had just completed a marathon, my lungs burned, my legs stung, and my eyes flooded. Aunt Pat’s daughter Missy, my best friend though older than me by a number of years, raced to my side. She had been playing in the yard and heard my cries for help. Being a tomboy, and therefore, unafraid of most anything, Missy said we had to do something—anything—to help my family.

  Drawing upon her strength, driven by a deep desire to know that my family was going to be okay, I agreed. I started to head back to the scene of the crime with Missy at my side. We didn’t get farther than the ditch just before the cornfield. Aunt Pat burst through the side door. With a flurry of frantic hand motions, she beckoned us to return, yelling, “Come back! Come back!”

  We hustled back across the yard and fell in line behind Aunt Pat as she dashed across the street to her mother-in-law’s house. Once inside, while blurting out the details of what had transpired, Aunt Pat called the police. Help was on the way. At least that much was good news. With the law notified, we returned to Aunt Pat’s house to begin the waiting.

  Though my feet were at rest for the time being, my mind knew no such peace. It churned with questions. Would Daddy and Momma be okay? They had to be okay, didn’t they? How fast could the ambulance get there, anyway? How serious were their wounds? And what was that awful Harris doing in my bedroom with the hostages? What further damage did he have planned? What if the law didn’t arrive fast enough in our sleepy corner of the country to catch him and stop whatever else bad he wanted to do?

  Oh, how I wished I knew how Daddy and Momma were doing.

  It would take hours to get answers.

  * * *

  I trembled.

  Darkness settled over Sellerstown in long shadows as the fast-approaching evening wrapped the sky in a blanket suitable for the night. Having run to Aunt Pat’s seeking help for my parents, still shaking from the horror of what had transpired moments before, I shivered as if chilled by the night air, although sweat soaked through my shirt. I had an unquenchable thirst to know if Daddy and Momma would be okay and feared for the safety of my brother, too.

  What if Danny woke up and wandered down the hall in search of me? What if Harris heard him walking around and decided to take my brother hostage too? I had to do something, but what? I toyed with the thought of trying to sneak back to our house again.

  Then again, what could I do? I was no match for Harris and had no illusion of confronting him. For all I knew he had already finished what he had started. If so, there was no point putting myself in his sights. I decided to stay put.

  Yet pacing between rooms at Aunt Pat’s served no purpose either. I was distressed by the fact that my family was trapped in that house and I had no choice but to stay put. They were my world and everything I loved . . . if only there were something I could do for them.

  I peered out the window.

  Another wail from an approaching police cruiser signaled more help was on the way; its flashing lights splashed the exterior of our home in an eerie array of blue and bloodred hues, mesmerizing me. The ambulance parked in our driveway, rear doors open, added to the light show with strobelike bursts of colored light. The press, like ants at a picnic, crawled over our lawn, looking for juicy morsels to feed the masses.

  Squinting, I scanned the growing crowd of concerned neighbors and onlookers. Was Mr. Watts somewhere in that group? Would he dare show his face on this of all days? Or was he, like a vulture, enjoying a bird’s-eye view of the chaos from his picture window? For the better part of five years he had hoped and worked for a moment like this.

  In a way I’m glad I didn’t learn until later that Mr. Watts was, in fact, standing with some of his hoodlums in the middle of the street alongside our house. Fueled by the raw emotions surging through my body like bolts of lightning, had I seen Mr. Watts that night, ten men would have had to restrain me. No doubt I would have darted across the yard and pounded my little fists of rage against his chest. I would have yelled until my lungs burned, “Why us? Why couldn’t you just leave our family alone? What did we ever do to hurt you? Who gave you the right to pick on us?”

  The television cackling away in the corner of Aunt Pat’s living room caught my attention. In a surreal, mind-numbing moment, I was drawn to the screen. I found myself watching and listening as the news crews, just down the street from where I was standing, began broadcasting their live coverage of the hostage situation at my house. I moved closer toward the television, holding on to hope for some good news. I clung so tightly to the hope—Momma and Daddy were okay—that I had to remember to breathe.

  The reporter said the police were talking to Harris.

  The reporter said Harris wasn’t budging.

  The reporter said Daddy was in the ambulance.

  When the reporter announced that a woman had been shot and killed, my heart rocketed to the bottom of my throat. I felt the walls around me close in. Which woman? Momma—or Sue? Something in my heart wanted to believe that even though Momma had not answered me earlier, she would survive her wounds if she received help in time. I desperately wanted my mother to be alive. I needed her to be alive. I didn’t know how I could go on if she was the one who was dead.

  At the same time I felt conflicted, torn within as if my heart had been pulled in two directions. I sure didn’t want Sue to be dead. If Harris had shot Sue during his standoff with the police, that would mean her boys would be without a mother. While I would have been thrilled to know Momma was alive, I didn’t want any of us to be without a mother. It would be several torturous hours before I’d have an answer.

  * * *

  At 6:09 p.m., as I would later learn,62 Lieutenant Alfred Hayes of the Columbus County Police arrived at the parsonage with his partner, Lieutenant Herman Price. Lieutenant Hayes maneuvered his patrol car into the driveway and then pulled onto the side yard to the right of the house where two armed men, E. J. and Billy Sellers, stood beneath the pine trees. T
he officers stepped out of the car, hands on their weapons, and approached with caution.

  After a quick round of questioning, Lieutenant Hayes learned these vigilantes were not a part of the attack. Having heard about the assault on their pastor through the grapevine, these church members had arrived faster than the law and were discussing what they might do to rescue my parents. Lieutenant Hayes thanked them for their efforts but sent them out of harm’s way.

  When Lieutenant Hayes knocked on the carport door, Daddy managed to invite him inside, his voice strained as he spoke. The officer discovered my brother still sleeping under the table and Daddy, his shirt covered in blood, sitting on the floor exactly where I had left him. He approached my daddy.

  “How badly are you hurt?”63

  Giving no thought about himself, Daddy said, “Please, check on my wife. She’s in the back of the house . . . she needs your help more than me.”

  “Yes sir, but—”

  “Don’t worry about me. Just be careful,” Daddy said. “Harris is back there, too. He’s got a gun . . . and his wife and son are with him.”

  Lieutenant Hayes knew he had to act fast. He had an injured man on the floor, a vulnerable child who might get hurt should there be a confrontation with the shooter, a hostage situation, and an injured woman who might or might not still be alive. Time was not on his side. If there was a fighting chance to save my mother, he knew he had to get to her quickly. And yet with a gunman at large, acting rashly could be deadly.

  The door to the kitchen opened again, and Lieutenant Price entered. Lieutenant Hayes instructed him to take Danny out of the house while he moved toward the hallway. With my brother now safe, Lieutenant Hayes knew the next order of business was to address the hostage situation. Taking up a position at the opening to the hallway, he called out.

  “Harris?”

  “Yes?” He spoke through the closed bedroom door.