The Devil in Pew Number Seven (22 page)

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. The 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.

“Harris, come on out and let me talk to you.”

I’m sure Harris’s mind was scrambling to sort out his options. Should he try to escape before the house was crawling with police? If so, how? And where would he go? When Harris shot my parents, he had crossed a line. At some point in time, he’d eventually face justice. If he didn’t attempt to escape, how long could he remain barricaded in my bedroom? When he finally spoke, he made a not-so-veiled threat of more tragedy.

“Back off! There’s two more lives at stake in here.”

Lieutenant Hayes tried to defuse the situation. “Just come on out, Harris, and let’s talk about it.”

Pressure. Too much pressure. The reality of what Harris had done was sinking in as he talked things out with Sue. There was no way to take back the bullets and undo the nightmare. Looking at his wife and infant son, surrounded by my dolls and toys, Harris stalled for more room to think.

“No. Don’t rush me,” Harris said. “Give me a little more time.”

Lieutenant Hayes advanced down the hall, taking up a safe position in the doorway leading to the living room. He remained out of range in the event Harris opened fire down the hallway. He called out again.

“Harris?”

“Yes?”

“Is everybody with you okay?”

“Yes . . . but . . .”

“But what?”

“Check on Mrs. Nichols—the preacher’s wife.”

“Where is she, Harris?”

“She is in the bedroom across from this bedroom.” Harris must have seen Momma on the floor in her room after he walked down the hallway to lock himself and the hostages in my bedroom.

“Listen, Harris. Just come on out, okay?”

“No, I’m not coming out just yet.” A pause. “Please go and check on her and see if she needs some help.”

Whether it was out of real concern for my mother or a ploy to get the lawman in his sights, Lieutenant Hayes didn’t know. He wasn’t about to take chances, at least not yet.

“Harris, come on out. Throw your gun out and come on out. I’m not going back there.”

“I won’t hurt you if you don’t try to come in this room,” Harris said.

A long moment passed between them. Lieutenant Hayes turned and saw more backup entering our home. Lieutenant Dudley and Officers Sanford Hardee and Wayne Piver arrived to provide backup within the house. Outside, several dozen law enforcement personnel took up positions around the parsonage to secure all exit points.

When Lieutenant Hayes didn’t immediately respond to him, Harris said, “Don’t come to this room. Go to the other room.”

Now that the lieutenant had protective covering by fellow officers, he ventured into the hall and advanced to my parents’ bedroom. When Lieutenant Hayes turned on the light, he found Momma lying facedown, her head and shoulders still wedged under the bed in the same position as when I had last seen her; the telephone handset remained underneath her chest. He observed a splotch of blood on the back of her dress, and since Momma was unresponsive, he checked her vital signs.

He had arrived too late.

* * *

The police turned up the heat.

With no chance of helping Momma, my brother safely ushered away, and Daddy in transit to the hospital, one of the officers cranked the thermostat governing the furnace as high as it would go. If Harris wouldn’t come out on his own, they hoped to sweat him out. For the better part of three hours, Harris remained fortified in my bedroom with the curtains drawn. Throughout the standoff, Harris told the police he would come out but then failed to comply with their requests to surrender.

Ten times . . . twenty times . . . almost thirty times Harris repeated his intention of coming out peacefully. Several hours into the ordeal, at eight o’clock, his lawyer arrived and attempted to convince Harris to give himself up. As nine o’clock approached, Lieutenant Hayes tried again.

“Harris?”

“What?”

“Come on out, Harris. It’s over.”

“Don’t come near this room! I told you I’ll come out when I’m ready.”

“We have no intention of making a move on you.”

“I mean it. Don’t make me do any more than I’ve already done!”

There was that threat of more harm again. Lieutenant Hayes tried to calm him down.

“We’re not here to hurt you, Harris.”

“Then why are there so many police?” Evidently, Harris pulled back the drapes long enough to observe the swarm of police activity in the front and side yards from my bedroom windows.

“All we want to do is to prevent any further trouble, Harris. We have no intention of leaving, and like I said, I promise we have no intention of making a move on you.”

Silence.

“Harris, we are prepared to stay as long as it takes. We’ve sealed off all roads within a one-mile radius.”

Drenched in sweat, parched from the sweltering heat, in need of fresh air, Harris decided he had had enough.

“Okay . . . I’m coming out.”

“Listen carefully, Harris. I want you to crack open the door and push out your guns.”

A minute passed. And then another.

Four minutes later, the door creaked open. One by one, Harris slid his guns down the hall. It was over. Lieutenant Hayes, flanked by three other officers, placed Harris under arrest, handcuffed him, searched and emptied his pockets, and then took Harris into custody. Although Sue was sobbing, she and her baby were safe.

For that, I’m eternally grateful.

* * *

Momma was gone.

I first heard the news from the TV. And while Aunt Pat confirmed it, I didn’t believe what I was hearing. The edges of my ears burned as if touched by hot coals. Wanting to know for myself that they weren’t mistaken, frustrated that nobody was giving me any details, I snuck out the back door of Aunt Pat’s home with Missy at my side. Once outside, barefooted, heart hammering within my chest, we broke into a hard run through the cornfield separating our homes to avoid being caught.

I just had to see Momma.

It would have been difficult to make our way had it not been for the swirling lights on the rescue vehicles. Beacons of red and blue lit our path. We jumped the ditch by the road, crossed the street, and continued our run behind my house. In the near darkness, we slowed to a fast walk and then rounded the corner to the side yard leading to our carport. My lungs blazed within, matched by the burning in my legs that felt as if they were about to buckle beneath me.

We walked the last few yards and stopped at the edge of the carport a few feet from the ambulance. The screen door to the kitchen was open. We arrived at the precise moment three rescue-squad members were backing out, slow and steady, carrying a body on a stretcher covered in a white sheet. As they navigated the steps, the reality hit me with the force of a tornado. The report was true. One woman had been shot and killed.

Yes, Momma was really gone.

There was nothing I could do to help her now.

* * *

The street cleared.

With the shooter safely behind bars and the crime scene secured, the sea of reporters and police personnel flooding into the community hours before now receded into the night almost as quickly as it had arrived. A disquieting stillness settled on Sellerstown Road. I felt lost, helpless, and disoriented.

As a seven-year-old child, I wasn’t fully sure what death meant. Momma was no longer in my life, but where had she gone? Aunt Pat hugged me and assured me that Momma was in heaven, but I wasn’t sure why God needed her more than we did. My uncertainty was complicated by the fact that I had no idea when I’d be able to see my daddy again and wondered whether he, too, would be leaving for heaven soon.

That dreadful, traumatic night, Aunt Pat tucked me into a bed at her house. While I was thankful for her love and care, the fact that my mother wasn’t by my bedside only served to drive home the point that she was gone. As I fell asleep, I hoped the events of the day were just a bad dream. I wanted to believe that when I awoke the next morning, we’d be together again as one big, happy family.

When the sun filled the sky, my hopes for a brighter day faded. Momma was gone. Sitting at Aunt Pat’s breakfast table with Danny, I felt paralyzed. I wanted to be brave, to smile, to act as if everything were normal. The best I could do was to go through the motions of eating. Anxiety stabbed at my heart until there was nothing left to feel.

Momma was gone.

* * *

The phone rang.
64

Hands covered in flour, Aunt Dot placed the rolling pin to the side and then bustled across the kitchen to answer the phone. Another ring. Although not a clean freak like Momma, she wiped her hands on her apron, careful to avoid dirtying the receiver. She had been busy baking Easter pies with Grandma Nichols, Daddy’s mom, when the call came.

“Happy Easter!” she said, although Easter was still a few days away. Aunt Dot cradled the phone against her shoulder as she worked. Her kitchen was filled with the delightful aroma of baked goodies.

“Is this Dot?”

“Yes—” The way the caller had said her name, she sensed something was amiss.

“It’s James Tyree.”

While not normally a man of few words, this time James, the head elder of the church, got directly to the point. There was no way to sugarcoat the reality of what had transpired.

“There’s been a shooting . . . at the parsonage.”

A jolt of lightning rattled my aunt’s heart. Her mind filled with questions. Shooting? Who was shot? Robert? Ramona? One of the kids? When? Why? Was it a hunting accident, or was Mr. Watts somehow involved? She knew things had quieted down in Sellerstown. While her brother still struggled with emotional distress, by all appearances the threat of physical harm had ended a year ago.