UNHOLY SHEPHERD
A NOVEL
ROBERT W. CHRISTIAN
Ten16 Press
www.ten16press.com - Waukesha, WI
Unholy Shepherd
Copyright © 2021 Robert W. Christian
Paperback ISBN 978-1-64538-203-4
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-64538-239-3
Second Edition
Unholy Shepherd
by Robert W. Christian
All Rights Reserved. Written permission must be secured from the publisher to use or reproduce any part of this book, except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles.
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Cover design by Kaeley Dunteman
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Characters in this book have no relation to anyone bearing the same name and are not based on anyone known or unknown to the author. Any resemblance to actual businesses or companies, events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
For my beautiful wife, Sarah.
Thank you for encouraging me to chase my dream.
“143”.
“They sacrificed their sons and daughters
to false gods.
They shed innocent blood,
the blood of their sons and daughters . . .
. . . and the land was desecrated
by their blood.”
Psalm 106:37-38
Duxbury, 1981
The flashing blue and red lights of the police cars hit the peripheral of Maire’s vision as she stood by the roadside, blanket wrapped, staring into the trees. The bustle of police, reporters, and locals hummed about her. She was aware of it all, yet there was no cohesion to any of it. She could not pick out a single voice through the haze in her mind. She simply stared, blinking now and then, but never shifting her gaze. If she tried hard enough, perhaps she could move her sight a mere three hundred yards down the bank, through the mass of greens, reds, yellows, and browns, and rest her eyes on her precious baby boy, who now lay on the forest floor.
“Mrs. Allerton? Mrs. Allerton?” a voice cut through the cone of silence she’d wrapped herself in. Maire felt herself blink twice before turning to find one of the policemen on the scene uncomfortably close to her. It seemed plain to her, now that she had returned from her private thoughts, that he had been trying to get her attention for some time. He was a short man, not more than an inch or two taller than Maire herself. Dennis, she thought to herself, the short one is Officer Dennis. He’d been one of the two men from the department to come tell her just a few short hours ago that they had found her son. The other had been the captain, Alvin Lodge, who she could now see over Dennis’ shoulder talking to the group of reporters that had flocked to the scene. Vultures, she thought sourly to herself. Shaking her head clear, she focused her attention back on Officer Dennis, who she could now see was holding a notepad in one hand and tapping a pen nervously upon it with the other.
“Keane!” she snapped, almost surprising herself with her sternness. She had not meant to round on the young man in such a fashion, but there was no way she was going to be called by her bastard of an ex-husband’s name. Maire cleared her throat, took a breath, and tried to force a small, reassuring smile. “Apologies, Officer Dennis, but I prefer my maiden name, if you wouldn’t mind. I’m no longer married.” That wasn’t technically true, but close enough for her.
“Of course,” said the officer, though still clearly taken aback. “Ms. Keane,” he continued, “I know this is a difficult time for you, but I need to ask you a few more questions.”
A difficult time! Maire turned back toward the wood line and closed her eyes for a moment. The man had no idea what a difficult time meant. All the platitudes in the world wouldn’t change what had happened. What could he know of her heartache? What could any of them know, these disingenuous charlatans, offering her their hollow sympathies and lip service prayers! Maire’s eyes flung back open as she felt herself begin to shake. She must maintain some level of composure. The tears, the anger, none of it would bring back her darling boy. None of it would lift him from the hastily dug hole he was now lying in, covered only halfway with dirt and dead leaves, and carry him home safe and alive. He was in God’s hands now. She at least, unlike all these other people, truly believed that. Maire brushed her hand over her eyes as subtly as she could. Still dry. For now, she thought.
“Go ahead, Officer,” she said, not looking away from the trees and in a voice a bit less than a whisper. She half-expected to have to repeat herself, when, to her surprise, Dennis responded.
“Ms. Keane, I was looking over my notes from our first conversation back at your home, and I was hoping to go over it again. You see, the boys from Chelsea are going to take over the investigation and before they do that, they want us to construct a clearer timeline of events. They seem to think there’s an inconsistency with your original statement and asked me to get a second one from you.”
Maire sighed and turned around to look at Officer Dennis. “You think I don’t know what Agent Mansfield is thinking right now?” she asked flatly. She was losing the strength to keep her composure. “Just because I wasn’t born here, doesn’t mean I don’t know who the cops’ prime suspect always is when a child goes missing!” Even in her own ears she could hear her native Cork accent begin to sharpen as she tried to hold back her agitation. In the twelve years since her marriage had brought her to this side of the ocean, her friends and family both here and back home had noted with a perverse delight how her speech had become muddled with the thick New England accents that surrounded her. They could always tell whenever she was losing her temper, however, when she slipped into her brogue. Her ex-husband in particular enjoyed seeing her get upset—just to “hear her Irish voice.” The pig.
“Mrs. Aller— Ms. Keane,” Officer Dennis corrected himself, “this is just standard procedure. There’s no need to get upset. Between you and me, I don’t think you’re under serious consideration as a suspect for your son’s murder. And we’ve also just received word that your husband—I’m sorry—your ex-husband’s whereabouts for the past week have been confirmed as well. We have verification from our embassy that he has indeed been in Berlin on business since before your son’s disappearance.”
That didn’t shock Maire. As much of a bastard as he’d been to her, the one thing she could say about Stanley Allerton was that he loved his children fiercely. Although the custody battle was going bitterly, and her lawyer assured her she would come out victorious, that didn’t change the way he had doted on his son and daughter every chance he got. No. However much she might wish he was capable of something like this—just to give her another reason to hate him—Stanley could never harm their son. He’ll be just as broken over this as she is. Maybe he’d just stay in Germany. That thought gave her little comfort.
“All right, Officer, what do you need from me?” Maire sighed. This was getting ridiculous, but she knew Officer Dennis wouldn’t leave her alone to grieve until he had accomplished what he was supposed to.
“I just need you to give me your account as best as you can from the day your son disappeared until this morning. Maybe there’s something you forgot to tell us, or remembered, since the last time we went over all this.”
Four days for her to remember. Most people would find a task like that to be intimidating. But Maire had gone over every minute of each one of those days over and over in her mind, to the point that she couldn’t
think of one detail she had overlooked. She walked slowly over to the safety rail along the roadway and sat on it, hugging her blanket around her tighter. It would be easier for Officer Dennis to hear her there, away from the noise and confusion of the cameras. The last week was so vivid in her mind—the story so complete—that she was positive that she could nearly repeat her previous testimony verbatim, if she felt so inclined. There was still only one detail that she had kept to herself, a personal matter that may not even bear anything out on the actual case, yet still caused her to be uneasy. She would deal with it when she needed to.
The officer came slowly over. He seemed almost hesitant, as if sitting next to her violated some sensibility that he held. Too professional, she thought. Poor kid just isn’t ready for all of this. She actually did feel a certain sense of pity for the young man. Anyone could see that he was in over his head. He clearly hadn’t joined the department in their quiet little town thinking he’d be involved in a case like this. She glanced down at her watch. Twelve minutes to noon. The day felt like it was taking a lifetime. Maire could hardly believe that it was only six hours ago that she was at home holding out hope her boy was still alive.
Officer Dennis sat down on the rail next to her and looked at the ground in front of them. Maire got the impression that she would have to be the one to break the silence. She did not relish having to go over her statement again, but if it would help in finding the bastard responsible for her son’s death, she could find the strength to keep herself together for another hour or so.
“Where would you like me to start?” she asked Officer Dennis.
Dennis looked at her, blinked a few times, and then quickly flipped open his notebook to sift through the pages. A sharp sigh of aggravation escaped Maire’s lips before she could catch herself, but he seemed to take no notice.
“Let’s start on Thursday evening and just go from there,” he said after finding the page he was looking for in his notebook. She could tell by the way he had flipped back and forth through the book that his notes were in no particular order, and she anticipated having to stop several times while he caught up or added new information he’d missed. Or misplaced. Maire took a deep breath and began her account.
She took Officer Dennis through the four days, beginning with her son and daughter’s arrival home from school on Thursday afternoon around three o’clock. Maire recalled how Braden had brought her a crayon-drawn picture of what was meant to be her and her children in front of their house. He had also included a yellow, stick-figure dog, which made her laugh. Braden had been asking for a dog for the last six months, but she had been resistant to the idea, knowing that she was going to be the one taking care of it. The picture was titled “MY FAMILY” in big, blocky child letters. She inquired where his father was, trying to be civil and point out that even though they were divorcing, daddy would still be part of the family. “Daddy’s on the plane!” Braden had quickly answered, taking the picture back and pointing to the upper corner at what Maire had at first thought was a bird. The picture is still hanging on the refrigerator.
She remembered that her daughter had gone straight to her room. Maire noted how quiet she had been after coming in the house that day. She thought it a bit odd, even as of late. Maureen had always been a quiet child, and had been interacting even less since hearing the news about the divorce, but at the very least she’d come into the kitchen for an after-school snack before retreating upstairs to her homework or her book collection. That day though, she didn’t say a word. All Maire had seen of her was when she took off her light blue windbreaker, hung it up on the hallway hook, picked up her backpack, and ran up the stairs. She barely even heard the bedroom door close from the kitchen. Maureen had the habit of door slamming, so that small detail stuck fast in Maire’s mind. Of course, such minuscule details meant little to the police, so she hadn’t mentioned it.
Maire recounted that it hadn’t been until she had called the kids down to dinner that she first noticed Braden was missing. He had been playing and watching television in the living room for most of the afternoon. Maureen came down to the dinner table and sat down without saying a word. A minute or two passed and Braden still hadn’t come to the table. Usually he’d run in as soon as she announced dinner was ready. Her boy loved to eat. She had walked into the living room, and it was then that she saw the sight that would haunt her for the rest of her life: the wide-open French doors leading to the backyard with her son nowhere to be seen.
She told him how the rest of the night was spent much like anyone would expect. She went door to door to see if any of the neighbors had seen him. She called all his friends’ parents to see if he had shown up at any of their homes. No one had seen him. She then made the call to the police department to file the missing person report. They had asked if perhaps he was with his father, but she told them he had said he had some business overseas this week. She didn’t know where he was staying but gave the police his secretary’s number to call in the morning.
She recalled how the days leading up to this morning were a blur of police interviews, organized searches, and never-ending parades of friends, family, neighbors, and even strangers coming in and out of her house offering their condolences. Meaningless condolences, she thought. Through it all, only two things remained constant: no sign of her son was found, and her daughter had remained eerily detached. That second thought she kept to herself.
All of that continued until this morning. Her sister-in-law, Nancy, had taken it upon herself to come over after church the previous day, cook, and spend the night. Maire would have sooner had Lucifer himself over than the sister of her soon-to-be ex-husband, but she bore it as best she could. She had even managed a few hours of sleep before the police came to her door at just past seven. Nancy had answered and then came upstairs to find her. She had been sitting in the old rocking chair in Braden’s room, thinking about all the times he had fallen asleep in her arms as a baby. It seemed an eternity ago now. When Nancy had appeared at the door and said the police were downstairs, Maire already knew what awaited her.
“Ms. Keane,” Officer Dennis said when she had finished, “we need to ask you about your daughter.”
She could tell he was nervous about something, and a cold chill ran down the back of her neck. Did they know what she had kept out of her statement? Maire kept all the composure she was capable of.
“What about her?” she asked as evenly as possible.
“Ms. Keane, the County Sheriff’s Department received a call at around two in the morning on Saturday. The caller was a young child. She didn’t identify herself and just began talking. She told the switchboard operator: ‘North three mile twenty-five. Braden’s lying down in the leaves. He’s cold. Someone has to help him. He’s not moving and he’s too cold. Mommy won’t listen. Mommy doesn’t believe me.’ The operator tried to get more from her, but she hung up right away. Ms. Keane,” Officer Dennis sighed, “the FBI has a psychologist at your house right now speaking with your daughter. If that was her calling that night, they’ll find out soon. Is there anything you’d like to add to your statement before that happens?”
Maire’s legs went numb. It was all she could do to nod. Officer Dennis called the agents over, and Maire filled in what she had left out of her report. That Friday night, Maureen had wandered from her bedroom to where Maire was sitting on the couch. Her eyes were open, but she didn’t blink, as if in a trance. Her words were clear though, if a little soft.
“Braden. Braden, wake up!” she said, standing beside the armrest of the couch. She stared straight ahead, but earnestly began patting Maire’s arm. “Mommy!” She began to get more hysterical, but was still staring at the wall, unblinking. “Mommy, we have to go get Braden. He’s cold! He’s not moving! He was carried into the woods! I saw! I carried him! Mommy! North. Three. Mile. Two. Five. It wasn’t me! I carried him, but it wasn’t me! Please, Mommy, he’s cold and he’s not moving!”
&n
bsp; Maire had stared at her daughter in horror. Finally, going against everything she’d ever been told about a sleepwalker, she shook her daughter awake. Maureen blinked and when her breathing returned to normal, she stared straight at Maire and asked if they were going to get Braden now. Maire was paralyzed, not knowing what to do. She told her daughter that she just had a bad dream and to go back to bed. Maureen had protested and began to cry, but Maire took hold of her daughter’s arm and led her back to her room. When the police told her that morning that her son had been found on the side of Highway 3 near mile marker twenty-five, she finally understood what had happened to Maureen.
When Maire was a young girl in Ireland, her great-grandmother had told her stories about “The Demon Sight”. She didn’t remember much about it, but her great-grandmother had insisted that once every few generations, a daughter would be born and, marked as Satan’s own, would see with the eyes of pure evil. Her grandmother and mother had told her it was all nonsense, just the ramblings of a superstitious old woman trying to scare her for her own amusement. Maire hadn’t thought about those stories in years, but now she finally saw the truth in the old woman’s yarns. She broke down in tears as she told all of this to the officers and agents now gathered around her. She looked from face to face, but none registered any sense of understanding. Why should they understand, she thought to herself. No one could possibly comprehend what has happened to me! Hers were burdens no mother should have to bear: her sweet, darling son was dead, and her daughter was the property of the Devil. Maire fell to the ground, hugged her knees to her chest, and continued to sob.
Unholy
Shepherd
ONE
Detective Manny Benitez took his last sip of beer and set the bottle on the bar. The crowd at Smokey’s was changing over from the usual after-work crew to the after-dinner drinkers, and soon the air in the bar would reflect the bar’s name. He wanted to be out before that happened. Smokey’s was one of the few places in town that he actually liked to stop in to, as it was only a block south of Main Street and less than a five-minute walk from work, but he usually didn’t stay past nine.
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