Faint rays of midnight moon, like bloodless fingers reaching down through the blackened sky, illuminated his white T-shirt with a feeble glow. The rim of his mahogany brown fedora blocked the moon's frail hint of light; his face remained in the company of dark shadows. Wearing pajama bottoms and plaid slippers, the man appeared to have just rolled out of bed. Heels occasionally sc.r.a.ping against the asphalt, arms swinging as if beating against the muggy air, he peered at our house through thick lenses encased in onyx black frames as hewalked.

Like a restless apparition quarreling with an unseen foe, Mr. Watts mumbled to himself with every step. Face twisted into a perverse knot of frustration, muttering a stream of irritated broodings, he marched up and down Sellerstown Road for several hours. Some nights as he stalked the silent street, he wrapped himself in a bathrobe as if he were a king surveying his domain. In spite of the summer heat, at times he'd rub his hands together as if they needed to be warmed, then clench his fingers into fists of rage.

He continued to pace.

Aunt Pat's older daughter, Terri, had a ringside seat21 during several of Mr. Watts's nightly excursions. Terri and a friend, then both fourteen, slipped outside from time to time to sneak a smoke. They'd hide in a deep ditch near the road to light up. Ironically, the ditch had been dug out around Aunt Pat's house by Mr. Watts and Bud Sellers for no reason other than to annoy Aunt Pat. Since Bud owned the property bordering Aunt Pat's house on three sides, she could do nothing to stop him. during several of Mr. Watts's nightly excursions. Terri and a friend, then both fourteen, slipped outside from time to time to sneak a smoke. They'd hide in a deep ditch near the road to light up. Ironically, the ditch had been dug out around Aunt Pat's house by Mr. Watts and Bud Sellers for no reason other than to annoy Aunt Pat. Since Bud owned the property bordering Aunt Pat's house on three sides, she could do nothing to stop him.

The moatlike trench just so happened to provide the perfect hiding spot to smoke. Like the two mischievous country girls they were, Terri and her friend talked and giggled while engaging in their forbidden pleasure. That is, until they heard the footsteps and the undertone of unintelligible murmuring. Even at low volumes, Mr. Watts's gruff, raspy voice ignited an ominous feeling; a shiver of fear chilled their hearts as he approached.

As unrehea.r.s.ed as a hiccup, they instinctively ducked down. They hoped that the distinct tobacco fumes wafting overhead, like smoke billowing from a chimney, didn't betray their location. Maintaining a position just below the crest of the hiding place, they watched in silence as Mr. Watts conducted his disquieting vigil. The last thing they wanted was to give him the impression, however false, that they were there spying on him. Life for them would become unbearable if they were discovered. Our family was living proof of what happened if you ended up on his wrong side.

I can only guess why Mr. Watts chose such a late hour to creep back and forth on our street. There was nothing illegal about going for a walk at that time, mind you. It was just so . . . odd odd. Had he been an exercise buff, which he most certainly was not, physical training just made more sense during the daytime. Besides, plaid slippers do little to support a serious workout regimen.

Why did Mr. Watts wander the streets with nothing more than the blanched moon as company? Was his nocturnal activity designed to remind his neighbors-many of whom were indebted to him-that he was always watching? Why did he occasionally stop and stare at our house before resuming his restless quest? Was he wondering why his attacks against us weren't working? Was he scheming new ways to drive us away? It seems to me that the lack of sleep may have contributed to his troubled state of mind.

I knew a thing or two about the impact of losing sleep. When awake, I lived with the constant fear that we were never truly safe. I'd jump at the sound of a car door slamming or at the screech of tires squealing, even if the noise came from someone arriving home for dinner or a neighbor racing down the road just for the fun of it.

And when I was asleep, the nightmare we were living followed me into my dreams, allowing sleep to come in fitful bunches. As much as I needed the rest, sleep failed to offer a refuge from the storm brewing in my life. To this day, thirty-some years later, I have a recurring dream so vivid, I still wake up in a cold sweat.

When I was five years old, I dreamed that I was lying asleep in my bed when a noise at our kitchen door jarred me from my rest. My eyes opened with a series of blinks to adjust to the night-light slanting through the slats in my closet door; given my heightened fear of the dark, I developed the habit of leaving that soft light on. It served as a comforting friend, should I awaken before the friendly sun filled my window.

Rising from bed, I took my blue bear by the hand as if we were exploring buddies and moved toward my bedroom door. My heart beat out a rapid warning to proceed with caution. Narrowing my eyes, forehead bunched into a knot, I looked down the hall to see what had caused the commotion. I found Mr. Watts standing just inside the kitchen door, illuminated by the pale, yellowed light above the kitchen stove. He said nothing but motioned with his hands for me to come to him. Dressed like an undertaker in a nondescript, charcoal gray suit and wearing his hat, Mr. Watts appeared to have something important to tell me.

I glanced in the direction of my parents' room, found them asleep, and then, defying all logic-since when are dreams built upon logic?-I naively proceeded down the unlit hallway. Without uttering a word, Mr. Watts turned and held open the kitchen screen door. He gestured for me to step outside. For reasons I cannot explain, I didn't feel as if I had a choice in the matter. As a moth is drawn irresistibly to the flame, I felt obligated to go with him regardless of the consequences.

Once outdoors, standing under the darkened sky in my white and pink ankle-length nightgown, I found his car parked in our driveway. Bud Sellers was waiting for us in the front seat. After placing me in back, Mr. Watts eased behind the steering wheel and then backed out of the driveway. I stole a look at our home, where my family slept unaware of my departure. With the safety of my house now out of view, I clutched my bear to my chest and sunk into the cold vinyl seat. I looked through the windshield to see where we were headed.

The headlights failed to penetrate the blackness more than a dozen feet; these shafts of light were absorbed faster than they could be projected as if their twin beams were being swallowed by a black hole. I could see little beyond the hood of the car, which appeared to stretch forward about the look and length of a coffin. Neither man spoke. I couldn't speak, nor did I dare say a word. I had witnessed Mr. Watts's behavior in church, the way he sneered at Daddy during the sermon and the way he stomped out the back door, slamming it until the house of G.o.d shook.

I feared this man.

Conversation was out of the question.

As far as I could tell, we were lost. I had no idea where we were, where we were going, or more importantly, why I was being taken for this ride. Fear was my unwanted backseat companion as we traveled an unfamiliar, unlit stretch of winding road in the hills. Like a roller-coaster ride minus the fun, the friends, or the a.s.surance that the ride had been inspected and certified safe for its pa.s.sengers, we continued upward.

The car sped on.

Leaning hard on the curves, Mr. Watts rocketed into the night way too fast for my racing heart. While Daddy sometimes drove to town with a lead foot, he never traveled as recklessly as this. Although the car windows remained closed, my hair blew into my face as if they had been open, allowing gusts of the night-chilled air to whip my long, chestnut brown tresses into a frenzy.

Driving hard around a bend, still climbing, higher, faster, my chauffeur from h.e.l.l let go of the wheel. Without warning, Mr. Watts and Bud Sellers opened their car doors in unison and jumped out of the car. Only then did I comprehend the danger awaiting me. With no time to escape, the car became airborne. I sailed over the edge of a cliff, trapped within the metal casket. I tried to cry out, but no sounds escaped from my parched throat.

Now falling like deadweight, I plunged earthward. Like a meteorite ensnared in the earth's gravitational pull, the collision was unavoidable. Panic bored a hole through my chest. Upon impact the car exploded into a ball of fire.

I screamed until my lungs burned.

Terrified and now fully awake, beads of sweat clung to my forehead. Thankful to be alive, I shot upright, yanked off the covers that, like shackles, held me to the bed, then ran to get Momma. I hesitated only long enough just inside my bedroom to make sure Mr. Watts wasn't still standing next to the kitchen door as he had been in my dream.

Face wet with tears, I fell into Momma's arms.

Living with the threats and hara.s.sment that produced this nightmare was no simple task. Daddy and Momma tried to comfort me with the words of Proverbs 23:18: "For surely there is an end; and thine expectation shall not be cut off." I believe they meant well. And yet in spite of the Scripture, it was terrifying to antic.i.p.ate going to bed each night. Closing my eyes, I prayed that all would be well in the morning.

Some nights I achieved peace. Other nights were disturbed by the sound of gunshots, explosions, and police lights splashing red bursts of light against my windowpane.

Living with the uncertainty of what any given night would bring has had a lasting impact on my life. Years later, as a teenager, I had to feed on the Word of G.o.d if I was to have any hope of resting at night.

I placed the words of Proverbs 3:24-26 on a sticky note over my bed: When you lie down, you will not be afraid; when you lie down, your sleep will be sweet. Have no fear of sudden disaster or of the ruin that overtakes the wicked, for the LORD will be your confidence. ( will be your confidence. (NIV) I'd read those words slowly, deliberately, marinating in its truth until I could savor the meaning within my soul. I'd pray and beg my heavenly Father to be true to His promises.

Only then did I have the strength to close my eyes.

The Lord was, and is, my refuge and my hiding place.

In the midst of this turmoil, the arrival of my baby brother was a gift from G.o.d. Of course, there was the marvel of a new life in our home, complete with a fresh array of smells that tickled my nose-the baby powder, baby oil, and baby bubble bath. To watch Momma snuggle him, bathe him, feed him, and bundle him up in a feather-soft, blue "keeper" for the night was better than watching TV. And Daniel's presence in the home had a way of taking our minds off the sociopath living across the street.

I've heard people say that the first child is a gift to the parents and the second child is a gift to the first child. This was true of my brother. For the first five years of my life I basked in my parents' love. In some ways I had been spoiled rotten. After all, I was their miracle baby and, as such, enjoyed extraordinary treatment.

I remember how Daddy, with a twinkle in his eye, signaled that he was ready to steal me away to the nearby market for a coveted candy run. There, surrounded by mountains of sugary delights, he encouraged me to fill a brown lunch bag with all of my favorite treats. On the way home, sitting side by side in the front seat of the family car, I'd dig into the bag and unwrap my treasures, one by one, while he told me how much he loved his princess.

Likewise, Momma thrived on brushing my hair, sometimes gathering it into pigtails, other times arranging it with the flair of a seasoned hairstylist. Before sending me on my way, she'd place a colorful bow atop my head as if finishing off a Christmas present. When she wasn't dressing me up, doll-like, she'd make time to sew a gorgeous outfit for one of my dolls with the care of a custom tailor.

In spite of their lavish displays of love, I longed for a brother or a sister. And, while playing with friends was a treat, I now had a real live baby doll to smother with love. I took my responsibility as a big sister as seriously as if I had been a.s.signed with the duty of protecting the crown jewels of England. I'm sure I drove Momma nuts asking to hold Danny a hundred times a day.

Our family was complete-Daddy had his princess, and Momma had her boy. Momma had always had a special place in her heart for little boys. When my cousin Eddie was born ten years before me, Momma looked forward to every trip to see her brother Ed and his wife, Shirley, in Baton Rouge. The sun rose and set on Eddie.

With Danny, Momma had a boy of her own.

After Daniel's birth, Grandma Welch, Momma's mother, came to stay with us for several weeks to help with Daniel, with me, and with whatever cooking and housecleaning needed to be done. I was enthralled with the parade of people stopping by, delivering meals, dropping off gifts, and cooing over Danny. I was so proud that they were coming to see "my" baby brother.

By the time June rolled around, Grandma was long gone, the visitors were fewer and farther between, and life felt as if it had finally settled down into a comfortable routine. Danny was sleeping through the night, and I, too, found sleep less elusive. I was beginning to rest at night because the last explosion to rock our home had been six months prior-an eternity. While thankful for the respite from the bombings, as far as I was concerned, six months were not longenough.

Never would have been better.

The Bible says that, in the spiritual realm there is an enemy, the devil who, like a lion, prowls about seeking someone to devour. You might say we had our own earthbound lion roving the streets of Sellerstown. During the night hours, this tormented creature was pacing, preparing, watching, and waiting for us to let our guard down. As we'd soon discover, on Sat.u.r.day, June 28, 1975,22 this cowardly lion would unleash his wrath upon us while we slept. this cowardly lion would unleash his wrath upon us while we slept.

Under the half-opened eye of the watchful moon, with the clock approaching 1 a.m., a sniper pulled into Mr. Watts's driveway. He parked, leaving the engine running to ensure a fast exit, then slipped out of the driver's door, shotgun in hand. He took up his position beside the car and trained his rifle scope on the initial target. His instructions were simple: Shoot with speed and efficiency and make a clean getaway.

I don't know how much he had been paid.

I don't know how much he knew about his prey.

I doubt the gunman cared that he was about to take aim at the home of a pastor. This was business, after all. Nothing personal. Like a hired gun, he was there to do a job and then move on. The fact that a five-year-old girl and a four-month-old baby were home did nothing to prevent him from embarking on this act of senseless violence.

With just enough pressure to actuate the trigger, the automatic twelve-gauge shotgun launched its solid lead projectile into our faithful sentry, the mercury-vapor light in the backyard. The grounds around our house fell dark and, like a curtain of blackness, concealed the activity of the shooter.

Gun resting against his shoulder, Daddy's car now in the crosshairs of his scope, the shooter fired his weapon four times in quick succession. Hot metal slugs ripped into our family car. Two shots flattened the rear tires, and two plowed into the driver's side rear fender mere inches from the gas tank. By G.o.d's grace, the munitions didn't cause the fuel tank to explode. Had that happened, a fireball would have turned our home into an inferno.

It's unknown whether the gunman paused to reload his gun or if he used another weapon. Either way, the shooting continued. With my bedroom the subject of his attack, the gunman unloaded his ammo in my direction as I slept. Bullets carrying the power to send me to an early grave plowed into the brick siding just outside the wall where the headboard of my bed rested.

He fired again.

This time his shots shattered my bedroom window. The bullets flew inches past my head before lodging in the closet between my room and my parents' bedroom. The sound of breaking gla.s.s and the barking of a gun woke me with a jolt. Sitting upright in bed, blinking at the darkness, it took several long moments for my mind to transition from sleep to reality. Before I knew knew what was happening, I what was happening, I felt felt something was wrong, but what? Why did the feeling of dread hang in the air around me? something was wrong, but what? Why did the feeling of dread hang in the air around me?

Why was my momma sobbing in her room?

Was something wrong with Danny?

Why had Daddy cried out, "Becky! Stay in your bed!"?

With a squint, aided by my closet night-light, I saw shards of gla.s.s strewn about the carpet. But was this unsettling tapestry of Momma's tears, splintered gla.s.s, and warnings from my father real or imagined? Was I caught in the middle of another nightmare like the time Mr. Watts came to take me away? As if answering my musings, I heard the fear in Daddy's voice as he repeated his plea, "Becky, don't move! Stay down!"

I'm thankful I had the sense to obey Daddy's command. I don't want to think what might have happened had I stood at that precise moment to seek the shelter of my parents' bed, as I had done many nights before. My body could have been used to stop one of the bullets. Whether or not it was genuinely Mr. Watts's intention to have us killed, or just shaken up, I can't say for certain. I do know, however, it wouldn't have taken much for one of us to have taken a bullet in the chest.

What if Momma had been awake, standing at the crib to change Danny's diaper? Or sitting upright in bed feeding him a bottle? The shot through my window could have tunneled through the flimsy drywall and pierced her heart. What if Daddy had heard me stirring over the initial round of shots and entered my room to check on me? He, too, would have been seriously injured, if not killed outright.

Like a puzzle with a thousand pieces, I struggled to fit together into any meaningful order the troubling thoughts swirling in my mind. Why was Mr. Watts still still targeting us? Night after night, we prayed that this man would have a change of heart. We begged G.o.d to take away his anger, to transform his mind by the power of the gospel message that Daddy preached Sunday after Sunday. After six months of relative calm, with a newborn baby under our roof, we thought maybe, just maybe, Mr. Watts had softened. targeting us? Night after night, we prayed that this man would have a change of heart. We begged G.o.d to take away his anger, to transform his mind by the power of the gospel message that Daddy preached Sunday after Sunday. After six months of relative calm, with a newborn baby under our roof, we thought maybe, just maybe, Mr. Watts had softened.

And now this unprovoked a.s.sault.

In a way, my shattered bedroom window got off easy. It could be replaced. The damage done to our nerves, however, was taking its toll. There would be no quick fixes. No magic pill. No simple solution that could easily mend the broken places in our spirits. To hear my momma crying, her sobs so deep they welled up from the depths of her soul, was almost too much for me to handle as I remained confined to my bed.

How I wanted to comfort her.

How I needed her to comfort me.

Tires squealed outside of my now-splintered window. The roar of an engine seemed to dissipate in the distance. I could only a.s.sume that whoever had done this to us had sped off. Daddy, however, watched from the living room window. He stood to the side to avoid harm during the last few shots and watched the gunman bolt from the scene.

At 1:20 a.m., surprised to find the telephone still operational, Daddy called the law and described what he had witnessed. He reported to Wayne Piver, a Columbus County police officer, that the parsonage had been the subject of yet another attack. A male a.s.sailant, whose features were unrecognizable in the dark, got into a two-tone light and dark car after he finished firing and raced away.

Patrolman Piver, joined by County Detective Alton Lennon, arrived on the scene and identified five of the spent shotgun sh.e.l.ls still lying on the ground in Mr. Watts's driveway. A number of bullet fragments were also extracted from under the carport. With two bullet holes marking his car, Daddy now had a daily reminder of the battle we were in. His devotion to the church came with a price, that much was clear.

But how far would these attacks go?

None of us knew this ambush was just the preamble.

Even though we might suffer from one of these sneak attacks on any given night, my parents were determined to keep life as normal as possible during the day. Daddy would go about his church business and sermon preparations while Momma cooked and cleaned without discussing the scary events in front of me. Speaking of cleaning, Momma loved a clean house. That's an understatement. Momma declared our house a "dirt-free zone." She waged a war on grime with the competence of an army general directing his troop into battle.

Aunt Pat says Momma would catch dust before it had a chance to settle on the table. Her utility room housed an a.r.s.enal of cleaning products; bottles of Clorox, an array of brooms and mops, and an a.s.sortment of towels awaited to be drafted into the good fight. Although she was pet.i.te, Momma applied enough elbow grease to keep her counters polished to a shine.

Momma had a peculiar habit of hand washing her turnip greens, mustard greens, and collard greens in the sink with a few drops of dishwashing liquid for good measure to loosen the dirt. After inspecting each leaf to ensure there were no hidden granules of earth stuck in a leafy fold, she'd run her greens through the rinse cycle in the washing machine.

She was especially thorough when it came to laundering Danny's cloth diapers. Her routine was to wash Danny's diapers in Clorox, then in Tide, and finally put them through an extra rinse cycle. By the time she was finished, a biohazard team couldn't have done a better job disinfecting them. To save time, I'm surprised Momma didn't use Pampers or some other brand of disposable diaper, which had recently become popular. Then again, Momma was a frugal pastor's wife. She had to stretch her resources any way she could; old-fashioned cloth diapers made the most sense.

Sometime around 8 p.m. on Tuesday, July 1, 1975, her work was finally done for the day. She enjoyed a few minutes of tranquil quiet as she sat down with Danny to rock him to sleep. Wrapped in a pillowy-soft, baby blue nightgown and sporting a fresh cloth diaper that had been carefully pinned around his five-month-old bottom, Danny had been fed his last bottle for the night and was out like a light.

Transitioning him from the rocking chair to the cradle, Momma laid him on his tummy in his crib. Although s.p.a.ce was tight, his crib was adjacent to my parents' bed and a few feet from one of the two bedroom windows. Although the plan was eventually to give him his own bedroom down the hall, for now this was the most practical arrangement.

I could hear Momma hum a few bars of her favorite song, "Danny Boy," as she eased out of the bedroom. Closing the door softly behind her, Momma then stopped by my bed for nightly prayers. Once again, we prayed for Mr. Watts and for G.o.d's hand of protection over us. After we had prayed for several minutes and before I climbed under the covers, I embraced Momma. I buried my head against her neck and squeezed her with all the strength my little arms could muster.

I never wanted to let go.

I was still reeling from the gunshots that had hit our house just three nights before. I needed Momma's a.s.surance that everything would be okay, that tonight nothing bad would happen to me. To her. To any of us. I couldn't shake the feelings of dread that Mr. Watts might strike again. Instinctively sensing the distress coursing through my body, she ran her fingers through my hair and kissed the top of my head.

"Mona?" Daddy was calling from the kitchen.

"I'll be right there, Robert," Momma said just above a whisper. True, Danny was a sound sleeper-most of the time. Even so, she didn't want to wake him by speaking too loud.

"Hold me, Momma . . ."

"I am holding you, darling." I could feel the warmth of her breath tickle my ear like a feather as she spoke. "But I've got to help your daddy put up the food."

"Please . . ."

"Sweetheart, I'll come back and check on you after a little while, okay?" She lifted me onto my bed and snuggled the covers around me.

"Promise?"

With a kiss to my forehead, she said, "I promise."

I didn't let go.

"Becky," she said, cradling my face in her hands. "Do you remember what Psalm 91 says?"

Our eyes met. I nodded. It was one of her favorite parts of the Bible. Momma loved to quote from it whenever I was fearful. Softly and slowly, she spoke the words from memory, "'He shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his wings shalt thou trust: his truth shall be thy shield and buckler.' You'll be fine. The Lord is watching over you." With a smile that melted my heart, she said, "I love you, darling. Now off you go to bed."

She kissed my forehead and then helped me under my covers. Turning out the light, Momma headed to the kitchen to join Daddy, who was preparing a variety of foods for the freezer. I could hear them as they worked at the other end of the small house. I pictured them side by side, cutting and wrapping the fresh fish Daddy had caught and the meat they had bought.

As I'd seen them do before, I knew they'd be cutting and placing the vegetables and fruit purchased at the market or picked from the garden into individual baggies. Since Momma often entertained unexpected guests, she liked to keep her freezer stocked with preportioned options.

The sound of my parents talking and working into the night had a calming effect on me, much like listening to the gentle waves of the ocean caressing the beach. The comforting rhythm of their voices ebbed and flowed until at some point, my eyelids yielded to the tidal pull of sleep. While Danny and I slept at one end of the house and while my parents bustled about like two beavers busy preparing food at the opposite end, three men entered our yard with dynamite in their hands and evil on their minds.

The strategy of this, the third bombing,23 was to position the charge of explosives near the corner of our house closest to where Danny and I were sleeping-a mere twenty feet from our beds. At 10 p.m., Mr. Watts's three henchmen lit the fuse and then sped away. Like an extended thunderclap, the rumble from the blast could be heard more than two miles away and was felt by neighbors living several doors up the street. was to position the charge of explosives near the corner of our house closest to where Danny and I were sleeping-a mere twenty feet from our beds. At 10 p.m., Mr. Watts's three henchmen lit the fuse and then sped away. Like an extended thunderclap, the rumble from the blast could be heard more than two miles away and was felt by neighbors living several doors up the street.

Momma's friend Carolyn Sellers, who lived on the other side of Aunt Pat's house in a single-wide trailer, watched the force of the blast literally rock the peas in the pot on her stove. Turning to her husband, Roger, Carolyn told him, "Don't go out there.24 That parsonage is plumb blown up. It's not there." That parsonage is plumb blown up. It's not there."

I have no idea why my room didn't suffer damage, aside from dolls and framed pictures being knocked from my dresser. My parents' room was. .h.i.t hard. The bomb blew out three windows, two in their bedroom and one in their bathroom. The gla.s.s, wood frames, and windowsills sailed into the room like spears seeking a target.

In a blur of tears and screams, I fled my room and ran for my life. I found myself outside in the front yard, running in place as if a jolt of electricity were coursing through my nervous system. The palms of my shaking hands covered the sides of my head. My ears throbbed as if someone had taken a rubber mallet and struck my eardrums. When Daddy, running toward me, called my name, his voice sounded m.u.f.fled, as if I were hearing it in muted tones underwater.