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, Icriedout.
"Aunt Pat! Aunt Paaaat 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. s.n.a.t.c.hing 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, Ishivered 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 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 something I could do for them. 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 ma.s.ses.
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, Iwas 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 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. 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. 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 a.s.sault 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed. 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 n.o.body 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.