The Devil in Pew Number Seven Part 3

When the men returned, with a twinkle dancing in her eyes as if she were privy to a private joke, Momma inquired about the success of the hunt. As she could plainly see, the hunters had returned, for the most part, empty-handed. Daddy, sensing Ramona was up to one of her old tricks, explained how the men had been unable to do much in the way of hunting for one simple reason: They had been lined up at the latrine most of the morning taking care of business.

Momma could hardly catch her breath from laughing so hard. Regaining her composure, she confessed she was the responsible party. She admitted to spiking their sweet tea, slipping castor oil in when they weren't looking. Momma had this playful philosophy about humor. She was fond of saying, "The Bible says laughter is like medicine. So, maybe if we laugh for a while, we'll all be well!"

As to the wisdom of playing a joke on men armed with rifles, I'm not so sure. Seems to me that pulling a prank on a women's Bible study would be a safer bet. Nevertheless, the men were good sports about it because they knew how Momma was. According to Aunt Pat, who lived next door, Momma kept more people "cleaned out and regular" than anyone she had ever known.

I should mention that Aunt Pat wasn't really our relative, we just called her that because in many ways she was family to us. Perpetually kind and graceful, she gave me the freedom to drop in at the drop of a hat. Her pantry was an extension of our pantry; snacks and drinks were served with a smile and a friendly tousle of my hair while I ate. Aunt Pat was one of Momma's closest friends. So, yes, if Aunt Pat said Momma kept folks "cleaned out" with one of her "special" drinks, she'd know.

But could this phone call have come from one of the disgruntled hunters seeking to get back at them for the castor oil incident? That would be a stretch. Everyone knew Ramona was the guilty party, not Daddy. He had been duped, too, spending time in the latrine with the rest of the men. How, then, had he he offended anyone enough to provoke a threatening phone call? offended anyone enough to provoke a threatening phone call?

For the better part of his first year, the church had been growing by leaps and bounds under his pastoral care. Husbands were now sitting side by side with their wives who, in the past, attended church solo as if widowed. A large number of young married couples were getting saved and filled with the Spirit. Even the numbers partic.i.p.ating in Sunday school shot up, from thirty to approximately onehundred.

As well as sparking a sizable ingathering of people from both Sellerstown and nearby communities, Daddy had initiated a host of improvements to the church facility. The sanctuary received a much needed face-lift. Threadbare carpet was tossed and replaced, while a fresh coat of paint offered the walls and ceiling new life. With the installation of fourteen comfortable pews-seven on each side of the aisle-and an improved sound system, there wasn't a bad seat in the house.

He had done nothing wrong, certainly nothing to merit this sinister treatment. Someone, apparently, felt differently. This same someone went to the trouble of attempting to conceal his ident.i.ty. Again, who and why? Sifting through the prospects, no doubt Daddy stopped to weigh the possibility that the call might have been instigated by someone very close to home.

At age sixty-five, Mr. Horry James Watts, who lived across the street from us, was a wealthy, well-connected, and respected businessman-at least as far as the general public was concerned. Typically sporting a pressed white s.h.i.+rt, tie, slacks, and blazer, Mr. Watts was rarely seen in public without his black wool hat. Tufts of gray hair peeked out from around the bottom of the fedora while black, thick-rimmed gla.s.ses rested on the bridge of his nose.

Mr. Watts was one of five Columbus County commissioners, and he served as chairman for several years. During his two terms in office, Mr. Watts helped facilitate the construction of the new Columbus County Law Enforcement Center, a police headquarters and jail complex. His name, along with those of the other commissioners, had been embossed on a bronze placard and prominently displayed adjacent to the entrance to the facility.

By all outward appearances, Mr. Watts was an upstanding citizen and a happily married, devout family man with nine children. But many of the locals in Sellerstown and the longtime neighbors who knew him well testified that, in addition to his respectable public facade, he had a sinister side.

Mr. Watts had a reputation as a womanizer, a control freak, and a kingpin of sorts, a narcissist who didn't hesitate to leverage both his influence and affluence to his advantage. Old-timers claimed that, as a youth,3 he had once disguised himself before robbing his own mother's house. I cannot fathom the sort of person who would pull a stunt like that. he had once disguised himself before robbing his own mother's house. I cannot fathom the sort of person who would pull a stunt like that.

Case in point.

For a number of years, money was tight, and most banks refused to extend credit to the Sellerstown farmers. Without necessary funds for supplies or equipment, their farms would fail. The lending crisis created the perfect storm, and Mr. Watts was quick to swallow the small fish in town.4 Stepping in and offering loans from his own funds, Mr. Watts offered cash at confiscatory interest rates. Stepping in and offering loans from his own funds, Mr. Watts offered cash at confiscatory interest rates.

The farmers took the bait.5 What choice did they have?

Money was power. He who had money held all the cards. The more money he loaned, the more control Mr. Watts enjoyed. If someone wasn't making his payment, Mr. Watts hired hatchet men to collect on the debt. One of Watts's favorite lackeys6 to strong-arm delinquent debtors was Roger Williams, a local bruiser with a less-than-stellar reputation. Roger had served time at the Texarkana, Texas, penitentiary over a firearms violation, making him just the kind of guy Mr. Watts loved to employ in his "informal" collection agency. A show of force was a powerful way to extract cash out of slow payers and nonpayers. to strong-arm delinquent debtors was Roger Williams, a local bruiser with a less-than-stellar reputation. Roger had served time at the Texarkana, Texas, penitentiary over a firearms violation, making him just the kind of guy Mr. Watts loved to employ in his "informal" collection agency. A show of force was a powerful way to extract cash out of slow payers and nonpayers.

That's exactly what happened to Donnie Ward. When Donnie fell behind in his loan payments, Mr. Watts enlisted Roger to intimidate Donnie. "With your reputation, all you got to do is talk to him, probably; me and you are going to get along good." With Mr. Watts behind the wheel, the two men rode together to Donnie's place to collect. Arriving at Donnie's house, they found him working in the front yard.

With a tap of the horn, Mr. Watts signaled Donnie to approach the car. Roger leaned out the window and said, "I believe you're a little late in your payments. It's time to catch them up-and not be late anymore." I don't know whether it was the unexpected personal visit by Mr. Watts, the big brute with a rap sheet doing the talking, or most likely, the combination of the two, but Donnie got the message. He didn't hesitate to pull a check from his pocket and endorse it over to Mr. Watts.

After cas.h.i.+ng the check, Mr. Watts slipped Roger fifty dollars. Then, placing a hand on Roger's leg in a friendly show of affirmation, he said, "That's the way to go, buddy.7 We'll get along good together." If, unlike Donnie, a borrower couldn't pay, Mr. Watts wasn't above compelling them to sign over the deed to their house and property. We'll get along good together." If, unlike Donnie, a borrower couldn't pay, Mr. Watts wasn't above compelling them to sign over the deed to their house and property.

In a matter of years, Mr. Watts seemed to own or control everybody and everything within his power-he even managed to control the church affairs at Free Welcome, which he attended religiously. His favorite pew was the back row, pew number seven. From that comfortable perch, he had the perfect vantage point to mind everyone's business.

He could note who was sitting with whom, who wore what-perhaps a sign they had spent money on clothes that should have been money paid to him for a debt-and who didn't show for services-a possible sign they were avoiding contact with him. Even though Mr. Watts was neither a professed believer nor a church member, the church followed his wishes without opposition.That is, until Daddy arrived on the scene.

Daddy was a quick study. Witnessing Mr. Watts's stranglehold on the church, Daddy made changes to end his dominance. Making the case that church business should be conducted by the church brethren as a whole-not by one or two outspoken individuals-the church family voted to turn the business of the church over to members only. From then on, stripped of his power, Mr. Watts had no say in church matters.

This came as a blow to Mr. Watts, who had been serving on the building committee. It was understandable that the church would rely upon Mr. Watts's expertise when it was time to build a fellows.h.i.+p hall and additional Sunday school cla.s.srooms. He had, after all, been a key player in the construction of the multi-million-dollar jail facility for the county. His wealth of knowledge and years of experience would be invaluable.

During the design phase of the building, Mr. Watts believed his recommendations should be followed. At issue was whether to build an addition with a flat-topped or a pitched roof. If Mr. Watts had had his way, the church would have constructed a smaller building with a pitched roof. Although more costly, this design would have matched the existing facility.

The majority opinion, shared by Daddy, was to keep costs down by constructing a flat-topped structure. This infuriated Mr. Watts, who was accustomed to giving advice and orders, not taking them. While Mr. Watts went along with the others and voted for the simpler roofline, inside he was steaming as if trapped inside a pressurecooker.

Unconvinced that more s.p.a.ce was needed, angered that his counsel had been rejected, he took Daddy aside, lobbying him to change the decision. His plea fell on deaf ears. Daddy was not to be swayed, saying, "Mr. Watts, I get my advice8 from the Lord." Mr. Watts wasn't accustomed to being rebuffed, nor did the rejection sit well with him. Mr. Watts had said, "If you don't need any advice, maybe you should get in your car and go back to Alabama." from the Lord." Mr. Watts wasn't accustomed to being rebuffed, nor did the rejection sit well with him. Mr. Watts had said, "If you don't need any advice, maybe you should get in your car and go back to Alabama."

Daddy probably took his comment with a grain of salt.

Everyone was ent.i.tled to their opinion, right?

Besides, Daddy and Momma had faced opposition over a building project years before while pastoring a new church. Back when my parents were starting out in the ministry in Alabama, Daddy had been conducting revival services under a tent pitched on a piece of land purchased the hard way: selling chicken and fish dinners. Between the sweltering heat that soaked Daddy from his head down to his socks as if he had been standing in the rain, and the ever-present bugs that seemed to delight in annoying the faithful, his growing congregation knew they had to build.

A handful of neighbors adjacent to the property, however, protested the idea of building a church within a residential community. A public hearing was arranged before the town board to settle the matter. Several councilmen clearly felt pressure to deny the building permit. After reviewing the architect's drawing, a councilman said, "Mr. Nichols, it doesn't look9 as if you have enough room for a playground." as if you have enough room for a playground."

A playground? Talk about grasping at straws. Daddy was quick to counter, "Sir, we aren't going to church to play but to wors.h.i.+p G.o.d."

Another councilman, who underestimated how resilient Daddy was under pressure, said, "Well, Mr. Nichols, with the complaints we have, it looks as though you may be in a hornet's nest."

"Sir," Daddy said, most likely with a wide, disarming smile, "I've been in a hornet's nest ever since I got saved and started preaching against Satan and his evil workers." The permit was granted, and the church was built. The fact that Mr. Watts was fuming about the style of roof on the fellows.h.i.+p hall was, by comparison, no big deal. But there were other issues compounding the old man's rage.

Making matters worse, like tossing gas on an open flame, was a decision to remove Mr. Watts's wife, Ora, from two positions in the church. For years, Ora had been an adult Sunday school cla.s.s teacher and the church clerk. As teacher, Ora held to the tradition of the old Fire Baptized denomination that believed Christians shouldn't cook or buy anything on Sunday. Ora attempted to put the cla.s.s under the heavy burden of such strict convictions at the same time Daddy was preaching about G.o.d's grace. Seeing the conflict of beliefs, members of the church voted her out as teacher.

But it was Daddy who wanted to take away Ora's duties as clerk once he realized how surrept.i.tiously Ora handled the church's funds. Mr. Watts seemed to feel his wife's position gave him control over the church's finances. In fact, when the members voted in a new clerk, Ora never turned over any records-only a new checkbook and the current balance.

Bit by bit, Mr. Watts and his wife were divested of their dominant roles in the congregation. This enraged Mr. Watts, who, at first, had welcomed the new preacher. During one heated exchange, Mr. Watts stood up in the wors.h.i.+p service and told my Daddy, "You had better not tell my wife10 that she could not vote in the business." Before sitting down, while the stunned crowd looked on, he groused that Daddy had bought too many songbooks. that she could not vote in the business." Before sitting down, while the stunned crowd looked on, he groused that Daddy had bought too many songbooks.

Could Mr. Watts be so upset that he was the one behind the call? Was he really willing to stoop to such juvenile behavior just because he couldn't have his way? Then again, the voice on the other end of the line wasn't the low-pitched, resonant voice of Mr. Watts. It had a distinctly dark timbre, much like Al Pacino with a sore throat. Besides, the caller sounded younger.

Of course, it might have been a wrong number.

The caller never mentioned Daddy by name.

The late-night menacing phone call Daddy received wasn't the last one he'd get. Far from it. During the days, weeks and months ahead, someone hiding behind the cover of anonymity would call our home, and quickly hang up-or call, wait for a few long moments, and then terminate the call. Some days there would be several dozen hostile calls designed to create fear in the hearts of my parents.

These acts of intimidation didn't end with the phone. An unsigned letter arrived at our house on December 23, 1972, two days before Christmas. This time the anonymous author pointed a finger of guilt at my mother, a.s.serting that Momma had told a lie in a phone conversation. The letter went on to say she lied a second time to cover up her first falsehood. The accusation was ridiculous. Had the writer said Momma ran a moons.h.i.+ne operation under the cover of dark, he would have been just as wrong.

Momma wasn't a liar.

She didn't even like to tell a fib.

If Momma had one driving goal in her life, it was to live in such a way that she would bring glory to the Lord. Lying, stretching the truth, ma.s.saging the facts, dabbling in deception-all would have been as foreign to her as speaking an unfamiliar language. What's more, she made a point of raising me to respect the truth, tanning my hide on more than one occasion for daring to tell a white lie.

Filled with fragmented sentences, repet.i.tions, and typos, the letter, which had been typed in all capital characters, went on to ask, HOW ARE YOU GOING TO EXPLAIN TO THE CHURCH AND THE PEOPLE IN THE COMMUNITY? WILL YOU TRY TO COVER UP AGAIN? MRS. NICHLOS [sic], YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO BE A SUPPOSED TO BE HOLLINESS PREACHER'S WIFE. BUT, WHAT DO THE CHURCH AND COMMUNITY HAVE TO LOOK FORWARD TO? SHAMEFULLY, WHAT A PITY.

The end of the letter defied logic: SIGNED BY MORE THAN 25 CHURCH MEMBERS, NEIGHBORS, AND CITIZENS.

One problem. There were no signatures. Certainly not twenty-five. The note contained this postscript: P.S. HAVE YOU WOKE UP YET?.

I'm not sure how my parents would have initially viewed such a message. Were they tempted to toss the letter without giving it a second thought? Did they dismiss it as a tasteless joke? Did they wonder whether someone had consumed too much spiked eggnog and, in an unguarded moment, dashed off this error-filled note? I'll never know for certain, although my hunch is that they rolled their eyes at such foolishness.

Daddy had been polis.h.i.+ng his Christmas Eve message while Momma had been busy preparing for our family vacation. There were clothes to pack, presents to wrap, and last-minute Christmas cards to mail. If someone was too cowardly to put his or her name on the claims, and if that same someone was so vague that he or she couldn't even spell out what Momma's alleged lies were, then there was no point wasting time or energy over a nonissue.

At the same time, this wasn't an isolated event.

On December 29, 1972, Momma wandered down the driveway and, with a neighborly wave, greeted Aunt Pat, who was likewise retrieving her mail. Momma emptied the mailbox and returned to the kitchen table to leaf through the a.s.sortment of correspondence, bills, and supermarket circulars.

One letter stood out. The message was housed in a plain, vanilla white envelope bearing no return address. Daddy's name and address were typed in the center of the mail piece. As was Momma's style, she slit open the end, fished out the note, and began to skim the words.

Similar in tone and style to the other hostile letters my parents had received during their time in Sellerstown, they didn't need an address to know the madman behind the menacing words.

But this letter had been different. For in it, the threat of inflicting bodily harm to our family was taken to a new level. The cryptic message had been typed onto an ordinary white piece of paper to mask the ident.i.ty of the sender.

The unsigned diatribe stated that the people at church were weary of the way Daddy had been treating them. They were disgusted with his behavior, especially with the way he allegedly used flattery to brainwash the young people. After suggesting Daddy take a leave of absence, the writer promised we'd be leaving Sellerstown one way or the other ". . . crawling or walking,11 running or riding, dead or alive." running or riding, dead or alive."

With the threatening phone call still ringing in his memory, Daddy knew the matter warranted some measure of caution. Trained in warfare, having spent years as part of a Navy crew at sea, Daddy knew one strategy employed by the enemy was a shot across the bow. To ignore such overtures would be a mistake.

With the controversial building project nearing its completion and with the festivities of Christmas behind them, Daddy and Momma packed the car and drove home to vacation with family in Alabama and Louisiana. Since I was not yet three years old, I have no memories of the time spent mingling with my aunts, uncles, and cousins. Nor do I recall Daddy and Momma's stories of the amazing growth of the church and their dreams for the future.

Our return to Sellerstown in January of 1973 was marred by an unwelcome revelation: In our absence, while we were away enjoying a belated celebration of the birth of Christ with relatives, the parsonage had been violated. I'm not sure whether Daddy initially saw, or felt, that something was amiss. His first clue that our home had been invaded might have been the telephone. Pulled from the wall, with its cord sliced, the phone had been knocked to the floor.

Then again, his first impression that there was trouble might have been the lack of heat. Though the thermostat had been lowered while we were away to save on the heating bill, when our family entered the house that evening, it was no warmer than the icy-cold January temperatures outside. The thick blanket of snow covering the roof and ground around our house, while picturesque, only added to the chilly reception.

Upon further investigation, Daddy discovered two reasons for the inhospitable temperatures inside our home: Someone had poured about fifty gallons of water in the fuel tank, causing the heater to malfunction. That, and a shattered window through which cold air continued to enter as easily as the housebreaker had made his or her illegal entry. The broken gla.s.s littering the floor would be the least of my parents' problems.

As they soon learned, there was more trouble afoot. When Momma attempted to use the faucet, instead of watching a clean flow of water spilling into the sink, she witnessed an oily substance oozing from the tap. The water and fuel tanks didn't share plumbing. No pipes had burst, causing seepage between the tanks. Puzzled by the water-and-oil mixture, Daddy ascertained this had not been an accident. Someone had intentionally spiked our water pump with fuel oil.

No heat, no water, no phone.

But why? Why would anyone attack our home?

A quick survey of our few valuables indicated that nothing had been stolen. This, then, was an act designed to frighten us. Whoever had done this must have known we were scheduled to be out of town.

Did that mean we had been watched? If so, by whom and for how long? Were we being watched now? Should Daddy and Momma call the law from Aunt Pat's house? Or would involving the police bring unwanted attention to the church? Did this break-in have anything to do with the threatening phone call or unsigned letters?

Repairing the damage was the easy part.

Getting answers was a bit trickier.

Antic.i.p.ating what might be next, impossible.

Chapter 5

Under Siege.

The fog lingered.

On the evening of Sat.u.r.day, August 17, 1974, a light rain shower swept across the southern region of North Carolina, moving west to east. The rainfall traveled from Fayetteville through Sellerstown and then continued east to Wilmington before sailing out to an unknown destination over the Atlantic Ocean.

The procession of thunderclaps, noisier than the cras.h.i.+ng cymbals of a marching band, announced the parade of inclement weather was.h.i.+ng over Sellerstown. The restless and moonless sky soon lost its booming voice. In the storm's wake a pale gray fog, accompanied by a gentle mist, settled in for the night around our one-story, redbrick house.

I was four years old at the time.

It's not that I have an extraordinary memory about weather patterns on any given day during my childhood. Nor was I some sort of child prodigy who thrived on all things meteorological. Even today, while I'll consult the Weather Channel, I'm not an avid viewer. True, Ihappen to be interested in storm patterns since tornadoes are a reality in Tennessee, where we live.

However, I'm not sure I could tell you what the weather was like last Sat.u.r.day, let alone a Sat.u.r.day decades ago. Aside from figuring out how to dress my kids for school, I don't typically study the forecast. There is, however, a very good reason why I can report what the weather was like on that night in August.

I checked.

I researched that date for a compelling reason.

I wanted to learn everything I could about the last night before my innocent world was completely-and forever-turned upside down. Hiding behind the blanket of darkness, lurking in the misty shadows of fog, an evil so black, so devoid of compa.s.sion, planned to execute its diabolical attack against our family.

While the weatherman had predicted the weather with surprising accuracy, he would have had no idea about the tornado of hate gathering strength nearby. Nor could he have foreseen the vortex of rage that would soon sweep down upon us, hurling everything we held dear, most of which had nothing to do with earthly possessions, to the wind. We were targeted by a madman who, in mere hours, was ready to pull the trigger.

Literally.

At the time, unaware of the hostilities about to befall us, we were happily engaged in the routine business of family life on a Sat.u.r.day night. With a well-worn Bible opened to his text, Daddy sat at his desk in the corner of our family room. He prayed and pored over his sermon notes like an honors student cramming for a final exam. Three pine shelves fastened to the wall, sagging under the weight of thick biblical reference books, were within arm's reach above his head. While Daddy never went to seminary, he had been changed by Calvary and wanted to be as prepared as was possible to lead others to the Cross.

As busy as he was-given his responsibilities on the Lord's Day-Daddy still made time for a good-night hug and a kiss. I'd climb into the safety of his lap, content to linger in his st.u.r.dy arms until his large yet tender hands lowered me to the floor. With the inevitable bidding to brush my teeth and head to bed, I'd reluctantly leave hiscompany.

Upon reaching my bedroom, I'd slip into my pajamas while Momma picked out my clothes for Sunday morning's church service. Even with her best efforts, Momma typically ran late on Sunday mornings. It seemed as if there were always a thousand and one things to do, between her need to fix her hair, get dressed, get me dressed, make breakfast, then make me eat eat my breakfast. my breakfast.

Driving her race against the clock was the need to get to the organ in time to play the music before before Daddy gave her "the Look." You know, that unhappy glance with an eyebrow raised skyward, wondering why there wasn't music playing as the members filled the sanctuary. Sitting in one of the two high-back, oak chairs behind the pulpit, Daddy would turn his head to the left and give her the Look if Momma wasn't ready and in position as wors.h.i.+pers filed in. Daddy gave her "the Look." You know, that unhappy glance with an eyebrow raised skyward, wondering why there wasn't music playing as the members filled the sanctuary. Sitting in one of the two high-back, oak chairs behind the pulpit, Daddy would turn his head to the left and give her the Look if Momma wasn't ready and in position as wors.h.i.+pers filed in.

I'm afraid I wasn't much help.

Especially at breakfast.

Momma served scrambled eggs and toast. I was fine with the toast. The eggs-forget it. Scrambled, hard-boiled, poached-any way they were served, I hated eggs, and Momma knew it. Still, she'd sit there with me like a sentry to make sure I ate every last bite. I was a growing girl and needed my protein; at least that was her position.

I don't know whether I got my stubborn streak from Momma or from Daddy. Either way, the standoff was nothing less than a battle of our wills. Some days she won. Other days, with time at a premium, she abandoned her post, leaving me and my headstrong protest in order to get dressed. I confess, the moment she left the kitchen, Iraked my eggs into my napkin and then threw them away.

In spite of our breakfast skirmishes, I'd have to say that the first four years of my life had been charmed. I enjoyed the unconditional love of two parents; I was doted on by Aunt Pat and half of the church; and my best friend, Missy Sellers, lived conveniently up the street.

What's more, I had my own bedroom; a collection of dolls, some ma.s.s produced, some handmade; an a.s.sortment of stuffed animals and toys; and a real live puppy named Tina. No bigger than a loaf of bread, Tina was a white poodle-and-Pekingese mix.