A Book of American Martyrs
Joyce Carol Oates
SOLDIER OF GOD:
LUTHER AMOS DUNPHY
NOVEMBER 2, 1999
MUSKEGEE FALLS, OHIO
Only say the word and my soul shall be healed.
The Lord commanded me. In all that befell, it was His hand that did not waver.
Cries rang out—“Stand back!”
It was Voorhees at whom the shotgun was first aimed. The abortion doctor in a hoarse voice sternly saying, “Stand back! Put down that gun!”
And others crying, “No! No!”
So swiftly the Lord executed my movements, there was not time in the eyes of the enemy to register fear or alarm. There was no terror but only raw surprise. As I strode into the driveway in the wake of the abortion providers’ Dodge minivan with the shotgun to my shoulder and barrels uplifted there were many who stared at me in astonishment and awe for protesters had been forbidden by law to assemble in the driveway as for several years we had been forbidden to assemble with our picket signs or even in prayer in the grassless yard in front of the Broome County Women’s Center and yet here was one of these, of the Army of God, who some of them knew to be Luther Dunphy, disobeying this law boldly striding past the barrier and following the abortion providers’ minivan up the driveway faster than you would expect a man of his size to move, and without hesitation.
God guide my hand! God do not allow me to fail.
The one of the enemy known as Augustus Voorhees had just climbed out of the van. It was 7:26 A.M. The Women’s Center did not open to admit the clientele (that is, pregnant girls and women who believed they did not wish to become mothers) until 8:00 A.M. The abortion doctor (of my height almost exactly which is six foot one inch and his disheveled graying hair resembling my own) had thought to arrive early to avoid protesters and to enter at the rear of the Center but in his shrewdness there was folly, for the Muskegee Falls police security did not usually arrive until 7:30 A.M. (and sometimes later) and by the time police were summoned on this morning, his life would bleed away like the life of a gut-shot hog. Nor had Voorhees seen me less than six feet close behind him and rapidly overtaking him until a look in his companion’s face roused him to turn with an expression of utter surprise and shock.
“No! Stand back! Don’t—”
Already in this instant the trigger was being pulled, the barrels aimed at the abortion doctor at above the level of his chest, and the blast of the first barrel knocked Augustus Voorhees backward and tore into his lower jaw and throat in a way terrible to behold as if the Lord had dealt His wrath with a single smote of a great claw; for shrewdly I had aimed high, not knowing if the abortion murderer was wearing a bulletproof vest. (Later it was revealed that Voorhees was not so protected—in defiance of the fate that would befall him.) Yet even so, in the midst of this deafening explosion, the Lord steadied my hands as calmly I turned the barrels onto the accomplice “escort” close by now screaming, “No! No! Don’t shoot!” in clumsy desperation trying to back away and with arms and hands feebly shielding his body but these words came belated, and were no more heeded than the cries of the black-feathered birds flocking in the winter sky overhead as the second shot blasted away the face and much of the throat of the accomplice propelling the now-lifeless body backward as the lifeless body of Voorhees had been propelled, and these bodies crumpled together on the asphalt driveway in front of the van freely gushing blood—within seconds, as the Lord had willed.
In the ecstasy of the Lord coursing through my arms and hands like electricity I scarcely felt the recoil of the blast as it struck my shoulder like the kick of a mule, only the numbness that came after, and an ache deep in the bone.
“God have mercy! God forgive you. . . .”
These words, I had prepared to murmur as I crouched above the fallen sinner (for I believed that Voorhees would die unrepentant) but at the time of utterance it may have been that I spoke too softly to be heard above the scattered cries and screams behind me.
Few had witnessed the execution. For it was early in the day, and less than a dozen protesters had gathered in front of the Center.
So slowly, these seconds were passing. For it was as if Luther Dunphy stood a little to the side, observing. What he saw and what he heard came mutedly to him from that distance.
Calmly too, for all this the Lord had set out before me like a geological map, that has not the confusion of place-names of an ordinary map but only the sculpted contours of the land, I laid the Mossberg twelve-gauge double-barrel shotgun carefully on the driveway on a little rise of asphalt with cracks perpendicular to each other, that suggested to the eye—(to my eye)—the Cross.