He dropped to his knees and pulled me to himself. I collapsed in his arms. "I'm here, sweetheart," he said, over and over. "It's okay, sweetheart. It's okay."

Through streams of hot tears, I saw Momma across the front lawn heading in our direction. Relieved that both of my parents were safe, I closed my eyes and tried to breathe. I felt Momma join our little huddle; her arms slipped around my waist as she nuzzled the back of my neck with her face. Although she tried to sound strong, her voice was shaky. "Oh, my darling, Becky . . . my sweet, precious darling." At some point it occurred to me that Danny wasn't with us, but I was too afraid to ask if he had survived the blast. Was that why Momma was sobbing?

Within minutes of the explosion, people from all parts of town flooded into our yard. Momma's friend and singing partner, Eleanor Tyree, and her husband, James, who lived more than a mile away, had jumped into their car and were among the first to arrive at the parsonage.

Eleanor asked, "Where's Danny?"25 "I . . ." Momma shook her head side to side.

Eleanor reached out and gripped Momma's arm. "Ramona, is the baby all right?"

"He's still . . . still in his room."

Momma had been so unnerved by the attack that she couldn't face seeing what might have happened to her baby. I think she expected the worst and couldn't bring herself to go inside that bedroom. For his part, Daddy had watched me run out the front door and, recognizing that I might be headed straight into danger, chased after me. Who was to say there wasn't still a sniper outside? Or maybe someone waiting to kidnap one of us? He knew these people were capable of anything, and his first instinct was to prevent anything else from happening to his daughter.

"Don't you worry, Ramona," Eleanor said, "I'll get him." With that, she raced inside. As Eleanor approached the bedroom, she expected to hear Danny crying, wailing in pain. Instead, there wasn't a sound emanating from behind the closed door. She pushed open the door, snapped on the light, and gasped at the minefield of broken gla.s.s and torn drapes.

Still no sound from Danny.

How could that be? Was he dead?

After all, his crib, situated under one of the shattered windows, was directly in the line of fire. Eleanor hurried across the room to the baby. In spite of the fact that gla.s.s and wood fragments had cascaded into Danny's crib, she couldn't believe that he never woke up. Nor did a single sliver of gla.s.s or fragment of wood land on his body, which is a miracle considering that he was surrounded by razor-sharp objects.

Had Danny stirred or rolled over, his tender body would have been pierced like a pincushion in a hundred different places. Chunks of gla.s.s could have cut his face, his eyes, his bare arms with ease. Instead, as if an angel had covered Danny with his wings, not a scratch was found on him. Momma had been right when she had recited those words just hours before about G.o.d's protection . . . "He shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his wings shalt thou trust" (Psalm 91:4).

With care, Eleanor plucked Daniel from the jaws of the lions' den and carried him to Momma. By the time Eleanor rejoined us in the yard, a full contingent of police officers had descended upon us. Traffic on Sellerstown Road was immediately placed under surveillance. The familiar swirling red and blue beacons lit up the night sky, casting bursts of color against our faces as Daddy and Momma spoke with members of the church who had come to offer whatever help and comfort they could provide.

That's when my daddy lost it.

While talking with friends, Daddy looked across the street and saw Mr. Watts, flanked by several of his thugs, standing at the edge of his driveway. Like a vulture enjoying a feast of death, Mr. Watts was surveying the damage. He seemed to be savoring the tasty chaos and the delicious panic created by the bombing.

A moment later, Daddy's eyes met his.

They stared, unblinking.

Like two rivals facing each other before a gunfight in the Wild West, they stood their ground. Daddy stopped his conversation midsentence. He began to contemplate the unthinkable. In that moment, adrenaline pumping through his being, the old man, the barroom brawler, the ex-Navy fighter, threatened to a.s.sert himself. How dare Mr. Watts try to kill his family? Didn't he have the right to defend his home from this deranged man?

Mr. Watts glared back at Daddy from behind his thick black gla.s.ses. Still staring, the corners of his mouth morphed into a smile, an evil, demented grin of satisfaction. As if rubbing salt in a wound, Mr. Watts began to laugh at the mayhem he had caused. Taking a cue from their boss, his goons began to chuckle too. The laughing and backslapping were all Daddy could take.

That night, the perpetrator had crossed the line.

With every raw fiber in him screaming injustice, Daddy set aside the biblical call to "love your neighbor as yourself" and the instruction to "pray for your enemies"-themes he had preached from the pulpit for years. Instead, driven by a desire to defend his family, Daddy took off like a charging bull across our yard toward Mr. Watts. Given his size and the magnitude of his wrath, it took several men, including James Tyree, to grab Daddy and hold him back from doing something that most certainly would have landed him in jail.

I had never seen my daddy so livid.

James Tyree was convinced by the look in Daddy's eyes that if he had reached Mr. Watts, Daddy would have unleashed two-and-a-half years of pent-up rage and, quite possibly, have killed Mr. Watts on the spot. While wrong, no one would have blamed Daddy, considering all that Mr. Watts had put our family through.

A few of the church members later said they should have let Daddy go that night, come what may. If necessary, they would have gladly posted bond on his behalf. In their eyes, it was heroic for Daddy to settle the matter with his own hands.

And yet I know Daddy must have had deep regrets for allowing himself to get so close to the edge. He knew the Scriptures well enough to know that his struggle wasn't against flesh and blood but against the devil, the enemy of his soul. After that momentary lapse in judgment, and in spite of what Mr. Watts would do in the future, Daddy prayed he'd never take matters into his own hands.

It takes a tough man to turn the other cheek.

Daddy was troubled over the impact that these attacks were having on us. Like any parent, he wanted his family to be safe. He yearned to protect us, though he prayed he wouldn't resort to brute force. At the same time, as Daddy told a reporter the next day, "I'm no quitter.26 I will not desert my congregation." Daddy vowed to stand his ground, even if it cost him his life; he wouldn't hesitate "to lay down my life in defense of my church, but the continual danger that is inflicted on my wife and children has to be stopped." I will not desert my congregation." Daddy vowed to stand his ground, even if it cost him his life; he wouldn't hesitate "to lay down my life in defense of my church, but the continual danger that is inflicted on my wife and children has to be stopped."

Speaking to another reporter after the third bombing, Daddy explained why he wasn't packing his bags and leaving town: "So many of G.o.d's soldiers27 spend their time retreating. The Bible teaches that when the wolf comes the hireling will flee, but the Good Shepherd will lay down His life for His sheep." spend their time retreating. The Bible teaches that when the wolf comes the hireling will flee, but the Good Shepherd will lay down His life for His sheep."

Taking his cue from Jesus' example, Daddy would stand by his congregation until G.o.d told him to move on. As such, Daddy would never let Mr. Watts drive him away from serving the Lord in Sellerstown. Daddy told the press, "When the Lord gets ready for me to leave this church, He won't send the message by the devil."

I'm not sure how Mr. Watts felt about that comparison.

I wouldn't be surprised if he was flattered.

After all, his devilish plans were far from over.

Chapter 8

Holding On to Hope.

He came close.

Very close. Almost too close.

The threatening letters and menacing phone calls didn't do it. Neither did two home invasions, the weekly hara.s.sment during worship services, the sniper shootings, the cut phone lines, nor the first two bombings. None of those acts of intimidation had driven him from serving the people he loved in Sellerstown. But during the sleepless night following the third explosion, a blast that could have claimed the life of his only son, Daddy was toying with the unthinkable.28 The mental tug-of-war between staying and leaving became stronger. The mental tug-of-war between staying and leaving became stronger.

Mr. Watts was determined.

Mr. Watts was capable of anything.

And Mr. Watts seemed willing to kill his children.

The night of July 1, 1975, changed everything. With his baby sleeping in a crib surrounded by broken gla.s.s and splinters of wood like miniature harpoons targeting his helpless body, Daddy was cut to the core. Mr. Watts and his partners in crime had tried to intimidate Daddy by attacking our house back when Momma was pregnant. As she told the press, "They felt like they could get to my husband29 through me. They had no consideration for my condition." Now this unhinged fiend was going straight for Daddy's son and daughter-and that was beyond the pale. through me. They had no consideration for my condition." Now this unhinged fiend was going straight for Daddy's son and daughter-and that was beyond the pale.

Hours after the neighbors, the police, and the press cleared from our yard, Daddy still heard the blast in his head, resounding, pounding, driving home the point that Mr. Watts would never give up his campaign of terror. Daddy wanted to be strong. He was convinced that the Lord wasn't telling him to pack our bags and abandon the church-at least not yet. In fact, while praying with Brother Billy Sellers after the sniper attack several days prior to this bombing, he felt the Holy Spirit was saying that those things that had been done in darkness would be brought to light.

That wasn't wishful thinking on Daddy's part. He and Brother Billy had studied the words of Matthew, a follower of Jesus, who wrote, "All nations will hate you because you are my followers. But everyone who endures to the end will be saved. . . . Don't be afraid of those who threaten you. For the time is coming when everything that is covered will be revealed, and all that is secret will be made known to all" (10:22, 26, NLT NLT).

Daddy had taken encouragement from that portion of Scripture and their extended time of prayer. He had been convinced Mr. Watts would be caught and placed in jail. But two days after that precious time of prayer, with three windows blown from their frames and a wife and daughter struggling to hold on, Daddy's resolve felt like sand draining from an hourgla.s.s. Time was running out. Dare he hold on to the hope that Mr. Watts would be arrested before before he struck again? he struck again?

After all, Mr. Watts should have been caught by now.

How could Mr. Watts evade justice for so long?

Everyone in the community knew30 who was behind these actions. Granted, the evidence was circ.u.mstantial, and Mr. Watts was a well-connected former county commissioner who was, by definition, above reproach-at least in the minds of some people. That meant nothing less than comprehensive corroboration of his hand in these crimes was necessary. Daddy knew Detective Dudley was doing his best to gather rock-solid proof in order to get a full and proper conviction. who was behind these actions. Granted, the evidence was circ.u.mstantial, and Mr. Watts was a well-connected former county commissioner who was, by definition, above reproach-at least in the minds of some people. That meant nothing less than comprehensive corroboration of his hand in these crimes was necessary. Daddy knew Detective Dudley was doing his best to gather rock-solid proof in order to get a full and proper conviction.

That took time.

Maybe more time than Daddy could endure.

Besides, the lawman was just one man with a full workload. What if Mr. Watts struck again, and this time one of us was injured . . . or worse? How could Daddy live with himself? As the pastor, he was truly prepared to die for his flock. He was related to President Andrew "Old Hickory" Jackson, which may explain why he wasn't about to abandon his post. But the thought that his family might be harmed wasn't a price Daddy wanted to pay.

Just when he reached his lowest point, help arrived in full force. The morning after the bombing, July 2, 1975, as if drinking from a fire hose, we were deluged with a.s.sistance from every branch of law enforcement in the country: a cadre of local, state, and federal agents poured into our yard.

When it rained, it poured.

At long last, Columbus County Police Detective Sergeant George Dudley received the help he both needed and had requested from the State Bureau of Investigation (SBI), the Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI), and the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms (ATF). And the unannounced appearance of a mobile crime laboratory parked on our front lawn meant one thing: these boys were serious players. They had all the tools necessary to study the evidence at the crime scene. This, in turn, convinced Daddy that the case would be quickly resolved.

Joining the surge of law enforcement officers sweeping for evidence around our house was a U.S. postal inspector who came to investigate the a.s.sa.s.sination-like attack on our mailbox. His task included scrutinizing the unsigned letters that threatened harm and death. Daddy's spirits soared. Maybe now the role of Mr. Watts in these events would be exposed and justice served.

From Daddy's viewpoint, given this aggressive show of force by the authorities, he would be free to return to his first love-ministering to the people of Sellerstown. For the first time in years, he could set aside thoughts of retreating in the face of persecution to continue the work he felt G.o.d had called him to do.

Of all the law enforcement agents on the scene, Daddy was especially drawn to ATF Agent Charles Mercer. I can't say for sure what it was about Agent Mercer that captured Daddy's confidence. Physically speaking, Agent Mercer was no Arnold Schwarzenegger. Unlike the Terminator, Agent Mercer wasn't an imposing man. He had no bulging muscles or steel blue eyes that instilled fear in the bad guys. In fact, Daddy was taller, broader, and more muscular than this ATF special detective.

With the exception of his sea green eyes,31 Agent Mercer was nondescript. He wore no gla.s.ses, no hat, and had no distinguishing features; he didn't sport a handlebar mustache or Elvis-size sideburns. Husky, standing five feet nine, he wore a pressed shirt and pants with a gun strapped to his waist. But his eyes, as mysterious as the ocean, seemed to reflect his emotions and convey his thoughts as clearly as if he were having a conversation. Those who met him felt as if Agent Mercer could "talk" with his eyes even if he never uttered a word. Agent Mercer was nondescript. He wore no gla.s.ses, no hat, and had no distinguishing features; he didn't sport a handlebar mustache or Elvis-size sideburns. Husky, standing five feet nine, he wore a pressed shirt and pants with a gun strapped to his waist. But his eyes, as mysterious as the ocean, seemed to reflect his emotions and convey his thoughts as clearly as if he were having a conversation. Those who met him felt as if Agent Mercer could "talk" with his eyes even if he never uttered a word.

However he communicated it, this agent had a single focus-getting to the bottom of the case. I think what Daddy must have seen in his eyes was tenacity. Agent Mercer seemed to have a strength of purpose, some driving force that compelled him to get answers. As they spoke, it became clear that this man had the dogged determination of a hound dog who would refuse to give up the chase until justice rolled down upon the perpetrator.

Sharing an office with George Dudley32 at the Columbus County police headquarters, Agent Mercer quickly set up camp and got whatever he needed from the local police officers, who were eager to help. Daddy's gut feeling about the man after their first meeting was later confirmed when Agent Mercer posted a $10,000 reward to the person who provided information that Mr. Watts was behind the bombings at the parsonage. at the Columbus County police headquarters, Agent Mercer quickly set up camp and got whatever he needed from the local police officers, who were eager to help. Daddy's gut feeling about the man after their first meeting was later confirmed when Agent Mercer posted a $10,000 reward to the person who provided information that Mr. Watts was behind the bombings at the parsonage.

Like the welcoming rays of sunlight chasing away a stubborn fog, Daddy found himself basking in more good news the following Sunday. According to the church's bylaws, the members were required to vote on the reappointment of their pastor on the first Sunday of July every two years. In a 602 decision, once again the church family overwhelmingly affirmed their desire to retain Daddy as theirpastor.

That is, if my parents were willing to stay.

Daddy was honest with the church about the toll these attacks were having. Yet he promised to stay the course. Head held high, supernaturally calm in the face of his trials, he a.s.sured the packed church his message wouldn't change, nor would he be intimidated from fulfilling his calling. His words reflected what he would soon tell a reporter: "We battle fear from time to time,33 even though we are spiritual people. Then, too, we feel that there's no force that can destroy us." He was honest that Momma, in particular, had some reservations. Living in the valley of the shadow of death isn't for the faint of heart. Daddy admitted, "Her initial reaction was more emotional than mine, but after that initial reaction, she's ready to fight along with me." even though we are spiritual people. Then, too, we feel that there's no force that can destroy us." He was honest that Momma, in particular, had some reservations. Living in the valley of the shadow of death isn't for the faint of heart. Daddy admitted, "Her initial reaction was more emotional than mine, but after that initial reaction, she's ready to fight along with me."

He added, "I stand flat-footed and preach the truth. I don't sugarcoat it. We feed the flock of G.o.d. I always had a certain amount of backbone, so we're just stonewalling it here." Another development that Sunday gave my parents the necessary hope to press on. Concerned about our safety, the church voted to hire an armed security guard to patrol the grounds around our house at night. That safeguard provided a certain peace of mind. Maybe, just maybe, there would be an end to the violence. And maybe, just maybe, we could sleep without the fear of awakening to yet another attack.

I suspect Mr. Watts was steaming in pew number seven.

He had done so much to chase my family away.34 And if we weren't leaving voluntarily, Mr. Watts probably figured the church would see the wisdom of removing this man who, like a lightning rod, attracted unwanted negative attention to their fellowship. By his calculations, the church should have been sufficiently primed and ready to vote Daddy out of office and, in turn, seek a less "controversial" pastor to lead them. But what Mr. Watts failed to calculate was the deep bond Daddy and Momma had cemented in the early days of their ministry in Sellerstown. And if we weren't leaving voluntarily, Mr. Watts probably figured the church would see the wisdom of removing this man who, like a lightning rod, attracted unwanted negative attention to their fellowship. By his calculations, the church should have been sufficiently primed and ready to vote Daddy out of office and, in turn, seek a less "controversial" pastor to lead them. But what Mr. Watts failed to calculate was the deep bond Daddy and Momma had cemented in the early days of their ministry in Sellerstown.

I'm surprised he missed this connection.

From the moment Daddy set foot in Sellerstown, he made it his mission to reach the unreachable and teach the unteachable. He provided a welcoming place where love and laughter were offered in generous servings regardless of who you were or what you had done in the past. If you weren't in church on Sunday, on Monday he'd put on his boots, find you in the fields or at your place of business, and personally check on you. If you were sick, he'd pray for you and say, "See you in church next Sunday."

Take James Tyree, for example.

A cattle farmer by trade, before he met my father, James had no use for church, primarily because there were those in the church who had no use for him. His mother, Betsy, had told James that he was going to h.e.l.l for all the years he had lived like a heathen, which, no doubt, had something to do with his love of cigars and alcohol. He'd be the first to admit that his affinity for alcohol drove him to drink just about anything he could get his hands on.

To say that James enjoyed smoking cigars would be an understatement; they were his constant companion. Unless he was eating, sleeping, or in the shower, he had a stogie in his mouth. While the Bible doesn't specifically teach that smoking is a sin, in Betsy's book it was one of those outward signs of "heathen" behavior.

But more than these "sins of the flesh," there was another reason why James was going to h.e.l.l, or so his mother believed. James had been divorced. Compounding his "sin" was the fact that he had remarried. Betsy didn't believe in second marriages. Living under a cloud of condemnation by his mother, convinced that he was beyond the reach of the Cross, it's not surprising that James avoided going to church.

Shortly after Daddy arrived in town, he caught wind of James's story-a story that was not too far from that of his own journey. Rather than write James off as a lost cause or a modern-day leper, Daddy slipped on his work boots and pursued James while he was out tending to his fields. I have no idea how Daddy developed his approach to pastoring. Somehow, somewhere along the way, he knew that to be effective in growing the church, he had to walk among the people, meet them on their turf, and accept them the way they were.

As he worked side by side with James, Daddy's goal was to befriend this man. He knew he had to earn the right to be heard if the walls around James's heart were ever to come down. On a number of occasions they spent hours digging holes to construct a post-and-wire electric fence. Daddy would say, "I'll be over in a little while," and then arrive at the work site before James. His enthusiasm to serve was infectious, although at first James wasn't quite sure how to size up the new preacher. As they labored, Daddy told James about his path to faith in Jesus-how he, too, had tasted the wild life, watched his first marriage dissolve, drunk heavily, and been disinterested in the things of G.o.d.

This wasn't what James had expected to hear. The tattoo on Daddy's forearm, an indelible embarra.s.sment left over from his Navy days, wasn't what James expected to see. And the unconditional love and lack of condemnation he experienced from the "preacher man" wasn't something he antic.i.p.ated feeling, either. To James, Daddy was more like a brother than a pastor. Their lives had such a surprising amount in common, James liked to say, "We were clicking on the same clock."35 Naturally, when Daddy went on to explain that his story didn't end with the drinking and skirt chasing, James was all ears. The moment G.o.d had changed Daddy's heart, he became a new man. Pausing long enough to make eye contact, his shirt matted with sweat and dirt, Daddy told him, "Brother James, G.o.d can do the same thing for you36 that He did for me." With that, Daddy invited James to church the following Sunday. He was convinced that no one-not even James-was beyond the saving grace of Jesus. that He did for me." With that, Daddy invited James to church the following Sunday. He was convinced that no one-not even James-was beyond the saving grace of Jesus.

James came.

So did his wife, Eleanor.

Like a thirsty man drawn to water, James came forward that morning in response to Daddy's invitation to receive Jesus. At the end of the sermon, standing at the altar while Momma played "The Old Rugged Cross" on the organ, James gave his heart to the Lord. It wasn't long before Eleanor, who had likewise lived under her mother-in-law's condemnation, came to faith.

In the months and years following his conversion, James became one of the head deacons in the church, typically sitting on the platform while Daddy preached. And while they worked closely on church matters, the bond of friendship they shared spilled out into the week-sometimes in hilarious ways.

Like the time James invited Daddy to earn some extra cash on a job in Clinton, not far from Sellerstown. Daddy's construction skills would come in handy, and our family needed the cash, so he agreed. Always one to pull a joke, James arrived with five other men to pick up Daddy in a black hea.r.s.e. With care, they backed the hea.r.s.e down the driveway and parked it close to the house adjacent to the carport. They thought Mr. Watts was probably doing backflips when he looked out the window and saw a hea.r.s.e across the street. You know, he thought his dream had come true; the pastor was finally gone. Daddy and James laughed so hard imagining that they might have pulled a fast one on Mr. Watts that they almost had a wreck on the way to the job.

Together, Daddy and James nurtured a sense of community within the church family, with plenty of fishing and hunting trips and church picnics. Outdoor activities were a way of life for those in the fellowship. And when James would go fishing with Daddy, the playful banter between them was always part of the action.

James typically sat in the back of the boat to steer while Daddy cast his line from the front. On one occasion, trying to keep a straight face, James ran the front of the boat into the trees, prompting Daddy to say, "Um, Brother James, can you back up a little?" James burst out laughing so hard over teasing the pastor, his face turned red. Being a good sport, Daddy laughed too. The bond of brotherhood between Daddy and James ran deep.

More than that, these early seeds of friendship, which had been sown in James as well as in the hearts of those in our church, set the stage for the people's unwavering allegiance and commitment to their pastor. The devotion they shared was such that they'd be willing to lay down their lives for each other.

Mr. Watts knew this.

Not only had he witnessed James's conversion and the impact of Daddy on the church, but two of Mr. Watts's own sons, Lee and Elwood, responded to the gospel message that Daddy preached. Both had asked Christ into their hearts and, over the years, like James, found a real friend in Daddy. Elwood even traveled with Daddy on an out-of-state camping and fishing trip. Such a bond of friendship with his own sons easily could have infuriated Mr. Watts.

I'm sure Mr. Watts wondered how his own family could enjoy the company of his enemy. And now, after the overwhelming vote to retain Daddy as pastor in spite of the persecution, Mr. Watts watched in disbelief as "his" church slipped further from his fingers. Carrying out three bombings in one year hadn't been enough.

Pacing and planning, watching and waiting, Mr. Watts appeared to be biding his time while the various branches of the law put Sellerstown under their collective microscope. After the heat of their scrutiny had pa.s.sed, Mr. Watts struck again.

I played.

In spite of the attacks, or perhaps because of them, during the summer of 1975 I lost myself in a make-believe world of activity. Those who knew me as a child knew I was equally happy playing the part of a tomboy or a prissy little girl. I loved playing with Barbies about as much as I enjoyed grabbing the waist of my best friend, Missy, as we rode on the back of her motorcycle through the strawberry fields adjacent to Mr. Watts's house. She was fearless of him, even though she knew what he was capable of doing. Naturally, I had to be fearless, too. Four years older than me, Missy got her first motorcycle at age seven. That summer, Missy was nine and I was five.

Riding together, both of us barefoot and without helmets, we'd zoom through the fields to the woods to build a fort. We lived in the country, where n.o.body checked on such things as underage children riding a motorcycle. Besides, it was our street, and we pretty much did what we wanted. When we'd get to the woods, we'd set up camp, burn sticks and leaves, munch on whatever snack we brought from home, and then brush our teeth in the stream. We'd sit there and talk for hours.

I'm not sure how it came up, but as we sat together by the stream not long after the third bombing, Missy wondered why I was unusually sad. I told her that my dog, Tina, had been missing for several days. That's when Missy broke the news to me. She said she had heard that Mr. Watts had poisoned Tina and buried her remains in his tobacco barn.

I found that news almost too much to handle. I had heard that Mr. Watts had poisoned other dogs on my street before-often using enough poison to kill a horse, according to the veterinarian who conducted an autopsy of one victim. But little Tina? Why would Mr. Watts want her dead? It's not like Tina was a serious watchdog who might alert us to the presence of an intruder. Was Mr. Watts really such a coldhearted man that he'd kill Tina just to spite us?

Wanting proof that Mr. Watts had been so heartless, we hopped on Missy's motorcycle and headed to his barn. Although it was the middle of the afternoon, long shadows swallowed the rows of drying tobacco leaves in sheaves of darkness. The thin shafts of light angling rays of sunshine through the slats of barn-wood siding did little to illuminate the cavernous belly of the barn. We realized that, without a flashlight, finding a freshly dug grave would be difficult.