The Devil in Pew Number Seven Part 10

Daddy, still seated, spoke first.

"How are you doing, Harris?"61 His neck stiffened, his jaws clenched.

"Not too d.a.m.n good."

Daddy slid his chair back and stood up, but he didn't approach the man, at least not at first. The last thing Daddy wanted was to provoke a confrontation. About twelve feet separated the men. "If you are going to curse in this house," Daddy said with a surprising calmness, "you can leave our home right now."

Harris was in no mood to be crossed.

He was quick to fire back.

Literally.

With the focused determination of a killing machine, Harris reached for a .38-caliber pistol tucked in his waistband, concealed underneath his s.h.i.+rt. Pulling out the deadly weapon, Harris took aim and shot my daddy in the right shoulder. I watched in helpless disbelief as the hot flash of light leaped from the gun. The deafening blast mixed with our screams. My ears burned as if touched by a hot poker. Although not the target, Sue started screaming at Harris, begging him to stop.

I stared at my wounded daddy in complete shock. This couldn't be happening. Not here. Not now. But it was. The stain of fresh blood splotched its way across the front of his white dress s.h.i.+rt. Fast. Too fast. He was losing a lot of blood. The warmth behind his eyes seemed to drain, replaced by a mixture of bewilderment and pain. I knew what I needed to do. I was taught that whenever shots were fired, I was to seek cover. Yet I froze, unwilling or unable to act. Fear crawled over me like a swarm of fire ants.

Escape was out of the question. Harris, armed with three guns and eighty-three rounds of ammunition, stood between us and the door to safety. And while Daddy's hunting rifle hung on the wall behind the attacker, there was no way to reach it.

Daddy, unarmed, turned and took three steps toward toward the a.s.sailant as if driven to defend his family any way he could. Having played football years ago, maybe Daddy thought he could tackle and disarm the a.s.sailant if he could just get into position. Seeing the flash of determination in Daddy's eyes, Harris yelled, "I told you to back off!" That's when the gun thundered again, spewing a host of h.e.l.lish yellow sparks from the black steel barrel. the a.s.sailant as if driven to defend his family any way he could. Having played football years ago, maybe Daddy thought he could tackle and disarm the a.s.sailant if he could just get into position. Seeing the flash of determination in Daddy's eyes, Harris yelled, "I told you to back off!" That's when the gun thundered again, spewing a host of h.e.l.lish yellow sparks from the black steel barrel.

The second shot shattered Daddy's left hip, knocking him to the floor. With Daddy's six-foot-three frame sprawled on the ground like a lifeless giant, Harris turned and pointed the weapon toward Momma. Standing by the kitchen table and in front of the was.h.i.+ng machine, she was unarmed; she held no knife, no gun, not even a chair to throw in her defense.

She cried out, "Jesus! Jesus!"

The gunman stood seven feet from the woman who had given me life, who, for almost eight years, had clothed me, fed me, and nurtured me. The one who filled my life with laughter, love, and lessons on forgiving others just as we had been forgiven by Jesus. None of that history mattered to this man. Without hesitation, with a cold indifference to her precious life as our mother, he fired a single bullet to her chest.

The lead projectile clipped Momma's heart. She staggered backward, clutching at her wound. The moment the bullet pierced her heart, my heart shattered too. With the sound of the gunfire still echoing in the room and the pungent sulfur stinging the air, Momma managed to turn and stumble out of the kitchen while Sue, having jumped out of her chair, attempted to defuse her husband's attack.

Momma's unsteady footsteps receded down the hallway. As I would soon discover, she wasn't attempting to get away. In a thousand years she would never abandon her family. Rather, at the risk of taking a shot in the back, Momma was driven to get to her bedroom to call for help. The phone, our only lifeline, rested on her nightstand.

Within seconds of the shot, our training kicked in.

My brother and I, frantic and numb with disbelief, dropped to the floor, taking refuge under the kitchen table, not that the tablecloth would hide us for long. It was our only option. With streams of searing tears free-falling from my eyes, I choked back a wave of sobs. I wanted to be a brave girl. And yet, stealing a look at my daddy through the chair legs, I knew there was nothing I could do for my parents.

At least maybe I could protect my brother.

That's when it dawned on me that he wasn't there.

The house was quiet.

The screaming had been replaced by an eerie silence. After shooting Daddy and Momma, Harris marched Sue and their baby down the hall and held them hostage in my bedroom. About the only thing I could hear was the heaving of my heart within my chest and my labored breathing as I struggled to fill my lungs. Huddled on a chair beneath the table, I s.h.i.+vered with fear. Where was Danny? Somewhere during the commotion he had wandered off. How did I miss that?

Was he in the bedroom with Harris?

Was he, too, a hostage?

My head hurt with the implication. And what about my momma? Was she alive? Why hadn't she come back? Maybe she fell unconscious. I saw how Daddy was struggling to stay alert. To be sure, she needed help, but how? Daddy couldn't move. I was too terrified to abandon my hiding place. My tears formed a puddle on the floor beneath me. Looking at the bloodstains on Daddy's s.h.i.+rt, I managed to ask a question just above a whisper.

"Daddy, are you going to leave us again and go into the hospital?"

With his back resting against the lower kitchen cabinets, arms hanging useless at his side, he said, "Yes, but it will only be for a little while, sweetheart."

Daddy's kind, rea.s.suring voice had always been able to comfort me. I wanted to believe he would be okay, but he looked bad. Iwanted to think help would arrive to save us before it was too late. But how? It was doubtful that anyone would have heard the shots-other than maybe Mr. Watts across the street. He, of course, would be the last guy on earth to come to our aid.

This was what he wanted.

He spent years trying to drive us away.

Why would he lend a hand now?

I was about to ask Daddy another question when I heard movement in the hallway. At the risk of drawing attention to myself, anxious to learn whether or not it might be my brother, I inched my head out from under the table. A flood of relief and panic hit me at the same time: Daniel stood there looking as if he were lost in his own home, which was understandable, given the h.e.l.lish ordeal he had just witnessed as a three-year-old. He had found his way back to the kitchen. I was relieved that he wasn't a hostage, yet afraid he might be spotted if he remained out in the open.

With a wave of my hand, I whispered, "Danny, you've got to get under the table with me." I placed a finger to my closed lips, signaling for him to remain perfectly quiet. Without hesitation, he followed me under the table and then curled up on the cold linoleum floor. He appeared dazed; his eyelids were wide-open as if held in place with toothpicks.

"Where did you go?"

A hushed moment pa.s.sed between us. I could almost hear the second hand on the clock above the sink ticking off the seconds. Poor little man, he had no idea what was happening or why. Which is not to say I had a handle on things. I didn't. Far from it. Nothing made sense. How could it? One minute we were having dinner; the next minute both of my parents were clinging to life.

Daniel blinked and then said, "I saw Mommy." Having spoken the words, he closed his eyes and fell asleep.

"How's Daniel?" Daddy asked, keeping his voice low. Evidently he had noticed Danny's return to the kitchen yet couldn't see his son's face.

"He's asleep."

"Good. I was praying he would be."

With a wince that distorted his face into a knot, Daddy tried to s.h.i.+ft his legs on the floor. I'd never seen him so fragile, helpless, and unable to spring into action and take charge. The man who hung the moon in my world, who lit the stars with his smile, now struggled for each breath. I wanted to avert my eyes. Would I watch him take his last breath? If so, then what? In the past, whenever we were attacked, I depended on him to tell me what to do next. I needed him to do the same now . . . if only he could hold on.

"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 s.h.i.+ft 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? Ididn'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 fis.h.i.+ng 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 a.s.sumed 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 pa.s.sed Daniel's room and, with a turn of my head, didn't see anything out of place. Pus.h.i.+ng onward, I drew up parallel to the hall bathroom on my right. The s.p.a.ce 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 p.r.o.ne 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, rea.s.suring smile and then drifted out of consciousness.

That's when I slipped out the side door.

That's when I ran. 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 had watched me escape, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt he both could could and and would 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. 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.