Terror by Night

by Caffey, Terry,Pence, James H.

  Tommy’s coming.

  But the light didn’t move, and I soon realized that whatever it was, it wasn’t Tommy.

  As I sat watching that light, I knew it was decision time. If I stayed where I was, someone would find me dead in the morning. But if I pressed on toward that light, I could do one final thing for my family.

  I didn’t care if I died; in fact, I wanted to. I had no desire to go on living without Penny and the kids. But before I could join them, I had one last job to do. I hadn’t been able to save my family, but I could do something to bring closure to this horrible event. I was going to make sure that someone knew it was Charlie Wilkinson who had done this.

  I pulled myself to my feet and started walking.

  PUSH TO THE FINISH LINE

  I pushed forward with a resolve that I can’t explain or even understand. I only had to make it to Tommy and Helen’s. No farther. Once I identified the killers, I could drift away and join Penny and the kids, but that was not going to happen until my work was done.

  I resumed my pattern: Walk four or five steps. Sit down and rest. Crawl a few feet. Sit and rest. Then do it all over again. Always, always keeping my eyes fixed on the light.

  After a brief rest, I had just started walking again when the ground vanished beneath my feet. I lurched and fell face first into ice-cold water. For a few seconds the cold water took my breath away, leaving me sputtering and gasping for breath. I tried to grab something, anything, but all I got was a handful of mud. Finally, my mind cleared enough for me to understand what had happened.

  I had fallen into the creek that crossed our land about two-thirds of the way to Tommy’s property. At the moment, it held only about a foot of water, but the drop was nearly four feet. After a big rain, that creek could quickly become a rushing torrent. If it had been full and flowing that night, I probably would have drowned. As it was, that cold water did me a favor. It shocked my system and gave it a wake-up call. Even so, I had to climb a four-foot embankment to get out of the creek. No easy task with only one functioning arm. If I hadn’t already made up my mind to identify the murderers, I might have given up and died right there.

  In the pitch-blackness, I felt around on the side of the bank. I found some tree roots sticking out a few feet to my right. I grabbed hold of the roots and used them to pull myself up. Then I dug my fingers into the ground beyond the creek and clawed my way out. When my torso was out of the creek bed, I fell forward and lay there, my legs still hanging down into the creek.

  After a minute or two, I began to pull again with my good arm. I dug into the dirt and grass and slowly inched the rest of my body out. When I was finally on dry ground, I lay there, gasping and trying to catch my breath. I don’t know how long I stayed there, but eventually I got to my feet and started to walk again. But I must have stood up too quickly, because my head swam and I collapsed. I lay there awhile longer, then got to my feet again, a little slower this time.

  From the time I crawled out of the creek, I never looked back at my house again. I knew that if I did, I’d lose hope and give up. Looking ahead, I still couldn’t see anything. There was no moonlight. All I could see was the flickering light coming from Tommy and Helen’s, and I knew that was my goal.

  I continued to stumble and crawl forward, but confused and disoriented as I was, I didn’t realize that I was moving in a diagonal line toward the road and away from Tommy and Helen’s house. When I hit another barbed-wire fence, panic surged through me. I was so close, but the farther I went, the more difficult each obstacle became. I didn’t know if I could manage to climb this fence.

  I could see the faint outline of Tommy and Helen’s house now. The light was coming from their front window—a night-light or something. I was almost at the finish line. I couldn’t give up, not when I was this close. Desperately weak, I somehow managed to climb through the barbed wire and almost immediately ran into another barrier.

  Tommy and Helen’s front gate stood open and pushed back against the barbed-wire fence I’d just climbed through. The gate wasn’t latched, and I could easily have pushed it forward and gotten past it, but my mind wasn’t working. All I knew was that here was another fence to get past. I felt along the gate and stumbled toward the right. Eventually I found the metal-pipe fence to which the gate was attached. I leaned over and climbed through the pipes, finally feeling concrete under my bare feet.

  Tommy and Helen’s driveway followed a gentle upward slope with a curve to the right. Under normal circumstances, it is an easy walk. But at that moment, it might as well have been Mount Everest. That last little stretch would be the hardest of my entire journey.

  Then I felt as if I had a drill sergeant shouting in my ear: “Go on! Keep going! You can do this! Don’t quit! You can make it!”

  With one last burst of determination, I fastened my eyes on the front door, leaned forward, and staggered up the driveway. Every step was torture, but every step also brought Tommy and Helen’s house more clearly into view.

  My legs felt like lead, but I would not stop. Somehow I knew that if I sat down, I’d never get up again.

  It took the last ounce of strength I had left to make it the length of that driveway. And when I reached the Gastons’ front door, I collapsed. I couldn’t have stood up again if I’d tried.

  But my job wasn’t finished yet. It was the middle of the night, and Tommy and Helen were asleep. I had to wake them up and tell them what happened.

  I lay on my side and lifted my good arm. I didn’t have the strength to make a fist and knock; it was all I could do to lift my arm. I flopped my elbow and forearm against the door, hoping the sound would be loud enough. I don’t know how many times I had to throw my arm against the door, but I thought Tommy would never come.

  Finally the porch light came on, and he opened the door.

  “Oh, my God. Helen, come quick!”

  Tommy came out and bent down to talk to me. “What happened?”

  “We need help,” I said. “Charlie came and shot us all.”

  “What about Penny and the kids?” he asked.

  A tidal wave of grief swept over me.

  “They’re all dead.”

  Chapter 6

  911

  My strength is dried up like a potsherd,

  And my tongue cleaves to my jaws;

  And You lay me in the dust of death.

  —PSALM 22I 5

  “DON’T LEAVE ME, MAMA. I think I’m going to die. Please don’t leave me.”

  Helen Gaston’s soft, reassuring voice broke through my hysteria. “Don’t worry, Terry. I won’t leave you.”

  Tommy tried to help me to my feet, but I had no strength left. I couldn’t move.

  “Helen, help me get him inside.”

  They got underneath each arm, lifted me up, and dragged me into the house.

  Maybe it was the warmth of the house. Maybe it was because I was safe now. Whatever the reason, as soon as I was inside, the pain kicked in. Up till then, I’d felt very little pain, but now it was almost as if someone had turned on a switch in my brain. All at once I felt sharp, burning pain all through my body. And I felt cold.

  Seconds later, I heard Tommy talking to the 911 operator. His voice was calm and controlled. I listened, wondering how long it would take for help to get there.

  “This is Tommy Gaston. I’ve got a man that’s been shot. He’s out here at my house now. . . . Okay.”

  A few seconds passed. Then he started all over. “This is Tommy Gaston. I’ve got a man that’s been shot out here at my house. . . . Yes.” Tommy tried to give the operator his address but stumbled at the county-road number. Helen helped him.

  “Right. Well, yes, it’s Rains County. That’s Alba, actually.”

  Then it sounded almost like Tommy lost the connection.

  “Hello?” A few seconds’ pause. “Hello! . . . Yes. . . . I’m sorry I can’t—yes!”

  Tommy was beginning to sound frustrated.

  “I don’t know. Just a little b
it ago. And we’ve also got a house on fire out here. . . Yes, he’s right here with me. I don’t know any more details. I’ve got to hang up and help him.”

  The longer Tommy stayed on the line, the more frustrated he sounded.

  “Yes, he’s bleeding. . . . Yes, he’s awake. . . . I don’t know. I don’t know, but I’ve got to go. Just get somebody out here. . . . I don’t know! He’s bloody all over. . . . No! I don’t know.”

  I lay there bleeding, and Tommy wanted desperately to help me. Finally, he gave up on the 911 call and hung up the phone. “Get him a towel, Helen—Helen, get him a towel.”

  They brought me towels and tried to stop the bleeding, but there were just too many wounds.

  A few minutes later, my former pastor, Brother Wayne Wolfe, and his wife arrived. Tommy had called him right after he called 911. I was disoriented and in pain. I don’t remember much, other than that they all looked and sounded very worried.

  “Hang in there, Terry,” they told me. “Help is on the way.”

  Minutes later I found myself surrounded by EMTs and sheriff ’s deputies, all asking me questions at the same time.

  “Mr. Caffey, can you hear me?”

  “Who did this?”

  “Where does it hurt?”

  “Did you see your assailant?”

  “Can you feel this?”

  Pain surged through me when the paramedics lifted me onto the gurney. I screamed.

  The EMTs wheeled me out of the house and toward the ambulance. Every bump and jostle shot a fresh wave of pain through me.

  When I was in the back of the ambulance, Detective Almon from the Rains County Sheriff ’s Department introduced himself to me.

  “I think I’m going to die,” I told him.

  “Who did this?” he asked.

  “Charlie Wilkinson.”

  I struggled to concentrate through the haze of pain that clouded my mind.

  “I woke up and saw somebody standing in my bedroom with a gun. I think it was a shotgun. When I put my arm up to shield us, he shot me. After that, I blacked out. When I woke up, I heard my oldest son, Matthew, yelling out, ‘Charlie!’ Charlie Wilkinson is my daughter’s ex-boyfriend. Then I heard more gunshots. I passed out after that.

  “When I woke up again, there was fire everywhere. I tried to get upstairs to save the children, but I couldn’t get to them. After that I got out of the house through the bathroom window and went over to Tommy and Helen Gaston’s.”

  “Are you sure it was Charlie? Did you see him, or are you just speculating?”

  “I saw him,” I said. “And I heard Matthew shout his name.”

  I heard another voice say, “I know Charlie.”

  Seconds later, the ambulance door closed, and we were on our way.

  EMERGENCY ROOMS

  The ambulance tore down our rough county road, siren blaring. The ride was bumpy, the pain excruciating. I groaned.

  The paramedic tried to reassure me. “Hang in there,” he said. “We’ll be there soon.”

  I looked at the ceiling and tried to find something to focus on, some way of distracting myself. I wanted to let go and cry, but I couldn’t. Not in front of this stranger. Finally, I decided to focus my attention on the siren. It was the only way I could maintain control. I’d never felt so alone in my life.

  They’re all gone. I’ve got no one to help me get through this. No one.

  I don’t know how long it took us to get there, but once the ambulance arrived at the Hopkins County Memorial Hospital in Sulphur Springs, the relative quiet of the ambulance ride exploded into chaos.

  They bumped and jostled me again as they pulled the gurney from the ambulance and pushed me into the emergency room. More pain.

  The ER felt like a refrigerator. Again people surrounded me, all talking at once.

  “Why’d you bring him here?” I heard a doctor say to one of the EMTs. “We’re not a trauma center.”

  “This was the closest place,” he responded. “We didn’t know where else to take him.”

  They wanted to CareFlight me to Dallas but couldn’t because it was too foggy.

  “He needs to be at a trauma center,” the doctor repeated. “We’ll stabilize him and send him on.”

  “Mr. Caffey, can you hear me?”

  I nodded.

  “We need to get you to a trauma center where they can take care of you. Do you want to go to Dallas or Tyler?”

  I don’t remember whether I said, “Tyler” or “I don’t care.” They sent me to Tyler.

  Once the medical team in Sulphur Springs had finished patching me up, I felt myself being wheeled out to the ambulance again, this time for the trip to Tyler. An officer rode with me in the ambulance and questioned me some more.

  When we arrived at the East Texas Medical Center in Tyler, the chaos started all over again. Doctors and nurses moving around and talking to one another. I couldn’t make out most of what they were saying. Then came another round of the same questions I had already answered.

  As the doctors and nurses were talking to one another and working on me, I heard another voice.

  “Mr. Caffey, I’m a detective with the Tyler Police Department. We’re going to do some swabs on your hands and take some swabs from the inside of your jaw. Do you have any problem with that? Is that okay? Do you agree to that?”

  It was all I could do to talk. My sinus cavities were full of blood, and I couldn’t breathe through my nose. I said, “Yes,” but my voice was barely a whisper.

  “Can you tell me if you’ve been around a gun tonight?”

  “No.”

  “You haven’t been around a gun. Have you handled a gun?”

  “No.”

  “You haven’t handled one either?”

  I shook my head.

  “But you were shot, correct?”

  I nodded, “Uh-huh.”

  “And you haven’t handled a gun at all in the last twenty-four hours or so?”

  “No.”

  “We’d like to take some scrapings under your fingernails. Is that okay?”

  “Yes, that’s okay.”

  “I know you’ve relived this several times, but can you tell me so I’ll know what happened?”

  I went through the whole story again but wondered why I had to keep repeating it. My family is dead. Why do they keep asking me all these questions? Am I a suspect?

  I wondered why they weren’t out looking for the ones who killed my family. I was angry, confused, grief-stricken, and in incredible pain. All I knew was that I wanted the questions to stop.

  In the relative calm after the officers had left, I noticed the awful taste of blood and gunpowder. I wanted so badly to get it out of my mouth, but they’d told me that I couldn’t have any water.

  Eventually, a doctor came to explain the nature of my injuries and what the medical team was going to do. To my surprise, the news was good, at least as far as my injuries were concerned. According to the doctor, several of my wounds were “clean through” shots, with clear entry and exit wounds. Charlie or his accomplice had shot me at least twice in the back. None of the bullets—not even the one that struck me in the face—hit any major organs or blood vessels. A few came very close, and if any of those had been even a fraction of an inch different in one direction or another, I probably would never have gotten off the bedroom floor. One bullet lodged in my shoulder and another in my rotator cuff. They would have to take those out surgically.

  The shot that hit my upper right arm had damaged a nerve. That explained the numbness on my right side and my useless right arm. The doctor said that they were going to go in and repair it. I would probably regain the use of my arm, but he couldn’t be sure whether it would be total or partial.

  The bullet that hit the right side of my face traveled at an angle through my sinus cavities, broke both cheekbones, and amazingly, exited through my left ear canal. They would do surgery on Sunday to repair that damage. For at least four weeks after the shootings, I wasn’t allo
wed to blow my nose. And for some time when I’d clean my left ear, the cotton swab would come out dark with gunpowder residue. But even with such a severe injury, my hearing was undamaged.

  Looking back, I can see God’s hand in preserving my life, but that’s not how I felt about it then. All I knew was that I was alone. My wife and children were dead. Everything I owned had been destroyed. And now the doctor had told me that I was going to survive.

  Most people would have considered that good news.

  I did not.

  I couldn’t face life by myself.

  “Mr. Caffey,” a nurse said, “we’re going to give you some morphine to help you with the pain.”

  I nodded.

  They injected the morphine into my IV tube. Seconds later, my pain dissolved, and everything went black.

  Chapter 7

  Critical

  He has filled me with bitterness,

  He has made me drunk with wormwood.

  He has broken my teeth with gravel;

  He has made me cower in the dust.

  —LAMENTATIONS 3:I5-I6

  DESPITE THE HORRORS of the night, Saturday dawned with a glimmer of hope.

  Shortly before the Tyler police detective interviewed me the night before, my sister Mary had come over to my bed and said, “Terry, we’ve got good news.”

  Good news? How could there be any good news?

  “Erin made it out of the house. She’s alive.”

  Erin is alive?

  Because the doctors had decided to wait until Sunday to do surgery, they kept me sedated the rest of Saturday. Much of the day was a fog, but as I slipped in and out of consciousness, I felt hopeful for the first time since all of this had started. Somehow my daughter had escaped that burning house. Maybe I still had something to live for.

  In one of my more lucid moments I asked Mary, “What happened? How did Erin get out?”

  “They’re saying she escaped from a second-story window and then ran and hid in the woods.”

  “Where is she?”

  “They took her to the hospital in Sulphur Springs to get her checked out,” said Mary. “As soon as she’s done, they’ll bring her down here to see you.”