The Devil in Pew Number Seven Part 1

The devil in pew number seven.

by Rebecca Nichols Alonzo with DeMoss, Bob.

Author's Note

Let me be clear about one thing.

The story you're about to read actually happened, every last detail of it. As the plot unfolds, my hunch is that you'll need to remind yourself of this reality more than once. If you've ever required evidence to prove the adage "Truth is stranger than fiction," look no further. To be redundant, this is is a true story. a true story.

In a way, I wish it were not. And at times I'm glad it's true.

Some of what transpired occurred before I was born, which, for obvious reasons, means I have no firsthand knowledge of those events. Likewise, there was a time when I was too young to comprehend the events swirling around me. However, my parents wisely kept thorough personal journals, thick family photo alb.u.ms, stacks of newspaper clippings, an 8 mm film reel, and a priceless ca.s.sette tape narrated by my father. (Some of those photos appear on the opening pages of the chapters in this book. A list of captions is included in the appendix. in the appendix.) As if these items were not proof enough that this story actually occurred, as I wrote, I had at my disposal my memories, a federal court transcript, and crime scene reports and photographs. I also conducted numerous interviews with those witnesses who are still alive today. These invaluable resources provided a trustworthy road map through the minefield that was-and is-my life.

I don't share the following pages because I am looking for sympathy. Far from it. Rather, I invite you to travel with me to the very end where we discover perhaps the most disturbing part of the story: you and I have no choice but to forgive others . . . even if they are the monsters next door.

After all, forgiveness is the language of heaven.

Chapter 1

Walking, Crawling, Dead or Alive.

I ran.

My bare feet pounding the pavement were burning from the sunbaked asphalt. Each contact between flesh and blacktop provoked bursts of pain as if I were stepping on broken gla.s.s. The deserted country road, stretching into the horizon, felt as if it were conspiring against me. No matter how hard I pushed myself, the safe place I was desperate to reach eluded me.

Still, I ran.

Had a thousand angry hornets been in pursuit, I couldn't have run any faster. Daddy's instructions had been simple: I had to be a big girl, run down the street as fast as my legs could carry me, and get help. There was nothing complicated about his request. Except for the fact that I'd have to abandon my hiding place under the kitchen table and risk being seen by the armed madman who had barricaded himself with two hostages in my bedroom down the hall. I knew, however, that ignoring Daddy's plea was out of the question.

And so I ran.

Even though Daddy struggled to appear brave, the anguish in his eyes spoke volumes. Splotches of blood stained his s.h.i.+rt just below his right shoulder. The inky redness was as real as the fear gnawing at the edges of my heart. I wanted to be a big girl for the sake of my daddy. I really did. But the fear and chaos now clouding the air squeezed my lungs until my breathing burned within my chest.

My best intentions to get help were neutralized, at least at first. I remained hunkered down, unable to move, surrounded by the wooden legs of six kitchen chairs. I had no illusions that a flimsy 6x4 foot table would keep me safe, yet I was reluctant to leave what little protection it afforded me.

In that s.p.a.ce of indecision, I wondered how I might open the storm door without drawing attention to myself. One squeak from those crusty hinges was sure to announce my departure plans. Closing the door without a bang against the frame was equally important. The stealth of a burglar was needed, only I wasn't the bad guy.

Making no more sound than a leaf falling from a tree, I inched my way out from under the table. I stood and then scanned the room, left to right. I felt watched, although I had no way of knowing for sure whether or not hostile eyes were studying my movements. I inhaled the distinct yet unfamiliar smell of sulfur lingering in the air, a calling card left behind from the repeated blasts of a gun.

I willed myself to move.

My bare feet padded across the linoleum floor.

I was our family's lifeline, our only connection to the outside world. While I hadn't asked to be put in that position, I knew Daddy was depending on me. More than that, Daddy needed needed me to be strong. To act. To do what he was powerless to do. I could see that my daddy, a strong exNavy man, was incapable of the simplest movement. The man whom I loved more than life itself, whose ma.s.sive arms daily swept me off my feet while swallowing me with an unmatched tenderness, couldn't raise an arm to shoo a fly. me to be strong. To act. To do what he was powerless to do. I could see that my daddy, a strong exNavy man, was incapable of the simplest movement. The man whom I loved more than life itself, whose ma.s.sive arms daily swept me off my feet while swallowing me with an unmatched tenderness, couldn't raise an arm to shoo a fly.

To see him so helpless frightened me.

Yes, Daddy was depending on me me.

Conflicted at the sight of such vulnerability, I didn't want to look at my daddy. Yet my love for him galvanized my resolve. I reached for the storm-door handle. Slow and steady, as if disarming a bomb, and allowing myself quick glances backward to monitor the threat level of a sudden ambush, I opened the storm door and stepped outside. With equal care, I nestled the metal door against its frame.

I had to run.

I shot out from under the carport, down the driveway, and turned right where concrete and asphalt met. The unthinkable events of the last five minutes replayed themselves like an endless-loop video in my mind. My eyes stung, painted with hot tears at the memory. Regardless of their age, no one should have to witness what I had just experienced in that house-let alone a seven-year-old girl. The fresh images of what had transpired moments ago mocked me with the fact that my worst fears had just come true.

I had to keep running.

Although I couldn't see any activity through the curtains framing my bedroom window, that didn't mean the gunman wasn't keeping a sharp eye on the street. I hesitated, but only for a moment more. What might might happen gave way to what happen gave way to what had had happened. I had to get help. Now, almost frantic to reach my destination, I redoubled myefforts. happened. I had to get help. Now, almost frantic to reach my destination, I redoubled myefforts.

I ran on.

To get help for Momma and Daddy. To escape the gunman. To get away from all the threatening letters, the sniper gunshots, the menacing midnight phone calls, the home invasions-and the devil who seemed to be behind so many of them.

But I'm getting ahead of the story.

Chapter 2

Once upon a Dream.

The snow drifted.

Thick plumes of whiteness blanketed the frozen streets of Bogalusa. Layer upon layer of soft-packed snowflakes settled in near silence, forming a quilt of feathery ice crystals. This quaint Louisiana town, nestled against the border of Mississippi, a scant forty miles north of the Gulf of Mexico, resembled a winter wonderland worthy of Santa himself.

Traditional red and green Christmas garlands hung from front doors. For some, windows and rooflines sported strings of flickering lights. Families huddled together with cups of hot chocolate while children eyed brightly colored packages beneath tree limbs adorned with ornaments and candy canes. Each in his or her own way was celebrating the birth of Christ.

I did not witness these happenings.

However, at age twenty-seven, my mother, Ramona Welch, did. Although Christmas was usually a time of joy for her, this particular year, 1963, was especially hard on her soul. She was as miserable as if she were living during the Great Depression. Chief among reasons for her heavy heart was the unmistakable fact that most of her friends were married and she, for reasons known only to G.o.d, remained unwed. A lonely old maid, as she wrote in her journal.

In every other aspect of her life, things were going great. Her career as a bookkeeper paid well. Her boss loved Momma's work ethic and sometimes flew her to New York to handle one of the company's accounts. She had a closet full of clothes, a new car, and until this year, lots of friends. Momma was not melancholy by nature. On the contrary, she was as effervescent as a freshwater stream.

But while her peers lived in apartments or houses of their own, she was still living with her parents-as well as with her recently divorced younger sister and her sister's four-year-old son. She longed for companions.h.i.+p, for independence, for someone to share the dreams of her life. For years she had prayed that she'd marry a preacher. That was the unmet desire of her heart.

Not that Momma wasn't close to her family. She was. Every workday she traveled home during her lunch break to watch As the World Turns As the World Turns with her mother, a routine as regular as the rising of the sun. They had each other, but she didn't have someone to call her own. Momma managed to mope through Christmas. Even with the new year fast approaching, bearing promises of new beginnings, Momma's otherwise upbeat, unquenchable spirit remained frozen in the grip of the winter doldrums. with her mother, a routine as regular as the rising of the sun. They had each other, but she didn't have someone to call her own. Momma managed to mope through Christmas. Even with the new year fast approaching, bearing promises of new beginnings, Momma's otherwise upbeat, unquenchable spirit remained frozen in the grip of the winter doldrums.

On New Year's Eve, the snow fell again. For three solid days, a heavy snowstorm dumped a pale shroud of white flakes until the roads became impa.s.sable. Momma had been trapped at home, unable to celebrate New Year's with old friends or coworkers. No shared fireworks. No colorful hats. No noisemakers. Midnight hugs and laughter were in short supply. She had to settle for watching Guy Lombardo and his band playing on television as the ball dropped in New York City.

As if to add insult, the blizzard crippled their phone service. A simple phone call to share the moment was out of the question. Momma never felt more isolated in her life. Needing to do something, anything, to take her mind off her loneliness, Momma, bundled up in mittens, boots, and a scarf, headed to the backyard to make her own company. Maybe she figured that, if G.o.d wouldn't bring her a man, she'd just have to make one for herself.

Hours later, she had hand-fas.h.i.+oned a life-size snowman tall enough to match her five-foot-seven frame. Even as pictures were taken of Momma standing with her arms draped around her make-believe man, an avalanche of frosty emotions swept over her. This snow creation, no matter how perfectly crafted, could never melt the chill within.

She was a single adult in a world made for couples.

Two days later, on January 3, 1964, her snowman vanished, vanquished by unseasonably warm, coastal winds. In the wake of his abrupt departure, her longing for a man, one who wouldn't melt with the snow, wash away with the rain, or disappear into the night, intensified.

The cold returned.

The first weekend of the New Year brought with it an intense gloom, thick as fog. Once again, Momma had nothing to do and no friends with whom to brighten her Sat.u.r.day night. Living across the street from the Warren Street Church of G.o.d, an intimate community church where she had wors.h.i.+ped since childhood, she decided to practice several songs on the organ. To Momma, music was like a treasured gem, one she polished to a s.h.i.+ne as often as possible.

Musically gifted and able to play a number of instruments by ear, Momma could make a piano, accordion, guitar, and saxophone sing. Those around her would often dance as she serenaded them with song. Whether playing a hymn, a folk ditty, or the boogie-woogie, she was the life of the party. Recognizing her talent, the pastor had asked her to serve as their organist.

Momma headed out the door with her energetic four-year-old nephew, Stevie, in tow. Much to Momma's dismay, her mother had asked-as a favor to her sister-for this spirited child to accompany her. Rather than sing the blues in protest, Momma figured she'd just have to drown out Stevie's cacophony of sound with the organ. That's all there was to it.

With no plans of meeting anyone, she wore a run-of-the-mill blouse, an ordinary skirt, loafers, and a scarf. Her long locks of chestnut brown hair were rolled tight in the clutches of twelve pink curlers. She made her way across the street, slipped into the vacant building, and cranked up the organ. With the exception of Stevie running between the pews, she was alone in her private sanctuary of song.

That's when the side door opened.

That's when he walked in.

A stranger.

The most handsome man she had ever laid eyes on.

The unknown guest paused just inside the sanctuary door, Bible in hand, standing tall. His shoulders, broad and st.u.r.dy, appeared as if they could carry the weight of the world without breaking a sweat. His brown eyes sparkled like perfectly matched quartz gemstones. He glanced around the room and then settled on the source of themusic.

Struck by his unexpected appearance, Momma lifted her fingers from the keyboard as if the keys had suddenly become hot to the touch. The music stopped and was instantly replaced by a chorus of questions. Who could this man be? Where was he from? What was he doing here, of all unlikely places? Had he been listening to her playing through the door? If so, for how long?

More to point, was he married? If he didn't have a wife, what kind of first impression was she making with her hair wrapped up in neat rows of pink rollers? Her face, with its otherwise fair complexion, flushed beet red at the thought and then reddened even more as a new reality dawned on her: What if this visitor, this perfect specimen of a man who'd just walked into her world, was single and a.s.sumed little Stevie was her child? Would he dismiss her out of hand as being married? Would he, like her snowman, vanish in the night just as quickly as he had materialized?

With long, smooth strides he spanned the distance between them. Momma rose from the organ, flattening out her skirt as she stood. Nothing could be done to conceal the rollers sitting atop her head, drawing attention like a lighthouse beacon. He offered his hand in greeting. She took it. Rather, his mitt-size hand engulfed her pet.i.te fingers, yet with care, as if handling a rare, delicate flower.

The newcomer introduced himself as evangelist Robert Nichols, from Mobile, Alabama. His smile, as wide as the Mississippi River, seemed to brighten the room as if a drape had been pulled back, admitting the morning sun. The fact that it was night only served to heighten the winsome beam he projected as he spoke. Robert explained that he would be holding revival services at the church starting the next day and continuing for a month of Sundays.

This was news.

This was exciting news, though she wondered why she hadn't heard he was coming. After all, she was the church organist, and her father was the choir director. Surely news of a revival would have found its way to her. Nevertheless, she was delighted, especially when she noticed Robert wasn't wearing a wedding ring. At the thought, her heart fluttered inside her chest like a b.u.t.terfly trying to escape. Dare she believe he might be the one she'd been praying for?

They chatted for several delightful minutes. The private exchange would have been perfect had it not been for Stevie's high-energy distraction. It was to be Robert's second revival series after leaving the Navy-those years in the military explained the confidence and strength he displayed. The first two weeks, Robert explained, were designed for the church members and would be followed by two weeks of messages for those outside the church family whom he hoped the regulars would invite in.

Before he excused himself, Momma offhandedly let him know that the impetuous child running circles around them was her nephew, Stevie, not her child. She, of course, wasn't married-for the record. After saying good-bye and giving her another firm handshake, Robert turned and left her standing there with her heart beating faster than she thought possible. He would be coming back. Tomorrow. For a revival.

She'd see him for four weeks-without rollers.

For the first time in ages, she floated home.

In spite of her best efforts to remain calm, Momma couldn't hide her excitement as she told her parents about the unexpected visitor. Her mother was quick to encourage Momma's hope that Robert might just be the guy for her, the answer to a decade of prayers. Like two schoolgirls comparing notes on the playground, they talked at length about Robert. Her dad, however, frowned during the whole discussion. Rather than launch into a lengthy discourse, his opinion was reduced to three words.

"Ramona, forget it."

During the first two weeks of the revival, it seemed her dad had been the more realistic of her parents. Robert was there to preach, not to date. His heart was burdened for the impact of the gospel message on those filling the pews. Although he was polite, Momma felt largely ignored. Night after night, Robert preached until his pressed white s.h.i.+rt was soaked around the collar. Riveted to her seat, she hung on to every word as if each syllable were a treasure. If, by chance, Robert made eye contact, her face glowed pinkish red as if a sunlamp had been turned on.

After services, her smile still beaming as if she were privy to a secret joy, Momma lingered with the crowd, hoping for a turn to express how much she got out of the message. Robert maintained a polite, professional distance. If Robert had feelings for Ramona, he managed to keep them close to his vest, causing Momma to wonder whether her feelings for him were a one-way street.

Maybe he was seeing a girl back home. If not, why didn't he warm to her? He was single. She was single. Both were of marrying age. Was there something undesirable about her? Maybe he would notice her if she were to dress more like her sister, Sue-the flashy dresser in the family. After years of practice, Sue knew how to use makeup to her advantage. But slathering on mascara and wearing hoop earrings that jingled when she walked wasn't Ramona's style.

Rather, her beauty treatment amounted to the discreet application of pancake makeup. She preferred dresses with gathered skirts, most of which she and her mother handmade themselves, and the practicality of loafers. She had no use for gold necklaces or s.h.i.+ny rings. Applying clear nail polish was about as glitzy as she cared to venture into the world of cosmetics.

For two weeks she talked late into the night with her mother about the mystery of attracting a man, this man in particular. Would it be such a bad thing to spice up her image? Should she ask her sister if she could borrow one of her store-bought dresses? What about fixing her hair differently? How about a splash of perfume?

Although sympathetic to the war of emotions raging within Ramona, her mother had little use for such window dressing. In her heart of hearts, Momma knew that her mother, her best friend and coconspirator in love, was right. To put on a show would be to become someone she was not. No, there was nothing wrong with her appearance. Robert would have to be drawn to her vibrant spirit and inner, G.o.dly glow. That's all there was to it.

Which is not to say Momma was unattractive. She wasn't. Like a rose, hers was a cla.s.sic beauty. Resolved to be the person G.o.d created her to be, refusing to apply so much as a layer of lipstick, she continued to trust and pray that the man who captivated her heart would one day accept her for who she was. Would that day ever come?

Maybe. Maybe not.

That decision was beyond her control.

The veil of uncertainty cloaking Robert's feelings parted fifteen days after their initial meeting. As was his practice, Robert concluded the evening service with an altar call. After talking and praying with those who had come forward, he lingered as the attendees retraced their steps to the parking lot. Much to Momma's surprise, Robert took her aside and, lowering his voice as if the room had been bugged, asked if she would like to go somewhere and get a cup of coffee.

These were the words she had yearned to hear. Her ears burned around the edges as he spoke. Did he have feelings for her after all? Could this be the beginning of something special? Of course she'd enjoy the pleasure of his company and said so-although she fought the temptation to appear too anxious. Desperation wasn't attractive, no matter how nicely she was dressed. Escorting her outside, this young evangelist-her tall, handsome knight-held the car door as she gathered her dress and slipped inside the chariot.

He circled around the front of the hood and appeared at his door. This was no dream, no wishful thinking. At the sound of the engine roaring to life, she remembered to breathe. They navigated all too quickly the short distance to the Acme Cafe, a local hot spot in the heart of Bogalusa. If she could, she would have gladly arm wrestled with Father Time to slow down the clock for the night.

They were seated across from each other in an oversize, avocado green and orange booth. The b.u.t.terflies in her heart fluttered with a renewed burst of energy when her feet accidentally brushed against his under the table. She hoped he didn't think she was being forward. Given that each booth was outfitted with a personal coin-operated jukebox, and grateful for a chance to pull the focus from the unintentional physical contact, Momma fished a dime from her purse and selected a favorite tune, "Danny Boy."

Waitresses buzzed from table to table, like bees scuttling between buds on a honeysuckle shrub, taking orders and refilling drinks. Considering Momma had been to the cafe many times before with friends, the harried pace and general pulse of the scene felt familiar but different. This time, rather than scan the faces in the room, Momma, feeling as charmed as Cinderella, gave her full attention to soaking in the view across the table.

Robert sipped coffee while Ramona drank in the moment.

For two weeks she had been early to every one of his revival services. Day by day she grew deeper in love with his heart, his boldness, and his voice of conviction. He was the real deal. A man of G.o.d. Sitting with her. Not only was he great looking up close, she found his gaze as warm and inviting as a spring day. She felt as if she could tell him anything-and yet she didn't want to say too much.

It was just coffee, right? Or was it?

She could have listened for hours. And she did.