Read The Devil in Pew Number Seven for Free Online Page B

lend a hand. E. J. would pump the gas while Willie watched the store.
    Glad to help, E. J. arrived and got busy, although Willie remained in a sour mood, his forehead perpetually snarled in a knot. As E. J. tells it, three youth in their midtwenties rolled to a stop at the pumps. Who they were or where they were going was no business of his. Minding his own affairs, E. J. gassed the car and washed the windshield, applying enough elbow grease to adequately scrub away all visible bug remains. With that done, the driver stepped out of the car, entered the building, and paid his bill.
    On the way out, however, he took a quart of oil from the display case between the pumps without paying for it. At the time, a quart of oil cost all of twenty-five cents. Still, money was money, and E. J. wasn’t about to let the guy off the hook. When he asked for payment for the oil, the driver denied taking it. Words were exchanged, but neither the oil nor the payment was handed over.
    E. J. went inside and told Willie what had transpired. The news was more than Willie could handle, the final straw in an otherwise horrendous day, at least from Willie’s heated point of view. He raced to the back room of the store, grabbed a pistol from the shelf as if arming for battle, then sprinted outside to confront the driver as he opened his car door.
    Willie barked so loud, anyone within a block would have heard him: “Hey, you! Did you take that quart of oil? You owe me!”
    The driver turned and stood his ground. “I didn’t take no oil, and I ain’t paying for oil I didn’t take.”
    “I’m warning you,” Willie yelled. “Pay me for that or else—”
    The driver told Willie to back off—only in making his point he used a string of profanity as colorful as the shades of red on Willie’s face, which was about as smart as pouring gasoline on a bonfire. The young man hopped in his car and started the engine to leave. E. J. watched in stunned silence as Willie raised his gun and shot the driver—and, in the heat of the moment, one of the other passengers as well, for reasons E. J. still doesn’t understand.
    Never in a thousand years did E. J. think his cousin would actually pull the trigger. He knew Willie could lose his cool, especially if he had been drinking. But Willie hadn’t touched a drink all day. He was just at the boiling point when the heat was turned up. If E. J. had had any inkling that his cousin was capable of taking a man’s life, he would have kept the incident to himself and gladly paid for the oil out of his own earnings.
    The passenger who had been shot lived.
    The driver, however, died.
    The law was called, and Willie Sellers was arrested. His family was quick to raise the $100,000 bail money, and Willie was released. When the tragic incident went to trial, E. J. was called to testify. If E. J. was shocked by the senseless murder, he was dumbfounded when the jury returned a “not guilty” verdict.
    * * *
    Less than thirty minutes after leaving Whiteville, Daddy and Momma spotted Sellerstown Road, a side street branching off to the right. Tucked in the shadow of the Route 701 Service Center—a one-story, two-pump gas, snack, and repair station—it would have been easy for them to miss the turnoff. Considering the events soon to take place on Sellerstown Road, it might have been better if they had.
    They slowed, then turned right.
    Watts Farm Supply, immediately on the left-hand side of the street, greeted them. As the only game in town, the store provided the necessary nuts and bolts to keep the farming community running smoothly. Parked behind this white, cinder block building, a modest collection of trucks, tractors, and trailers in various stages of disrepair sprouted from the field like turnips. The neglected and forgotten assortment of clutter stood in stark contrast to the otherwise serene country setting they had enjoyed since leaving Whiteville.
    Aside from this disheveled patch of land, to the naked eye