The Devil in Pew Number Seven Part 4

Adding to my princesslike childhood, Momma arranged my bedroom with an elegant touch. I had a full-size, snow white poster bed with matching nightstand, accompanied by an upright, five-drawer chest, a long dresser with a picture-window-size mirror, and a desk. Each piece was trimmed with gold accents. A chorus of kindly stuffed animals took their a.s.signed places on my array of furniture. And the drapes, to my way of thinking as a child, were made of pure gold threads, probably woven out of strands of perfectly milled fibers by fairies in the Enchanted Forest.

Knowing how precious little time there was on Sunday morning to get everything done, Momma arranged my Sunday outfit, ironed, of course, on my dresser the night before. She knew her angel needed a head start when she awoke. And, going way beyond the call of duty, placing her as close to sainthood as was humanly possible, Momma would surprise me by placing a little dress or a candy treat on my pillow at bedtime. Not every night, mind you. She didn't want me to be spoiled rotten. Just often enough for me to feel as if I had checked into a fine hotel.

Speaking of bedtime, as was their habit, Daddy or Momma would get down on their knees with me, bedside, to pray together before tucking me under the covers. Lingering over prayers was an especially comforting touch during a thunderstorm. Thankful that the thunder boomers had pa.s.sed, having said my prayers, I settled in for the night, pulling my blanket to the base of my neck.

During August 1974, I was too young to recognize anything different about my mother. Unlike Daddy, I wouldn't have noticed the sunlike glow on her face, the added bounce in her step as if walking happily on spring-loaded shoes, or on occasion, the need for a midafternoon nap. Any change in her diet, any odd cravings, would have been missed by me, who, most of the time, was happy with a peanut b.u.t.ter and grape-jelly sandwich. Day or night, this was the preferred food of young princesses.

Had I been aware of the secret she carried within her, I'm not sure what difference that would have made to me. Children at that age are typically absorbed in their own universe. I was not an exception to the rule. You could have offered me a million dollars, and still I couldn't have told you that my momma, at age thirty-nine, was three months pregnant. Nor could I have known that she had, once again, defied the odds for a woman with endometriosis. To be three months pregnant was, in itself, a miracle.

When I say that I had a charmed childhood, I believe that's largely a function of what my parents did and didn't didn't do for me. While they immersed me in love, laughter, and yes, discipline as needed, they also kept me in the dark when it came to the heated debate over the building expansion, the mysterious letters, and the late-night phone calls. In true princess fas.h.i.+on, I had been spared such unhappy details. Even the home invasion went over my head. About all that registered was the fact that there was something wrong with the heater and water and phone-the kind of stuff best left for grown-ups to sort out. do for me. While they immersed me in love, laughter, and yes, discipline as needed, they also kept me in the dark when it came to the heated debate over the building expansion, the mysterious letters, and the late-night phone calls. In true princess fas.h.i.+on, I had been spared such unhappy details. Even the home invasion went over my head. About all that registered was the fact that there was something wrong with the heater and water and phone-the kind of stuff best left for grown-ups to sort out.

And when our home had been burglarized a second time in May of 1973, I knew something was wrong, but was again spared the details. While I was unsettled by this invasion and suspected my parents had been, too, they did a remarkable job not allowing the fear they may have been experiencing to dominate their lives. That time, the intruder had stolen both of my daddy's hunting rifles, most likely to disarm us.

Though it wasn't as frightening as break-ins, my parents also had to deal with the antics of Mr. Watts in pew number seven.12 Yet even when Mr. Watts did his best to disrupt the wors.h.i.+p service, my parents didn't allow him to define their joy or cast a cloud over the mood in the church or our home. For instance, Mr. Watts had a deep bag of dirty tricks designed to fl.u.s.ter Daddy while he preached. Like some sort of clown with a bad sense of timing, Mr. Watts made obnoxious faces in the middle of the service. Bringing hand to mouth, he'd clear his throat with gasps, coughs, and grunts as if he had swallowed dry bread, and for variety, he'd suck his teeth and smack his lips as if savoring the last morsels of a steak dinner. Yet even when Mr. Watts did his best to disrupt the wors.h.i.+p service, my parents didn't allow him to define their joy or cast a cloud over the mood in the church or our home. For instance, Mr. Watts had a deep bag of dirty tricks designed to fl.u.s.ter Daddy while he preached. Like some sort of clown with a bad sense of timing, Mr. Watts made obnoxious faces in the middle of the service. Bringing hand to mouth, he'd clear his throat with gasps, coughs, and grunts as if he had swallowed dry bread, and for variety, he'd suck his teeth and smack his lips as if savoring the last morsels of a steak dinner.

Toward the end of the sermon, Mr. Watts pointed at his watch, arm raised, signaling that Daddy had preached too long-at least too long in Mr. Watts's view. And if that grand display didn't prompt Daddy to wrap things up, Mr. Watts would rise from his pew and make a sudden, noisy exit, slamming the front doors so hard the frame rattled.

To lighten the atmosphere whenever Mr. Watts pulled one of these door-banging stunts, Momma, with a smile and a wave of her hand, would say, "Well, Amen Amen!" or "Praise the Lord." If she and Daddy had been unsettled, which would be understandable, they didn't show it. Daddy would finish his sermon, and Momma would play her heart out at the organ. After the service, standing at the back, shaking hands with the departing wors.h.i.+pers, they had the wisdom to be discreet rather than comment on Mr. Watts's weekly misbehavior.

They did, however, have a plan to minimize the racket over at least one of Mr. Watts's tactics. Daddy had the front doors of the church changed from thick, solid wood doors to gla.s.s doors that, being lighter, didn't shake the building when Mr. Watts stormed out. This, of course, only made Mr. Watts all the more irritated.

What my parents couldn't do, however, was prevent me from experiencing the h.e.l.lish actions of this deeply tormented man that were about to unfold. When the initial round of hara.s.sment failed to yield the desired results, Mr. Watts was prepared to unleash his full wrath. For the better part of two years, he had dreamed up, and was about to implement, a campaign of terror designed to fill us with fear, drive us away, or send us to an early grave.

All three if necessary.

With just a sliver of the new moon's gray face illuminated as if too bashful to make a full appearance, and thick fog loitering on the grounds like a phantom reluctant to move on, two men, no doubt thankful for the shroud of darkness, carried out their orders in our yard while we slept.

Wielding a knife with precision, they sliced through the telephone line. With that lifeline now hanging helplessly at the back of the house, all contact with the outside world was rendered impossible. Clinging to the shadows, they moved around the side of our house to the front yard like professional soldiers mounting an ambush against the enemy.

There, they slashed the rear tires of both cars parked in our driveway. In less than three minutes, working with the efficiency and stealth of trained mercenaries, they eliminated our means of communication and any hope of a rapid escape in the event of an emergency. Whether or not Mr. Watts had any previous military experience, he did a masterful job of planning the details of the attack.

That done, for reasons still unclear, our mailbox, which had been staked in the ground at the end of our driveway, was shot up as if it had faced a firing squad for some unknown crime. Yanking its metal carca.s.s out of the ground, the shooters carried the battered mailbox and ditched it in the carport. Perhaps they were using the mailbox to send us a message: if we didn't leave town, we'd end up just like it.

It would be at least ninety minutes before the sun, currently held hostage by the night, would begin to a.s.sume its rightful place in the sky. This left the mercury-vapor light behind our home as the only means of illumination against the darkness. Situated on the utility pole thirty feet above the ground, this comforting ally was executed with a gunshot to the dome. Eager to finish the main event, no doubt worried that the shattered gla.s.s cascading to the ground might betray their position, the gunmen hurried to the front yard to complete their mission.

Exercising the utmost caution, the men positioned ditching dynamite in the ground not more than twenty-five feet from the bedroom where I was sleeping. With the steady hands of a surgeon, someone attached several feet of safety fuse to the nonelectric blasting cap with care so as to avoid an accidental detonation. And while a surgeon's ultimate objective is to save the patient, these hands were engaged in a procedure designed to harm, not heal.

When Alfred n.o.bel harnessed the power of nitroglycerin and, in turn, invented dynamite a hundred years prior, he must have envisioned its use as a good thing. Perhaps he recognized dynamite's potential for the mining, farming, and construction industries. He might have antic.i.p.ated some utility for dynamite in warfare. I highly doubt, however, that it was ever his intention for his invention to be used by a neighbor with an ax to grind.

I cannot say whether the men deployed more than one stick of the lethal material. And while I am not an expert in such things, I've learned that one stick of dynamite produces 2.1 million joules of power and that one joule is the energy required to lift an apple forty inches off the ground. With the strike of a match, they'd unleashed an explosive force so powerful it could have sent two million apples airborne.

At 4:30 a.m., Sunday, August 18, the earth shook.

I jolted awake.

A cold fear crawled over me like a second skin. I cried out in the darkness, "Daddy! Daddy Daddy!" Frightened with a terror that stressed my nerves to the breaking point, I clung to my blue bear. My heart clamored, like horse hooves against cobblestone. What happened? A bad dream? Something imagined? If so, why did my ears ring as if I had been standing too close to the clang of a hundred fireman bells? No, this wasn't my imagination run wild.

A light snapped on.

Daddy, calling my name, scrambled from his room to see that I was unharmed. We nearly collided in the hall as I, now airborne, blue bear in hand, flew to their bedroom for shelter as fast as my legs could carry me.

I cried in my mother's arms, her voice struggling to a.s.sure me that everything would be okay, that Tina, too, would somehow be just fine in her dog pen in the backyard.

Daddy reached for the phone to call the law. When he found that the phone was dead, he knew he had to get next door to Aunt Pat's to call for help. And yet he waited.

Listening.

Praying.

Wondering.

Would there be another explosion?

If so, where would the attackers strike? Would the next blast be detonated in the backyard? With a glance out his bedroom window, Daddy could see the outdoor night-light was not functioning. Had it been intentionally destroyed to hide another bomb? Dare he risk leaving his wife and child, even for a few minutes, to seek help while his house was under siege?

At some point, failing to detect sounds of movement around the house, Daddy must have figured we were relatively secure. Or at least safe enough for him to sneak next door to call the law.

Upon his return from Aunt Pat's house, I'm sure Daddy's G.o.d-given instincts, as protector of the home, were to get his precious family out of harm's way. It had to have been creepy for him to venture out into the still-darkened, predawn sky and find that both of his vehicles had been sabotaged. Unable to load the family into the car and drive safely away, praying that no further attack was imminent, he had no choice but to wait for help to arrive.

The dynamite repercussions had been so fierce, the intense thrust had rattled the bones of our house. As we'd later discover, clumps of dirt and rock, like projectiles from a cannon, had pelted the brick exterior of our home. Had the walls been made of anything less st.u.r.dy, the damage would have been more severe. Even so, the hardened brick surface was riddled with gashes, a nearby window was splintered, and a six-foot crater left a gaping hole in our front yard.

Columbus County Deputy Sheriff Kenneth "Bill" Smith, one of Whiteville's then-eight-man police force, was the first to arrive on the scene. Upon surveying the extent of the damage with Daddy, recognizing this was neither a false alarm nor a small matter, Deputy Smith radioed headquarters to request backup.

Deputy Sergeant George Dudley, the only detective serving all of Columbus County at the time, lived several miles away and, having thrown on a pair of jeans and a s.h.i.+rt rather than the standard tie and jacket required during normal business hours, arrived within minutes. Armed with years of experience, a .38-caliber snub-nose Smith & Wesson pistol hanging from a shoulder holster, Detective Dudley took charge to secure the crime scene.

Retrieving several lengths of colored police rope, the detective cordoned off the sensitive areas to prevent extra foot traffic from contaminating the evidence. Unlike today, the now-popular yellow and black polyethylene crime tape used in police work to seal off crime scenes wasn't in use. Having preserved the evidence, he took a barrage of photographs and pages of notes that would, hopefully, lead to the conviction of the perpetrators.

And, while Detective Dudley had a hunch13 who was behind this a.s.sault, he needed more proof before an arrest could be made. who was behind this a.s.sault, he needed more proof before an arrest could be made.

Word of the early morning attack spread through Sellerstown like wildfire in a dry wheat field. Daddy didn't want to alarm the church, yet he knew there was no use trying to hide the details from the congregation. Besides, some of the members in the nearby areas had heard the blast for themselves. Awakened by the detonation, with their own frightened children seeking answers, these good people would want Daddy's firsthand insight.

During the Sunday morning service,14 taking his place behind the pulpit in spite of the predawn ordeal, Daddy explained what had happened to those gathered. As he spoke, there wasn't a question mark in anybody's mind who was behind the hara.s.sment. taking his place behind the pulpit in spite of the predawn ordeal, Daddy explained what had happened to those gathered. As he spoke, there wasn't a question mark in anybody's mind who was behind the hara.s.sment.

I do not know whether or not Mr. Watts was present that morning, although I'd be surprised if he were absent. Failure to attend would appear suspicious since Mr. Watts virtually never missed a service. Missing church would also mean he'd have one less opportunity to hara.s.s Daddy. Not to mention that he'd forgo the sick pleasure of witnessing firsthand the impact that the explosion had made on the pastor . . . and on my pregnant mother.

Reflecting on the attack, Daddy told the church that while he had been surveying the damage, Proverbs 28:1 had come to mind: "The wicked flee when no man pursueth: but the righteous are bold as a lion." He a.s.sured the church that he was determined to stick it out and overcome the persecution, come what may.

After the service, many well-wishers offered words of encouragement and promises to pray for our safety. One of them, a visiting missionary from Mexico, said our persecution sounded like life on the mission field. To be sure, Daddy must have thought he had been given a high calling to a low valley-the valley of the shadow of death.

Later that week, borrowing a tractor to fill the crater in our front yard, Daddy had to wonder whether this was the end of the terror or just the beginning of a more aggressive campaign against his family. In spite of what he had said publicly to the church, I wouldn't be surprised if he privately wondered whether the cost of serving Christ in Sellerstown was a price too high to pay.

He had the welfare of his pregnant wife to consider.

And the well-being of his young daughter.

Soon there'd be a baby.

And yet Daddy was hopelessly in love with the Word of G.o.d captured within the pages of his well-worn Bible. As was his habit, he'd recite Isaiah 54:17 out loud: "No weapon that is formed against thee shall prosper; and every tongue that shall rise against thee in judgment thou shalt condemn. This is the heritage of the servants of the LORD, and their righteousness is of me, saith the LORD."

As a child, I vividly remember him walking through the house, repeating those words. He drew strength from the promises of Scripture daily. No doubt as the phone company repaired the telephone lines, with a new window taking the place of the old, and as he maneuvered the tractor to fill the crater, he chased away the fears in his heart with the Sword of Truth.

If Daddy had any temptation to strike back, as he might have done without a second thought before giving his heart to the Lord, he would have heeded the words of another favorite pa.s.sage, "Thou shalt not avenge, nor bear any grudge against the children of thy people, but thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself: I am the LORD" (Leviticus 19:18).

It took several months for life to settle down.

Understandably, our nerves were on edge, stretched thin like a balloon and ready to burst. For me, going to sleep proved to be a challenge. Even with my daddy's bedside prayers, it would take weeks for me to feel safe enough to sleep in my bedroom. Alone.

In the dark.

Wondering.

Waiting.

Listening for any stray sounds that might prove to be the preamble of another a.s.sault, I would often crawl into my parents' bedroom and wedge myself between them on their queen-size bed. Although Momma looked pet.i.te next to Daddy, he was a tall man. Between the two of them there wasn't much room for company. Daddy, being my hero, knowing I couldn't make it through the night alone on those occasions, would scoot out and sleep in my room while I snuggled with Momma.

During that season of distress, Daddy began to pray over me the words of Isaiah 54:13, placing special emphasis on the second half of the verse: "And all thy children shall be taught of the LORD; and great shall be the peace of thy children." Even now, if I close my eyes, I can almost hear his warm, unwavering voice reciting those words of comfort and promise, and personalizing it with a subtle change: "great shall be the peace of my my children." children."

Indeed, for the next several months, we experienced a measure of peace. Friends and supporters called the house, offering their votes of confidence and support for Daddy's leaders.h.i.+p. Their words breathed life into our hearts. True, there were numerous phone calls-upwards of twenty-five to thirty in one day-where the caller remained silent, breathing and nonresponsive to my parents' attempt to engage him. And once the mailbox was replaced, the threatening letters resumed-although these acts of intimidation were kept from me.

The ironic by-product of this persecution was a soaring church attendance, growing with the speed of kudzu vine. People from both Sellerstown and neighboring communities rallied around Daddy, and as the turnout on Sunday mornings swelled to record levels, the building committee explored ways either to expand the sanctuary or build a larger facility at a different location. Such discussions infuriated Mr. Watts, whose sole aim seemed to be to drive Daddy out of the pulpit and, ideally, out of town-not into a new building.

Instead, his hostility only served to solidify Daddy's standing in the community. Mr. Watts found himself on the wrong side of the general consensus, upstaged by a young preacher. It would be an understatement to say that this reality didn't sit well with a man who was accustomed to having his way, which explains why, when Mr. Watts declared war against our family, he wasn't about to back down.

Even if he had to take matters to the next level.

On December 4, 1974, my parents were entertaining guests at the parsonage. Brother Billy Sellers, a member of the elder board; his wife, Edna; and their two children, Renee and Billy Wayne, followed us home after the Wednesday evening service for some extended fellows.h.i.+p. Plates br.i.m.m.i.n.g with shortbread and oatmeal cookies and coffee brewing in the pot were waiting to be enjoyed. And the best thing about having company, at least as far as I was concerned, was the suspension of my regular bedtime.

With Christmas around the corner, Momma, who loved to entertain, had dolled up our house as best she could on a meager pastor's salary. A modestly decorated Christmas tree, displayed in front of the picture window in the living room, was visible to all who traveled Sellerstown Road. Matching green and red Christmas dish towels hung from the stove-door handle, while white, solitary electric candles graced the front windowsills.

To complete the arrangements, my parents bought me one of those faux brick fireplaces made from 100 percent cardboard-the kind that featured a plugged-in, glowing fire to maximize the effect. I, of course, had insisted that they buy it. How else could Santa come into our home to deliver our gifts? We didn't have a "real" fireplace with a chimney, so Santa would just have to figure out how to make this one work.

I had full confidence he'd work something out.

I even pinned our stockings to the imitation mantel.

With Bing Crosby crooning "I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas," the adults settled in to sip coffee and talk about grown-up stuff. Momma was seven months pregnant, so she and Edna had plenty of baby-oriented talk to keep them happily preoccupied. Brother Billy and Daddy compared notes about an upcoming missions trip to Colombia in South America, scheduled just days away. The ongoing threats also had to be on their minds, since Brother Billy was one of Daddy's right-hand men at the church.

As the adults visited, I danced circles around the oval braided rug sprawled out on the floor adjacent to my imitation fireplace, entertaining Renee and Billy Wayne. Laughing and playing with friends was strong medicine for my soul. During those carefree moments of play, I could forget about the fear that constantly gnawed at the edges of my still-frayed nerves.

At least for a few wonderful moments.

I had been so emotionally impacted by the bombing nearly four months before that I dreaded the thought of Daddy leaving us for his trip. It scared me to death. I needed him. I relied upon his strength. Although exhausted from the duties of being a pastor, Daddy spent countless nights rocking me in his arms until I finally drifted asleep. His courage in the face of adversity comforted me. He was the glue that held our family together. And now he was planning to travel thousands of miles away.

I remember telling my mother over and over again, "Momma, Daddy's not not coming back. I just coming back. I just know know he's never coming back. He shouldn't go on that trip!" he's never coming back. He shouldn't go on that trip!"

She'd take me by the arms and look me tenderly in the eyes. "Becky, don't say that. Daddy is is coming back." coming back."

"No, Momma, he's not. Something's gonna happen-"

"Honey, don't worry yourself. He's gonna be fine."

Whether or not she shared my fears with him, I cannot say. But to be seven months pregnant, her body already bearing enough strain, listening to me ramble on about Daddy not coming home ever again ever again, had to be unsettling. While she had every confidence to believe he'd return unharmed, what if she received prank phone calls in the middle of the night? What if there was another attack on our house in his absence? What if the phone lines were cut again?

If something did did happen, how could she, pregnant and with a frightened four-year-old in tow, get help? Should she take me somewhere to stay while Daddy was gone? Would that look like running? Or would it be the better part of wisdom? If Momma hadn't been considering these questions, she would soon have plenty of reason to do so. While we were enjoying Christmas music and treats, Mr. Watts and an accomplice, veiled behind the thick cloak of darkness, entered our yard. happen, how could she, pregnant and with a frightened four-year-old in tow, get help? Should she take me somewhere to stay while Daddy was gone? Would that look like running? Or would it be the better part of wisdom? If Momma hadn't been considering these questions, she would soon have plenty of reason to do so. While we were enjoying Christmas music and treats, Mr. Watts and an accomplice, veiled behind the thick cloak of darkness, entered our yard.

Chapter 6

Now I Lay Me DowntoSleep.

They came.

Sometime after the sun traded places with the moon on that chilly December evening, two men approached our house, unnoticed and unhindered. There was no five-foot privacy fence to scale or high-tech laser-beam trip-wire system to sidestep. We didn't have a hungry Rottweiler for them to evade. My puppy, Tina, hardly qualified as a serious threat to would-be housebreakers. Our yard was nothing but wide-open s.p.a.ce with no security measures whatsoever.

And so they came.

Knife in hand, Mr. Watts and his accomplice entered our property while my family and I were singing Christmas carols and eating dessert with friends. They crept toward the back of our house, slashed our phone line, and then crippled the recently replaced mercury-vapor light. That done, they took up a position twenty-five yards away in a soybean field that paralleled the length of our backyard. The field was owned by Mr. Watts's brother-in-law Bud Sellers who, like Mr. Watts, despised Daddy.

We never heard a sound as Mr. Watts and his sidekick prepared to wage their latest a.s.sault on us. In some ways I'm surprised we didn't hear them coming. You see, the country possesses a variety of quietness that's vastly different from what pa.s.ses for quiet in suburbia. In the suburbs when the sun goes down, quiet has a persistent dronelike quality to it: a cadence of soft sounds driven by traffic on a nearby freeway, as tires hum a dull tune to the pavement; a concert of heat pumps or air conditioners cycling on and off; people coming and going at all hours of the night; and the occasional siren wail of an emergency vehicle reverberating in the distance.

When someone in the suburbs is walking about at night, the chorus of muted tones that pa.s.ses for quiet provides a degree of covering for their movements. Not so in the country. Country quiet at night is different. In Sellerstown, the quiet was so vacuous, so devoid of sound, you could almost hear the ocean waters lapping against the sandy beaches thirty-five miles away. The stillness in Sellerstown rivaled the soundless moon. About the only noise was the occasional bark of a dog somewhere down the street. There was no highway drone, no sirens screeching, no constant whirling of heat and air units providing comfort to street after street of residences slammed together like sardines in a can.

Adding to the hushed serenity was the fact that most of the people living on Sellerstown Road were farmers who maintained a strict schedule: early to bed, early to rise. When the sun retired, a peaceful, dreamy tranquillity settled in for the night. You'd think that, with this intense quietness, we might have heard the night-light executed once again in the backyard, extinguished once again.

We didn't.

Obviously, our merriment inside the home trumped the sound of mischief out back. Even Tina failed to raise the alarm. In spite of her terminal cuteness, Tina displayed her lack of worthiness as a watchdog. She didn't even raise an ear or offer a series of whimpers signaling that trouble was afoot. At 9:28 p.m., a match was struck, igniting dynamite strategically strapped to a small tree five feet above ground. Seconds later, with the thunder of a bomb and the force of a missile, our house trembled down to the foundation.

The explosion could be heard for miles around.