Everyone Was Left Behind

by Steve Armstrong

  “We have faith that God will protect us,” Glenda Price assured him.

  “I don’t share your faith,” Seitzer said. The detective could’ve ignored the prayer warrior, but he didn’t feel like conceding anything to her on that particular Sunday.

  The form of a familiar female approached the detective. As she drew nearer, Seitzer called out, “What brings you by, Ms. Monroe?”

  The young woman appeared delighted. “First service back in the church after their pastor was killed? I figured that would be worth a feature. I didn’t realize I was going to get this kind of show, though! Did someone call in a bomb threat?”

  “Just a precaution,” Seitzer replied, instinctively concealing the full truth from the reporter.

  Felicia narrowed her eyes at Seitzer. “Doubtful. Something must have happened to bring in the bomb squad.”

  “Well, I guess you’ll have a front-row seat to find out what happens.”

  “Oh come on, Detective! You’re not going to tell me anything about what’s going on?”

  Seitzer just walked away. More people from the church had now arrived on the scene. A few families saw the milieu of police activity and decided to skip church for the week, but most stayed. Some murmured while the police scoured the building and others formed makeshift prayer circles to invoke the name of Jesus for protection.

  Outside the clusters of church-goers, Seitzer spotted Elizabeth Wilcox, gathered with her parents and children. They remained in their backyard, dressed in their Sunday best. No one from Holy Spirit Tabernacle even approached them. Seitzer made eye contact with Elizabeth a few times; once, she smiled slightly at him.

  The K-9 officer emerged from the building with his dog and gave Seitzer the all clear.

  “Alright Mr. Price—your congregation can enter now,” Seitzer said.

  “Hallelujah!” Glenda Price said, clapping her hands. “Our God is our deliverer!”

  Seitzer paused long enough to look askance at her before continuing. “We’re going to keep about half a dozen cops here, just in case someone tries something today.”

  “We would welcome the opportunity for some of Woodside’s finest to hear the gospel of Jesus Christ,” Gary Price said.

  Fittingly, the three Prices were the first civilians to enter the church that day, though Charity still seemed apprehensive about being there. The rest of the congregation filed in behind them. Soon the church was full of activity.

  The Wilcoxes were the final people to enter the church.

  “Everything okay, Detective?” Elizabeth asked. Her father glared at Seitzer from behind his daughter.

  “As far as we know, it is,” Seitzer said. He looked down at Abigail and Titus. Titus’ gaze faced the ground while Abigail stared up at her mother. “Are your kids going to be okay?” he asked softly so they were less likely to hear.

  She looked down at them with concern. “I think so. Titus really wanted to come. It had to happen sometime.”

  Seitzer nodded and the Wilcoxes entered the church. Now that the crowd was gone, Seitzer motioned for Harrison and the other four officers to gather around him.

  “Glass and Kelly, you guys hang out in the back of the church. Watch the woods. Watson and Miller, you stay out in front of the church. Harrison and I will be inside, just in case one of our church-goers surprises us. Everyone knows who we’re looking for, right—Ray Browning and Jason Watkins?”

  The four officers nodded.

  “Okay, let’s go.”

  The police took their stations. But before Seitzer entered the church to assume his assignment, one final straggler approached the church. The red hair was a dead giveaway.

  Seitzer almost smiled. “Hello, Ms. Price.”

  The girl smiled back. “Good morning, Detective.”

  “I thought you’d gone back to college.”

  Hope Price stopped when she reached Seitzer. She crossed her arms, clad in a skirt and sweater too thin for the cold May morning air. “I did go back. But my sister asked me to come today. She was scared.” The college student shuddered, probably more a reaction to the climate than because of any prevailing fear about being there, though she still asked, “Do you think we’ll be safe in there?”

  “We’re doing everything we can to make sure you are.”

  “Thank you.” Hope nodded and then entered the church. The detective followed her in as the music began to play.

  Seitzer joined Harrison and Felicia Monroe in the back of the church. Hope Price stood directly in front of them. Almost as soon as the service began, Seitzer wished he’d positioned himself outside so he didn’t have to endure another round of emotional worship and interminable preaching. Without Watkins on guitar again, the music portion remained relatively sedate. People raised their hands up as they joined Charity Price in song, but no ecstatic speech marked the parishioners that morning. Either they just needed to warm up, or the police activity had dampened their spirits.

  As Gary Price took the pulpit, Seitzer surveyed the crowd. Everything seemed normal. No one in the congregation exhibited any body language that suggested he or she was considering a violent act. Rather, everyone watched Price expectantly. The middle-aged man set his Bible on the lectern and stared out into the church. For a moment or two, he said nothing. He shuffled his feet and stretched his fingers. This was the uncertain Gary Price that Seitzer had seen during his questioning of the family the day after Wilcox died. The man’s eyes indicated he was reconsidering his words. Then Price turned his gaze to the detective. At least, that was what Seitzer thought at first until he realized Price was staring at his eldest daughter. The preacher exhaled and paced across the stage.

  “Sometimes you have one message prepared only to realize God has something different for you to say.” He sighed again as if the word God had given him now carried with it a heavy burden. “During the last year, our church got carried away with a message that we all hoped was true—that Jesus was coming back. But it didn’t happen. We were wrong. And as a leader, I should’ve known better than not to challenge this message from the very beginning. I should’ve realized that no one knows the date or time except the Lord himself. But I wanted it to be true. Many years ago, I lost my oldest daughter. And I was hoping that I would see her again. Because of that, and because I wanted to be done with this world full of suffering, I believed the message.

  “And as we got carried away with this message, we didn’t deal with some circumstances happening in the church.” Price looked directly at Jim Thompson. “We need to tell them, brother.”

  From his position across the church, Seitzer could see Thompson bow and nod his head. Thompson rose and walked to the front of the church. Without pausing once, he unfolded the sad story of losing his business and home and lying about donating the money to the church. He asked for the church’s forgiveness. No one moved for a few moments afterward. Finally, a younger man who was apparently some sort of teacher in the church came forward and embraced Thompson. Soon, a cluster of people gathered around him and his wife, hugging them and praying for them. Tears began to flow.

  More people came forward. Thompson’s confession prompted others to air their sins in front of the congregation, too. Nothing that egregious came out—certainly no one copped to killing Wilcox. Some confessed the troubles in their marriages; others revealed their distant lives from God. Within another fifteen to twenty minutes, it seemed no one remained in their seats. Everyone had migrated to the front where they huddled with each other and prayed fervently. All was forgiven.

  The raw, naked emotion troubled Seitzer. He wanted to leave but he remained. All he could imagine was his ex-wife standing in the same fashion, offering a similar plea for forgiveness. What would he have said to her, especially if she stood before him with the man she left him for, holding the baby she had always wanted? Seitzer told himself the grace that people in Holy Spirit Tabernacle offered one another was temporary and superficial. It wouldn’t last. Whatever they confessed that day would one da
y resurface and be held against them.

  Just when Seitzer thought the parade of forgiveness was about to wind down, Gary Price spoke to the crowd again. “I’ve done more than fail as a leader in this church—I’ve failed as a father. You were right, Hope. Maybe about everything. Please forgive me.”

  The man gazed straight at his daughter. Seitzer thought that she would be the one person who would resist this public display of mercy that carried with it the slightest sense of theater. She would stay back and reserve judgment until lasting change could be demonstrated, the detective was sure about it. But the girl stood up and walked forward, right into an embrace with her father that was quickly joined by her mother. Charity remained distant from them until Hope pulled her into her family’s arms.

  Seitzer shook his head.

  “What’s the matter, Dan? You don’t like this?” Felicia Monroe whispered, leaning toward Seitzer. “Too much positive emotion for you?”

  Seitzer pursed his lips together. “I don’t trust it. It’s too immediate, not thought through enough,” he said, even as he saw a tear run down Hope Price’s cheek.

  “It’s going to make a great human interest story. Sure, it’s not a bomb going off or some sort of shootout between cops and a murder suspect, but it will do. A church pulling together after its pastor was murdered. People admitting their mistakes, forgiving each other—what’s not to love?”

  “It’s not real. I don’t care how many tears are shed. A confession in front of everyone is one thing, but taking back your mistakes day after day, living the difference is much harder. And the stuff they’re confessing is so minimal. Where’s the substance abuse and sex addictions? I think they’re holding back.”

  The reporter laughed. “I’m sorry they’re such mediocre sinners. Anyway, I don’t need it to be real or last forever to write a good story—I just need this moment. It doesn’t matter for me what they do in the future.”

  There was one member of Holy Spirit Tabernacle who did not budge the entire time: Elizabeth Wilcox. She remained seated next to her parents, her hands folded on her waist—a portrait of female propriety. People all around her streamed into the aisles, but she remained a spectator. Every once in a while, she glanced at her watch, though she continued to pay attention to what happened up front, even if it didn’t seem to move her at all.

  Seitzer turned his gaze to Harrison, who impassively watched the Christians gather at the altar in the front.

  “I suppose you think this is some great testament to the grace of God or whatever?”

  Harrison smiled slightly. “It does have a certain sense of redemption to it.”

  “Fake redemption from imaginary or meaningless sins.”

  “Most sin is mundane. Sure, sometimes it boils over to become adultery or murder, but most of the time it’s just a little bit of selfishness, pride—stuff like that. We believe we need to be saved from that too, just as much as we do the big stuff.”

  Seitzer shook his head and returned his attention to the front of the church. Eventually, the tears subsided and Gary Price closed the church in prayer. He thanked God for the movement of the Spirit that made all of the confession and reconciliation possible. After his benediction, Felicia Monroe dispersed into the crowd to interview people and capture their perspectives on what transpired during the lengthy service.

  “I guess maybe the threat was just a dud,” Harrison said as people shook hands and conversed in the various aisles of the church. “Maybe whoever it was saw all of the police around and thought better of it.”

  “Maybe. But it’s not quite over yet. Keep your eyes open,” Seitzer replied. The detective, feeling overwhelmed by the display of emotion in the church coupled with its stifling atmosphere, retreated outside for some fresh air. The two officers who had remained outside during the service informed him that the street had been quiet.

  Gradually, others trickled outside the church. Elizabeth Wilcox was one of the first. She emerged outside accompanied by Titus and Abigail and seemed just as relieved as Seitzer to be finished with the service.

  “Hello, Detective.”

  “Mrs. Wilcox.”

  Charity Price came out of the building arm in arm with her sister; Hope was beaming while Charity’s face remained stoic. Once Abigail saw Charity, she ran off from her mom to go see her babysitter. Titus sauntered after her. Elizabeth watched their movements before turning her gaze back to Seitzer.

  “Remember how you told me last week that I shouldn’t leave town?” she asked. Seitzer nodded. “Does that still hold true? I feel like I need to get away from Woodside. I was thinking of staying with my parents for a while before I decide what to do next. Would that be okay?”

  Seitzer stared at her. She must have interpreted his silence as suspicion, because she added, “I won’t be far away. So if you do need me for further questioning, I’ll be within driving distance. I don’t really feel safe here. I mean, you’ve been great about protecting us, but you can’t stake out our house forever, right?”

  The detective remained quiet. Finally, annoyed with his own paralysis, he managed to reply. “I suppose that would be okay. Just check in with me before you go.”

  She gave him a half smile. “Thanks. I will.”

  “Hey, Seitzer!” Watson, one of the officers positioned in front, shouted. Seitzer turned toward his comrade. “Isn’t that the guy we were supposed to be watching for?”

  The officer pointed down the street where a tall, white male observed the proceedings at the church. From a distance, it sure looked like Jason Watkins. Seitzer stepped forward past the two officers, who followed just behind him. At first, Watkins didn’t seem to notice their progress; he remained transfixed on Elizabeth Wilcox. Seitzer made it within ten feet of Watkins before the guitarist realized the police were closing in on him. A panicked expression flooded his face.

  “Jason Watkins?” Seitzer asked. “We need to talk.”

  The man turned to run. The detective, used to running both long and short distances, immediately took off after Watkins, who didn’t make it far before Seitzer closed in enough to tackle him. Seitzer pushed his knee between Watkins’ shoulder blades and pulled the man’s wrists behind his back so he could fasten handcuffs around them.

  “You need to stop running,” Seitzer said in a low voice. “The more you run, the guiltier I think you are.”

  “I didn’t kill Pastor Graham. I just wanted to talk to her,” Watkins pleaded.

  “Who? Elizabeth Wilcox?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t know if I can let you do that since you’re the prime suspect in her husband’s murder.” Seitzer seized Watkins by the wrist and pulled him up.

  “I didn’t kill Pastor Wilcox!”

  “So then why did you skip town?”

  “I was trying to find my wife. I did a stupid thing and I was trying to make it right,” Watkins said as Seitzer pushed him toward the nearest patrol car, parked right in front of the church.

  Elizabeth Wilcox, who had been watching the scene unfold, told Charity Price to take her kids inside the parsonage. Charity, joined by Hope, complied and led the children toward the house. Elizabeth made her way over to Watkins and Seitzer. The handsome man and beautiful woman stared at each other; neither’s expression conveyed any sense of desire. Watkins appeared ashamed and Wilcox seemed confused.

  “I’m sorry, Elizabeth. What I suggested was wrong. I should never have said what I did in my last message to you.”

  Elizabeth frowned. “Jason, I never got your message, not until the detectives showed it to me,” she said softly, so the gathering crowd couldn’t hear what she said.

  Bewilderment spread across his face. “But you responded!”

  The widow shook her head slowly. “If I did, I must have been asleep. Or something. I swear I never consciously sent you a reply.”

  “Asleep? No, you weren’t asleep. You said …” Watkins trailed off as the confusion shifted to despair.

  “I’m confuse
d too,” Elizabeth said. “I don’t remember reading your message or replying. I’ve been on this sleeping medication lately, and feel like I’ve been doing weird things.”

  Seitzer watched the conversation transpire before his eyes and still wondered if the widow was telling the truth. Whatever the case, she had kept her story consistent when it came to the last text messages from her phone.

  “Did you mean what you said in the message?” Watkins asked as Seitzer opened the rear passenger side door of the cruiser.

  Elizabeth exhaled. “I only thought of you as a friend.”

  Her feelings about him should have been immaterial to Watkins now, but by the look on the guitarist’s face, Seitzer could tell the answer crushed him.

  Just before the detective started to push Watkins into the car, he noticed Charity Price standing five feet away. Somehow, she had crept forward while Jason Watkins struggled to wrap his mind around what had happened with Elizabeth Wilcox. The widow realized the teenager was there, too.

  “Charity, I thought you were with Titus and Abigail?”

  “Hope is with them,” Charity replied, without looking at Elizabeth Wilcox. Her eyes rested on Jason Watkins.

  “Is something wrong, Ms. Price?” Seitzer asked.

  “I sent the message to Jason,” she said.

  Elizabeth and Seitzer traded mystified glances.

  “You sent the messages from my phone?” Elizabeth asked.

  The young girl nodded.

  “Why did you do that, Charity?” Elizabeth asked. Her voice clearly contained tones of exasperation, since those messages had caused so many problems for the widow over the last week. Still, her voice retained affection toward the girl which prevented her question from spiraling into outright anger.

  Charity took out her phone. “We have the same kind of phone, so that night I took your phone home by mistake. So when Jason sent the message in the middle of the night, I thought he was texting those things to me.”