Terror by Night

by Caffey, Terry,Pence, James H.

  I nodded, grateful for the news. I can’t even describe how good it felt to know that Erin had survived.

  But as I lay there, I began to puzzle over what Mary had told me.

  How could Erin have escaped from a second-story window? She couldn’t have escaped from her own room. I had installed an air conditioner in her window and had anchored it with screws. She would have needed a drill to get it out. Maybe she got out through the boys’ window.

  Another question began to nag. Mary had told me that Erin ran into the woods and hid. If so, why didn’t she hear me out there? Why didn’t she come and find me?

  The questions bothered me, but the morphine kept me from spending much time or energy thinking about them. Besides, the important thing was that Erin had survived. I couldn’t wait to see her. We’d get through this together.

  I relaxed and drifted off to sleep.

  SHATTERED

  “Where’s Erin?” I asked. “Is she here yet?”

  “No,” said Mary. “But she’s on her way. She’ll be here soon.”

  “Who’s got her?”

  “She’s with her grandparents.”

  I nodded. That was good. Larry and Virginia Daily were Penny’s parents. Erin had always been close to them. They’d be able to comfort each other.

  It’s difficult to maintain any sense of time when you’re under heavy sedation, but I remember waiting and waiting, expecting Erin to come. Finally, after about an hour and a half, I asked Mary, “Where are they? Is something wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong,” she said soothingly. “Try to relax.”

  I did try, but I wanted to see my daughter. I wanted to compare notes and see if she could shed some light on what had happened. Maybe she had seen something that I hadn’t, knew something I didn’t.

  As time passed, I noticed that people were acting strange around me. They avoided me and wouldn’t make eye contact. When well over two hours had passed since Mary had told me that Erin was on her way, I asked again.

  “Mary, what’s going on?”

  I could see hesitancy in her expression. There was clearly something she didn’t want to tell me.

  “They told me not to tell you,” she said, her voice softening. “They said it would get you upset. You’re still critical, and they don’t want anything to upset you.” She paused and took my hand. “I can’t go on seeing you like this. You have a right to know.”

  “Know what?”

  Mary paused again.

  “Just tell me, Mary. Just tell me. What’s going on?”

  Sadness etched her face as she said, “They’ve arrested Erin. They’re saying she was involved.”

  In that instant my fragile hope shattered into a million pieces, and I exploded. “No way!” Grief, fury, frustration, confusion, and a host of other emotions boiled up, all at the same time, and I screamed, “There is no way she was involved in this. No way! No way! No way!”

  For a few short hours, I had had my daughter back. Now I felt as if I had lost her again.

  I felt hollow as I lay in the ICU, awaiting surgery to remove the bullets that were still inside me and to repair the damage to my face. In less than twenty-four hours I had lost everything. My house was gone, along with all its contents. That didn’t mean much by itself. Things could be replaced. But I could never replace the children I’d lost—and I could never replace my Penny.

  PENNY

  Our marriage wasn’t arranged, but our first meeting certainly was— although I didn’t find out till later.

  I was in my early twenties and had been living on my own for a couple of years when I dropped by my parents’ house one afternoon after work.

  “There’s a revival service at Gatewood Baptist Church tonight,” my mother said. “You ought to come with us.”

  I was a professing Christian, but I’d stopped attending church after I’d gotten out on my own. I shook my head. “Naw, I don’t want to go to church tonight. Besides, I don’t have anything to wear.”

  My mother wasn’t so easily defeated. “Don’t tell me you don’t have anything to wear. You still have church clothes right back there in your closet.”

  I hemmed and hawed. I’d just finished a long day at work as a supervisor in a wood shop in Dallas. I really didn’t want to go to church that night.

  “No, I don’t think so,” I said.

  Then my mother went in for the kill.

  “Well,” she said, “there’s this cute blonde there who’s been asking about you. And she’s single.”

  I backpedaled quickly. “Whoa. Wait a minute. Who’s this blonde? How does she know about me?”

  I learned later that my parents’ next-door neighbor was playing the role of matchmaker. She had already told my mother about Penny, and she’d mentioned to Penny that her next-door neighbors had an unmarried son who was living on his own. It was a setup from the beginning.

  Even the pastor’s wife was in on the plan.

  Penny regularly drove several high school boys to church, and they usually sat with her during the service. The pastor’s wife told the boys to sit somewhere else that night, because if I saw them sitting by Penny, I might think one of them was her boyfriend.

  To be honest, I didn’t expect much that night. After all, even though this was a church service, it was essentially equivalent to a blind date. If this girl needed to be fixed up with someone, how pretty could she be?

  My questions evaporated the instant I saw Penny. She was cute and petite and had a beautiful smile. And she could play piano like nobody I’d ever heard before. Maybe it’s a stretch to say that it was love at first sight, but Penny and I fell in love quickly. We went on our first date the next week. Eight months later we were married.

  Penny was a servant. She avoided the spotlight and didn’t even like to have her picture taken. But wherever she saw a need, she was there to help. Early in our marriage, our church needed a Vacation Bible School director. Penny didn’t like being in charge, but no one else would take the job. Reluctantly, she agreed and did a fantastic job. When VBS was over, the church wanted to give her a gift to recognize a job well done, but she wouldn’t accept it. Instead, she asked that it go to one of the other workers.

  Penny demonstrated her servant’s heart right up to the end. When the children went back to public school after being home-schooled, she didn’t feel comfortable just staying at home all day, so she volunteered with the local chapter of Meals on Wheels. It gave her something to do, but more important to her was that she was helping people.

  Penny also played a part in the most important event of my life— my coming to faith in Christ. Although I was a professing believer when we got married, I didn’t truly know Jesus Christ as my Savior. My relationship with Him was based strictly on head knowledge.

  I grew up in a Bible-believing church, and one Sunday morning when I was about nine or ten, some of my friends responded to an invitation to come to Christ. Not wanting to be left out, I went along with them and told the man up front that I wanted to be baptized. I didn’t talk to anyone, and if someone explained the gospel to me, I don’t remember it. All I know is that a few weeks later we were all going to be baptized.

  I lined up behind my friends, waiting my turn to go into the baptistry with the pastor. A deacon who stood beside me quietly whispered in my ear, “Now, does this baptism save you?”

  “Yes,” I answered.

  He shook his head. “No, baptism is a public confession of your faith in Christ. It doesn’t save you. You’re saved by believing in Jesus.”

  I didn’t understand what he meant, but there was no time for clarification. The next thing I knew, the pastor called my name, and up I went into the baptistry. When I came up out of the water, I thought I was saved.

  I continued believing that I was a born-again Christian for years. I even worked in youth ministry and taught Sunday school, knowing all the right words but never internalizing them. After Penny and I married, I occasionally experienced periods of uncerta
inty about my faith. It worried Penny, and we discussed it several times.

  “Are you sure you’re a Christian?” Penny would ask.

  I’d think about it for a while and then say, “Yeah, I’m saved. It’s just Satan working on my mind.”

  Years later, when we were living in Celeste, Texas, God brought me to a crisis point. First Baptist Church of Celeste was holding a tentrevival week. Penny couldn’t go one night because one of the kids was sick, so I went by myself. The message was just what I needed.

  The evangelist described how he had thought he was saved at a very young age but in reality he hadn’t known Christ at all. That hit me hard. I felt as if he were talking just to me.

  I thought about what he said all the way home and through the next workday. The more I thought about it, the less sure of my salvation I became. As I drove home, I began to cry. I was convinced that I had never genuinely trusted in Jesus Christ. When I was baptized, I had simply been performing an outward act with no basis in an inward reality. God brought me under such deep conviction of my sin and my need for Christ that by the time I got home from work, I was sobbing uncontrollably.

  Penny met me at the door but couldn’t quite figure out what was wrong with me. I tried to tell her, but I couldn’t make myself clear.

  The children were watching TV, and she didn’t want them to be worried, so she led me into the bedroom and then asked what was wrong.

  “I’m lost,” I told her. “I need Christ.”

  “What?” she asked.

  I explained about the previous night’s message. “I’m lost,” I concluded. “I need to trust Christ as my Savior.”

  At that, Penny started looking around the bedroom.

  “What are you looking for?” I asked.

  “We need to read the Scriptures,” she said, searching frantically for her Bible.

  Finally I caught her and said, “Penny, you don’t need to read me the Scriptures.” I pointed to my head. “I’ve got all that up here. I just need to get down and pray. Will you pray with me?”

  Penny and I knelt beside our bed, and I asked Jesus Christ to be my Savior.

  Penny had been a servant, a wonderful wife and mother, and my best friend. And now she was gone.

  VISITS

  At my request, a deputy sheriff from Emory and a Texas Ranger came to see me on Monday, a day after my surgery. Much of what had happened the night of the murders was still a huge blank for me. My family and the hospital staff wouldn’t tell me much or let me watch the news, so while I knew that Erin was accused of involvement in the crime, I didn’t know how deeply.

  “I guess the first thing I want to know is how my daughter is. Is she okay?”

  “She is,” the officer said. “She’s doing fine. She’s at the juvenile detention facility in Greenville.”

  “I don’t want to know a lot of details,” I said, “but what kind of involvement did she have?”

  The officer paused. He seemed hesitant to tell me. Finally he said, “Her involvement is great.”

  I’d been holding myself together fairly well up to that point, but when he said that, I fell apart. “Why? Why? I don’t understand.”

  I’d already learned that a twenty-year-old man named Charles Waid was the second shooter, and that a young woman named Bobbi Johnson had driven the getaway car. But the most difficult thing to accept was that Charlie, Charles, and Bobbi had all pointed the finger of blame at Erin. They said that she was responsible for everything and that the murders had been her idea.

  The thought that my daughter was not only involved but may have masterminded the murders of her mother and brothers was more than I could bear. I had never felt so forsaken in my life.

  But although I felt forsaken and alone, I really wasn’t. More people were there for me than I could ever imagine. I didn’t know it at the time, but nearly 150 people showed up at the emergency room. Family, fellow church members, my pastor and former pastors, coworkers, friends, and acquaintances all flocked to Tyler to be with me and offer support. In fact, there were so many people that it caused logistical problems for the hospital. Only a few were allowed in to see me, but the others still wanted to be there to encourage, comfort, and pray. Later, after surgery and once I was in my own room, a steady stream of visitors trickled in to see me.

  Some visits were uncomfortable when people didn’t know what to do or say. They wanted to show me that they cared, but what do you say to a man who has just had three family members murdered and has himself barely survived? What do you say to someone whose daughter has been arrested and charged as an accomplice in those crimes? How do you talk to someone who, on top of all these tragedies, has lost everything he owned?

  Some people tried to lighten the mood by telling humorous stories. It felt as if they thought they could make the all the horror disappear with a joke. When this happened, it made me angry, although I never showed it. I couldn’t understand why people were trying to be funny.

  I’ve lost my family! I thought. There’s nothing funny about that. Why is everybody laughing?

  Of course, those people didn’t mean to be unkind or insensitive. They meant well on their visits, and I appreciate that. The truth is, most of us really don’t know how to act around people who are suffering. We want to help, but we find silence uncomfortable. We feel the need to say something, but we don’t want to lose control of our own emotions, believing that somehow that would make things worse for the one who’s suffering. We don’t want to shed our own tears in front of the person we’ve come to comfort. And so we try to lighten the atmosphere, distract the suffering person so that we don’t have to face the horrible reality.

  I understand that now, but it bothered me then.

  There were some other visits that week that I will never forget. Visits like the one I received from my friend Brother Joe Pierce.

  Brother Pierce is pastor of Daugherty Baptist Church in Emory. We weren’t members there, but we loved to visit. We enjoyed Joe’s preaching and dropped by occasionally to hear him. In fact, we had visited just a few weeks before the murders.

  Brother Joe is Texan through and through, and he loves to dress Western style. On one of the Sundays when we visited, he wore a beautiful Western belt with a shiny chrome horseshoe buckle. After the service, I commented on his belt. “I really like that,” I said. “Where’d you get it?”

  “It was a gift,” he replied.

  I eyed him up and down and said, “Hmm. We’re about the same size. I think that belt would look a whole lot better on me.” We both laughed. I was kidding, and he knew it.

  In the hospital, Brother Joe wept openly as he stood by my bed. In his hands he held a white plastic Wal-Mart bag. As we talked, my eyes kept drifting to the bag he was holding. I knew he had brought me something, but I couldn’t figure out what it was.

  Still weeping, he said, “Terry, I loved your family so much. I just don’t know what to do. I can’t afford to buy you nothin’, but I want you to have this.”

  He handed me the Wal-Mart bag. I fumbled with my left hand, trying to get it open. Finally, my fingers touched leather, and I knew without looking what he’d brought me. Out of the bag came that Western belt.

  Most people probably wouldn’t think of giving someone a belt as a condolence gift, but it was just what I needed. Joe Pierce gave me something of himself.

  A few days later my pastor, Todd McGahee from Miracle Faith Baptist Church, brought another gift, this time from Ben Draper of The Henry Group.

  It seemed like an eternity since I had sat in Ben’s office interviewing for a new job. In reality, it had been less than a week. Pastor Todd brought the plaque that I’d admired in Ben’s office. Ben sent it through Todd along with a message. He said that whenever I was ready, he had a job waiting for me. He also told me that he had a trailer in Alba that I could use if I needed someplace to stay.

  I held the plaque in my hands and read the verse: “Blessed is a man who perseveres under trial; for once he has been ap
proved, he will receive the crown of life which the Lord has promised to those who love Him” (James 1:12). Only a few days earlier, that verse had resonated with me. Now when I read it, I just felt empty.

  Many others came that week to pray, to encourage, to show me they cared. I don’t remember most of the visits. The pain medication kept me in a perpetual fog. But I didn’t mind that, because whenever the medication wore off and the fog cleared for a while, I found myself drowning in grief.

  Chapter 8

  Recovery

  My soul has been rejected from peace;

  I have forgotten happiness.

  So I say, “My strength has perished,

  And so has my hope from the LORD.”

  —LAMENTATIONS 3:I7-I8

  I DIDN’T WANT to think about life beyond my hospital room.

  My hospital stay lasted only about six days—pretty remarkable, considering the fact that I had entered the hospital in critical condition from multiple gunshot wounds, including one to the face. I recovered quickly from the physical trauma, but my emotional struggles were just beginning.

  The hospital became a refuge for me. My little room was a cocoon that shielded me from the awful reality of my new life. The hospital staff met all my needs. I had no worries about food or shelter, no pressures from a job. The nurses even managed my pain. When I began to hurt too much, I pushed a button, and soon morphine came to my rescue. My sole responsibility was to lie there, recover, and entertain the occasional visitor.

  One day Roger Pippin, one of my coworkers from Praxair, came to see me. In his hands he held a Bible.

  “I was on my way to see you and wondering what I could get you. I know people have been donating money and clothes, but I got to wondering if anybody had brought you a Bible,” he said.

  I shook my head.

  “I had to pass by my church on the way down here,” Roger continued. “I have a key, so I thought I’d look around and see if they had any extras lying around. I know you like the King James, so I brought you this,” he said, handing me the Bible.