Everyone Was Left Behind

by Steve Armstrong

  “I guess he must be really upset about Pastor Wilcox’s death,” Amanda said, watching his departure. “What are we supposed to do now?”

  Though Amanda played the keyboard, she wasn’t a singer. Charity knew she would struggle to lead the vocals by herself and feared the team would be lost without Jason’s guitar to hold them together.

  “Is there anyone else who plays guitar in our church?” Kevin asked from behind the drum set. Kevin played, but he had only begun learning a few months earlier.

  “No one who plays it well enough to lead worship,” Amanda replied.

  Hope cleared her throat from the front row. “I used to help with worship.” Hope, who left the worship team before Jason arrived, at one point led worship almost by herself. Charity glanced around the room to see how Hope’s offer would be received. Kevin appeared ambivalent; Amanda frowned.

  “We should let her try,” Charity said after a moment. “She’s a really good guitarist and singer. Just for today.”

  Amanda still seemed doubtful. Charity suspected the keyboardist’s misgivings were not music-related. Eventually, Amanda acquiesced. “Okay, I guess we can give her a shot.”

  “Does anyone have a guitar?” Charity asked.

  “I saw one in a room behind the sanctuary,” Kevin said. He ran to retrieve it.

  After he returned, Hope shouldered the guitar and stood next to her sister on stage. “I actually know ‘Jesus Messiah’ because it’s an older song we used to play back in the day.” She practiced the song’s chord progression. Hope rapidly shook off the rust as the team launched into another rendition of the well-worn praise song. Charity’s and Hope’s vocals blended nicely and the elder sister managed to keep her strumming on tempo. They went through the song once and even Amanda produced a smile by the end.

  “Okay, what song is next?” Hope asked, shuffling through the sheets of music on her stand.

  “What’s going on here?” Glenda Price had appeared in the back of the sanctuary and sounded displeased. “What is she doing up there?”

  Charity looked from her mom to her sister “Jason wasn’t feeling up to playing, so Hope volunteered to help out for today.”

  Glenda crossed her arms as she reached the altar of the church. “Don’t worry Mom, I won’t play any of my death metal, I promise,” Hope said, attempting to diffuse her mother’s obvious, though still unspoken objections. Hope didn’t really like death metal, but Glenda had a habit of calling any non-Christian music—whether it was rock, pop, hip-hop or EDM—death metal.

  “Absolutely not! Leading worship is only for the spiritual and you are not a spiritual person,” Glenda said.

  “Actually, I’m very spiritual,” Hope replied.

  “How can you be spiritual if you don’t believe in the Bible or live by its teachings? No, you would make a mockery of our worship today. Please get down from the stage,” Glenda commanded.

  For a few seconds, Charity feared Hope would fire back at her mom and spark an all-out mother-daughter war. But true to her earlier promise to Charity, Hope backed down. “Okay. If that’s what you want.” She placed the instrument gently onto a guitar stand and walked off the stage, sitting back down in the front row of seats.

  “I’ll go get your father. He’ll know what to do,” Glenda said. She disappeared into parts unknown and returned five minutes later with Gary Price. The worship team explained their plight to Charity’s dad, who suggested they instead do a few simple hymns that Charity and Amanda could easily lead. Kevin was excused from duty because the drums didn’t fit the song selections, especially without a guitar present.

  “Today should be more about prayer anyway,” Mr. Price said. “We have a lot to pray about.”

  Charity imagined the rest of the congregation would be too preoccupied with Pastor Wilcox’s death to care about a more sedate set list. Charity herself felt distracted and simply wanted to get through the service. However, chief in her mind was not the death of Graham Wilcox. Rather, she was more concerned about Jason and Theresa Watkins. She hoped that whatever disturbed both of them wasn’t what she feared it was.

  Chapter Ten

  By the time Detective Seitzer arrived at 2:55 pm, the church was half filled. Most of the congregants were Caucasian, trending toward middle-aged or older. The scattered conversations around the crowd were lost in the vaulted ceilings. Some people cried while others consoled them. No one paid much attention to the detective. He took a seat in the back row where he would be out of the way and Harrison could more readily find him.

  Though this was not the same congregation as when he and his wife attended, the scene around Seitzer felt eminently familiar. The cordial handshakes, tepid pats on the back, and manufactured solemnity brought Seitzer back to the time when he went to church regularly—an hour long transaction he paid to make his wife happy. Since she made him happy, it seemed like a small price. Now, just sitting in the sanctuary felt oppressive.

  Seitzer started to spot people he knew. Charity Price sat down on a stool on the stage, holding a microphone in one hand and a bottle of water in another. Jim Thompson circulated amongst the crowd, shaking hands and patting shoulders. Glenda Price embraced various other women, squeezing their arms. Nancy Thompson greeted people who were just arriving. At one point or another, each of these individuals made eye contact with Seitzer but quickly averted their gazes. The detective didn’t mind; he hadn’t come to make friends or solidify relationships.

  Five minutes after Seitzer took his seat, Harrison joined him. “You should’ve told me you were religious,” Seitzer said, staring at the front of the sanctuary.

  “I didn’t think it mattered.”

  “It matters.”

  Seitzer could feel Harrison looking back at him. “You don’t respect Christians much, do you?”

  “No, not particularly.”

  “Why?”

  “I have my reasons. Normally, it wouldn’t matter much to me that you’re a Christian. Everyone’s allowed their own beliefs or point of view. But on this case, it does matter. I need to know you’ll remain objective when it comes to evaluating Christians and what terrible things they might have done.”

  Harrison’s gaze grew skeptical. “Are you remaining objective?”

  Seitzer faced his partner. “My disapproval of Christians is based solely on objective reasons.”

  “Well, you don’t need to worry about me. I know what Christians are capable of.”

  “Do you? Because it seems like you’re more than willing to look for a demon in the shadows, which makes me think you reason more like these folks than you do like me.”

  “I just thought we should examine every lead. Isn’t that the way this is supposed to work?” Harrison looked away from the older detective. “And maybe you don’t know me quite as well as you think you do.”

  “We’ll see.”

  Gary Price, decked out in an off-the-rack suit and tie, climbed up the three shallow steps that led to the stage. He faced the crowd, his hands folded, surveying the crowd with a sympathetic expression.

  “Good afternoon, everyone. God is still on the throne, amen?” A ripple of murmurs passed through the congregation. Dissatisfied with the response, Gary Price repeated louder, “Amen?” which elicited a firmer, bolder response from the congregation. “He is good, loving and kind. He is all-powerful. His promises are always true and his word never fails. He reigns today, just like He reigned on Saturday. Everything is just as He has planned. Nothing has surprised Him. Death has not overcome him—not even the death of His servant, Pastor Graham. So let’s stand together and sing to our God who is still on the throne.”

  The detectives rose like the rest of people in the sanctuary. When Amanda played the first notes of the first hymn, a short brunette with green eyes and slightly curly hair filed into their row and stood next to Seitzer.

  “Hi, Detective, how are you?” she asked, her eyes glimmering.

  “Fine, Ms. Monroe. I guess I don’t have to ask why you�
�re here.” He felt his own energy level rise as she drew near him.

  Felicia Monroe was a journalist who worked for the regional Gannett newspaper based in Poughkeepsie. She had interviewed Seitzer in the previous year about the burgeoning heroin problem in the suburbs and several years earlier about a murder-suicide that rocked the community. Most recently, Monroe had written a feature story on Graham Wilcox’s rapture prediction. She possessed the kind of ambition and charm that made Seitzer believe he’d one day be watching her on CNN or reading her in the New York Times. And he also developed the acute sense that Felicia enjoyed flirting with him—unless she was just playfully mocking him.

  Her eyes lit up even more. “Are you kidding? Just by itself, a Pastor who gets shot the night he predicted the world was going to end is a sensational story. And then I just did a full page feature article on him and his church …” She trailed off, checking to see if anyone nearby could hear them, but she was speaking in a low voice so no one seemed to hear her. Besides, most of the people were at least four rows in front of them.

  “Well, I’m glad this murder is so helpful to you,” Seitzer said.

  She ignored his remark and turned her attention to Harrison. “Is this the new guy?”

  “Yes. John Harrison, this is Felicia Monroe. She’s a reporter.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Harrison said, extending his arm past Seitzer’s abdomen so he could reach her. “I read your article on Graham Wilcox and the church; it was fascinating.”

  “Thank you,” she said, offering her hand in reply. “Married?” she whispered to Seitzer, still holding onto Harrison’s hand.

  “Engaged. Lovely woman—a psychiatrist. Good with children. You’d hate her.”

  Felicia’s expression turned sour. “Figures between the two of you, he’s taken and you’re single.”

  “Well, that is the economy of things. He’s the new model, I’m refurbished.”

  She took off her wool coat, which seemed a bit too heavy for a warm, April day, and hung it from the back of her chair. “Did I miss anything interesting so far?”

  “Not really. Just the usual ‘God has other plans’ stuff.”

  “So what’s the story so far, Detective? Who’s your prime suspect?”

  Seitzer held up a finger. “You know I can’t discuss a developing case. But, maybe you can help us out.”

  “I’m always happy to help, particularly when information flows the other way, too.”

  “When there’s something to report, you’ll be the first person to know.” She smiled appreciatively at his assurance.

  The first song ended. Charity and Amanda shuffled through their music and prepared to sing the next song. When the young woman’s wispy voice invited the rest of the congregation to join her, Seitzer spoke again.

  “Anything about the church stand out to you when you did your feature?”

  “Hmm. Well, the thing that stood out to me most is that the Pastor was not the one who held all the power, which was what I expected. In some ways, he was more like a figurehead than anything else.”

  “So if Wilcox wasn’t in charge, who was?”

  “That guy.” Felicia pointed to Gary Price, who stood in the front of the church raising his hands up as he sang. “And that guy.” She gestured toward Jim Thompson, who mirrored Gary Jones’ posture. “Plus a few others. And definitely her.” Felicia located Glenda Price, standing a few rows back from her husband. “I called them and a few other couples in the church the ‘four families.’”

  “How’d you know they held the power?” Harrison asked.

  “Just the way people spoke about them, in these hushed, reverential tones. If I ever asked a question about the church, its mission, how it was structured, they always told me to ask Gary Price.”

  “Gary Price knows everything,” Seitzer said, remembering Elizabeth Wilcox’s words.

  “Yeah, pretty much. Even Graham Wilcox spoke that way. All those people were around way before Wilcox came onto the scene. In fact, I think Wilcox was only there for a year. Before he came, they had about twenty to thirty people and met in people’s homes. Then Wilcox came, he made the prediction, and things started to blow up. They got their building six months ago—bought it from some other church that went out of business—I think it was Presbyterian.”

  “If Wilcox was the reason the church grew, wouldn’t he have more power?” Harrison asked.

  “You’d think so, but it just didn’t work that way. For some reason, even though most people came because of the prediction, the four families retained their influence.”

  “Do you think the church is on the up and up? Did they genuinely believe what Wilcox was saying?” Seitzer asked.

  “Seemed like it. Some weren’t as into it as others. Like Elizabeth Wilcox.”

  The elder detective’s interest spiked at the mention of the widow’s name. “What was your impression of their marriage?”

  “She seemed like a good soldier. But she didn’t buy into her husband’s prophecy.”

  The congregation finished their last song and everyone sat down. Once again, Gary Price ascended the steps to the stage.

  “You should go interview Peter Wesley, from Community Bible Church. He’s the Pastor who Graham Wilcox worked under before he came to Holy Spirit Tabernacle,” Felicia whispered as Gary Price set his Bible down on the pulpit and turned his microphone on. “He can give you a different perspective on Graham Wilcox.”

  Seitzer nodded, terminating the conversation. The three could no longer converse without drawing attention to themselves.

  “Before we go into God’s word together, I’d like to allow people the opportunity to come forward with a word that God has put on their heart. Would anyone like to share something with us today?”

  No one spoke. A few people rotated their heads to see if anyone was getting up. Since no one moved, Detective Seitzer stood and slowly walked up the aisle. Before he had made it halfway, Jim Thompson also stood. Seitzer continued straight past Thompson to the pulpit, forcing Thompson to sit back down and wait for his turn.

  Felicia leaned toward Harrison and smiled at the young detective. “This should be interesting.”

  Seitzer leaned against the pulpit like an evangelist about to deliver the solemn gospel of repentance. He picked up the mic and spoke slowly and clearly. “Good afternoon. My name is Detective Daniel Seitzer of the Woodside PD. Back there is my partner, John Harrison. We’re investigating the death of Pastor Graham Wilcox. First of all, let me pass along my condolences to your congregation; I’m sure this is a difficult time for you. Secondly, I wanted to assure you that we are doing everything in our power to bring Pastor Wilcox’s killer to justice. We’ve already met some of you and there’s a good chance we’ll be asking more of you some questions about Pastor Wilcox and what happened the night of his death. To that end, I’d like to encourage anyone who possesses any information that could aid in the killer’s apprehension to please come and speak to us.

  “Lastly, if there is anything going on in your life or your church that you’d prefer others not know, I would beseech you to tell me. I can promise you that in the course of our investigation, we will uncover all of those secrets. It would be better for you if you get in front of that, believe me. As it says in that book that you hold so dear, ‘What you have said in the dark will be heard in the daylight, and what you have whispered in the ear in the inner rooms will be proclaimed from the roofs.’ Or something to that effect.”

  Seitzer paused and allowed his words to hang in the air. The crowd below appeared unnerved. Some people turned their eyes from him. Others fidgeted in their seats.

  “Thank you. We’ll be in the back of the church at the end of the service if anyone needs to speak with us. Mr. Thompson, I believe you were next.”

  Seitzer placed the mic back on its stand and strode off the stage, careful to make eye contact with as many people as possible on his way back to his seat. Jim Thompson resumed his approach to the pulpit, but G
ary Price jumped in before Thompson could reach it.

  “Thank you, Detectives, for your hard work on this matter. We value your sacrifice and service. We pray that God gives you the wisdom to track down Pastor Wilcox’s murderer as quickly as possible. Along those same lines, I would encourage you all to pass along any information to the police that you can. We are people who live in the light. We have nothing to hide.”

  Seitzer smirked at Price’s last remark. He reached his chair just as Price finished speaking. Felicia Monroe smiled at him; his partner grimaced.

  “You said ‘beseech,’” Felicity whispered.

  “Seemed like a good word to say behind the pulpit.”

  Harrison looked at his partner disapprovingly. “What was all that about? Why did you have to interrupt their service?”

  “Wanted to put the fear of God in them, so to speak,” Seitzer replied, “appeal to their consciences. You guys are supposed to have super sensitive consciences, right?”

  Harrison let it drop. After the brief disruption from Seitzer, a stream of people brought their word from God to the congregation. Their remarks were either overly sentimental or derivative. At one point, Felicia said softly, “We should start a drinking game where you take a shot every time someone says, ‘God’s will.’ By now, we’d all be passed out on the floor.”

  Gary Price preached a passionate and rambling message about hope, faith, and of course, God’s will. The crowd became increasingly responsive as he droned on. Frequent ‘amens’ punctuated his more fervent remarks. Scattered ‘hallelujahs’ began to complement his message. Before the service ended, Holy Spirit Tabernacle came alive. The keyboardist started playing and spontaneous prayer broke out. People shouted and spoke in foreign tongues that Seitzer had never heard before.

  “Here comes the crazy,” Felicia said. She didn’t even need to whisper anymore because her words were drowned out by the flood of exuberant entreaties to God Almighty.